Book Reviews

Wynne, Jeremy J. Wrath Among the Perfections of God’s Life (New York: T & T Clark, 2010)

Wynne, Jeremy J. Wrath Among the Perfections of God’s Life (New York: T & T Clark, 2010), 232 pp. $130.00 ($44.95, paperback).

Reviewed by Adam J. Johnson (April 04, 2013)

Did the incarnate Son suffer the wrath of the Father? Are different “natural” catastrophes acts of punishment by an angry God? Will humankind eventually be divided (or has it already been divided?) into those who enjoy God’s gracious blessing in eternity or suffer at the hand of his righteous wrath without end? The doctrine of the wrath of God plays a significant role in a wide range of theological (and cultural) “occasional and thematic” questions. In Wrath Among the Perfections of God’s Life, Jeremy Wynne offers compelling and well-rounded account of this doctrine so as to better equip the church to grapple with these questions by stepping back and “work[ing] out with greater systematic specificity the Christian claim that wrath belongs to God in his perfection” (1). Wynne’s approach is heavily indebted to Barth overall, though he offers a new distinction between providential and redemptive “modes” of God’s perfection (see 63) in order to clarify how, in Barth’s theology “grace and mercy—and by implication God’s wrath—may be ascribed to God without compromising the freedom of the life which God has from himself as Father, Son and Holy Spirit” (110).

The key to Wynne’s thesis is his proposal concerning “modes” of the divine perfections—an argument which has two movements. First, Wynne argues that in the act of God we “have to do rather with the glory of the Lord, God alive in our midst, the One seeking freely and gratuitously to give life to creatures, and so sustain them in their own, particular being as not-God” (23). That is to say, Wynne begins with an immanent-economic distinction (see 24). But he does so in such a way as to account for God’s economic activity with and for us as the God who makes room for his creatures within his own proper glory and life, and thus sustains and blesses the creature. Second, Wynne argues in the key constructive section of the book (see 109–14) that “a systematic account of divine perfection [must think] along two axes. Thinking the divine perfections along the first axis accommodates the fundamental, asymmetrical distinction between Creator and creature, infinite God as he is present to finite creation. . . . This first distinction may be maintained and developed as a providential mode of divine perfection” (111). But because the creature is not only finite but sinful, we must also think along a second axis, a “redemptive mode of divine perfection” which “accommodates the contingency of God’s life as it is lived for and among sinful human beings” (111).

Beginning from an account of God’s livingness (31), Wynne argues that wrath is one of God’s attributes against those who contend for a more immanentistinterpretation—that what we might call “wrath” is merely the natural consequence of sinful behavior. Specifically, it is such as a mode of divine righteousness in its confrontation with sin. That is to say, wrath “as one instance of the variety proper to the life of God, may be efficiently and effectively located among the perfections of God as a redemptive mode of divine perfection and, more specifically, as a redemptive mode of his righteousness” (13). Righteousness is proper both to the divine life in eternity and to its enactment in the triune God’s creation (i.e., a providential mode of activity). Given the reality of sin, however, God acts righteously partly in the mode of wrath: this is “God’s unrelenting opposition to sin” (116). Thus we can affirm both that in knowing God’s wrath we truly know God, and that wrath is not present in God from eternity in the same sense as are God’s love, holiness, and knowledge since conflict with sin is not present in God from eternity.

Wynne’s description of God’s wrath is far from one-sided. He locates it within an animated account of the living God’s perfections, particularly emphasizing wrath’s relationship to righteousness and justice. In a particularly felicitous move, however, Wynne ties God’s wrath to divine patience. He argues that the Bible affirms divine wrath in this context: the “triune God may choose to take up this work [of wrath] in a gracious act of passing over sin for a time, dealing with it not on the basis of historical process or in light of the vicissitudes or perceived necessities of creaturely time, but rather out of the resources of his eternity” (136). God’s work of wrath is one done patiently, and thus in utter generosity—another divine perfection Wynne helpfully binds to God’s righteous wrath.

The engagement with divine patience is motivated in part by Wynne’s study of Romans 3:21–26. This constitutes a significant part of Wynne’s argument, along with several other key biblical passages, as he intentionally seeks “a clear mending together of two activities often thought exclusive, namely systematic theological reflection and a disciplined reading of the texts of Scripture” (12). Complementing his study of such theologians as Turretin, Schleiermacher and Barth in the first part of the book, Wynne delves into choice biblical passages in the second part. The movement between the two parts, however, is delightful, for a strong theological engagement with Scripture is balanced with a nuanced exegetical, inter-textual, and canonical engagement with Scripture.

Wynne argues that wrath is a mode of righteousness, but that righteousness is properly related to generosity. Moving beyond the scope of Wynne’s own argument, we can see that it readily applies to the doctrine of the atonement. Penal substitution does not merely concern appeasing the wrath of God independently and as such, but is—or ought to be!—fundamentally concerned with God’s righteous generosity, which has wrath as a mode of its operation but which also properly includes the generous creation of rightness. In short, we cannot understand the righteous wrath of God in his atoning work apart from the resurrection and the re-creation that it entails.

The argument that the divine perfections have modes of activity (e.g., that when faced with sin God can and does enact his righteousness in the mode of wrath) raises an interesting question. If there are modes of attributes, and we know God only in his reconciling confrontation with sin, then we know God’s attributes primarily (if not exclusively) in the modes they take in the confrontation of sin. But if we only know God’s attributes in this mode of activity, do we actually know the character of God at all? In short, does this view create what we might call “attribute modalism,” in which the true character of God is veiled behind the mode of his activity in its confrontation with sin? Barth himself seems to allude to this concern in CD 23.1 (see 326–27).

The solution is ready at hand in the way Wynne locates wrath within righteousness, being careful to specify that God’s saving work is a matter of bringing his righteousness to bear upon our sin both as wrath and in the creation of “rightness.” To put this in terms of the doctrine of the atonement; if we think only of the death of Jesus Christ, then it is true that we only see the attributes of God in their confrontation of sin. But 1 Corinthians 15 demands that we see the resurrection as the primary aspect of Christ’s atoning work, within which his death has meaning. In the resurrection sin has been overcome, and we see the character of God enacted in Jesus Christ the victor who has done away with sin and therefore done away with any threat of “attribute modalism.” Though there are other avenues for dealing with this question (the prayer life of Jesus, for example, as seen in John 17), this response seems particularly fitting given the interest Wynne shows in the doctrine of the atonement throughout the work. And it opens the door to our primary means of accessing the “providential mode” of God’s activity: the Lordship of the ascended Jesus Christ and his work in the church through the Spirit.

Locating the biblical theme of the wrath of God among the perfections of God’s life is a sufficiently interesting task to merit a substantial readership, even if the book were not so well written. Beyond that area of interest, however, readers will find in Wynne’s work a compelling example of integrative systematic, historical and biblical studies under the umbrella of a constructive contribution to Christian doctrine, and an argument that will bear substantial fruit in a number of areas beyond the doctrine of divine perfections.

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

Fred Dallmayr, ed. The Legacy of the Barmen Declaration: Politics and the Kingdom (Lanham, MD: Lexington Books, 2019)

Fred Dallmayr, ed. The Legacy of the Barmen Declaration: Politics and the Kingdom (Lanham, MD: Lexington Books, 2019), 140 pp. $85.00 (hardback).

Wolf Krörke. Karl Barth and Dietrich Bonhoeffer: Theologians for a Post-Christian World. Translated by John P. Burgess (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2019)

Sigurd Baark. The Affirmations of Reason: On Karl Barth’s Speculative Theology (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2018)

The Affirmations of Reason: On Karl Barth’s Speculative Theology

Sigurd Baark. The Affirmations of Reason: On Karl Barth’s Speculative Theology (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2018), xiii + 291 pp. $109.00 (hardcover).

Reviewed by Justin Coyle (September 09, 2019)

Twenty-two years ago, Bruce McCormack unsettled Barth studies with his book Barth’s Critically Realistic Dialectical Theology (Oxford, 1997). This work capsized the Balthasar-Torrance thesis that in his 1931 Anselm: Fides Quaerens Intellectum (FQI) Barth, Saul-to-Paul-like, scrapped dialectic for analogy. No, McCormack insisted: Barth’s theology remained dialectical after 1931, even if more christological. The Balthasar-Torrance camp had inflated the “negligible importance” of FQI on Barth’s development (McCormack 1997, x).

Sigurd Baark demurs, though not by rallying Balthasar. Baark’s trouble with McCormack’s critically-realistic-dialectical Barth is not that he’s too dialectical. It is rather that he’s too Kantian (15-17). Kant’s first critique, remember, denied theoretical knowledge of God. We cannot know what we never experience, and we cannot experience what cannot breach space-time. Only, God did exactly this in Christ. And so, McCormack’s fiercely christological Barth boasts knowledge of God after all—and this quite without succor from the latter’s FQI.

But what if Barth did not accept Kant’s critique so blithely? And what if Barth is to be believed when he confesses that FQI remains “the key… to my Church Dogmatics” (13)? Such would, Baark proposes, cleave Barth closer to Kant’s patricidal sons: Fichte, Novalis, even the great and terrible Hegel. Indeed, Barth himself copped to “doing a bit of ‘Hegeling’,” did he not? Taking Barth at his word here means learning to see a “speculative aspect” in his thought (1). What all this comes to is what Baark’s The Affirmations of Reason: On Karl Barth’s Speculative Theology labors to show.

The argument proper commences where German Idealism does: with Kant. Chapter Three précises Kant’s kritische Philosophie from the first to the third Kritik. It rightly shows how Kant develops his necessarily amorphous “apperceptive I” in response to Hume’s challenge: “How to account for the normative status of our most basic concepts” (41)? Kant’s answer is by now cliché: We carry some of these basic concepts with us. Kant stays skepticism, then, by relocating the universal from what’s “out there” to our own categories of thought. All of which raises a question: What exactly is out there? As Reinhold would charge, Kant’s refusal of access to the things in themselves threatens to strengthen the very skepticism it means to scuttle.

Enter Kant’s heirs presumptive, each of whom claimed to be “more Kantian than Kant” (66). Chapter Four spotlights three, and at uneven intervals. Fichte first, who thought Kant’s letter kills but that his spirit gives life. By Fichte’s lights, Kant’s critical philosophy was not critical enough. It censed the Ding an sich in palls of mystery while dogmatically assuming thought’s categories instead of deriving them. Yet Fichte’s ingenious solution to ground everything in the Kantian “apperceptive I” risks replacing skepticism with sheer solipsism. Novalis’s Hymnen an die Nacht offers a different tableau. Only by loving and losing his fiancé does Novalis encounter himself. We are not yet subjects, love’s lesson runs, until we are given to ourselves objectively in another. This begins to intone the procession of Hegel. For Baark, neither Kant nor Fichte could escape subjectivism. Could Hegel? Yes, but only by refusing to scry knowledge’s limits ahead of time. For Hegel, “absolute knowing” turns out to name a form of knowledge—not, notice, a content—which refuses to know what thinking can think before thinking itself. Hegel’s project, then, presumes a presuppositionless exploration of thinking and its deliverances. A speculative philosophy, to indulge some Hegelese.

Part Two finally opens upon Barth himself. Chapter Five sets Barth’s early theology in relief against romanticism. Baark identifies the shadow of Overbeck over Barth’s revision of Der Römerbrief. Between Römerbrief I and II Barth learns from Overbeck that death threatens our claims to knowledge. Thus, we know only night, only death, only not-God (Rom. 1:18-20). However, even this says too much; we scarcely know “God” enough to negate the concept. Paul’s letter radically reconfigures that concept. Readers learn that God turns out to name whatever is left over after Jesus exorcises our preconceived notions.

Exactly what is leftover, though, is not clear. Just so the Barth of Der Römerbrief I and II fights shy of speculative theology. He remains in thrall to Overbeckian negation—or in “danger,” as Barth himself had it, “of falling into an abstract negation of the world” (168). Chapter Six charts Barth’s course away from mere negation. On Baark’s reading, the Barth of FQI “leaves behind a… temptation to use unrealized eschatology as an epistemic model” (175). Loosed from his bonds to preconceived epistemic limits, Barth’s theology becomes properly speculative.

Anselm’s Proslogion tutors Barth on the form theology must take. A theologian’s credo, that is, bears a dialectical relation to her Credo. Subjective and objective mutually condition one another. But they do only because their form and final unity is given by their identical content, namely the indubitable thinking of God. The near isomorphism between conceiving God and God’s existing scotches the radical negativity of Romans II. After FQI, “affirmation precedes negation” (223). If Barth’s method remains dialectical, it is now a speculative dialectic.

Chapter Seven, Baark’s last, measures the wake of Barth’s shift through his Church Dogmatics. Most interesting here is how Baark brandishes his reading against McCormack. The latter’s infamous “Grace and Being” essay wondered whether Barth should not have thought election logically prior to or constitutive of God’s trinitarian act. Baark objects that anything anteceding God’s eternal act smuggles the very ens quo maius that Anslem and Barth insisted cogitari nequit. McCormack might counter that Baark’s acquittal of Barth’s counterfactualing—“even if God had not elected to be for humanity, it is inconceivable that this would have negated God’s freedom” (257)—in fact defends a non-Hegelian freedom abstracted from the acts by which God reveals himself. The charge of voluntarism, it seems, cuts both ways.

Baark mounts his case for the speculative Barth throughout with tact and charm and skill. Most remarkable to non-Barthian eyes (mine, anyway) is how he reads and understands not only Idealist texts, but also important secondary literature on them. That is a rarity, which is fast approaching extinction these days, at least among theologians. The book is a challenge and a gift, especially to those readers of Barth who cosset a Kierkegaardian skepticism about Hegel’s deliverances.

Yet the story Baark weaves of Barth’s relation to Hegel sometimes sits ill at ease with the one Barth himself tells. Consider Barth 1933 lecture on Hegel, penned after FQI and which Baark does not to my mind cite. There, recall, Barth “must finally say ‘No’ to Hegel” (Barth, Protestant Theology in the Nineteenth Century 383). Hegel’s “confidence in God,” Barth writes, turns out to be—note the warmed-over Feuerbach—“self-confidence” (Barth, 377). More, Hegel’s hubris issues in philosophical problems—the Hegelian identity between thinking and being, for instance (Barth, 377). Readers may wonder, then, why the philosophical vices Barth here identifies in Hegel end up being the very theological virtues (to crib a phrase from Nicholas Adams) Baark wants to spotlight in Barth. This tension scrawls a question-mark over Baark’s conclusion that “Barth’s theology… leaves the essence of the Hegelian framework intact” (281). Still, I dare to hope the future promises more from Baark on this question.

Here’s another question: Baark claims that for Barth “christology pertains to both content and form” (168), even that “the form of speculative theology is christological through and through” (252). But is not the certainty of FQI’s speculative knowledge christological only to the extent that it is Christ-compatible? Different things, these. FQI gifts theology certainty only insofar as “God stands outside the speculative economy as the ultimate arbiter of truth” (205; cf. Barth, PTNC 404-5). But compare Hegel, for whom it is not God qua divine nature who is ens quo maius cogitari nequit, knowledge of whom is therefore certain. Rather this “soil of certainty” (Boden der Gewissheit) is the God-man:

The necessity (Notwendigkeit) [that the divine-human unity shall appear] is not first apprehended by means of thinking; rather it is a certainty for humanity. In other words, this content—the unity of divine and human nature—achieves certainty, obtaining the form of immediate sensible intuition and external existence for humankind, so that it appears as something that has been seen in the world, something that has been experienced… God had to appear (musste erscheinen) in the world in the flesh. The necessity that [has] appeared in the world in the flesh is an essential characteristic… for only in this way can it become a certainty for humanity; only in this way is it the truth in the form of certainty (LPR III, 454-6, my emphasis).

Neither is there any question here of what God might have done otherwise. Hegel, like Maximus Confessor before him, is much too Platonist—or is it Neochalcedonian?—to equate divine freedom with unencumbered choice whose measure is counterfactual possibility. By contrast, Baark’s Barth hews closer to another (unmentioned) Idealist: the mature F.W.J. Schelling, who set his divine Sein-Können against Hegel’s revised Spinozism. Might Baark play Schelling to McCormack’s Hegel?

Whether Sigurd Baark’s brilliant The Affirmations of Reason will unsettle Barth studies the way his quondam advisor McCormack has remains a question. Still, the intellectual resemblance between them seems irrefragable: their command of Barth’s texts, their hermeneutical brio, their speculative mettle. Also common to both is the engagement all readers of Barth owe now them. Students of Barth simply cannot in good conscience ignore Baark. And neither, it seems to me, should any serious student of theology.

Justin Shaun Coyle, Ph.D., Boston College

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

Martin Westerholm. The Ordering of the Christian Mind: Karl Barth and Theological Rationality (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015)

The Ordering of the Christian Mind: Karl Barth and Theological Rationality

Martin Westerholm. The Ordering of the Christian Mind: Karl Barth and Theological Rationality (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015), xiii + 249 pp. $115.00 (hardcover).

Reviewed by Laura Lysen (December 05, 2019)

It is a regrettable truism that theological disagreements easily form into battle lines that exhaust their capacity (or charity) for innovation as they descend into stalemate. In The Ordering of the Christian Mind, Martin Westerholm identifies the central contemporary battleground of theological reasoning and redraws the lines in one of its most polarized centers: debates concerning Karl Barth’s theological reasoning. Responding in particular to the entrenched perception that Barth’s theology does not allow for an adequate account of human reasoning, Westerholm offers a fresh depiction of Barth’s ordering of Christian thought in hopes of communicating its theological and spiritual cogency and power. Westerholm’s persistent impulse to reframe and contextualize enables him to prise open “stale impasses” within Barth scholarship itself: between continuity and discontinuity, dialectic and analogy, realism and critical realism, thorough modernness and ongoing meaningfulness in Barth’s work (233).

Westerholm lays out Barth’s ordering of Christian thought by unfolding how Barth’s own thinking came to be reordered through two defining sets of engagements: his early work with Paul and his later engagements with Anselm. Much of the substance of Westerholm’s argument derives from his treatment of these two moments as essentially generative for Barth’s thought and as continuous with one another. Westerholm shows how the continuity between these moments reaches across developmental discontinuities to trace a vision of theological rationality that deepens as it develops. Key to this vision, as Westerholm presents it, is Barth’s shifting of the question of theological knowledge from the confines of modern (and contemporary) epistemological inquiry to a fundamentally moral and spiritual inquiry, indeed precisely to the question of how creaturely thought is to be ordered in relation to what it knows (chapter 1). Human processes of rationality, in other words, are integral to Barth’s theological interests. On the strength of this reorientation, Barth ventures into the ordering of creaturely thought in correspondence to the divine reality that it knows, and comes to understand, in faith (chapters 2-5).

As a consequence or corollary of the doctrine of justification, Barth first discovers in Paul a noetic standpoint of faith that takes as the principle of its knowledge God’s own activity rather than the conditions and possibilities of faith itself (chapters 2-3). Just as crucially, Barth finds in Paul that God truly can be given to human knowledge in such a way —that is, in promise—as to remain sovereign. This frees Barth to speak quite positively and substantively of how Christian thought is to be ordered by this sovereign presence. Westerholm synthesizes this ordering through three conceptual categories that emerge from Barth’s Pauline engagements and mature through his Anselmian reflections. First, the above standpoint of faith orders Christian thought always to proceed from the position of the eschatological (rather than the empirical) subject, from the position of union with Christ. From here Barth identifies concrete points of orientation for thought. These points of orientation are both material, for instance, in the life and work of Christ and the confession of the Creed; and formal, as in the approach to objects of knowledge in view of their beginning and end in God rather than in a delusive and enslaving immediacy. The very freedom of thought, with its Kantian baggage of autonomy and spontaneity, is here redefined in terms of the obedience of faith.

This freedom of thought takes center stage as Barth turns to Anselm (chapters 4-5) to comprehend faith’s movement to understanding. This turn to Anselm, Westerholm observes, is Barth’s original response to the charge that he was eliding rational processes of “appropriating” the faith (147-51). If faith is fundamentally moral or self-implicating, then faith’s movement to understanding entails the movement of creaturely freedom, in thought and in life, into correspondence to the freedom of God apprehended in Christian teaching. To understand this teaching is again not to inquire into the epistemological force of its claims (“whether” they are true) but to ask after its moral force in shaping creaturely thought in accordance with its witness (“how far” they are true; 219, 233). In this movement, the divine reality becomes not just a procedural or noetic beginning point but the whole substance in which creaturely thought lives, moves, and conceives the possibilities of its existence: indeed, if the standpoint of faith reflects the mind’s sharing in justification, then the movement of understanding, Westerholm suggests, comprises the mind’s sanctification. This completes Barth’s account of thought as a moral and spiritual ordering that can know God in no other way than by being conformed to God. It is not the freedom of autonomy, which justifies itself at a remove from God, but the freedom of obedience—finally, of love—that enables and compels a movement like this. Westerholm concludes with the provocative suggestion that this same choice between freedoms, either autonomy or obedience, may be the real dividing line that Barth has passed on to contemporary thought. Nothing but the latter, Barth (and Westerholm) suggests, can order the mind to acknowledge the truth of God.

The avenues for exploration that open up within this work are more than can be named here. It could be particularly significant, not least in light of contemporary “impasses,” to explore the full methodological range of the “freedom” of thought that orients itself by the obedience of faith. Westerholm’s account of credal confession as offering for Barth “no more than points of orientation”—in Barth’s words, “border posts and anchor buoys” for theological reasoning (232)—already seems to suggest a theological movement somewhat different, and potentially freer, than the expectation (often framed in Barthian terms) that dogmatic claims serve as determinative “starting points” for any theological analysis. It would indeed have been invaluable, if infeasible within this single study, for Westerholm to consider implications such as this on a practical level. “How far” indeed, as a further example, should one understand the displacement of epistemology by moral concerns? Once one has taken a step back with Barth and reframed the possibility of truth, morally and theologically, does this reframing return any implications to the more nitty-gritty assessments of theological truthfulness that have been initially set aside? Finally, what might it mean to clarify the relation between “noetic” sanctification, the overwhelming interest of this work, and the sanctification of Christian life as a whole? Where the relation is addressed, Westerholm tends to suggest a one-way movement from thought to the human life that it orders. What might be said, conversely, concerning the bearing of life on thought? Does this question need greater attention in light of the troubling coexistence of reordered thought and disordered relationships in Barth’s own life, to say nothing of our own?

The Ordering of the Christian Mind is a dense, rich, careful study that rewards the attention it requires. Indeed, it is no nominal survey but a complex symphony of concepts and trajectories that, while carefully organized and narrated, draws long arcs in the material that presume commitment and capacity in the reader to follow them through. The carefulness and clarity of the work, however, makes it accessible and rewarding not only to Barth scholars but to any relatively advanced reader with a stake in Barth studies or in the questions of theological reason implicated here. The book is no less rewarding as it offers, through the particular lens of Christian thought, a rich review of many of the foundational and abiding insights of Barth’s theology. It will take specialists in Barth to assess the particulars of this significant essay in ordering his thought, but there should be little doubt that it will merit and reward the effort.

Laura Lysen, Ph.D. Candidate in Theology and Ethics, Baylor University Department of Religion

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

Kimlyn Bender. Reading Karl Barth for the Church (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2019)

Kimlyn Bender. Reading Karl Barth for the Church (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2019), 321 pp. $26.99 (paperback).

Reviewed by Blair Bertrand (April 30, 2020)

While nearing the end of Kimlyn J. Bender’s new book Reading Karl Barth for the Church, a pastor friend posted on social media that he was reading Barth’s Church Dogmatics I/1 (hereafter CD). This is significant for two reasons. The first is that my friend is exactly the audience Bender imagines. Bender writes not for “specialists in Barth studies but for those pastors, students, and other Christian persons who are beginning to approach [Barth’s] CD” (xx) and to “assist others in discovering a theology that was intended for them all along” (xxi). Bender focuses his whole book on CD I/1; perfect for my friend.

Bender’s approach to this audience is different than other well-known “introductions” to Barth. For instance, Eberhard Busch’s The Great Passion (Eerdmans, 2010) introduces us to Barth through biography while David Guretzki’s An Explorer’s Guide to Karl Barth (IVP Academic, 2016) gives a broad survey. Both attempt to provide a broad picture of Barth’s theology that helps the reader when they approach a particular text in Barth’s corpus. In contrast, Bender does not attempt a summary of Barth before looking at a specific text. Rather, he invites the reader into a close reading of CD I/1. In contrast to the deductive approach of laying out motifs or establishing an overall framework before reading the text, Bender provides an inductive approach. He cumulatively builds up the knowledge and skills required to navigate Barth’s CD I/1 by reading it alongside the reader.

What follows, after a brief introduction, are nine chapters that provide a “summary and explanation [that] illumine the meaning of the content in each section” (3) of CD I/1. The intention is that the reader will have CD I/1 in one hand and Bender’s book in the other. Helpfully, Bender provides brief summaries of key arguments, condensing 3 or 4 pages into a few lines, so that the reader understands what they are reading in Barth’s CD. This format goes beyond Geoffrey Bromiley’s wooden summaries in Introduction to the Theology of Karl Barth (T & T Clark, 2000), in part because Bender is not summarizing the entire CD and so has more space to elaborate on Barth’s arguments. As his readers might expect of a systematic theologian, Bender is adept at using certain motifs and frameworks to understand Barth’s theology and then helpfully points to them when it illuminates a part of Barth’s text. For instance, Bender will interpret a particular section of the CD in light of the context of the entire work. This is a skill that a new reader to Barth does not have, but these contextualizations are helpful to understand the significance of a given passage. In general, these contextualizations do not fall into academic debates, but rather push the reader deeper into Barth’s argument.

This textual guidance is occasionally interrupted by excursus on important topics. For instance, in chapter 2 which treats §§1-2, Bender outlines the theologians who Barth is in conversation with in an excursus titled, “Evangelical Dogmatics in Opposition to Two Rival Traditions.” For an audience not versed in the history of Roman Catholicism or liberal German Protestantism, this is a helpful guide. Each chapter also contains a commentary in which Bender selects some dominant themes or ideas and then relates them to contemporary concerns and debates. In an age with a resurgence of nationalism in a pluralist world, Bender’s commentary on “The Relation of Jesus Christ, the Holy Spirit, and Other Spirits” and “Revelation and Religion, Christianity and World Religions” (both found in Chapter 8 – “The Outpouring of the Holy Spirit”) seem apt and appropriate. Finally, each chapter ends with “Questions for Reflection.” At times, these seem overly didactic, but readers should find at least one or two of them to be profitable.

The second significance to my online interaction with my friend mentioned at the beginning of my review is that he found out about this book through social media. After graduating from seminary over a decade ago, my friend is no longer connected to the academy. He may have discovered Bender’s book, eventually, perhaps, if he attends a Barth Center conference but by then the moment of his need would likely have passed. Luckily for Bender and for Baker Academic, I was able to point my friend to this book right when it was relevant for him. The fact remains that while Bender writes to bridge a gap between the high culture of Barth’s theological edifice and the low culture of pastors and lay theologians, the academy and the publishing industry struggle to do the same.

For instance, the eight endorsements on the back of the book are all by established academic white men, the majority of whom are closer to retirement age than not. They are all well-esteemed Barth scholars whose endorsements carry a lot of weight within Barth studies. However, the intended audience of this book is not Barth studies, but the church. Baker’s decisions in this respect have not aided Bender in trying to temper the perception that Barth is only of interest to white men within the field of systematic theology. All of this is ironic given Bender’s stated purpose and the content of his book. contemplations.

The very title of the book, Reading Karl Barth for the Church, hints at this divide between the academy and the church the Bender seeks to bridge. The “for” could either be interpreted as “alongside with” or “on behalf of.” The first interpretation, which is what Bender hopes to do, is best understood when seen in contrast with other options available to his audience. Bender is not reading Barth for the academy or systematic theology; he is reading Barth for the church. The book then becomes a way of opening a text for its originally intended audience, the church, over and against the ways that it has often been read. Bender largely succeeds at this task except when the second interpretation of “for” is employed.

The second interpretation, “on behalf of,” is the equivalent of saying to someone, “Let me do this for you.” This interpretation takes agency away from a person and places it in the hands of the competent expert. In this case, the danger is that agency is taken away from Bender’s audience, the church and those who pastor it, and places it in the hands of the academy. The problem that I am identifying is not rooted in the expertise of a scholar like Bender. While Barth warns in CD I/1 that theology is too valuable to be confined to systematic theologians, thereby opening a space for Biblical and practical theology, he recognizes that there is a vital role to be played by systematic theology in the life of the church. Namely, systematic theology is to ensure the truth of the church’s proclamation, and this task requires expertise. The problem arises when such expertise assumes an authoritative and normative stance to Barth interpretation, centering systematic concerns and ways of thinking to the exclusion of other ways.

Bender, who is an expert in Barth studies writing for non-experts, treads a fine line: He cannot oversimplify Barth’s theology, but he must also simplify Barth’s theology for his intended audience. This difficult task proves to be a constant struggle, which is discerned most clearly in Bender’s prose. It is possible for an author to be clear while illuminating difficult and dense material. Bender is often clear and illuminating but his prose can also be difficult at times. Take a random sentence from Bender’s book and its meaning will be clear, which makes Barth’s theology easier to understand. This same sentence, however, will also use technical theological terms to condense a page or more of Barth’s text. Bender’s prose is an improvement to most obscure academic writing. But, and this is the problem, Bender’s writing is still too academic in the end. Someone with little theological training will struggle with the prose at different points and this will ultimately hinder them from understanding Bender’s insights. Perhaps this outcome is unavoidable given the source material, but it does make Bender’s book a demanding read for the novice to Barth’s theology.

Perhaps a specific example will make my observation and critique of Bender’s writing clearer. In remarking on paragraph §14 “The Time of Revelation,” Bender rightly notes that this section “is without question one of the most difficult segments of the first volume of the CD” (138). What makes this paragraph in the CD so difficult is that we normally think of God’s revelation as an event that happens in space but neglect that this event also happens in time. We can somewhat understand the fact that the God “out there” becomes the God who is now “down here” in Jesus Christ, all while not ceasing to be God. The language that we use is spatial – out there, down here – and close to our real life. The concept of time is more abstract. To help pastors or students understand this particular part of the CD more easily, it would be helpful to interpret Barth’s argument for the reader in a different rhetorical style than what Barth himself employs. Specifically, in this section but not exclusive to it, neither Barth nor Bender employ metaphors, similes, images, or analogies. Each of these interpretive devices helps to bridge the unknown to the known in ways that description, explication, and commentary may not. These devices are the basic tools of preachers and congregants, as they are how we talk and think in our daily lives. To make a more meaningful connection with these audiences, Bender needs to draw on his pastoral skills at times more than his systematic theology training. Bender has written a good, clear book of systematic theology, but there are few rhetorical devices employed within this book to make it accessible enough to those who do not think or write in the same way as Barth or other systematic theologians.

I know that my friend bought Bender’s book. I wonder if he found it beneficial? There is a good chance he did, but I guess I will have to log on to our shared social media connections and find out.

Rev. Dr. Blair D. Bertrand, Lecturer, Zomba Theological College, Zomba, Malawi

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

Jeff McSwain. Simul Sanctification: Barth’s Hidden Vision for Human Transformation (Eugene, OR: Pickwick, 2018)

Jeff McSwain. Simul Sanctification: Barth’s Hidden Vision for Human Transformation (Eugene, OR: Pickwick, 2018), 334 pp. $39.00 (paperback).

Reviewed by Taylor Telford (May 21, 2020)

Jeff McSwain’s Simul Sanctification is a lucidly written, theologically creative exploration of what he describes as “the two humanities in the one humanity of Christ” (223). Using the lens of Luther’s simul iustus et peccator, McSwain clarifies Barth’s doctrine of sanctification—an aspect of Barth’s theology arguably as innovative as his doctrine of election. In so doing, McSwain seeks to provide a scripturally grounded, theologically consistent account for why Christians commit terrible evil and non-Christians genuine acts of good. By exploring what he calls “Barth’s Christo-anthropological actualism,” McSwain seeks to address this concern by answering a central question of Barth’s theological conclusions: If Barth’s Christology claims Jesus as both the True Human and in full solidarity with sinful human sarx, what then are the implications for anthropology (281)? The answer, for McSwain, is what he calls “a Chalcedonian anthropology,” wherein “Jesus Christ’s singular life most accurately reveals to us the peccatum totality of false humanity’s condition, while simultaneously representing the iustitia totality of true human being;” the single subject, Jesus Christ, entails “a twofold determination of human nature” within the traditional twofold divine-human Chalcedonian formula (60).

McSwain’s argument can be delineated into corresponding sections of what, how, where and when, and why. Chapters 1 and 2 address what will be argued; these chapters form the central thread of the thesis woven throughout the book. Here, McSwain sets forth the most innovative aspect of his argument: “Chalcedonian anthropology”. Where Chalcedon affirms the two natures, divine and human, in the single subject, Jesus Christ, McSwain expands this to include a twofold human nature: justus and peccator humanity. McSwain is repurposing “Chalcedonian” to highlight a two-natures anthropology which includes true humanity and sinful flesh.

From here, Chapters 3-6 seek to answer the how questions: how one comes to know this “Chalcedonian anthropology” in Christ (Ch. 3), how this reading re-shapes and differs from other Barthian accounts, particularly regarding Barth’s ontological actualism (Ch. 4), and how it differs from other doctrines of sanctification (Ch. 5 and 6). For McSwain, other accounts of sanctification (Barthian and otherwise) are inadequate because they either separate the will and work of the Triune persons (e.g. all are objectively reconciled in Christ, but not all are subjectively redeemed in the Spirit) or they fall into monergism or synergism. In contrast, Barth’s Christocentric actualism not only means all humanity objectively participates in Christ, but also subjectively participates in Christ already. As the single subject who is both God and human (with both true and false humanity), both subject of election and object of election and rejection, Jesus is the objective act of God and the subjective response of humanity. Both justification and sanctification are located and actualized in Jesus. In addressing the corresponding how to the what question of his thesis, McSwain’s radical emphasis on “Christo-anthropological actualism” sheds light on the uniqueness of his contribution to Barth scholarship.

Chapters 7-12 explore the questions of where and when the simul occurs from varying angles. McSwain highlights a clear tension in Barth’s Christology: if Jesus is fully God and fully human, which includes both true and false humanity, then where does this originate and when does this occur? McSwain traces these concerns through the Church Dogmatics (CD hereafter), addressing Barth’s interaction with a range of topics including election, creation, the Fall, theodicy, Christ’s cross, resurrection, and intercession, theosis, time, and eternity. Regarding true humanity, McSwain adheres to Barth’s assertion that Jesus alone is the True Human, determined in election and fulfilled in reconciliation; iustus humanity is located in Christ. But what of false humanity? Like Barth, McSwain refuses to look behind Jesus in some way to explain the impossible possibility of sin and evil. Instead, he focuses on God’s radical responsibility for these things, particularly in the cross. Peccator humanity, too, is located in Christ, in order that it may be put to death. For McSwain, this is highlighted in Jesus’ own experience of the simul, poignantly revealed in Gethsemane and Golgotha (Ch. 7). Even as the reality of the simul is revealed in Christ, so is its timeline. Jesus’ death spells the end of the peccator, and the resurrection reveals the promise—and the reality!—of true humanity in Christ, which was established in election and fulfilled in reconciliation. In addressing the location and temporal aspects of the simul, these chapters draw out the pressure points and emphasize the radical nature and implications of McSwain’s reading of Barth.

The final chapters contain McSwain’s reflections on why this matters. Here, he creatively applies the argument in terms of reading scripture and applying theology concretely. These chapters highlight McSwain’s commitment to and awareness of Barth’s own concerns; namely, attending to the biblical witness and the inextricable connection between theology, ethics, and everyday life. McSwain shows how Barth’s account of sanctification reorients the question of why believers commit evil and unbelievers fruitful good. Because the human being is externally located in the person Jesus Christ, who according to “Chalcedonian anthropology” reveals both true and false humanity, all human beings on this side of the eschaton have both iustus and peccator determinations. There is no ontological delineation between believers and non-believers since all are objectively (and subjectively, as McSwain would add) in Christ. Sanctification is not a matter of personal “progress;” it is a dynamic process of becoming who you already are in the miraculous intervention of the Spirit who allows one to recognize their objective inclusion and participate in Christ’s own subjective response to the Father. For McSwain, this re-definition matters deeply for the way the church understands itself, vocation, and relation to the world.

It should be noted that as McSwain moves from question to question throughout this book, these questions are held together—in congruence with Barth’s own thought—by the central who question; that is, who Jesus Christ is as True God and True Human and who human beings are. This, alongside consistent engagement with the whole of Barth’s CD and his attention to typically overlooked sections (e.g Barth’s understanding of angels [Ch. 12] and the correlation between Jesus and Job in CD IV/3.1 [Ch. 8]) underscore the breadth and depth of research McSwain’s project. Likewise, his consistent engagement with Barth’s exegesis of scripture, as well as his “Final Reflections,” which explore the concrete implications for Christian life, show McSwain’s care for and consistency with Barth’s own theological concerns.

While the book reflects meticulous attention to primary source material, more attention to relevant secondary sources would better situate McSwain within Barth scholarship. Even so, it serves as a useful springboard for further dialogue within Barth studies and beyond. Though McSwain is aware of this danger, the structure and innovative nature of his argument can lead to accusations of using Barth’s CD to merely “proof-text” an imported thesis, which is an inherent risk when topically approaching a text as massive as the CD (213). For example, though cited throughout, there is no section that explicitly ties the thesis to Barth’s account of sanctification in CD IV/2 §66—an exercise that could lend support to McSwain’s claims that the simul is Barth’s thought, and not merely a way of reading Barth. Is McSwain’s thesis the product of exegesis or eisegesis of Barth’s theology? One thing is clear: Simul Sanctification offers an original and engaging reading of Barth, grounded in broad and in-depth research of the CD, which seeks to follow not only the content of Barth’s thought but also his underlying concerns to their ends.

Taylor Telford, Ph.D. Candidate, University of St. Andrews

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

Maico M. Michielin, ed. A Shorter Commentary on Romans by Karl Barth, trans., D.H. van Daalen, with an introductory essay by Maico Michielin (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2007)

Maico M. Michielin, ed. A Shorter Commentary on Romans by Karl Barth, trans., D.H. van Daalen, with an introductory essay by Maico Michielin (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2007), xxvi + 119. $89.95

Reviewed by Shannon Nicole Smythe (August 06, 2008)

One of the newest releases in the Barth Studies series put out by Ashgate is a reissue of Barth’s A Shorter Commentary on Romans, which was first published in 1959 and originated as the manuscript for a course of extra-mural lectures given in Basle during the winter of 1940-41. The second part of the text is a republication of the original English translation by D.H. van Daalen, but the first part includes a new introductory essay by Maico Michielin entitled “Exegesis that Corresponds to God’s Activity.” In this essay Michielin advances the thesis that “Barth’s exegesis evolves from an understanding of the biblical text as a contingent human and historical event of communication that witnesses to God’s electing activity in the person of the risen Jesus Christ, who is the basis of its human historical reality. The words of Paul witness to a specific historical occurrence determined and shaped by God’s history—God’s election of this human witness” (ix). Michielin further argues that Barth’s own exegesis is shaped by God’s electing activity, yet without any elimination of true, active human interaction with the biblical text. Michielin then organizes his essay under four headings, which all serve to support his proposal. In the first section he endeavors to show how, throughout Barth’s A Shorter Commentary on Romans (referred to as SR), the subject matter of the text for Barth is God’s threefold election of Jesus, Paul and the Christian. Secondly, Michielin shows how Barth organizes his exegesis by way of certain key concepts. Third, he considers briefly the way Barth makes use of various historical critical tools in his exegesis. Fourth and finally, Michielin ponders whether or not Barth’s own exegetical practices are consistent with his theological anthropology, concluding that they are so.In the end, Michielin finds Barth to be both an astutely critical and theologically consistent interpreter of Scripture and holds him up as an example of someone who appropriately balances his own work as God’s partner with the primacy of the subject matter of the text of Romans, which is nothing less than God’s own electing activity in Jesus Christ.

Michielin’s essay is short, but his points are clear, well-made and serve as a very helpful introduction to the main themes in theSR, which for many readers of Barth’s exegetical works will sound very different compared to Barth’s previous commentaries on Romans. Michielin’s suggestion that Barth locates the subject matter of the text in God’s threefold electing activity is interesting in light of the fact that the lectures were written around the same time as Barth was completing the second part of his volume on the ‘Doctrine of God’ in the Church Dogmatics. It seems likely that Barth’s study of Romans had implications for his doctrine of election in CD II/2, and perhaps vice versa.

Perhaps the most interesting section of Michielin’s essay can be found in one of his footnotes, in which, after acknowledging that Barth sees the Bible as a “‘human document like any other…’” (xiv), he goes on to admit that Barth’s own historical critical work leaves much to be desired in his interpretation of Paul’s understanding of the Law (xvi-xvii). Michielin finds Barth’s understanding of Paul to be consonant with the classic Lutheran tradition of Pauline interpretation, and himself sides with Käsemann and Sanders in their own picture of Paul’s understanding of the Law. Michielin simply assumes that Barth and all of the Reformers got Paul wrong. While this may well be the case, a brief footnote is certainly not enough to establish such a monumental point, one which involves long and complex arguments on each side.

Within the actual commentary Barth sees six main divisions in Paul’s text: 1.1-17, which forms the introduction; 1.18-3.20, in which Paul states that the message of Jesus Christ is a negative judgment on all people, both Jews and Gentiles alike; 3.21-8.39, in which Paul argues that this judgment is executed in Jesus Christ, thereby acquitting and justifying all who believe in him; chapters 9-11, in which Paul explains what the Gospel means among the Jews; 12.1-15.13, in which Paul indicates what the Gospel means in the Church of Jesus Christ; and 15.14-16.27, in which Paul makes a series of personal communications. Barth’s attention to the logic and flow of Paul’s argument is impressive. In Romans 5.1-21 (“The Gospel as Man’s Reconciliation with God”), 6.1-23 (“The Gospel as Man’s Sanctification”), and 7.1-25 (“The Gospel as Man’s Liberation”) Barth finds three accounts of the statement that the Gospel is God’s powerful work of salvation (1.16) and three explanations of the thesis that the person who is righteous before God by faith shall live (1.17). When Barth then turns to chapters 9-16, he suggests that Paul has already said all that needs to be said about salvation and thus all that remains is the question of what it means when this Gospel of salvation is met with disobedience and with obedience. Barth points out that Paul deals with the obedience that meets the Gospel with a set of exhortations and instructions, while he deals with the disobedience that meets the Gospel with a kind of theory that contemplates and adores the way in which God’s mysterious work will prove true and be triumphant even where it is met with disobedience. As for the final personal communications in 15.14-16.27, Barth notes that lest we have forgotten the Epistle is a real letter, we are reminded in this last section that we are seeing a glimpse of Paul at a particular stage of his life as well as a particular Christian Church of the first period. For Barth, Paul’s final “‘The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ be with you all!’ sums up…everything that he has to tell his Churches, all that he has to tell at all as an apostle” (115). Following some of the scholarship of his day Barth concludes that 16.25-27 should be considered as a later addition by someone else, and while he finds their content instructive, he does not explain them in order that the last word we hear remains Paul’s own.

The SR did not make much of an impression when it first came out in English back in 1959. Following the controversial waves of Barth’s first and second Romans commentaries, his exegetical work was often overlooked or not taken seriously as legitimate biblical scholarship. In today’s world of biblical scholarship, however, there is a revival of interest in the theological subject matter of the text as well as in the question of the relationship between the text, the interpreter and God. It may even be wagered that many today would agree with Barth that we need to let Paul speak for himself and yet would still seek the wisdom of Barth’s exegesis of Paul. It should be noted that students of Barth will likely find the inclusion of footnotes in the commentary where Barth deals with the same passage in another text, mostly in the Church Dogmatics, helpful and instructive for comparing Barth’s exegesis of Romans throughout his career. For all of these reasons, this reviewer is hopeful that theSR will be well-received this time around, not only by committed Barth admirers, but also by biblical scholars, pastors and church folk alike.

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

Barth, Karl. A Unique Time of God: Karl Barth’s WWI Sermons. Trans. William Klempa (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 2016)

Barth, Karl. A Unique Time of God: Karl Barth’s WWI Sermons. Trans. William Klempa (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 2016) 240 pp. $35.00 (paperback).

Reviewed by Andrew Scales (November 28, 2017)

“We would also like to pray with our whole heart, ‘O land, land, land, hear the word of the LORD!’ Hear the Word of the Lord that has come so palpably in our reach in the powerful events of this time. With what an awesome responsibility we burden ourselves if we do not listen to God now! Hear the Word of the Lord—not the word of human beings, not even the word of the pastor.” —Karl Barth, Sermon at Safenwil, September 20, 1914 (A Unique Time of God, 125-6)

When humans celebrate violence and racist ideologies, Christians must listen again to God’s call to repentance. In A Unique Time of God: Karl Barth’s WWI Sermons, William Klempa offers a vibrant translation of thirteen sermons Karl Barth preached at the onset of World War I. Distinctive themes of Barth’s theology emerge like prophetic leitmotifs in these sermons amid the cacophony of war and nationalism in Europe: God’s inescapable judgment and mercy, the revelatory power of crises, the immediate claim of the Word of God upon the people of God, the absolute dependence on Jesus and his Kingdom for hope and life.

In the introduction, Klempa succinctly describes how theological luminaries throughout European universities and pulpits embraced jingoist sentiments in 1914. Here readers will find a biographical sketch of Barth’s emerging friendships with fellow pastors like Eduard Thurneysen, as well as Barth’s criticisms of his old professors like Adolf von Harnack, who justified the war. Klempa’s inclusion of these conversation partners furnishes a historical and intellectual context for the evolution of Barth’s own theological convictions, namely that God did not rejoice in this war, but nevertheless would redeem humanity.

The collection of sermons begins amid the tensions of July 1914 and the eruption of war at the end of the month. As early as July 26, 1914—just two days before Austria-Hungary declared war on Serbia—Barth preached trenchant criticisms of the ensuing conflict, declaring its potential for death and destruction contrary to the kingdom Christ promised. In his sermon that morning, Barth warns his congregation of the horrors that may soon disrupt or destroy their lives: “barring a miracle, we shall unleash anew hundreds of thousands of men like wild beasts on one another, hundreds of thousands who do not know one another and who have done nothing to harm one another” (52). Barth sets this dreadful scene against the Apostle Paul’s promises of redemption and restoration that rest only with “the living, true God” (56).

In addition to his excellence as a critic of culture, Barth proves to be an adept preacher to the townspeople who gathered in the pews in Safenwil. His sermons include intimate self-disclosure—at times he expresses profound grief about his mentors’ swift acclamation of German nationalism. He also vividly renders contemporary anxieties and God’s enduring faithfulness through the lived experiences of his listeners. We infer from his sermons that some worshippers have come to the church in search of hope after sending siblings and children to the front for Switzerland’s defense. A particularly inspired section is Barth’s plain denial that war is an endeavor blessed by God in a sermon from September 6, 1914:

None of this is God’s will, neither the selfishness and arrogance in human beings, nor the mutual hatred of the nations, nor their anxieties about one another and their threatening armaments, nor finally that they mutually attack life with both precise and heavy firing power at sea, on land, or in the air. All these things are completely alien to the innermost being of God . . . God is as distant from them as from their enemies in the wrath with which their actions fill God. But God is also as distant from them in the love that God wants to bestow to draw both sides out of their confusion. And this indeed remains the same in victory or in defeat (111).

Many of the sermons in A Unique Time of God turn on this axis of God’s judgment and grace amid the unfolding crisis of war. The bellicose nationalism, the arrogance of rival cultures, the confidence in human righteousness, all of it compounds to humanity’s disastrous self-destruction and deserved condemnation. And yet, throughout this conflict, God’s righteousness and steadfast love become known to modern Europeans through the Word of God and its promises.

A few questions remain after reading A Unique Time of God. As a teacher of homiletics, I wonder how unusual Barth’s sermons were at that time. Klempa keeps the introduction moving along instead of distracting the reader with knotty digressions, and yet, I wanted to know a little more about the customs and content of preaching in that day. Were Barth’s denouncements of the war sui generis among Reformed pastors? Was he part of a band of preachers who shared similar misgivings across confessional lines? Did any prominent European pastors condemn the war from their own pulpits? A brief comparison with other sermons—perhaps especially from talented preachers who avidly endorsed the war—might have helped further define Barth’s positions amid the theological and pastoral currents of his day.

Nevertheless, these sermons are a welcome addition to the growing library of Barth’s early work in English. Klempa’s translation is fresh and inviting; he revives these sermons from a century ago with clarity and grace. Barth’s style comes across often as familiar and conversational, elsewhere impassioned, and always brilliant. Each Sunday’s sermon hints at ideas that mature in his Göttingen lectures, and later swell into his grand symphony, the Church Dogmatics.

These primary sources invite us to understand the young Barth and his theological commitments in greater detail. More than that, A Unique Time of God provides examples of how a preacher can allow God’s Word to speak to the great crises of the present day. Klempa deserves our thanks for bringing Barth’s words to life in our own language, at a time when so many of us hope and pray that God is speaking through God’s Word to us, even now.

Andrew Scales, Ph.D. Candidate, Princeton Theological Seminary and Presbyterian Chaplain at Princeton University

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

White, Thomas Joseph, O.P., ed., The Analogy of Being: Invention of Antichrist or the Wisdom of God? (Grand Rapids, MI: William B. Eerdmans Publishing Company, 2011)

Reviewed by Jeffrey Skaff (October 21, 2013)

“I regard the analogia entis as the invention of Antichrist, and I believe that because of it it is impossible ever to become a Catholic.” Karl Barth’s famous statement in the preface to the first part-volume of theChurch Dogmatics—directed at the work of Roman Catholic philosopher Erich Przywara—does not immediately suggest itself as a springboard for launching ecumenical dialogue. The essays by leading Protestant, Roman Catholic, and Orthodox theologians collected in this volume, however, testify to the breadth and depth of the conversation between Barth, Przywara, and others, a conversation in which Barth’s “soundbite” is only one moment. The contributors first presented their pieces at a 2008 conference in Washington D.C. They approach their specific topics with erudition, make careful judgments, and, for the most part, practice charity towards those with whom they disagree.

Readers should note that this is the second of three volumes that have become something of a series. It is preceded byDivine Impassibility and the Mystery of Human Suffering(James F. Keating and Thomas Joseph White, O.P. 2009) and followed by Thomas Aquinas and Karl Barth: An Unofficial Catholic-Protestant Dialogue (Bruce L. McCormack and Thomas Joseph White, O.P. 2013). These volumes are written by a group of scholars who are committed to particular theological traditions, and though they are ecumenically-minded, they have no interest in what Hans Urs von Balthasar referred to as “a false irenicism in dogmatics.”

This particular volume begins with an introductory essay by Thomas Joseph White, in which he characterizes “the single most important ecumenical controversy of the twentieth century” as being rooted in different responses to modernity (1). Przywara believed that analogy offered an alternative to modern thought, which tended towards either univocity (pantheism) or equivocity (God is unthinkable). He drew upon Augustinian themes to argue, “where the self seems the most irrefragably separated from God (most godless), there the wholly other dissimilarity of God in transcendence may also appear anew” (12–13). Barth, on the other hand, did not seek to explain modern godlessness “by recourse to a philosophical or metaphysical explanation” (9). Rather, he “depicted the state of modern atheism as only a more or less vivid unveiling of what has already, always been the case in fallen human nature. . . . We are . . . incapable of rejoining God in any way by our own powers” (9). His response was to emphasize “the agency of God in Christ breaking into the created order” (11).

The first section, “Reconsidering the Theological Contours of the Original Debate,” contains the two essays that most directly engage not only the debate, but also the thought of Przywara and Barth themselves. John Betz emphasizes two things in his account of Przywara’s analogy of being, both of which frequently appear in the other essays. First, he argues there is “an analogical ordering of philosophy to theology” (or faith to reason), which follows the rule: fides (theologia) non destruit, sed supponit et perificit rationem (philosophiam)” (66). Second, Betz emphasizes that the analogy of being simply repeats the definition of the Fourth Lateran Council that “one cannot note any similarity between Creator and creature—however great—that would not require one always to note an ever greater dissimilarity” (75); that is to say, the analogia entis is an analogia proportionalitatis. With these principles in hand, Betz tries to ward off common Barthian criticisms: “The analogia entis is not a metaphysical superstructure connecting the being of God to the being of creatures; nor does it compromise divine transcendence; nor is it reducible to a form of natural theology” (75). To his credit, he realizes that more fundamental criticisms might remain, and names two of them. First, the analogy of being posits that creation is “already always looking to God and already intended for God—indeed, always already in touch with God on the basis of its mere being” (80). Second, that the analogy of being determines a relationship between God and creatures independent of God’s revelation in Jesus Christ in such a way that “Christ appears ultimately as the fulfillment of an already existing reality and knowledge” (83). Betz briefly tries to address these objections, and admits that sticking to them does risk positioning oneself in opposition to fundamental teachings of the Roman Catholic Church.

Betz’ seeming recognition that Barth’s opposition to the analogy of being ultimately rests on ontological, rather than epistemological, concerns segues nicely into Bruce McCormack’s chapter. Among other things, McCormack traces Barth’s outworking of “the ontological implications of his theological epistemology” from the second edition of Romans through the fourth volume of the Church Dogmatics. One significant moment in this narrative is the publication of Barth’s 1929 essay “The Holy Spirit and the Christian Life.” It was occasioned by Przywara’s visit to Barth’s seminar and takes issue with “the alleged ‘continuity’ that joins Creator and creature as a consequence of creation” (102). In McCormack’s reading—and against Balthasar’s and others’—Barth never wavered in the fundamental move made here, that of shifting “the basis for a concept of analogy from creation as such to revelation” (104, original emphasis). Whereas Balthasar believed revelation in Christ provided Barth with an epistemological basis for establishing the ontological “givenness” of creation (because the incarnation presupposes the order of creation), McCormack is only willing to grant this with regards to the first volumes of the Church Dogmatics (and even then, only with hesitation and qualification). In a move that will be unsurprising to anyone who has followed Barth studies in recent years, McCormack argues that it is only with Barth’s revision of the doctrine of election in II/2 and its outworking in the Christology of Volume IV that Barth is able to provide a coherent theological ontology, and thus the basis for his mature account of analogy. The “I-Thou relation” of the Father and Son in eternity serves as the concrete basis for the relationship of God and the creature; in III/1 Barth refers to this as an analogia relationis. There is, then, an analogy of being within the analogy of faith not only epistemologically—as Balthasar believed—but ontologically as well. On its own, this final point seems rather noncontroversial among Barth scholars, and so those who disagree with McCormack’s account of Barth’s development and its implications (which he defends here in part by appealing to German-language scholarship of the last several decades) will have to decide whether the point can be maintained through different means.

The three essays of the second section, “Ecumenical Proposals,” address the Roman Catholic theological legacy of the exchanges of the 1920s and 30s. Kenneth Oakes tries to narrow the distance between Barth and Przywara by drawing attention to the latter’s theology of the cross. This theme is prominent in Przywara’s 1956 Alter and Neuer Bund. Here Przywara distinguishes his understanding of the analogy of faith from that of Barth, Balthasar, and Söhngen. Rather than an “analogical knowing in faith . . . Przywara intends by the term analogia fidei the far more traditional sense of the practice or art of reading Scripture in light of Scripture” (160). Christ stands at the center of this analogy of faith because “the old and the new covenant . . . are ‘nailed together’ by ‘the nails of the cross’” (161). Within this scheme, the analogy of being, here taken to refer to the “ever yet greater” of the “unfathomable mystery of [the life of the triune] God in himself” (163), “intensifies and amplifies what we wish to say about this story of Jesus Christ and his own unique work” (164). Whether or not one is convinced by Oakes’ claim that Przywara’s theology of the cross in his later work successfully mediates between Barth and Przywara on the doctrine of revelation, Oakes’ call for future discussions between the two theologians on topics such as Christology, the doctrine of God, and biblical exegesis is welcome.

Richard Shenk’s essay also tries to connect the analogy of being with the cross, though he is finally more interested in Thomas Aquinas than Przywara. He begins by showing how both Przywara and then Gottlieb Söhngen offered a staurological interpretation of the axiom fides (theologia) non destruit, sed supponit et perificit rationem (philosophiam). Söhngen in particular looked to Bonaventure to find such an understanding, and they both believed such a view was at odds with Thomism. Shenk then shifts to a fascinating discussion of the origin of the nature and grace axiom, showing its origin in the Neoplatonism of Dionysian thought. When Thomas is situated within this context, it is clear that, for Thomas, “the nature that is not destroyed by grace, far from being the self-glorifying nature that the critics of analogy feared, was the nature that would experience its own failings” (188–89).

In the next essay Peter Casarella considers Balthasar’s attempts to integrate Barthian considerations into Roman Catholic theology. In part, this involves relating Balthasar’s defense of Przywara. Balthasar claims that Przywara’s analogy of being “is not the starting point of an absolute metaphysics” (196), and emphasizes the christocentric elements in Przywara’s thought, especially with regards to the doctrine of creation. Balthasar was not always uncritical of Przywara, however, especially later in his life when the controversy between Barth and Przywara had faded. In Theodramatik II/2, Balthasar questions the christological adequacy of Przywara’s system of thought. Casarella summarizes, “Przywara’s metaphysics can be a great aid to a theologian to see the order of being in creation with Christ as its ground. His theory of analogy is grounded in the concreteness of revelation, but the living form of Christ and the Christological determinations of the analogy of being are still too vague” (204).

Part III is titled “The Analogy of Being and Thomistic Ressourcement.” The four essays in this section all seek to defend Thomas, and especially his understanding of analogy, against criticism from Barth and his followers. Against Wolfhart Pannenberg and Eberhard Jüngel, who he thinks are too indebted to Hegel and Kant, respectively, Reinhold Hütter holds up Thomas’ ontology of “causal participation.” In his chapter, Thomas Joseph White defends a provocative claim: “[W]hile knowledge of Christ implies a natural capacity for knowledge of God by natural reason (natural theology), the absence of an intrinsic capacity for the latter would render belief in the divinity of Christ impossible. This suggests that to the extent that there is a Christological analogia entis (an analogy between creation and God disclosed in Christ), this mystery presupposes a natural analogia entis intrinsic to creation” (250–51). Like Hütter, in his conclusion he attempts to bolster his argument by criticizing Barthians for their overreliance on “Kantian epistemological premises” (279). Bruce Marshall’s essay takes a different approach to Thomas. He maintains that we can never know the precise relationship between our naming of God and God’s perfections. At the same time, he argues that Thomas affirms the christological possibility of univocal talk of God, writing, “univocal human speech about God becomes possible . . . from the moment the Word becomes flesh” (306). He reconciles these two pieces of his argument by claiming, “Nothing it is true for us to say univocally of God in virtue of the humanity of the Logos tells us of God quid est, what he is in his divine nature” (311). In the final essay of the section, Martin Bieler reads Thomas alongside Ferdinand Ulrich and emphasizes that the analogy of being describes a gift given from God to the creature that invites a free positive response. The logic of giving is the basis for the adequacy of analogy as the proper way to speak of the relationship between God and creation.

Though the contributors to this section are united in their defense of Thomas, their arguments demonstrate the various ways Thomas can be interpreted, even on foundational matters. It is best left to specialists to sort out the details of the debates here, but the biggest issues at stake seems to be: (1) whether Thomas’ account of analogy is ontological, logical, or both, and (2) what this implies about the character of our knowledge God (the question of apophaticism).

The final section of the volume is titled, “The Analogy of Being and the Renewal of Contemporary Theology.” The first essay of the section, by Michael Hanby, is noteworthy for its relative lack of interest in dogmatic theology (compared to the other essays), focusing instead on theology and science. Over against what he takes to be the dominant understanding of the world in modern science (a deficiency he traces to Ockham), Hanby emphasizes the need for an account of the inherent nature and meaning of the material world. The analogy of being is ideally suited for this task since it can provide an account of what the world is as world, while also maintaining the otherness of God. This allows for the autonomy of the natural sciences and theology while also providing opportunities for mutually beneficial conversations.

Next, John Webster appeals to “God’s wholly realized triune life in himself” (379) in order to defend a classical Reformed account of the relationship between God and creation. He stakes out a position in opposition to accounts that hold that “the real is the historical” (380)—Robert Jenson is mentioned—and accounts that heavily rely on “the idiom of participation” (380)—David Bentley Hart is taken as representative. In opposition to the former, Webster maintains that a robust doctrine of God’s aseity is not only compatible with, but secures and bolsters the divine missions. As to the latter, rather than strong participatory language, Webster argues for the superiority of “dramatic” language, in which covenant, and thus election, is emphasized. He urges Reformed theologians not to concede too quickly to criticism of their tradition and encourages them to engage in fresh readings of Scripture, arguing, “dogmatic failure is not only the outworking of philosophical error but also—more often—the consequence of thin, tired, or unexpectant exegesis” (389). Following his own advice, he exegetes Ephesians 1:3-14, drawing attention to its description of God’s fullness, and finding that it is “God’s will, directed to creatures as sovereign decision and determination in their favor” which “ties together the realities of God in himself and God’s economic presence” (391).

The final essay belongs to David Bentley Hart, the scholar most responsible for revitalizing the debate over the analogy of being. He first sweeps aside criticism of the analogy of being: “In itself, there could scarcely be a more perfectly biblical, thoroughly unthreatening, and rather drably obvious Christian principle than Przywara’s analogia entis” (395). The analogy of being alone maintains the infinite transcendence of God while also providing means for affirming God’s true immanence, God’s “transcendent immediacy” (408). In the second half of the essay, attempting to assuage critics’ fears, Hart elucidates how Nicene theology demands the analogy of being. “Fully developed Christology is . . . impossible to conceive apart from a proper understanding of the true difference between transcendent and immanent being. . . . The ‘ever greater difference’ . . . lifts the doctrine of the incarnation out of the realm of myth, for it marks the difference between the divine and the human as an infinite qualitative difference” (409, original emphasis). An epilogue by Richard Shenk follows in which he attempts to tie the essays together and point the way forward, especially for Roman Catholic theology.

The Analogy of Being is a model for ecumenical dogmatic theology, and several of the essays are essential reading for anyone interested in the debate between Barth and Przywara and its legacy. That said, and although the collection is already quite long, additional essays defending Barth’s position—or even substantially interacting with it—would have been welcome. As it stands, of the twelve essays, only McCormack’s explicitly defends Barth (though Webster certainly defends some of Barth’s most basic concerns). Readers will have been misled if they think this reflects a scholarly consensus against Barth. Keith L. Johnson’s carefully researched recent book, Karl Barth and the Analogia Entis (Keith L. Johnson 2010), makes impossible flippant dismissals of Barth on the grounds he misunderstood Przywara. One wonders how some of the arguments here might have changed if they had taken Johnson’s book into account—unfortunately it was not yet available in published form.

More careful attention to Barth, even by those who finally oppose him, might also have eliminated supposed counterarguments to his position that are simply red herrings. For example, attempting to render Barth’s critiques innocuous, more than one contributor appeals to the ultimate apophatic moment in the analogy of being—an appeal that entirely misunderstands Barth’s concerns about any givenness of revelation. Barth’s problem with Przywara’s account of the analogy of being is not that it claims to know too much about God or that it does not leave sufficient space for God’s transcendence. His problem is with what it implies about the basis for one’s knowledge of God, about how—not how much—one can claim to know God. As Barth himself puts it: “Man as creature is not in a position from which he can establish and survey (e.g., in a scheme of the unity of like and unlike) his relation to God and thereby interpret himself as ‘open upward’…and consequently describe his own knowledge as if it meant that God’s revealedness were within the compass of his own understanding by itself” (quoted on 103, original emphasis).

In a similar vein, as this welcome and fascinating debate continues, as it is sure to, one would do well to consider that, especially for the later Barth, the question that most concerns him is not: is there true knowledge of God apart from special revelation? While this is not unimportant, it is not primary. His question, rather, is this: is there a creator/creature relationship that is not wholly determined by God’s eternal will for fellowship with humanity historically enacted in the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ?

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

Gerald McKenny, The Analogy of Grace: Karl Barth’s Moral Theology (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010)

Gerald McKenny, The Analogy of Grace: Karl Barth’s Moral Theology (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010)

Reviewed by Derek Alan Woodard-Lehman (July 20, 2011)

Gerald McKenny’s remarkable accomplishment in The Analogy of Grace is to make the concepts and commitments of Karl Barth’s moral theology clear and distinct without ignoring their strangeness or avoiding their controversy. McKenny, Associate Professor of Christian Ethics at the University of Notre Dame, recognizes that Barth so radically reworks our fundamental concepts and practices of ethical inquiry as to render them almost unrecognizable. Because of this, McKenny argues, “Barth’s approach to ethics is neither well understood nor widely appreciated” (vii). In order to deepen understanding and widen appreciation of Barth’s ethical thought, McKenny gives an account of Barth’s moral theology that resists the all too common interpretive impulse to attenuate the strange and the controversial by assimilating them to the familiar and the consensual. On the one hand, and against many of Barth’s opponents, McKenny refuses to dismiss Barth’s radicality on the grounds that its unintelligibility is tantamount to incoherence. On the other, and against many of Barth’s proponents, McKenny refuses to diminish Barth’s radicality in the interest of coherence. Instead, McKenny provides a subtle and sophisticated exposition that patiently tarries with the unintelligibility that initially confronts readers of Barth’s ethics. He diligently labors over the details long enough for intelligibility to emerge from within Barth’s radical Denkform. Neither an antagonist nor an apologist, McKenny writes as “an author whose thought has been deeply influenced by Barth for a reader who is vaguely familiar with his position and at least somewhat skeptical of it” (viii). In so doing he throws into sharp relief both the problems and prospects of Barth’s ethics. And for this, all those who read The Analogy of Grace – whether critic or advocate, novice or expert – should be grateful.McKenny begins by observing that, “[W]e could describe the Church Dogmatics as a lengthy set of variations on a theme that, while unmistakably in control of each movement, is never presented on its own but appears only in its variations” (vii).The Analogy of Grace is McKenny’s explication of the implicit theme present throughout Barth’s variations, not only in the Dogmatics but indeed across his entire corpus. Dogmatically considered, the theme is that God is none other than the God who loves in freedom and determines to be for and with humanity as Jesus Christ. Ethically considered, the theme is that the good is nothing other than that which is announced and accomplished by Jesus Christ. The central concern of Barth’s ethics, therefore, is “that human life should be lived as an analogy of grace” (5). With this in mind, McKenny proceeds – much as Barth does – dialectically and recursively. “While the chapters are arranged to present this concern in a logical progression of ideas,” writes McKenny, “each chapter stands on its own and can be read independently of the others” (x). Each chapter, in a sense, “begins again at the beginning,” reiterating but not repeating what has been said before in order to elaborate and extend the argument – both Barth’s and his own.

McKenny’s argument is that Barth’s moral theology is a sustained meditation on, and modulating solution to, “The Problem of Ethics” (the titular theme of Chapter One). That problem is encapsulated in two familiar yet seemingly contradictory Barthian dictums: first, all ethics is dogmatics and all dogmatics is ethics; second, ethics is sin. How can this be? Just as dogmatics must do what it cannot, namely, speak about God, ethics must do what it cannot, namely, specify the good. But just as dogmatics can speak about God because God already has spoken, so too ethics can specify the good because God already has done the good. Barth’s moral theology is as thoroughly christological as is his doctrinal theology and, like his dogmatics, Barth’s ethics is a theology of crisis: the crisis of human judgment in its encounter with divine judgment.

The epicenter of this crisis is Barth’s struggle to articulate, both to state and to relate, the divine and the human without identifying them such that “God” becomes nothing more than “Man in a loud voice.” He must affirm the analogy of grace while denying any analogy of being. Thus it simply is not the case that Barth’s view of divine action leaves no room for human action. It is the relation between these that preoccupies his moral theology. But that preoccupation centers on the divine-human relation in the being and action of Jesus Christ. Barth pursues an account of ordinary human action only after and by way of analogy. As McKenny so eloquently puts it, for Barth, “The moral life is not a human journey here to there; rather, it is the concrete signification in our conduct of God’s movement there to here” (14). Moral theology is not a story of human ascension but of divine condescension. The goodness of the Christian in the present remains hidden with Christ in the eschaton. Our sanctification no less than our justification is alien righteousness. Moral theology must consequently begin from the divine determination of humanity as God’s covenant partner that precedes human action, and await the divine decision that follows human action. It must tarry in the meantime with the ambiguity and calamity of our action, the contingency of both the circumstances and consequences of our doings. But this is precisely what Western ethics, whether theological or philosophical, has refused to do. Western ethics is an unending attempt to decide and to act apart from divine determination and decision, to know and to do the good apart from providence. Barth’s response to this persistent refusal issues in the two most distinctive and debatable features of his ethics: his accounts of the Western ethical tradition and of practical reason. The chapters detailing these, two and six respectively, are perhaps the most important in The Analogy of Grace.

In Chapter Two, “Barth’s Moral Theology and Modern Ethics,” McKenny rehearses Barth’s narrative of modernity and locates him within that same narrative. Barth’s story is as simple as it is striking: modernity is nothing other than the apotheosis of the Edenic attempt to know and to judge good and evil apart from God. Modernity is distinctive only in that it makes explicit what has been implicit all along. There is, claims Barth, a fundamental continuity between the premodern and the modern. Eudaimonism, pietism, and rationalism all concur that the good is accessible and achievable, despite disagreeing as to whether that accessibility comes through nature, feeling, or reason. Against these common enemies, uncommon allies though they may be, stand the Reformers and, with them, Barth. So McKenny: “[His] position involves two controversial claims: first, that the theme of the Protestant Reformation [i.e. salvation by grace through faith] breaks with a continuity that unites the medieval and the modern; second, that modernity supplies the terms in which the theme of the Reformation can be expressed in an ethical form” (81). But this break and the stand Barth makes upon it are more complicated than they appear in this summation. McKenny hastens to add that Barth’s narrative has two subplots: one theological, the other philosophical. In the theological subplot, Protestant orthodoxy betrays the Reformers by resorting to a biblicism that reduces revelation to a scriptural law no less objectionable than Catholic natural law or Enlightenment rational law. In the philosophical subplot, Fichte betrays Kant by replacing the alterity of the law with the interiority of the subject. These turns to scripture and to the subject are turns away from God. They are an attempt to know and do the good apart from the good announced and accomplished in Christ, to distinguish human standards apart from the divine standard. “At stake in this distinction is whether ethics attests the Christian proclamation of sin and redemption or becomes a substitute for the latter” (109). Barth refuses this substitution. But his refusal does not posit orthodoxy against modernity. He does not reject modernity per se; rather, he rejects one form of modernity. Barth stands within and between orthodoxy and modernity. Calvin and Kant play Augustine and Aristotle to Barth’s Thomas. Calvin provides Barth with the theological content of alterity: the divine command. Kant provides him with its philosophical form: the categorical imperative. Barth’s moral theology thus undertakes the project of “securing a Christologically corrected Kantian form of morality against what he saw as its Fichtean corruption” (91).

Chapter Six, “Ethical Reflection and Instruction,” describes this form of morality at the level of practical rationality. Barth variously describes the proper exercise of practical reason as “reflection,” “examination,” and “testing.” However, throughout the chapter McKenny rightly insists that Barthian reflection comes very close to other forms of ethical deliberation. Barth’s ethical reflection consists of two stages: the first holds much in common with ethical deliberation, and the second does not. The first stage considers the value and disvalue of immanent possibilities for action. Then the second reconsiders them in relation to the will of God. In the first stage, the consideration is a rational determination based on criteria presumably shared with unbelieving and otherwise-believing fellows. At this point the distinction between Barthian ethical reflection and other forms of ethical deliberation seems to be formal and subjective: ethical reflection proceeds with its determination by “doing all of this before God” (232). For moral theology, responsibility to and for others is explicitly linked with accountability to God. Moreover, it always holds in mind that, “There is something more at stake in any situation of choice than the value or disvalue that can be determined by common rational insight” (235). But this “something more” that is at stake becomes materially and objectively relevant only in the second stage. This relevance is further limited to situations in which the decision reached at the second stage overrules that of the first: the so-called boundary situation. Yet McKenny reminds that Barth insists that the Grenzfall, the “paradoxical form of the command,” is no more transparent or certain than the “normal form.” It too awaits divine judgment. The best ethical reflection can do is to determine the domains – the location and limitation – in which the command of God comes: family, state, etc. McKenny describes this as “significant approximation” of, and “pedagogical preparation” for, the command of God (264). Ethical instruction can thus provide nothing more than a topography of covenant history. And ethical reflection finally can be nothing other than prayer.

All this raises nearly as many questions as it answers, of course. But the questions that McKenny does answer are important ones. His answers reintroduce Barth as a serious voice in contemporary debates within modern moral theology and moral philosophy. The new questions McKenny raises are better questions because they emerge from the answers that Barth himself has already given. Consequently, the disagreements that will arise from them are all the more interesting. McKenny himself asks such questions throughout The Analogy of Grace. The most important of these pertain to Barth’s accounts of the Western ethical tradition and practical reason. Although Barth’s historiography is plausible, is it the only way to construe these matters? McKenny states that it is not. Are the versions of eudaimonism, pietism, and rationalism that Barth presents as illustrations the only possible versions? McKenny suggests there are alternatives to Barth’s construals. Although Barth distinguishes between ethical deliberation and ethical reflection, does this make a difference? McKenny believes that it does. If the first stage of reflection is an immanent consideration, how does the second stage make an objective difference when it confirms the decision of the first stage? McKenny leaves this unanswered because he self-consciously ignores Barth’s political theology. Readers of The Analogy of Grace must hope that McKenny takes up these matters in a subsequent constructive moral theology of his own. We can be thankful for now that he has helped us to put aside both straw man versions of a Barth who has no strengths, and strong man versions of a Barth who has no weaknesses. McKenny has given us a comprehensive reading that corrects older mis-readings and builds upon recent re-readings of Barth’s ethics. With The Analogy of Grace in hand, Barth’s critics and advocates alike can move forward together discussing and debating the significance of his moral theology, both its meaning and importance for theological existence today.

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

Andrew Burgess, The Ascension in Karl Barth (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2004)

Andrew Burgess, The Ascension in Karl Barth (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2004), 209. $99.95

Reviewed by Benjamin Myers (February 16, 2007)

Douglas Farrow’s 1999 work on Ascension and Ecclesia has gone a long way towards reviving interest in the theological significance of Jesus’ ascension. In a more recent article in the International Journal of Systematic Theology, Farrow suggests that Karl Barth’s Church Dogmatics IV is “one of the major works of ascension theology” – and in this study, Andrew Burgess seeks to develop this suggestion by demonstrating that the concept of “ascension” plays an important role throughout the Church Dogmatics.

Although Barth does not often explicitly speak of Jesus’ ascension, Burgess proposes that the ascension functions as “a presupposition in Barth’s thought” (p. 23), and he argues that this presupposition has far-reaching implications for the whole dogmatic structure of Barth’s theology. For Barth, “the ascension informs a dynamic of presence and absence – Jesus Christ’s coincident presence and absence during ‘this time between’” (p. 19). The church is the community that exists in this “time between,” in the dialectical space between Christ’s presence and absence. Burgess therefore highlights the significance of ascension in Barth’s conception of time. Through his lordly agency, Jesus “reaches into the lives of His people … in such a way that they are now made to share His time” (p. 38). Barth’s whole account of ecclesiology and Christian life is thus structured by this view of the church’s existence in the “time between.”

One of Burgess’ most interesting suggestions is that Barth’s fundamental disagreement with both Roman Catholic and liberal Protestant ecclesiology rests in part on different conceptions of Jesus’ risen lordship: Roman Catholic theology places too much emphasis on the identity between the life of Jesus and the institutional church, while liberal Protestant theology places too much emphasis on the faith of the individual believer as the locus of God’s presence (pp. 101-2). In contrast, Barth wants to differentiate as sharply as possible between the agency of the risen Jesus and the agency of the Christian community.

After tracing the function of the ascension throughout the Church Dogmatics, Burgess brings Barth’s theology into dialogue with T. F. Torrance, Douglas Farrow and Robert W. Jenson. He critiques Jenson’s conception of Jesus’ presence in the Christian community, Farrow’s conception of Jesus’ eucharistic presence, and Torrance’s notion of Jesus’ high-priestly work in heaven – and in each case, he argues that Barth’s own dialectical emphasis on the church’s existence “between the times” provides a more reliable basis for ecclesiological reflection.

All in all, Burgess offers an interesting new way of reading Barth’s theology, and he rightly highlights the importance of the agency of the risen Jesus in Barth’s thought. As an interpretation of Barth, then, this book is valuable. But I have some reservations about Burgess’ attempt to demonstrate the contemporary dogmatic importance of the ascension of Jesus.

In the first place, Burgess is certainly right to point out that some theological projects have suffered from a lack of ascension-theology: for instance, projects in which Jesus is simply assumed to be absent, or in which the risen life of Jesus is simply identified with the practices of the Christian community. In contrast to such approaches, Burgess rightly argues that Jesus is “present” not merely passively or noetically, but “as agent of His [own] reconciliation” (p. 49). Nevertheless, to conceive of this “agency” in terms of an ascended physical body seems rather problematic. I wonder whether it is intelligible – either scientifically or theologically – to speak of the risen Jesus as though he were simply removed to a different spatial location? What does it mean to say that Jesus “departs ‘physically’ in the event of the ascension” (p. 26)? Or that “Jesus is ‘physically’ located somewhere other than the church and sacraments” (p. 187)? Certainly we should distinguish between Jesus’ agency and ecclesial action. But is it meaningful to speak without further ado of a “physical location,” or to give the impression that Jesus is perhaps simply acting from a distance?

As writers like Bultmann and Pannenberg have argued, it is a minimal requirement of all theological statements that they are intelligible within the general framework of what we know about the world. So on the one hand, Christian theology has a right and a responsibility to re-think the concepts of “space” and “time” from the standpoint of Jesus’ resurrection and ascension. But on the other hand, the account of space and time that we thus formulate cannot simply be a mythology; as a minimal requirement, it must cohere with what we already know from other sources about the nature of space and time.

In any event, it seems to me that Barth wanted to avoid any form of ascension-mythology when he argued that resurrection and ascension are simply two “moments in one and the same event” (CD IV/2, p. 150). Indeed, as New Testament exegetes have pointed out, the Lucan depiction of a bodily ascension introduces a temporal distinction between ascension and resurrection that was not present in the church’s earliest proclamation (see, e.g., C. F. Evans, Resurrection and the New Testament). To speak of the risen one is to speak of the ascended Lord; and to speak of the ascension is to speak of the man whom God raised up from death.

In other words, to say that Jesus is ascended is to make a theological statement about God’s exaltation of the crucified Jesus. It need not be regarded as a quasi-historical description of Jesus’ movement through space, or as a statement about the “physical location” of Jesus. Rather, and more straightforwardly, it is (in Barth’s words) the confession that the crucified and risen Jesus “went to God,” and so entered the “reality [Weltwirklichkeit] by which humans are always surrounded” (CD IV/2, p. 153).

Burgess is right, then, to emphasise the present agency of the risen Jesus, and to distinguish between the agency of this risen one and all forms of ecclesial action. But it seems to me that we can offer a meaningful and sufficiently radical account of this divine agency only by resisting the development of a spatial mythology, and by placing much greater emphasis on the theological unity between resurrection and ascension.

Note: This review first appeared on Benjamin Myers’ blog, Faith and Theology, and may be accessed here.

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

Erik Peterson, Ausgewählte Schriften, vol. 9 – Theologie und Theologen: Texte (9/1), Theologie und Theologen: Briefwechsel mit Karl Barth u.a., Reflexionen und Erinnerungen (Würzburg: Echter Verlag, 2009)

Erik Peterson, Ausgewählte Schriften, vol. 9 – Theologie und Theologen: Texte (9/1), Theologie und Theologen: Briefwechsel mit Karl Barth u.a., Reflexionen und Erinnerungen (9/2), edited by Barbara Nichtweiß (Würzburg: Echter Verlag, 2009), lxxii + 695pp. and lxxviii + 584pp. €78.00 and €68.00 (hardcover)

Reviewed by Matthias Gockel (September 17, 2013)

The two-volume set from the “Selected Works” of Erik Peterson (1890–1960) includes a variety of writings, such as lecture fragments, book reviews, autobiographical notes, sketches, letters, and diary remarks. The material is presented in a critical edition for the first time. It has been arranged by Dr. Barbara Nichtweiß, a Roman-Catholic theologian from Mainz, who is the chief editor of the entire project and an eminent expert on Peterson’s thinking. Throughout the volumes, she offers helpful historical comments and clarifications.Peterson grew up in Hamburg. He received his doctorate from the University of Göttingen, where he then completed his Habilitation and served as Privatdozent (lecturer without salary). From 1924 until 1929 he taught Church History and New Testament in Bonn. In 1930, he converted to Roman Catholicism. After his failure to find a professorship at a Roman-Catholic faculty in Germany, he moved to Rome in 1933, where, after many years of hardship for himself and his family, he finally was awarded a position as professor extraordinarius in 1947 andordinarius in 1956.

Volume 9/1 consists of texts by Peterson himself, which are arranged in five parts: 1) Theological Foundations and Perspectives, 2) Theology and Mysticism, 3) Positions on Evangelical Church History, 4) Contemporaries, and 5) Protestant Churches. The central systematic-theological issue is the question “What Is Theology?” In 1925, Peterson published a famous essay under the same title, which led to a lively debate with Bultmann and Barth. It was later included in his collection “Theologische Traktate” (first published 1951, critical edition 1994 in vol. 1 of the Selected Writings, English translation 2011). Person regards theology as a rational continuation of the “Logos-revelation” in the Gestalt of the dogma. In short, the Logos became flesh and then dogma. For a Protestant theologian, not only in the 1920s, this is a startling claim.

In the winter semester 1923/24, Peterson offered a lecture cycle on Thomas Aquinas, which is published here for the first time (9/1, 67–190). Karl Barth, who also taught in Göttingen at the time, attended the lecture cycle on a regular basis and admitted that Peterson helped him to understand better the relation between reason and revelation. In a letter to Eduard Thurneysen from December 1923, Barth even granted the possibility of ‘natural theology’ on the basis of revelation (9/2, 201). For Peterson, Aquinas saw that theology asks for those truths that are necessary for salvation. He wondered if there still existed a “lively Protestant church” (9/1, 153) with an ability to adhere to and shape the dogma in a meaningful way. He was convinced that any church worthy of its name should be able to speak on doctrinal matters in a binding way. If a church loses its power to form the dogma, the theology of such a church loses its character and substance.

The question, then, is: what does Peterson mean by “dogma”? In the introduction to lectures on the Patristic history of doctrine, he offers a definition: “the dogma is a truth that has been revealed by God and explicitly proclaimed by the ecclesial teaching office as an object of necessary belief for all” (9/1, 191). The Protestant churches in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries appear to him as strong enough to set forth ecclesial teachings, but strictly speaking these teachings do not qualify as dogma, since their authority was guaranteed by state law, not by church law.

Volume 9/2 offers shorter texts, including autobiographical statements, letter exchanges, and brief comments by persons who knew or met Peterson. The gem of the volume is the letter exchange between Peterson and Karl Barth between 1921 and 1936, which from Barth’s side begins only in 1928 (some of his letters probably are lost). The two men agreed and disagreed on important issues: in steadfast opposition to historicist or psychologist approaches in theology, they agreed that dogmatic theology is vital for the church, but they disagreed on the task and nature of theology. Their conversation is characterized by occasional misunderstandings and a touch of sadness, although Peterson’s conversion clarified their relationship. Barth thought that Peterson found in Roman Catholicism something that harmonized with his Pietistic sensibilities.

A further inspiration for Peterson’s conversion was Kierkegaard’s attack on nineteenth century Protestantism. According to Oscar Cullmann, Peterson agrees with Kierkegaard that Protestantism (i.e., Lutheranism) is blind for the importance of sanctification (see 9/2, 492). In a critique of Paul Althaus from 1925, Peterson raises an interesting question: did Kierkegaard even think of himself as a Christian (see 9/1, 313)? If he did not, his stance may be similar to Overbeck’s detachment from theological contemporaries. He may be counted among the forebears of existential philosophers in the 1920s, especially Heidegger, but his influence on Barth’s early dialectical theology, even on Romans II, is small. Barth himself commented in the preface to the book that Kierkegaard ranks on the same level as Dostoyevsky, i.e., as a literary writer and philosopher, but not more than that. The idea of an “infinite qualitative difference” between God and human beings, which is sometimes regarded as a specialty of Kierkegaard, is as old as the book of Kohelet.

Peterson’s late musings on the “fame” of great theologians (9/1, 598–600) reveal a sharp, critical, and humble spirit. By now, it is clear that his thinking has more in common with Hans Urs von Balthasar than with Barth. In December 1954, von Balthasar wrote to Peterson, “In one way or another, everything remains fragmentary, but we have a love for our fragments, our spirit is well tailored to this dimension.” And he continued: “Karl Barth sends you kind regards. He writes and writes into a hole: again, a new huge volume is complete, on Christ as Prophet [KD IV/3.1], a theme for him, and I look forward to reading it” (9/2, 394).

On the whole, the two volumes offer a wealth of material and, as the last quote shows, a few curios. The second volume should become a standard reference for further studies on Barth’s theological development, especially in the late 1920s and early 1930s.

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

Eberhard Busch, Barth, Abingdon Pillars of Theology, Richard and Martha Burnett (Nashville, TN: Abingdon Press, 2008)

Eberhard Busch, Barth, Abingdon Pillars of Theology, trans. Richard and Martha Burnett (Nashville, TN: Abingdon Press, 2008), viii + 95 pp. $9.95 (paperback)

Reviewed by William Barnett (November 04, 2008)

This introduction to Karl Barth is published as part of Abindgon’s Pillars of Theology series “designed to help students grasp the basic and necessary facts, influence, and significance of major theologians.” If anything, Eberhard Busch, the authoritative Barth biographer and Professor Emeritus for systematic theology at Georg-August-Universität Göttingen in Germany, is overqualified to write such an introduction. Beyond providing the basic facts, Busch has managed an introductory text that is brief yet exceedingly rich in content as it draws upon the entirety of Barth’s corpus even including citations from sermons and exchanges not yet in print.

One of the mottos that Busch identifies as a source of Barth’s own theological fecundity is the task “to say the same thing again and again in different words” (vii). We might turn this around, posing it as a question of this book’s own justification. Indeed, what exactly is different about this introduction to Barth given the other similar texts of its kind? First of all, size. Compared to introductions like J. Webster’s Barth (2000) or J. Mangina’s Karl Barth: Theologian of Christian Witness (2004), this text is half the size with short, crisp chapters averaging only six pages in length. This compact text is nonetheless theologically thick. Unlike J. Franke’s Barth for Armchair Theologians (2006), Busch squarely targets the student and demands her close attention. For example, Busch lays out Barth’s masterful exposition of the doctrine of the Trinity through the doctrine of revelation in CD I/1 in the space of several paragraphs. This unique combination of brevity and academic substance makes for an introduction that is both manageable and comprehensive enough to function as a singular guide for a novice’s journey into Barth.

Part of Busch’s accomplishment in this text is that he simplyintroduces: the door is opened, the room layouts are described, and then students are invited in to explore for themselves. His sometimes condensed doctrinal explanations are self-aware, intending to leave students wondering if Barth’s arguments are truly cohesive and how they might stack up against alternatives. Busch’s expositions are replete with citations so the student can then easily return to the original sources for answers. Further, Busch helps the student process by concluding each chapter with several ‘questions for reflection.’ The purpose of these questions is not to review the material covered, but to orient the student to the kind of reflection and criticism Barth’s thought calls forth for the Christian faith. Consider question two from chapter three:

“Does Barth’s Christocentricity mean that he can no longer clearly state the difference between what God does as the creator and what new things he will do as the perfector? Does his Christocentricity mean that he is still able to respect the witness of the Jews? And, contrary to the questions above, does Barth assume that God will have mercy on people of other faiths? What about those who do not know Christ or reject him?” (21)

Each sub-question is begging enough to warrant a dissertation length exploration. These questions could function well in the classroom, providing ideal exam questions or research topics.

In terms of content, Barth might be considered Busch’s The Great Passion: An Introduction to Karl Barth’s Theology in miniature as it reduplicates the latter’s basic structure: three chapters of historical and personal orientation to Barth (chs. 1-3) and the remaining substantial portion of the text devoted to a thematic exegesis of Barth’s key theological loci (chs. 4-4.9). The fruit of this arrangement is that Barth is given a face and a history before he is introduced as systematician. Thus, the student is ready to receive Barth’s dogmatic claims correctly, that is, not as dry science, but the result of a life and work in “constant movement and transformation” (viii).

In the first half of the text, Busch divides Barth’s life and theology into three periods or phases. Avoiding the interpretive debates about shifts in Barth’s thinking and attempts to uncover a dominant Denkform, Busch’s biographical section emphasizes the tonality and color of Barth’s theological maturation. Busch introduces and explores each phase through a catch phrase. Busch’s treatment of the ‘early’ phase explains how Barth’s changing relation to liberalism, as catalyzed by his parish experience in Safenwil, coalesced into the core conviction that “God is God” as famously proclaimed in the 2nd edition of the Römerbrief. Busch explains the dialectical force of this construction with clarity, its simultaneous meaning that “we cannot own God” and so “God is known only through God” (4).

The second phase is implicitly presented as a development of this latter claim. How is God known through God? Through Jesus Christ, “the One Word of God.” In expounding the consequences of this claim of the Barmen Declaration, Busch outlines the confessional basis for Barth’s particular social and political stances. In particular, and in keeping with an emphasis of his more recent scholarship (cf. Busch’s 1996 text, Unter dem Bogen des einen Bundes, Karl Barth und die Juden), Busch foregrounds the positive theological strides Barth makes in relating Christian and Jewish identity. This theme is reiterated throughout the text, most notably in the treatment of Barth’s doctrine of election (chapter 4.3). Barth’s theology magnified the “indissoluble bond” (10) between Christians and Jews who stand together under one covenant of grace. But while Busch introduces the promises of Barth’s Christocentricity for Christian-Jewish relation, the extant difficulties go unacknowledged, specifically Barth’s brisk remarks about ‘synagogue’ and ‘Judaism’ in CD II/2.

Busch introduces the last phase with a wonderful anecdote. In response to a woman’s question of whether she could “be sure that I will see my loved ones in heaven,” Barth gave the quick reply “To be sure, you will see not only your ‘loved ones’” (15). The ever-broadening horizons of Barth are brought to light here, his openness to ecumenical dialogue, travel, and political change. The theological underpinnings for this phase of are found in Barth’s doctrine of election (II/2), what Busch terms “the highlight of the Church Dogmatics” (17), where Barth insists on God’s unequivocal “yes” in Jesus Christ not only to the church and its loved ones, but to the world. Living into this “yes” was the source of Barth’s interminable hope amidst ever-growing political and global complexities.

It is appropriate that on this note of Christocentricism Busch switches keys from biography to what we might call ‘theo-graphy,’ the mapping of Barth’s grand systematic universe. It is because theology cannot be separated from the “yes” of Jesus Christ that theology must necessarily be ‘thinking after’ and in response to the divine gift. From this introduction on Barth’s methodological approach, Busch then barrels through the major loci of the Church Dogmatics consistent in his brief yet substantial treatments of rich material. The content need not be reviewed here except to say that Busch succeeds in fulfilling Abingdon’s promise that this introduction will outline the ‘organizing principles’ of Barth’s work.

The incredible depth Busch manages to fit within this straightforward book testifies to his prowess as Barth’s biographer, yet that also marks the one limit of his authorship. We are ably introduced to and shown all around the house of Barth, but are not shown the new doors opened up or the paths that lead (away) from this house. While names such as Tillich, Ebeling, and Pannenberg appear in the reflection questions, Busch never delivers on introducing Barth’s ‘influence’ and ‘significance’ vis-à-vis the subsequent history of systematic theology. What transformations did Barth’s theology effect on the ecclesial and intellectual worlds? What sort of iterations, criticisms, and appropriations has followed? While Busch leaves these questions unanswered, the fact that the reader is left with such inquiries indicates his success in introduction. Barth, as Busch has introduced him, is one whose theology should transform things for it is a constant thinking after the God who moves to transform not only us, but the world.

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

P. H. Brazier, Barth and Dostoevsky: A Study of the Influence of the Russian Writer Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoevsky on the Development of the Swiss Theologian Karl Barth, 1915-1922 (Colorado Springs, CO: Paternoster, 2007)

Reviewed by David W. Congdon (October 21, 2008)

In his forward to Paul Brazier’s new book, Stephen Holmes begins by stating, “The book you have before you might surprise you” (xvii). Holmes was apparently skeptical about the prospect of a book looking at an historical period in Barth’s life already thoroughly covered by Bruce McCormack. Holmes goes on to say that he “expected little more than a conversation with, and perhaps some footnotes to, McCormack,” but that Brazier had convinced him that there was “extraordinarily interesting data” still waiting to be explored. The result of this exploration was Brazier’s dissertation, originally entitled “Die Freiheit in der Gefangenschaft Gottes”: The Nature and Content of the Influence of Dostoevsky on Karl Barth, 1915 to 1922, now published in the line of Paternoster Theological Monographs under the title, Barth and Dostoevsky. While the book illuminates and examines certain dimensions of Barth’s life that have been ignored by most Barth scholars, the data is not always as surprising as one might expect, nor is the data presented in a very accessible manner.

Brazier describes the primary aim of his project as an attempt “to demonstrate that exposure to the writings and thereby the theology of the Russian writer Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoevsky affected the development of the theology of Karl Barth” (2). More concretely, Brazier seeks to show that Dostoevsky’s beliefs influenced Barth’s theological anthropology, and specifically his understanding of sin and grace. Brazier locates this influence primarily in the period of August 1915 to August 1916 and secondarily in 1918-21, during the rewriting of Barth’s Römerbrief. McCormack’s research is taken for granted: “This work takes the conclusions of Bruce McCormack as a given and as a base line. Nothing in this work contradicts his – merely fills the gaps” (3).

The book is divided into seventeen chapters over four major sections. In the first section, Brazier rehearses the broad outlines of Barth’s “Wendung und Retraktation” (turn and revision), a phrase which Brazier adapts from Barth’s essay, “The Humanity of God.” This section is essentially a summary of McCormack’s historical study, though Brazier here highlights what he calls the “apophatic Barth.” Brazier uses the concepts of apophaticism and negative theology rather loosely. He says that in this period, and particularly in the essay, “Wartime and the Kingdom of God” (1915), we see “Barth’s early use of negation in relation to speaking about God” (20). Brazier distinguishes this from the negation of “Buddhist apophatism,” arguing that Barth uses negative language to reject natural theology and human religiosity. God is “not a metaphysical essence” but the “pure Ursprung(origin)” (23). While we certainly see a prominent use of negation, describing this early Barth as “apophatic” is a bit misleading since he does not have an apophatic theological method. One could just as well call him dialectical, as McCormack does, and avoid the confusing connotations of classical apophatic theology, represented by someone like Pseudo-Dionysius.

In the second section, the book examines Barth’s understanding of sin and grace. The section begins by exploring Dostoevsky’s dialectical theology, with special attention given to Crime and Punishment, since this was the book that dominated Barth’s attention during 1915-16 upon the recommendation of pastor and close friend, Eduard Thurneysen. On August 18, 1915, Barth wrote to Thurneysen: “Yesterday I spent the entire day reading Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment – I wanted to become completely wise about this Russian” (31). It is precisely this reading of Dostoevsky that Brazier finds lacking in other studies of Barth. Brazier then looks at Barth’s address, “The Righteousness of God,” written “a matter of months” after first reading Crime and Punishment, and he finds important correspondences between Dostoevsky and Barth’s evolving theology. In particular, Brazier identifies the antinomies in Dostoevsky between God and the world, between sin and grace, as a catalyst for Barth’s forensic soteriology and his dialectical doctrine of God as “wholly other.” The rest of the section assesses Dostoevsky’s “early influence” on Barth, up through the first edition of the commentary on Romans (86-88). According to Brazier, Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishmentand The Idiot join Hermann Kutter, Leonhard Ragaz, and the Blumhardts as the key influences in the early stage of Barth’sWendung und Retraktation in 1915.

Dostoevsky’s most important influence, however, concerns his views on sin and grace. Dostoevsky understands sin as the attempt to be like God (eritis sicut deus)—represented in Crime and Punishment by Raskolnikov—while grace involves the acknowledgement of our unworthiness of divine mercy and the acceptance of divine judgment—represented by Sonya. The critique of the former (pursuit of being like God) takes the form of a radical critique of religion for both Dostoevsky and Barth, both of whom connect religion with the Tower of Babel. The praise of the latter (acceptance of divine mercy-in-judgment) takes the form of an existentialist gospel in which, by means of the conscience, the reality of God interrupts the human individual in an eschatological krisis and propels her toward repentance. We see this in the story of Raskolnikov, who has an encounter with the living God via Sonya and experiences “a guilt that could only be assuaged by giving in to its promptings” (60). Brazier notes how the theme of Babel does not appear in Barth’s writings until the latter half of 1915, and since Gen. 11:1-9 does not come up in the Swiss Reformed Church lectionary, the evidence suggests that Dostoevsky instigated Barth’s interest in this motif—one that remains throughout his theological career. Barth and Thurneysen would later augment their theological insights through the reading of Dostoevsky’s later works, particularly The Brothers Karamazov. Ivan Karamazov, for example, is another example of trying to be like God, except that his story ends in insanity, while Raskolnikov finds forgiveness. Overall, Brazier argues that Dostoevsky “points towards the understanding of sin and grace that Barth found in Luther and the Reformers” at a later time (63). Brazier finds confirmation of this thesis in Barth’s 1928 lecture, translated as “Roman Catholicism: A Question to the Protestant Church,” in which we read:

Where has there been preserved the insight that there is no other grace except the free pardon of criminals, grace in judgement? Is it not shameful that we needed to have this truth retold to us by the Russian Dostoevsky? If we have refused to hear it from our Reformers who really understood it better than Dostoevsky, are we then still Protestants? (65-66)

The third section of the book is perhaps the most interesting, since here Brazier focuses on Thurneysen as pastor-theologian, giving special attention to his book, Dostoevsky: A Theological Study. Since Thurneysen all too often becomes a footnote in Barth studies, it is refreshing to have several chapters devoted to his life and work that stress the mutuality of respect and influence between him and Barth. While Thurneysen is most well known for his magnum opus, A Theology of Pastoral Care, Brazier focuses his attention not only on the books of sermons that Thurneysen and Barth co-authored but also on the popularity and importance of Thurneysen’s book on Dostoevsky, published in 1921. In a short seventy-seven pages, Thurneysen examines theological anthropology and epistemology through a close reading of Dostoevsky’s novels, arguing that the central issue is the problem of God. According to Thurneysen, “God is God. That is the one central recognition of truth for Dostoevsky” (111). Of course, the problem of God is also a problem of humanity. Here, again, the focus is on the “existential relationship between God and humanity” (103): negatively, this involves rejecting religion as a result of the Fall; positively, however, this involves affirming sobornost, which is the Russian word for koinonia or communion. An “existential gospel,” according to Brazier, presents the reality of the human condition so that one comes to see that communion with God alone is the answer to the question of sinful human existence. Looking back on Thurneysen’s influence in 1958, Barth would later write that “he was the one who first put me on the trail of . . . Dostoevsky without whose discovery I would not have been able to write either the first or the second edition of the commentary on Romans” (75).

The fourth and longest section of the book examines the influence of Dostoevsky during the rewriting of the Romans commentary, this being the later stage of Barth’s “radical turn” from liberalism. Here the focus shifts from Crime and Punishment to The Brothers Karamazov in terms of central texts, and from Kutter and the Blumhardts to Kierkegaard, Franz Overbeck, and Luther in terms of primary influences. In this section, Brazier spends most of his time going through each reference to Dostoevsky in Der Römerbrief, including lists and graphs to show how often Dostoevsky is mentioned in relation to other figures. Brazier argues that, along with the other figures mentioned in the commentary, Dostoevsky provides “an illustration of life under the Gospel” (169).

While this is the longest section of the book, it is also the least polished and the most underdeveloped. For example, in a chapter on Kierkegaard and Dostoevsky, Brazier repeatedly emphasizes that “Barth places the two of them together in the same sentence [regarding his major influences] in his preface to the second edition” of Romans (165). Brazier thus concludes that “it is not really possible to separate the two,” and that any “definitive definitions of the influence of Kierkegaard must now be seen as relative” (169). While it is certainly true that Kierkegaard’s influence has been overstated by many scholars, any argument that depends so explicitly upon the formal placement of two names in an author’s preface raises red flags—even if the material itself withstands scrutiny. Furthermore, most of these later chapters are little more than a string of quotes from Der Römerbrief organized around certain themes, and terms like “hunger for eternity” (Ewigkeitshunger) and “the paradox of Christlikeness” are mentioned but not adequately explained. The final chapters that summarize the book’s central themes—theological anthropology, the critique of religion, and theological epistemology—are also the shortest. This leaves much to be desired in terms of cumulative analysis, and one gets the distinct impression that the author just ran out of steam by the end of this project.
A more significant problem arises in the chapter on Kierkegaard, where Brazier says that in the same way Kierkegaard moves from paradox to faith, so too “Barth moves from the critically realistic dialectical theology (characterized by an acceptance of paradox, dialectic, negation, the via dialectica that establishes him as a theologian of rank) to the mature work of The Church Dogmatics based on the analogia fidei (but still dialectical to a degree)” (169). There are numerous problems with this sentence. For starters, it directly contradicts McCormack’s thesis, even though Brazier earlier said that “nothing in this work contradicts” McCormack’s conclusions. McCormack argues that Barth’s theology after his “turn” from liberalism is, until the end, a critically realistic dialectical theology. McCormack’s whole project is a refutation of Hans Urs von Balthasar’s thesis that Barth turns from dialectic to analogy. Brazier seems to nod in McCormack’s direction by saying that Barth remains “dialectical to a degree,” but otherwise seems wholly opposed to McCormack.

In the conclusion to the book, Brazier asks the question, “Is Barth influenced by Dostoevsky, or does he simply use the writer’s ideas illustratively?” (204). While he goes on to assert that “it is fair to say that Dostoevsky was an influence and was not simply used illustratively,” the original question is overly simplistic and presents a false dichotomy. If we go through the book, we notice that Brazier speaks repeatedly of Barth’s “illustrative” use of Dostoevsky (e.g., 158, 169, 172, 177, etc.). In one of those passages, Brazier says the following: “These references are sometimes illustrative but behind the inference is an idea that changed Barth’s thinking” (174). And later he speaks of “the use illustratively and the influence of Dostoevsky” (183). These more nuanced statements presuppose that illustration and influence need not be mutually exclusive. Of course, while Dostoevsky’s ideas were influential for Barth, they were not exclusively found in Dostoevsky. We have to see Dostoevsky as part of a wider array of thinkers and writers who all contributed in various ways to Barth’s development. Notwithstanding his earlier statement, this seems to be precisely where Brazier ends up, when he writes that “despite the use, illustratively, during the rewriting ofDer Römerbrief…Dostoevsky must be grouped with Christoph Blumhardt, Hermann Kutter, and Swiss Religious socialism in the pre-biblical turn of Barth’s theological Wendung und Retraktation– specifically the year of the new starting point (1915). In the final analysis Dostoevsky is a stepping-stone, as much as a detour” (206).

At the end of the day, two competing interests pull Brazier’s book in different directions: one seeks to demonstrate the importance of Dostoevsky to Barth’s theology (emphasizing difference), while another acknowledges that Dostoevsky is one among many influences (emphasizing similarity). Granted, both need to be held together in a kind of dialectical tension. There is a sense, as Barth himself acknowledges, in which Dostoevsky was instrumental in paving the way for his recovery of the Reformers’ theology. At the same time, Dostoevsky was not alone in his influence, and once Barth did finally turn to the Reformers, Dostoevsky almost immediately drops out of the scene. The problem is that this tension leads Brazier to make statements that are sometimes misleading or confusing.

Besides issues of clarity and consistency, there are issues also with comprehensiveness and organization. While the book does not seek to be a comparative study between Barth and Dostoevsky, one does wish that Brazier had engaged more of the secondary literature on Dostoevsky. For example, Brazier does not use Joseph Frank’s seminal five-volume work on Dostoevsky, which is the definitive treatment of his life and works. Consequently, we do not learn whether the interpretations of Dostoevsky by Thurneysen and Barth are indeed faithful readings, or whether they perhaps anticipate future work on Dostoevsky by literary scholars. In terms of organization, the book is often confusing. As I said already, Barth and Dostoevsky is not a comparative study between the two figures, but neither is it exactly a genetic-historical study of Barth’s development. The book is a combination of both approaches, but the result is only somewhat successful. As a result, the first section is more historical, while the second section is more comparative. In general, Brazier has organized the material in this monograph in a roughly chronological order, beginning with Barth’s turn from liberalism and concluding with the rewriting of The Epistle to the Romans. But the chapters themselves are organized topically. As an example, a chapter on Barth’s later reflections on Dostoevsky’s influence comes in the second section instead of at the conclusion because this chapter locates the primary influence in terms of Barth’s understanding of sin and grace, which is the theme of section two. In other words, while the overall project moves diachronically, the book is organized synchronically.

One final criticism has to do with the book’s lack of editing. Here the blame must fall on Paternoster as well as Brazier. Many sentences lack periods and other punctuation marks, others are incomplete or lengthy run-ons, and German text is only occasionally italicized without any consistent pattern.

These criticisms notwithstanding, Barth and Dostoevsky does a fine job of pinpointing when and how Barth was influenced by Thurneysen and Dostoevsky. Brazier uncovers very interesting statements in Barth’s correspondence and in some of his later lectures that reflect back on this early period in Barth’s life. He shows that Dostoevsky predates Barth’s turn to the Bible and the Reformers, and helps pave the way for these later influences. The book is certainly not for everyone. Those casually interested in Barth’s theological development or the ideas found in Dostoevsky’s novels will want to turn to the studies of McCormack and Frank, respectively. Brazier’s study is written for the serious reader of Barth who wishes to understand why Dostoevsky’s name appears in Barth’s writings and what significance Dostoevsky had for the early phase of Barth’s dialectical theology.

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

Ford, David F., Barth and God’s Story: Biblical Narrative and the Theological Method of Karl Barth in the Church Dogmatics (Eugene, OR: Wipf & Stock Publishers, 2008 [reprint])

Reviewed by Collin R. Cornell (April 29, 2014)

How does Barth ground his theological claims from the Bible? In what ways is Barth’s theology falsifiable?David Ford’s Barth and God’s Story seeks to answer these interrelated questions through a sustained examination of Barth’s theological method and use of biblical narrative. The book started off as a doctoral dissertation written under Donald MacKinnon and Stephen Sykes at Cambridge University. First published in 1981, it has retained through its most recent edition the type-written print, hand-scrawled Greek, and (refreshing!) pithiness of a thesis written under the constraints of the pre-digital age. Wipf and Stock’s 2008 re-release of Ford’s book perhaps indicates a judgment that Ford’s short, ranging treatment of these questions continues to merit consideration, even beyond its usual labeling as a (step-)child of the “Yale school.” The paragraph that follows gives a bird’s-eye view of the book; the body of the review briefly summarizes individual chapters before concluding with some evaluative remarks.

Ford’s introduction proposes a new way of reading Barth’sChurch Dogmatics [CD]: as a comprehensive attempt to realize a “monism of the gospel story” (13), “an ascesis of Bible reading” whereby all theological claims are justified solely by recourse to biblical narratives (165). As such, Ford also claims to identify the place where Barth’s project ismost testable. Despite Barth’s suspicions about the susceptibility of “method” to human cooption, Ford insists that Barth arrives at his doctrinal conclusions by way of specific arguments from biblical materials—arguments with a definite profile and whose adequacy to their source is, in principle, measurable. Ford next gives an account of how Barth’s methodological insistence on sola scriptura developed (ch. 2). His third and fourth chapters demonstrate the uniquely literary character of Barth’s arguments from Scripture. Over against programs seeking theological authentication through historical-criticism, Barth’s use of the Bible parallels moves made in the literary criticism of novels. Ford then uses the technical vocabulary from this discipline to analyze Barth’s interpretation of biblical narrative, i.e., in terms of character, incident, perspective, figuration, etc. The subsequent four chapters give detailed case studies of Barth’s arguments from the (gospel) story to formulate major doctrines such as election, creation, the two natures, and time and eternity. A key organizing concept throughout this section is Bildungsroman, that is, a kind of novel in which typology swallows up realism and character absorbs background. Ford finds that Barth reads the gospels according to this genre (92). The concluding two chapters provide a fascinating and creative reflection on the “spirituality” of CD.

Ford’s first chapter situates his approach over against other ways of reading CD as a unity, which usually leverage one or another dogmatic locus (solus Christus, sola gratia, Trinity, eternity and time, etc.). Ford then mounts a threefold case for his own alternate focus on Barth’s interpretation of narrative: first, as ensuring chapters show more fully, Barth makes pivotal use of narrative in his theological argumentation. Second (at least at the time of his book’s composition), this remained an unexplored avenue of research. Third, if Ford is right that the persuasiveness of Barth’s whole project is most testable here, limning his use of narrative constitutes a great service to the ongoing evaluation of Barth’s legacy.

Chapter two begins with a long quote in which Barth tells of his effortless childhood sense for the contemporaneity of biblical events, a sensibility that would carry him through “the serried ranks of historicism and anti-historicism, mysticism and rationalism, orthodoxy, liberalism, and existentialism” (16). The rest of the chapter fills out the details of Barth’s navigation towards a “third way,” in particular between Troeltsch’s reliance on the theological verification of historical criticism on the one hand and an undisciplined subjectivism on the other. Ford cites here the influence of Wilhelm Herrmann: Barth appropriated from this teacher the principle of autopistia, according to which faith need not seek legitimation by criteria external to it. Barth, however, relocated the autonomous basis for faith from the consciousness of Jesus to the narrative surface of Scripture. According to Ford, this change was not immediate. Barth’s schematization of time and eternity in the Romans commentaries meant that he initially depended on mathematical imagery to describe God’s revelation in Jesus, and in CD I.1–2 he envisioned revelation along a strongly I-Thou axis. After CD I.2, however, “the mediation of the story becomes more pervasive, and the doctrine of revelation takes on many characteristics of a doctrine of providence”; that is, Barth’s “thinking after” (Nachdenken) the gospel story increasingly reflected its own patterned and mimetic character (24). Correspondence, analogy, typology, and other devices relating one portion of Scripture to another thus became integral to Barth’s biblical interpretation (25).

Through a detailed examination of CD IV.1, Ford’s third chapter pursues the question of what Barth intended by his complex claims about the historicity of Jesus’s life, death, and resurrection. Ford finds that Barth made no attempt to substantiate the gospels’ stories by critical methods: critically reconstructed history (Historie) and history-as-presented (Geschichte) amount to the same thing for him (37). This lack of distinction freed Barth’s exegesis from apologetic concerns to operate along purely literary lines. At what point, then, do the gospels gain a different traction on reality than, say, a historical novel? Ford points to the resurrection of Jesus—the risen Christ—as the ultimate referent of the gospel accounts. Chapter four introduces the work of Peter Stern and Hans Frei to show the affinities of Barth’s interpretation with the literary criticism of realistic novels: as the gospels were for Barth, so, too, literary specialists deem realistic novels a mix of the empirical and the fictional arranged within a discernible patterning of meaning. Importantly, Ford proposes here that the realism of novels depends on their “middle distance” perspective, which he discerns to be “perhaps the most valuable single concept for clarifying Barth’s handling of narrative” (55). Characters are rendered within their literary setting. Historical criticism offends against the realism of novels (and the gospels) by zooming too far out and placing their meaning within a larger developmental account. The novelistic genreBildungsroman offends against realism in the opposite direction, by zooming too close and losing sight of the incident and background that prevent characters from becoming heavy-handed didactic symbols. By insisting on the historical realism of the gospels while also denying the meaning-brokering power of historical criticism, Ford says that Barth commits himself to this “middle distance” realism. These concepts—Bildungsoman and middle distance—become important critical fulcrums in the following chapters.

The next four chapters offer detailed examinations of Barth’s scriptural arguments for four dogmatic points. The first case study (ch. 5) on election and rejection is the longest because Barth’s self-consciousness about his theological novelty here compelled him to especially labored exegesis (72). Ford walks through CD II.2 to track Barth’s examples of election and rejection throughout the biblical corpus, even in seemingly far-flung passages such as levitical prescriptions about sacrificing birds (80). In all cases, Barth presses for unity, asking, “how [are we] to recognize ourselves simultaneously in both the one [rejection] and the other [election]” (ibid.)? He finds this unity in the ultimate coincidence of these principles in the person of Jesus Christ, the elected and rejected. Ford makes two interesting observations: first, this procedure (of tracing themes in the Bible that eventuate in the story of Jesus Christ) depends not so much on a doctrine of revelation but of providence, that is, history unfolding through meaningful patterns that reach their telos in Christ’s death and resurrection (81). Second, Ford claims that the role this reading procedure plays in Barth’s theology corresponds to natural theology or praeparatio evangelica in other theologies: these literary analyses pose an enigma (stated above) whose answer is Christ. The remainder of Ford’s chapter evaluates Barth’s famous exegesis of the Judas story. Ultimately Ford concludes that Barth’s reading of the Judas story “spoils [its] realism” (91). Barth’s heavy use of typology effectively envelops Judas’ rejection and election in the rejection and election of Christ. The particular, literal contour of the Judas stories thus disappears into the typological schema of rejection and election.

The second case study (ch. 6) examines Barth’s writings on creation in CD III.1. Barth reads the creation accounts as pure saga, but sees in them the introduction of themes that are fulfilled in Christ. For example, God’s name in Genesis 1, Yahweh Elohim, anticipates the ultimate coherence of creation and covenant in Jesus Christ (121). The creation of man and woman in Genesis 2 figures the priority and unity of Yahweh’s relation with Israel, this priority in unity again climaxing in the natures of Jesus Christ (121). Chapter seven studies the two natures of Christ. Ford argues that Barth cannot describe these natures by recourse to general conceptions of divinity and humanity but must develop them solely from the scriptural story. Barth thus reads the gospels on two tiers: as the story of God’s humiliation and the story of humanity’s exaltation, synonymous with Christ’s death and resurrection (128). A similar situation obtains for Barth’s doctrine of time and eternity, which also finds its footing in the two sequential moments of crucifixion and resurrection (ch. 8). Ford discovers in both chapters that literary methods that isolate patterns across the gospel story ground Barth’s doctrinal arguments. But Ford also thinks that by trying to make the gospel narrative answer every dogmatic question, Barth “overburdens” these accounts and strains their realism (146).

Chapter nine exposits the “spirituality” of CD, that is, the “way of life” to which Barth’s appropriation of the gospel leads. Ford sees in CD an “ascesis of Bible reading”—a vision for reality that does not take the biblical story from creation to parousia as its scaffolding. Rather, Barth makes the lifetime of Christ his ultimate theological basis, and figures all other histories into this, including those of the Bible, the world, and the Christian’s own life (165). Ford holds then that Barth provides a “distinctive spirituality of knowledge” that is more Hegelian than Kantian: “the involvement of men [sic] in the historical unfolding of the ratio of the immanent Trinity.” The result for Christian life is a twofold sense of “prior completion and personal presence” (169). At the end of this chapter and in his conclusion (ch. 10), Ford determines that the radical intensiveness of Barth’s theological dependence on the gospel narrative means that this narrative bears “a colossal weight under which it shows signs of twisting” (182).

Despite its regular citation in literature on Barth interpretation, I wonder if the book’s ambiguous theological location and wide-ranging ambition have impeded its reception. Composed by an Irish Anglican on the basis of research undertaken in three countries (USA, England, and Germany), the book’s preface pays equal homage to Hans Frei and Eberhard Jüngel, Donald MacKinnon, and Jürgen Moltmann. Its posture towards Barth is also complex: deeply sympathetic, finely attentive, but ultimately critical (the telltale plumage of a thwarted Barthian?). As for ambition, the book proposes a new way of envisioning the unity of the Church Dogmatics, namely, a procedural unity based on literary modes of argumentation from biblical narrative. The short, thick chapters of Barth and God’s Story throw their attention into sites of massive subsequent research and conflict in Barth interpretation, including Barth’s theological autobiography, the relation of Godin se and pro nobis, time and eternity, and the hermeneutical centrality of Christ’s resurrection. These factors—its heterogeneous pedigree and roving interests—both signal the book’s continued importance. It also may be that its intellectual ambit (Yale, Tübingen, Cambridge) has prevented Barth and God’s Storyfrom reaching the audience that might be most concerned with its central questions: namely, cautious American evangelical readers of Barth, who continue to ask, “does the Bible support this theologian?” Ford gives at least a more sophisticated “no” than is typically on offer.

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

Matthias Gockel, Barth and Schleiermacher on the Doctrine of Election: A Systematic-Theological Comparison (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006)

Reviewed by Matthew J. Aragon Bruce (August 25, 2010)

Karl Barth’s critical stance towards Friedrich Schleiermacher is no secret. The relationship that Barth established with his esteemed predecessor has resulted in numerous books, articles, and debates. More often than not, the story of modern theology is told such that one must choose between these two giants as the only options for protagonist and antagonist (depending on who tells the story of course!). Despite recent attempts to transcend the impasse, the default approach to a book such as this one still seems to be: Why would anyone read Schleiermacher to understand Barth (or vice versa)? Matthais Gockel, Wissenschaftlicher Mitarbeiter at the Friedrich-Schiller-Universität Jena, has shown us the benefit of questioning such common ‘wisdom.’ With this book, a revision of his 2002 doctoral dissertation at Princeton Seminary, Gockel adds to the building consensus that the theologies of Schleiermacher and Barth are far from irreconcilable and in fact demonstrate a significant degree of concurrence, a fact that much previous scholarship failed to recognize.The bulk of the book takes the form of a survey, comparison, and assessment of the doctrine of election as developed by the two theologians. It is divided, unsurprisingly, into two chief sections: the first on Schleiermacher (chapters 1-2), and the second on Barth (3-5). Gockel’s claim is not that Barth’s doctrine owes genetic dependence to that of Schleiermacher; rather, he contends that Barth’s doctrine developed in large part independently of Schleiermacher’s Glaubenslehre. It is thus all the more surprising that there are undeniable similarities between Barth and Schleiermacher’s doctrines of election. The task Gockel has set for himself– and which he succeeds in remarkably – is to give an account of the development of the doctrines of election in both Barth and Schleiermacher; to assess the significance and consequences of the surprising commonalities; and yet also to make clear the divergences – the chief difference being Barth’s radical christological re-tooling of the doctrine in the Church Dogmatics.

In chapter 1, Gockel gives an account of Schleiermacher’s earlier doctrine contained in his 1819 essay on election (Ueber die Lehre von der Erwählung). Schleiermacher wrote this essay as he prepared to write the first edition (1820/21) of the Glaubenslehre and he described it himself as “a kind of precursor to my Dogmatics.” Gockel’s exposition demonstrates that the doctrine of election is a primary component of Schleiermacher’s dogmatics. This is due to the fact that the so-called father of modern theology self-consciously rooted his dogmatics in the Reformed tradition. Schleiermacher’s doctrine lies squarely within the Augustinian-Calvinistic tradition, albeit with some critical revisions. The primary goal of Schleiermacher’s essay is to demonstrate the advantages of the Augustinian-Calvinistic position over and against the “more noble Pelagianism” expounded by some of his contemporary Lutheran colleagues. Schleiermacher backs off from the more “severe” forms of the Reformed outlook (e.g. the Canons of the Synod of Dort) and defends the position of the Calvin and Luther over some of the later developments of the Orthodox and especially the Rationalist theologians. His chief target throughout is the conception of faith as, in part, a human work independent of God. Schleiermacher roundly rejects any such Pelagian sentiments and argues that such emphases would seem “to render Christ’s work superfluous, since it assumes that human beings by themselves are capable of the good… such an assumption should not be acceptable for theologians of the Lutheran tradition: ‘One can hardly quote here, if one does not want to repeat everything Luther has written’” (19). Schleiermacher’s most original contribution to the doctrine of election, which is his major revision to the Augustinian-Calvinistic position, is the notion of a single decree. Contrary to both Luther and Calvin and the scholastic orthodoxies which follow in their wake, Schleiermacher contends that, “election and reprobation are the contrasting and yet united aspects of the single divine decree, based on the divine will that creates and orders everything, by which humankind shall be regenerated and transformed into the spiritual body of Christ” (33).

Chapter 2 addresses Schleiermacher’s mature doctrine contained in the Glaubenslehre. The chief revision to his earlier essay is that the doctrine is more consistently developed in line with the concept of a single decree. Schleiermacher places the doctrine within ecclesiology and re-focuses the doctrine of election on the “larger context of the relevance of divine election for the generation of the Christian Church in light of Christ’s appearance in history” (102). In his mature work, Schleiermacher rejects any notion of the inequality between believers and non-believers based on particular relations between God and individual human beings. He does so in order to emphasize the unity of God’s will and its identity with the redemptive work of the Mediator. The idea that humanity consists of two groups – elect and reprobate – is ruled out for, according to Schleiermacher, this would signify a duality in the divine will. In this light, Gockel concludes that for Schleiermacher, “unbelievers and believers alike are the object of divine predestination to salvation in Jesus Christ. God sees all human beings, not only believers, in Christ” (102).

Gockel takes up Barth’s doctrine in the Römerbrief in chapter 3. Barth, like Schleiermacher, is solidly within the Augustinian-Calvinist train of thought; he affirms the Reformation notion of justification by grace through faith and a corresponding doctrine of election in which God determines which individuals will or will not come to faith in Christ. Barth radicalizes the Reformation understanding, however. God’s election of human beings for salvation is characterized as his opposition to the human predicament of sin and death. His work against these forces culminates in the resurrection of Jesus Christ. But Barth understands the resurrection not simply as a victory over sin and death, but as God’s judgment – the divine No! against this state of affairs. Barth’s aim is to make it all the more clear that redemption from sin and death is a possibility only for God: human beings lack the ability to procure salvation for themselves. This move leads Barth in the direction of Schleiermacher, for whom the judgment of God against sin and death also extends to the entire human race and not simply to those individuals who are elected to have faith. Barth conceives of faith not as one historical event among others, not as a sequence of cause and effect, but as a supratemporal event the sole origin of which is God (108-9). The driving issue here for Barth, against the tradition, is that if God’s freedom is to be protected, predestination cannot be considered as the result of a change of cause and effect extending back into the pre-temporal abyss where God decided once and for all who will believe. Rather, and again like Schleiermacher, there is a single divine decree, “‘one divine doing’ that constitutes the true unity of all human beings.” Election and reprobation are, quoting Barth, “unintuitably one and the same in God” (118). Predestination then concerns the continuing encounter between God and human beings in history, it is not a one-off event of protological determination, but rather God’s free interaction with the creatures he created to redeem. The doctrine of election is primarily not about the salvation of individuals but about the God who elects to redeem human beings.

In chapter 4, Gockel outlines the continuation of Barth’s development in the Göttingen Dogmatics. Three notions from the Römerbrief are expanded: First, Barth rejects the notion of a pre-temporal divine decree concerning individual persons and instead argues for the historicity of faith and unbelief. Second, God is the actor in the event of faith, i.e. he is the origin of the individual’s faith. Human beings are incapable of initiating faith. Third, reprobation and election are teleologically related such that the former leads to the latter with no change in direction. Each of these aspects addresses problems that Barth sees in the tradition. In the first case, Barth argues that God always remains free toward every human being at all times. In other words, God is not bound by a protological decree; rather, his “decision to elect or reprobate is always made anew…The idea of divine predestination, as a fundamental description of God’s acting upon human beings, is an expression of God’s lasting freedom to say either Yes or No to a human being” (146). The second aspect notes that election is the result of an address by God to a human being. Election is utterly dependent upon God’s agency: human beings can contribute nothing. Again, the primary focus is on the electing God and not the elected or reprobate person. This third aspect is the most marked change from the Römerbrief. Barth’s contention is that “the purpose of the divine act of predestination is always election, not the reprobating” (149). Reprobation is only the shadow side of election and never occurs for its own sake. It is never God’s final word. Reprobation only ever serves God’s self-revelation to human beings: “God’s word ‘does not say No but Yes, even if this Yes always again breaks through out of a No’” (150).

Up to this point, Gockel argues that Barth’s development consists of a “Schleiermacherian reconstruction” of election. This reconstruction is made possible mainly through the adoption of a similar understanding of a single decree. Although there are differences (e.g., the Creator-creature relationship), Barth’s doctrine is surprisingly close to Schleiermacher’s on each of the three aspects outlined above. Above all, both theologians stress the unity of God’s decree and that the subject matter of the doctrine is primarily the electing God rather than predestined or reprobated human beings.

Chapter 5 will be the most familiar to most readers, and for this very reason controversial. Here Gockel traverses the well-trod soil of Barth’s revision of election in CD II/2. Gockel takes a firm stand in the current debates, siding with and developing Bruce McCormack’s reading of Barth’s doctrine of election. What is beneficial and new to some readers is the first section of this chapter in which Gockel discusses Barth’s work just prior to writing CD II/2, e.g. the lectures in Hungary which became Gottes Gnadenwahl, Barth’s Gifford Lectures, and a significant treatment of Barth’s relationship with Pierre Maury and the latter’s pioneering work in Election et foi. The remainder of the chapter is a detailed exposition of CD II/2 followed by some critical analysis. Gockel’s chief criticism concerns Barth’s approach to universal salvation. Gockel challenges Barth’s reluctance to fully endorse universalism and claims that Schleiermacher is more consistent than Barth in this regard (cf. chapter 2).

Gockel models the type of careful, close reading and analysis that the theological work of Schleiermacher and Barth merit and require. He succumbs to neither “Neo-Orthodox” nor “Liberal” stereotypes, but rather gives a fresh and detailed reading of both Barth and Schleiermacher. His approach is deeply contextual, giving attention to historical and intellectual details. Schleiermacher is read as a reformed dogmatician (as he understood himself), rather than the philosophical theologian to which he is often reduced in Anglophone scholarship. And Barth is rightly recognized as a modern theologian who must be read and understood in light of the intellectual developments of 19th century if we are to understand him correctly.
In terms of contemporary English-language Barth Studies, Gockel provides a robust and convincing argument that Barth’s mature doctrine of election concerns a primal decision about the identity of God’s being and that of humanity. This decision consists of God’s self-determination to relate to humanity in a covenant of grace through the person of Jesus Christ and the determination of human beings to be in covenant with God as the people of God. If those interpreters of Barth who disagree with Gockel and McCormack concerning how to interpret Barth’s language of God’s self-determination hope to convince us that such an interpretation is unfaithful to Barth, they will need to provide an alternative interpretative framework, hitherto unfurnished, with which to read Barth which engages in the same careful, detailed, and contextual interpretation as that which Gockel has provided with this book. Gockel is simply too persuasive to ignore and Barth studies will suffer if work of this quality is discounted.

Matthias Gockel has provided his readers with a highly learned and accurate exposition of the doctrines of election developed by the two giants of modern Protestant theology. Moreover, he has done far more than this. He has shown to be true what von Balthasar told us more than fifty years ago, a lesson that far too many Barth scholars have unfortunately forgotten (or perhaps have chosen to neglect):
“Barth cannot be understood unless we see how his point of departure was determined by Schleiermacher, who gave him during the years of his theological formation the conceptual tools for his own thought. But even more than that, Schleiermacher gave Barth a powerful intuition into the unity, grandeur and totality of theology as a scientific discipline.” (Hans Urs von Balthasar, The Theology of Karl Barth, trans. Edward T. Oakes; Ignatius Press, 1992, p. 199).

In other words, if one is to understand Barth correctly, then one must travel the road to, through, and only then from Schleiermacher. Gockel has admirably lead us along this path, narrating the turns and dead ends and finally directing us forward in ways faithful to, albeit critically reparative of, both Barth and Schleiermacher. Gockel’s book will hopefully lead contemporary theologians to see that it is high time the so-called impasse between Barth and Schleiermacher be set aside so that protestant theologians can get on with the task of serving the Church in its proclamation of the Good News of Jesus Christ. One can only hope (and pray!) that future Barth scholars will follow Gockel and, in so doing, hasten the death of the unreflective Barthian scholasticism and historically ignorant Neo-Orthodox readings that continue to plague English-language Barth studies.

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

Colin E. Gunton. The Barth Lectures Edited by P. H. Brazier (London: T&T Clark, 2007), Reviewed by Kimlyn J. Bender (August 05, 2010)

The Barth Lectures

Edited by P. H. Brazier (London: T&T Clark, 2007), xxiv + 285. $150.00

Reviewed by Kimlyn J. Bender (August 05, 2010)

In this volume, the late Colin Gunton provides a lively engagement with the thought of Karl Barth. It must be stated at the outset that while Gunton planned to provide a book on Barth’s theology, this is not that book. Gunton’s untimely death entailed that such a book was never written. The current book under review is in fact a compilation of Gunton’s lectures from his course cycle on Barth’s theology offered at King’s College and transcribed and edited by P. H. Brazier from tape recordings of the lectures. These lectures were to be the basis for Gunton’s book on Barth’s thought.This book preserves the strengths of the vividness and pace of oral lectures in an informal conversational tone. The book begins with an investigation of the historical development of Barth’s theology with special emphasis upon the intellectual background of his thought, and this historical overview comprises the first three chapters of the book. The remainder of the book consists of chapters investigating Barth’s theology in the Church Dogmatics divided along topics such as revelation, the doctrine of God, election, ethics, Christology, reconciliation, atonement, and creation. There is a raw character to these (very) lightly edited lectures that at times borders on the humorous. For example:
“A paper by Daniel Hardy, called something like, why can’t the English and Americans even understand what Schleiermacher and Barth are about, is an interesting paper….Hardy’s paper is very interesting, because he says when Schleiermacher and Barth say certain things the English mind just finds things that it cannot understand. It just thinks they are impossible to say. Part of our intellectual tradition makes it hard for us to understand – particularly an Anglican tradition. Anglicans on the whole like things to be nice and middle way, the via media. And there is not much of the middle way in Karl Barth” (p. 66)!

The liveliness of Gunton’s presentation is matched with corresponding difficulties, however. For while there are places, such as a discussion of the logos asarkos and its concomitant problems (chapter 11), in which a difficult matter is insightfully summarized, a particular weakness of the book is its often superficial discussions of complex aspects of Barth’s thought, witnessed, for example, in the comments on dialectic, a topic which merits much more care than here given (chapter 3). Another example of this superficiality is seen in Gunton’s comments on Barth’s understanding of Scripture as the Word of God, in which Gunton seems to fall prey to cursory criticisms of Barth’s nuanced understanding of Scripture’s indirect identity as the Word of God (cf. p. 74).

Despite such problems, the book does give evidence of a long and sustained engagement with Barth’s thought. Gunton is certainly a critic of Barth’s theology (and even more so of Augustine!), but he is an informed and appreciative one, as is evident throughout this cycle of lectures. This critical appreciation entails that Gunton is less a follower who thinks after Barth than one who thinks with him and who offers ready criticisms, especially his well-known ones of Barth’s Christology with regard to the humanity of Jesus (cf. pp. 170-171; 199-200; 213; though compare p. 192!) and Barth’s pneumatology, the latter which is presented throughout the the volume. Yet these criticisms have themselves been offered and parried by Gunton and others with more detail and precision elsewhere, and whether such criticisms have merit cannot be determined by the off-hand comments made in a lecture: “…Barth is always at his weakest when it comes to the Holy Spirit than on the other two components. Unlike his predecessor Calvin, Barth is at his weakest on the Holy Spirit” (p. 82; cf. also 200, 212). Gunton himself knows that such criticisms are difficult: “And when you are criticizing Barth it is only a question of where he puts a weight; he never forgets anything, he is too good a man for that” (p. 171).

For all of Gunton’s criticisms of Barth’s pneumatology, a response to such criticisms can always resort to the fact that the fifth volume of the Church Dogmatics was never written. Gunton himself thinks this response will not do: “Barth died before he could write volume V but there are those who think he couldn’t have written it even had he been given strength and life long enough to do it. I think that is right; I think that his Doctrine of the Spirit was a bit weak” (p. 90). Yet whether one deems the response adequate or not, such a defense is at the ready to draw attention to the fact that the end of a life leaves unfinished business and makes an unanswerable question of what might have been.

Though Gunton does not accept the response with regard to Barth, to some extent a similar one can be employed to defend Gunton’s own book here. For one of the questions that an untimely death makes impossible to answer is what Gunton’s planned book on Barth would have said. For this is not that book, and is at best a provisional foretaste of what such a book may have looked like. It can be little more than this. The strengths of the current book in terms of spontaneity and pace are thus balanced against the weaknesses of provisionality and superficiality of judgment (in reality, if not in design or intent), and I cannot help but think that this book is found wanting when the two are placed in the balance. And so for all its wit and flashes of insight, this collection of lectures does not and cannot provide the succinctness, polish, and careful exposition and analysis of Barth’s theology that the introductory works by Busch, Webster, and Mangina do, and thus an introductory course on Barth’s theology is better served by them than by this volume. Indeed, it is unclear what the use of this book will be. However, this volume gives insight not only into Barth’s thought but also into Gunton’s thought about Barth. And because of the incisiveness of Gunton’s thought, this book can thereby provide some help for those reflecting upon Barth’s own.

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

D. Densil Morgan, Barth Reception in Britain (London: T&T Clark, 2010)

Reviewed by Donald W. Norwood (June 08, 2011)

Karl Barth was a prolific writer, but we have now had nearly a century to catch up with him. What we need to know is what difference does our reading of Barth make? What impact has he had, not just on theology, but on the life of the churches and wider society? And why has Barth been welcomed and understood in some countries and some churches more than others – in South Africa, for example, as was evident in the studies edited by Charles Villa-Vicencio, On Reading Karl Barth in South Africa (1988), or in Korea, as witnessed by a number of doctoral dissertations on Barth by Korean students at Oxford in recent years? D. Densil Morgan sets out to begin answering such questions in a very thorough and well documented study of Barth’s reception in Britain.The subject has been treated before as Morgan readily acknowledges, particularly by Anne-Katerin Finke in Karl Barth in Grossbritannien: rezeption und wirkungsgeschichte (1995), and can usefully be researched again. This is not because the present book is inadequate – far from it! – but because Barth studies are alive and flourishing forty years after Barth’s death in 1968. The choice of dates for any historical survey is always going to be arbitrary. Morgan chooses to end his detailed study in 1968 even though interest in Barth did not die with him. Indeed it had something of a revival with the Barth Centenary in 1986. Finke’s study is in German (and, I suspect, out of print), but should still be consulted as it complements Morgan’s work. Finke is better placed to contrast German and British culture and their approach to theology, though she also notes wide variations within the British Isles and not least between England and Scotland. From Morgan, as one would expect from a Welshman and expert on Welsh culture, we will hear more about Wales and the intriguing fact that Barth was available in Welsh shortly before he became available in English. Finke spends more time setting the scene for Barth’s first appearance with whole chapters on systematic theology in Britain in the 19th century and another on the theology of P T Forsyth 1848-1921, often heralded as Barth’s predecessor in Britain. She then takes her study into the l970’s and 1980’s with brief but detailed comments on Barth’s expositors, Stephen Sykes, Colin Gunton, David Ford, Rowan Williams, Richard Roberts and Alister McGrath. The late Dan Hardy is mentioned, but more could be said about him because of the encouragement he gave to a whole range of Barth students, including me: “Time spent with Barth is never wasted,” he said. Professor Christoph Schwöbel, now back in his native Germany, should also be included because of his close partnership with the late Colin Gunton in Barth studies at King’s College London, and his own pioneering research on Barth.

Especially valuable in Morgan’s study is his detailed attention to Barth reception in the different nations of Britain and by different church traditions. He deliberately pays special attention to Wales, partly because he says he intends his study to be ‘an exercise in Bangor theology’ and a tribute to the University of North Wales. He explains: “Given the soundly biblical; character of Bangor theology and its Calvinistic background, it is hardly surprising that Karl Barth’s thought resonated here early” (p. viii). That that is not well know is partly due to the way in which Wales has, more than any other part of Britain, retained its own language and culture. Morgan is fluent in Welsh and can summarise important works which are otherwise beyond our reach. This is a great service because Wales, and not least the Welsh Nonconformists Chapels, have had a major impact on England. For example, though the British theologian Daniel Jenkins spent all his ministerial and professorial life in England and the States, his original inspiration and with it affinity to Barth’s way of doing theology came from the chapels in the valleys. A number of England’s best known preachers have come from Wales. Indirectly the Welsh Barth scholars Morgan mentions, J. D. Vernon Lewis, Lewis Valentine, Ivor Oswy Davies, and J. E. Daniel – the last three all associated with Bangor – influenced Church life and theology beyond Wales.

The example of Wales exposes the close correlation between strong traditions of Reformed theology and churchmanship, and the ready reception of Karl Barth. Perhaps Morgan too easily equates Reformed theology with Calvinism when he would know from Barth’s own early lectures on the Reformed Confessions and from Barth’s theology of election that the Reformed have never been so tied to Calvin as Lutherans to Luther or Methodists to the Wesley’s. But that criticism aside, it is true to say that the Scottish legacy of John Knox’s stay in Calvin’s Geneva later provided fertile soil for Barth. Scotland, and Edinburgh in particular, will long be associated with the English translation of Church Dogmatics, its publishers T&T Clark (originally in Edinburgh), and the Scottish Journal of Theology. Morgan correctly describes the latter as “the major platform for the dissemination of Barthian influence in Britain” (p. 218). The big name here is of course Thomas Torrance, Professor in Edinburgh (1952-1979) and at one time considered a possible successor to Karl Barth on his retirement from the University of Basle in 1962. Morgan, like Finke before him, does full justice to Torrance’s influence as a translator and expositor.

We are constantly reminded that Anglicans in particular find it hard to understand Barth. The extreme example was Arthur Headlam, Bishop of Gloucester and previously Regius Professor of Divinity (Oxford). He argued in the l930’s that the real threat to the church in Germany came not from Adolf Hitler but from Karl Barth. Morgan is honest enough to admit that Hywel D. Lewis at Bangor had similar views and felt that the sufferings of the Confessing Church were largely her own fault. There are tales of less extreme but negative responses to Barth from Michael Ramsey, V. A. Demant and Charles Raven. These are balanced by Donald MacKinnon, whom Morgan describes as at one time the only senior Anglo-Catholic who continued to take Barth seriously. Had his study dealt with more recent theologians, the names of Dan Hardy, Stephen Sykes (one time Bishop of Ely), John Webster, Nigel Biggar, Trevor Hart and Rowan Williams (currently Archbishop of Canterbury) would require comment.

Not all Reformed church folk became Barthians, of course. Morgan notes that though Micklem of Mansfield College (Oxford) was sympathetic, he was never a Barthian. Even younger enthusiasts like Daniel Jenkins became progressively more critical, as did Henderson and Gregor Smith in Scotland and – Morgan could note – Colin Gunton at King’s College (London). Also worthy of note is that despite the eulogy from Pope Pius XII that Barth was the greatest theologian since Thomas Aquinas, Barth is rarely if ever treated with the same deference afforded to the Reformers. Morgan cites the Free Church document, The Catholicity of Protestantism (1950), as evidence of the impact of Barth on its various authors but it is noticeable that Barth is only once mentioned in the footnotes, and never treated as an authority on a level with Luther or Calvin.

Too many studies of Barth ignore the context from which he is speaking or that which he is addressing. Morgan is exceptionally good at describing the scene and drawing on detailed social and historical studies, including his own and that of colleagues at Bangor, to do this. A few criticisms remain, however:

First, we hear nothing about a feminist response to Barth. Dr Kathleen Bliss, active in the WCC and the British Council of Churches, worked with Barth in the pioneering days of the World Council of Churches in a study of The Service and Status of Women in the Churches (1952). Given the enormous changes in the lives of all women in Britain, though less so in Switzerland – votes for women, women in Parliament, debates about ordination of women and actual ordination of them in some churches, changed attitudes to divorce, contraception etc. – all Christians might expect some theological counsel. But if feminism is only regarded as a cultural and sociological issue, Barth could be quickly dismissed as patriarchal and Swiss. Barth had been wrestling with feminist issues as a biblical theologian at least since his early debates with Henriette Visser’t Hooft [wife of the first General Secretary of the WCC] from 1934 and, in the long discussion of “Man and Woman,” he pays tribute to his assistant Charlotte von Kirschbaum for her own researches in Die wirkliche Frau (1949; cf. CD III/4, 172). How was all this “received” in Britain in Barth’s lifetime?

Second, Morgan ought to include Northern Ireland, or even all Ireland, since not all churches recognise the political divisions and the modern ecumenical movement in Britain is structured to include Britain and Ireland.

Third, Morgan might have paid more attention to Barth’s influence as a great conversation partner. For example, the distinguished members of The Moot – T. S. Eliot, John Baillie, J. H. Oldham, et al – were not all Barthians, but there are more references to Barth in their conversations than to any other theologian (cf. Keith Clements [ed.], The Moot Papers [2010]).

Fourth, the study ignores Roman Catholic reactions to Barth in Britain. Barth’s dialogue with Rome began in earnest in his days at Münster and reached a real fulfilment in his invitation to Vatican II – which he was then too ill to accept – and his subsequent cordial meeting with Pope Paul VI. Barth often noted that he was better understood by some Roman Catholics than by liberal Protestants. One thinks here of the Dominican theologian, Fergus Kerr whose interest in Barth might have been stimulated by his own Reformed roots.

Fifth, Morgan is – in my view – seriously wrong about Barth and the ecumenical movement. Barth was at first critical because he believed that the unity of the church was far too central to be left to “a movement,” and disappointed with the superficiality of its earlier deliberations. His early lectures, The Church and the Churches (1936, 2005), which were originally prepared for the Faith and Order Conference at Edinburgh in 1937, make this clear. Barth was a keynote speaker at the First Assembly of the World Council of Churches at Amsterdam in 1948. Morgan, like Lesslie Newbigin whom he cites, finds Barth too polemical in preparations for the Second Assembly at Evanston, but the argument was again fundamental. It was about “the Hope of Israel” – a statement which the Assembly would find itself unable to accept, but which was printed as an Appendix to the official Report. Barth insisted in Church Dogmatics IV/3, 878: “Even the modern ecumenical movement suffers more seriously from the absence of Israel than of Rome or Moscow.” One must remember that prior to New Delhi (1961), most Orthodox Churches were not in the World Council and prior to Vatican II (1962-5), Rome had not committed herself to the ecumenical movement. Barth was more ecumenical than most of his contemporary ecumenists!

Such criticisms are also compliments and challenges. Morgan, like Barth, prompts us to go on asking more questions in search of greater understanding. His thorough study of how Barth has been received so far encourages us to explore more fully the way in which Barth is read and responded to here and now, in Britain and beyond.

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

Gabriel, Andrew K. Barth’s Doctrine of Creation: Creation, Nature, Jesus, and the Trinity (Eugene, OR: Cascade Books, 2014)

Barth’s Doctrine of Creation: Creation, Nature, Jesus, and the Trinity 

Gabriel, Andrew K. Barth’s Doctrine of Creation: Creation, Nature, Jesus, and the Trinity (Eugene, OR: Cascade Books, 2014), x + 118 pp. $18.00 (Paperback)

Reviewed by Ximian Xu (November 27, 2018)

In this short work, Andrew Gabriel—Assistant Professor of Theology at Horizon College and Seminary—aims to use Barth’s doctrine of creation to address the seeming irrelevance of the doctrine of the Trinity to the doctrine of creation, a trend which gradually developed in the post-Reformation era and the nineteenth century. Gabriel argues that Barth is intent on articulating the doctrine of creation from the standpoint of the “God who is revealed in Jesus Christ” (2-3). Rather than adopting a comparative study, Gabriel delves into Barth’s doctrine of creation itself, particularly as outlined in Church Dogmatics III/1.In chapter two, Gabriel traces the contours of Barth’s doctrine of creation, arguing, “for Barth, knowledge of creation is an article of faith. From this article of faith believers learn of the free and loving Creator who has created the world out of nothing for the covenant. This covenantal relationship leads Barth to affirm that creation is distinct from God and that creation is good” (8). Based on this summary, Gabriel observes that for Barth creation refers both to “the first originating work” and to non-historical history (8-10). Hence, it is faith that leads one to confess God’s creation in the beginning. This means that the doctrine of creation should be Christologically articulated within the teaching of the Church rather than through philosophical or scientific reasoning. God’s self-witness is the foundation of the doctrine of creation. As such, the doctrine of creation is an article of faith, which is found true in the revelation of Jesus Christ (14). Consequently, Barth emphatically repudiates natural theology and insists that “[t]he revelation of salvation and creation belong together” (21). Creation cannot be known or understood apart from the event of redemption.

Gabriel goes on to point out that for Barth, the doctrine of creation is first and foremost the doctrine of the Creator who, in freedom and love, created the world from nothing. This means, first, that God needs creation neither intrinsically nor extrinsically. Second, God, in freedom, has always had loving intentions toward creation. Third, it is God who summons all things into existence as God calls humanity into a new life in resurrection (21-30). In light of this threefold meaning of the doctrine of the Creator, Barth thinks the covenantal relationship between God and human beings is the goal of creation on the grounds that God is both Creator and Savior (30-38). Moreover, given that God’s purpose is to create a covenantal partner external to Himself, creation is both good and distinct from God. “Creation is good because the benevolent God is its Creator and creates with purpose and direction” (39). In short, creation is justified by Jesus Christ who fulfils the divine-human covenant.

After setting out the contours of Barth’s doctrine of creation, Gabriel then examines three pertinent critiques of Barth’s theology. In the third chapter, Gabriel wrestles with the critique of Barth’s view of creation as anthropocentric. For Gabriel, there are five factors leading to this critique, which all result from the misunderstanding that Barth severs nature from God or neglects nature completely (51-56). For example, Barth argues that “creation is the external basis of the covenant and the covenant is the internal basis of creation” (51). Critics estimate that Barth subordinates creation to covenant in such a way that creation is no longer important. For another instance, some scholars argue that Barth considers human beings the only created partner in the divine-human covenant. As such, the rest of creatures are divorced from God. In response, Gabriel maintains that not only does Barth argue for the participation of nature in the covenant but Barth also stresses ordered creatureliness, which includes a right relationship of humanity with nature (57-60). From this perspective, it follows that although Barth’s theological concern for nature is underdeveloped, “the whole of creation is that which God wanted, and is therefore good, and that all of creation participates in the covenant” (64).

Chapter four describes Barth’s trinitarian understanding of the doctrine of creation. Gabriel begins with the refutation of four critiques (67-73). First, Gabriel argues that rather than identifying the imago dei as a quality in the human being, Barth uses the male-female relation as an analogy to account for the truth that humans are created relational beings and the truth that the Triune God is a relational being. Second, Gabriel maintains that God, who is closely related to humans in Jesus Christ, is not spatially but ontologically distant from the world. This denotes God’s presence in creation. Third, Gabriel contends that while speaking of the relationship between God and creation, Barth is not a modalist who safeguards the unity of God at the expense of Trinity. Fourth, he points out that Barth does not entirely ignore the work of the Holy Spirit in creation. Following the rejection of the four critiques is Gabriel’s elaboration on the creative work of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, which particularly sheds light on the refutation of the latter two critiques. By doing so, Gabriel demonstrates on the one hand that Barth’s trinitarian approach to the doctrine of creation is not modalistic since the identity of the Creator is the Triune God, and on the other hand, that the only creative work of the Holy Spirit is to glorify the intra-trinitarian fellowship (74-81). As such, Barth refrains from placing emphasis on the creative activity of the Holy Spirit. However, Gabriel insists that Barth’s trinitarian approach to the doctrine of creation can still be justified.

In chapter five, Gabriel rejects the criticism that Barth neglects the created historical reality with his preoccupation with the pre-temporal Jesus Christ. Gabriel begins by underlining the dialectic of eternity and history in Barth’s theology. This dialectic reaches its synthesis in Jesus Christ, who is a living person in history (85-90). In other words, the work of Jesus Christ, which is central to the covenant and God’s grace, is revealed and actualized in history. Gabriel proceeds by tackling the issue of the logos ensarkos, which appears to make the created human nature of Jesus Christ eternal. He maintains that Barth by no means rejects the concept of the logos asarkos but uses the term “Jesus Christ” to avoid an abstract idea (91-96). The created human nature of Jesus Christ is anticipated in eternity but actualized in history. Accordingly, Gabriel argues that, for Barth, the covenant existed before creation but the covenant is actualized in Jesus Christ in and after creation history. By consequence, Barth’s doctrine of creation is deeply concerned with historical reality of creation.

Gabriel sets forth a lucid, critical, and convincing overview of Barth’s doctrine of creation. The outline in chapter two of the contours of this doctrine is helpful, especially for those who are not familiar with Barth’s theology. Despite his basic sympathy with Barth, Gabriel critically engages Barth’s overdeveloped Christocentric tone and his underdeveloped pneumatology. These critiques will aid readers in critically exploring Barth’s doctrine of creation further. This book is recommended in light of these strengths.

Nonetheless, I disagree with Gabriel’s rejection of Oliver Crisp’s critique of Barth (34). Crisp argues that the goal of creation should be God’s self-glorification rather than the divine-human covenant as Barth claims. Gabriel contests that for Barth, God is glorified through the divine-human covenant since this covenant simply is God’s glory. In my view, there is a distinction between saying that the covenant is God’s glory and saying that God’s glory is covenant. With regard to the former, it can be understood that the divine-human covenant is one means by which God is glorified. However, the latter cannot be deduced from this insofar as God’s glory cannot be simplified to covenant. Conceptually, God’s glory is broader than God’s covenant. In other words, the divine glory is directly manifest in creation (e.g. Ps. 8:1; 19:1) but is not restrained within the confines of the divine-human covenant. Therefore, while speaking of the divine-human covenant as God’s glory, Barth actually identifies the covenant as the goal of creation. In this sense, Crisp’s critique is justified.

Moreover, chapter three, which engages with Barth’s theology of nature, can be strengthened by adding the comparison between natural theology and the theology of nature. In Barth’s “Nein! Antwort an Emil Brunner,” natural theology is defined as a theology that is not grounded in God’s revelation as witnessed by Holy Scripture. By contrast, the theology of nature generally refers to the theological understanding of nature from the perspective of Christian faith. This comparison has the potential to provide further clarifications regarding the relationship between God and nature and the place of nature in Barth’s theology. All in all, as Paul Nimmo wrote in the endorsements, “[t]he result [of Gabriel’s study] is an excellent introduction to Barth’s understanding of creation, evidencing both its doctrinal sophistication and its continuing significance” (backcover). Hence, this book is a very good companion for those who decide to investigate Barth’s doctrine of creation.

Ximian Xu, Ph.D. Student, University of Edinburgh

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

Resch, Dustin. Barth’s Interpretation of the Virgin Birth: A Sign of Mystery (Surry, UK: Ashgate Publishing, 2012)

Barth’s Interpretation of the Virgin Birth: A Sign of Mystery

Resch, Dustin. Barth’s Interpretation of the Virgin Birth: A Sign of Mystery (Surry, UK: Ashgate Publishing, 2012)

Reviewed by Jim West (October 24, 2014)

Dustin Resch’s book, well-meaning in intent and clearly and closely argued, is in reality an apologia for the doctrine of the virgin birth with Barth as chief witness. Resch has a goal, and that goal is to rehabilitate the long ignored—or worse—totally abandoned doctrine of Christ’s birth by and through a virgin. Accordingly, in this revised dissertation which Resch submitted to the faculty of McMaster University (Canada), he proceeds to achieve that goal. Yet Resch has a hard row to hoe. Overcoming the disinterest in the doctrine is a challenge, to say the least, and utilizing Barth to do so may help in some quarters—but probably only in those quarters where Barth is still revered and where the persons engaged already hold to the doctrine even without Barth’s help. Resch introduces his study and maintains that in it he will “set Barth’s contribution in its theological context” (p. 5). His primary sources will be Church Dogmatics (hereafter CD) I/2, §15.3 “The Miracle of Christmas” and other materials.Chapter one, “The Doctrine of the Virgin Birth according to Select Figures in the Western Church,” is aimed at giving an overview of the doctrine from the history of Christian theology. Hence, Resch offers discussions of Irenaeus, Augustine, Aquinas, Luther, and, naturally, Calvin. Resch also discusses Schleiermacher’s view because it is this view which predominated in Barth’s day and the one to which he is responding. He also describes the notions of D.F. Strauss and, importantly, Emil Brunner.

Chapter two, “The Development of Karl Barth’s Doctrine of the Virgin Birth,” provides a historical theology of Barth’s own thinking on the topic, beginning with his time in Göttingen and Münster and moving forward to Barth’s “The Great Promise,” Credo, and the CD. Resch remarks, I think quite sagely, “By the time of the CD, Barth had come to the firm conviction that the virgin birth is to be affirmed as a sign of the incarnation” (p. 63). In essence, Barth connects the virgin birth to the incarnation itself and insists that the one requires the other: “By the mid 1930’s . . . Barth came to characterize the virgin birth, not as a constitutive element in Christ’s life, but as a sign of Christ’s identity” (p. 81). In other words, it belongs to his essential nature. Severing it from his nature means distorting that very nature.

Chapter three, “The Virgin Birth as the Sign of God’s ‘Yes’ and ‘No’,” is an exposition of the classic Barthian dialectic. Here our author reminds us—or perhaps informs us—that for Barth the virgin birth is both a sign of genuine humanity and judgment on sin. This dovetails into a discussion of the humanity of Christ. “The incarnation is, for Barth, the event in which ‘God assumed a being as man into his being as God’” (p. 99). Resch—in perhaps the most interesting part of the book—next leads readers through a discussion of Barth’s humanity as it relates to the humanity of others and Original Sin (pp. 111ff) and the sinlessness of Christ.

Chapter four, “The Conception of Jesus and the Work of the Holy Spirit” is the heart of the matter. This Holy Spirit is, according to Barth, the bond of love. It is love which brought Jesus to birth. So Resch describes Barth’s teaching in this connection in relationship to revelation, reconciliation, vocation, and baptism. It is here that Barth tried too hard to bolster his case for the virgin birth, and it is here too that Resch does the same. The materials he includes are spot on and rightly interpret Barth’s intentions. But Barth’s intentions were to ‘prove’ (in a sense) what cannot be proven by attempting to convince his readers of the necessity of the virgin birth theologically (if not historically). For example, Barth makes this comment concerning Jesus’ incarnation: “It confesses the final thing that we have to confess of Him, and therefore necessarily it takes the first place” (CD IV/1, p. 210). “The final thing” and “necessarily it takes the first place” should not be understood in any other way in Barth than that the incarnation (by means of the virgin birth) is of ultimate importance. If this isn’t a Barthian quest to prove the doctrine I’m not sure what would consist of proof for him. His enthusiasm for the doctrine got the best of him at precisely this point and he simply forgot to let God be God. This statement, for Barth, is the highest claim to truth possible. For him, there is nothing which proves the reality of something like ‘necessity’ (as his argumentation throughout the entire CD makes clear).

Chapter five, “There for God: Mary in the Theology of Karl Barth” is a necessary—albeit not entirely fortuitous—discussion of the place of Mary in Barth’s theology. After all, if Mary is not the Virgin Mary (so the argument normally goes among Evangelicals) then Jesus could not have been born ‘sinless’. Accordingly, I understand why Resch included it, but it is superfluous to his overall argument. In this chapter Resch describes Barth’s struggles against Mariology. He opines, “Barth intended the whole of CD IV/2 to be read as his indirect counter to Roman Catholic Mariology” (p. 190). This may be a bit of an overstatement, but it is accurate enough. According to Resch, “Mary is . . . construed by Barth to be the ideal Christian and one who has taken up her vocation in the way which all Christians ought, to be the handmaid of the Lord. Indeed, it is Mary’s exemplary life of service that Christians ought to emulate in their participation in the kingdom of God through union with Christ” (p. 194).

Resch’s book ends with a concluding chapter which draws everything together in a rather comprehensive recapitulation. He remarks, “In spite of the questions that remain for Barth’s interpretation of the virgin birth, his handling of this aspect of the ancient Christian confession displayed a theological innovation and creativity such as has not been seen since the classical era. For Barth, the writers of the New Testament and the formulators of the Christian creeds were to be owed at least the debt of a sympathetic reading, which meant that what they said about Christ’s human origin warranted careful reflection on its own terms” (p. 203). Resch’s aim, then, seems to include a harkening back to ‘Paleo-Orthodoxy’ as a legitimate and important source of Christian Dogma, or at least a desire to appreciate anew Neo-Orthodoxy.

The great shortcoming of the book, though, is identical to Barth’s own shortcoming: he forgot, again, to let God be God. The virgin birth needn’t be—and cannot be—proven. It is an article of faith. And that, quite frankly, is all it needs to be. Talk of the ‘necessity’ of the doctrine, however well intentioned, serves no purpose but to hold Christians to a specific understanding (and a Barthian one at that) of the meaning of Jesus’ incarnation.

The question, of course, is whether or not potential readers of this volume will benefit from reading it. The answer, in my view, is yes. They will. However, if they do not already accept as true the doctrine of the virgin birth, I doubt they will be persuaded to accept it. And, if they do accept it as true, they will simply have their position reinforced. In short, then, what Resch is doing is preaching to the choir. In all likelihood his well-reasoned, well-presented, well-argued tome will not convince those predisposed to disbelief. Nevertheless, even the unbelieving should read this volume, for in it and from it they will learn much- both of the doctrine of the virgin birth and the theology of Karl Barth.

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

Webster, John. Barth’s Moral Theology: Human Action in Barth’s Thought (Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1998)

Barth’s Moral Theology: Human Action in Barth’s Thought 

Webster, John. Barth’s Moral Theology: Human Action in Barth’s Thought (Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1998) ix + 223 pp. $55.00 (hardback).

Reviewed by George Hunsinger ()

Whether there is indeed such a thing as “human freedom” in relation to God is not a question that divides one theology from another or one church from the next. No theology or church would deny it. The disputed question, rather, concerns the conditions for the possibility of such freedom. Moreover, whether divine grace is a “necessary condition” for human freedom is again not divisive, at least not for the great majority of ecumenical theologies and churches, since exponents of vulgar “Pelagianism” are rare (and may not even have included Pelagius). The divisive question actually cuts much deeper. It pertains to the matter of how divine grace and human freedom are related. Formally speaking (and leaving much aside), the options would seem broadly to be twofold. Either the relationship is fully or largely intelligible without resort to paradox, or else it is not. Interpretations that are more nearly philosophical or rationalistic in orientation tend to eschew paradoxical solutions. Those that are more nearly biblical or hermeneutical, on the other hand, are more likely to rest in solutions that are in some measure paradoxical, and sometimes paradoxical to a high degree.It is not a good sign for the state of theological discussion that these rather fundamental observations are often overlooked. In the modern period it has often been assumed that paradoxical solutions have no standing, though one would be hard pressed to find a time when the paradoxical option has lacked distinguished representatives. After all, the Augustinian tradition on grace and freedom has shown a substantial tolerance for paradox on the grounds that paradox is the worst form of solution—except for every other form. Nonparadoxical solutions are thought to suffer from two major defects. They fail to be hermeneutically adequate with respect to the biblical witness, and they end up endorsing one of two mistakes: either an untenable determinism (by pitting sovereign grace against freedom) or else an equally untenable libertarianism (by pitting independent freedom against grace). Augustinian paradoxes are designed precisely to avoid pitting grace against freedom (and vice versa). From an Augustinian standpoint, charges of “determinism” from exponents of non-paradoxical solutions usually betray an untenable libertarianism, whether crude in form or subtle. Moreover, charges of “incoherence” from the same camp typically fail to advance the discussion, since they simply beg the question of adequacy, often, it seems, unwittingly. Exponents of non-paradoxical solutions often seem to proceed as though deliberately paradoxical solutions must be as non-paradoxical as their own.

Karl Barth has been a distinguished representative of the Augustinian tradition on grace and freedom in our time. He has represented it in the radicalized form that it received from the Reformation, and particularly from Luther and Calvin. He has done so largely on the grounds of hermeneutical adequacy to Holy Scripture, and in a climate dominated by modernist, philosophical and rationalistic modes of thought that presuppose the inadmissability of paradox. Consequently, he has often been rebuffed as an ugly duckling. How often has it been alleged that no place exists in his thought for “human freedom” as though the status of human freedom were self-evident? How often has his position been charged with “determinism” and “incoherence”. How often has it been overlooked that the Reformation version of the Augustinian tradition involves a very different theological framework or conceptual scheme than that presupposed by the critique? How often has a satisfactory discussion been thwarted because it has not been seen that decisions on these matters are not framework-neutral but framework-relative?

Two outstanding books on the place of human action in Barth’s theology have recently appeared from John Webster, Lady Margaret Professor of Divinity at Oxford University. The first, “Barth’s Ethics of Reconciliation” (Cambridge University Press, 1995), offers a way of reading Barth’s Church Dogmatics that takes seriously the inseparability Barth posited between dogmatics and ethics. Based mostly on Barth’s very last writings, it challenges interpretations that accuse Barth of passivity with respect to human freedom and of incoherence with respect to conceptual adequacy. In both cases, Webster argues, the accusations fail to grasp Barth’s “moral ontology”, a term borrowed from Charles Taylor to indicate the fundamental situation in which human beings act. The second volume, here under review, again takes up the question of “moral ontology”, (a term analogous to my previous remarks about theological “frameworks” or “conceptual schemes”) with nine essays, discussing material that runs all the way from the earlier to the later Barth. Although Webster does not make the aspect of “paradox” — or perhaps better, of “dialectic” or unresolved “antithesis” — quite as explicit as I might have (he makes no mention of what I have called “the Chalcedonian pattern”), his grasp of Barth is unerring. No better scholarship on these matters can be found in English. Together the two volumes establish Webster as one of the leading Barth interpreters in the world.

The essays are as engaging and interesting as they are important in dispelling misconceptions. After an introductory chapter that presents the book in survey, the topics are as follows: human action in Barth’s early ethics (ch. 2), grace as “the great disruption” of moral consciousness (ch. 3), original sin in Barth’s “actualistic” reinterpretation (ch. 4), human action as witness to hope in a world where “God is the framework of eschatology, not vice versa”; (Barth in a remark against Moltmann) (ch. 5), human spontaneity as at once elicited and delimited by divine action (ch. 6), the church’s mission in the context of Christ’s prophetic office (ch. 7), grace and freedom in Luther and Barth (ch. 8), and finally how the passive reception of grace by faith relates to active correspondence to grace i the Christian life (ch. 9). The thought-provoking power of Barth’s theology in articulating the continuing relevance of the Augustinian tradition (as mediated by the Reformation) comes through admirably at every point.

Many themes from this rich and stimulating discussion might be singled out for extensive comment. As Webster keenly notes, in Barth the modernist tendency to demote God into an instrumental value for human self-realization is rejected. Human activity is liberated from the dehumanizing effect of having to be the bearer of God’s kingdom. The absolute singularity of God’s action in human salvation is acknowledged. Complex interconnections among witness, participation (koinonia) and mediation in faithful human activity are delineated. The inescapability of divine judgment in the work of divine grace is not slighted. The inwardness tradition is subordinated to attentive response. The great Reformation theme is sounded that Jesus Christ is the entire ground and reality, not just the precondition, of our salvation. The crucial difference between explanatory and descriptive accounts of human freedom is recognized. That grace is fully trinitarian and christocentric for Barth is explained. That we are seen not as outsiders to grace unless we become insiders, but as insiders whether we live by it or not, is stressed. That the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob and the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ speaks for himself is taken with the seriousness it deserves. The significance of becoming in the conception of the divine being is not missed. These and other themes in Webster’s sensitive account are as welcome as they are beautifully set forth. The one theme that perhaps bears special mention, however, is the intrinsic perfection of Christ’s work.

It is greatly to Webster’s credit that he accords such prominence to this theme. That there is only one work of salvation, that it has been accomplished by Jesus Christ, that it is identical with his person, and that being perfect it needs no supplementation but only acknowledgement, reception, participation, anticipation, and proclamation for what it is—these are the great themes of Barth’s soteriology. Though they may separate Barth from much modernist, traditionalist and ecumenical theology, at least in the single-mindedness with which he set them forth, he believed they are nonetheless themes by which the church stands or falls. Whether his judgment was correct in this matter is a question that awaits adequate discussion by the ecumenical church. John Webster has gone a long way toward restoring this question to its proper place on the agenda of theology and church.

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

Wood, Donald. Barth’s Theology of Interpretation (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2007)

Barth’s Theology of Interpretation

Wood, Donald. Barth’s Theology of Interpretation (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2007), xiv +189 pp., $99.95.

Reviewed by Shannon Nicole Smythe (March 12, 2008)

Among the numerous books and essays in recent years discussing Karl Barth’s hermeneutics, Donald Wood’s contribution, a “slightly revised” version of his dissertation under John Webster, is more of the same. His work, by his own account, is distinguished by its “straightforward” analysis of some of Barth’s material on the topic. It is constructive to the extent that it takes Barth’s theology as a whole into consideration and explores the way that Barth’s theology of interpretation is connected with his work on Christian doctrine. Wood’s aim is to provide an aid to scholarly constructive work on hermeneutics by doing the preliminary work of “simply attending to what Barth had to say” (xi). Wood calls his work modest in both “proportion and aspiration.” Accordingly, he has “simply tried to understand something of what Barth had to say about the nature of the scriptural text, the identity of its readers, and the relationship between them” (ix).Wood’s survey begins with an analysis of Barth’s “The New World in the Bible” lecture, the first two editions of Barth’s Romans commentary, two lecture series on historical theology, and his prolegomena to the Göttingen Dogmatics. From there Wood moves on to Barth’s history of modern Protestant theology, Die protestantische Theologie im 19. Jahrhundert in chapter two. The final two chapters are a close reading of the prolegomena material in Barth’s Church Dogmatics. The surveys in chapters one and two serve the greater purpose of the book, which is to help understand the theology of interpretation in CD I. Wood’s “self-appointed limitations” to his work aside, his thesis in the first chapter is that there is an overlooked and significant continuity in the early period of Barth’s work, namely, his “intense engagement with scripture” at both the material and the methodological levels (1). Wood is here critical of Bruce McCormack’s work on Barth’s early development, noting that McCormack has made peripheral what Barth proclaimed as central: scripture reading and commentary. Wood suggests that McCormack does not take into account the questions raised by Barth’s claim that his Romans commentary was in fact a commentary and a piece of real biblical exegesis. Wood does not offer anything more by way of engagement with McCormack except in giving a few oft-cited quotes from Barth’s response to his hermeneutical critics in preface to the Romans commentary. We must view Barth as a reader of scripture, Wood concludes.

While not providing a particularly new reading of Barth’s “The New World in the Bible,” Wood’s analysis is carefully executed as he highlights that Barth’s “restatement of the scripture principle within a Trinitarian doctrine of revelation” shows his work in CD I and the 1917 lecture to be “two points on a single theological trajectory” (10). In his survey of the two editions of the Romans commentary, Wood’s most important point is that Barth’s reactions against historical-critical work in the commentary are driven fundamentally by a “spiritual-theological” emphasis on the freedom of God and the primacy of God’s act in Jesus Christ. Wood then highlights how Barth’s growing affinity with the Reformed tradition during his time in Göttingen led to a watershed in his hermeneutical reflections, especially with reference to the connection between the unique ethical impulse of Calvinism and the Reformed emphasis on the Protestant scripture principle in his lectures on Calvin and the Reformed Confessions. Barth’s growing articulation of a Trinitarian doctrine of revelation in which the scripture principle is central, as well as his emphasis on the distinction between revelation and scripture made most clear in the use “witness” in conceptualizing scripture’s role in relation to the self-revealing God, is discerned by Wood in the prolegomena to Barth’s Göttingen dogmatic lectures.

Perhaps the most interesting section of Wood’s volume comes in the second chapter as he treats the connection between Barth’s discourse on modernity, and his hermeneutical and historiographical work. As Wood points out, there has been relatively little study of Barth’s history of modern. By offering a close reading the first chapter, Wood discovers again Barth’s urging that reading be done always in the context of the church. He puts his finger on why Barth feels free to approach scripture without being particularly worried by various modern hermeneutical preoccupations. Because Barth, as a reader of scripture, holds himself to be “radically implicated by the subject matter” of scripture, he can view the authors of scripture as witnesses rather than sources (63). The authors stand in the same relation to the subject matter of their text as does Barth. Barth’s understanding of appropriate responsibility, humility and faithfulness in the work of engaging the history of theology is grounded in nothing other than the church’s existence in relationship to God and the world. Wood connects this to the proper approach for scriptural interpretation: just as the act of historiography is an act of responsibility, humility and faith for Barth, so is theological interpretation. Barth resisted the modern development of general hermeneutics by refusing “to concede that the early modern history of violent interpretative conflict is either (as a historical reality) resistant to theologically and politically responsible description or (as a historiographical construct) a value-neutral narrative to which Christian theology must answer” (98). One ought not to approach scripture with unwavering confidence in one’s own interpretative skills; this is neo-Pelagianism. Rather, Barth assumes God is authoritative in scripture, to which the church gratefully responds in faith and trust in Christ’s promise to be with the church in the witness of scripture. The church seeks to hear the Word, by, through, in and under which it has its life.

Both of the previous chapters lead up to the final two chapters “designed to provide an orientation to the doctrinal account of scriptural reading in the first volume of the Church Dogmatics” (100). Chapter three focuses on the theological necessity of scriptural interpretation, while chapter four focuses on the shape of theological interpretation as the church’s act of obedience. The conclusions drawn about Barth’s trajectory in the first chapter are pursued here by way of a close reading of the first four chapters of CD I. Wood continually stresses that we must acknowledge just how much Barth presupposes the scripture principle throughout this material. He argues further that Barth prevents the scripture principle from becoming a norm lacking in content by placing it firmly within a Trinitarian doctrine of revelation. The hermeneutical implications for Barth flow from his doctrinal arguments. Thus, it is through the reality of God’s hiddenness in revelation that scriptural interpretation is both possible and necessary. Wood describes Barth’s doctrine of scripture as, in part, a response to those who think the Protestant scripture principle abstracts the text from the life of the church, and in so doing distinguishes his own interpretation of it in from that of either modern Protestant or Roman Catholic accounts.

By Wood’s own acknowledgment, the fourth and final chapter is a “laborious reading” of several passages at the end of Church Dogmatics I that respond to the Roman Catholic objection to the Protestant emphasis onsola scriptura. Again, Wood does not argue anything substantively new, instead reiterating the previously established point that as scripture is the written witness of revelation, it is also the basic condition of the church’s obedience. Furthermore, as a model of obedience, scripture is a guide to shape the church’s obedience. Yet again, Wood argues that this is another angle from which Barth emphasizes the Protestant scripture principle. “The church is obedient to the Word of God in scripture alone; responsible to the church fathers and to the confessions; and neutral with regard to all other voices” (161). At the same time, however, scripture alone is the principle by which the church also has its freedom. Speaking of scripture itself, Wood summarizes from Barth that “as free subject in the power of the resurrected Christ, scripture is free to found, preserve, and rule the church” (166). As the chapter concludes, Wood admits that this final chapter has ultimately arrived at the same place as the previous chapters, although by a different route:

The church’s hearing of the Word and the work of scriptural interpretation that attends it are finally to be understood as realities in the life of the people of God who wills to be our gracious Lord in the humility of the incarnation, in the glory of the resurrection, and in the outpouring of the Spirit; who has chosen to rule his church through the written witness of the prophets and apostles, in a determinate, canonical text which represents formally his own material sovereignty and objectivity over the church; who has chosen to be present to the world through the church’s scripture-based proclamation; and who, while choosing to reserve for himself the prerogative of judging the adequacy of this proclamation, allows his church to live towards this judgment in prayer and in dogmatic self-reflection (174).
In his conclusion, Wood advertises that the limitations of his study are now clearer than ever, and – in his summary of the observations he made throughout the book – it is also evident that his work, while careful and accurate, is not really advancing anything new. He has provided a close reading of Barth that is compelling to the knowledgeable reader, and this is indeed important. However, his points are simple, easily made, and became redundant over the course of the work. Wood’s hope is that his modest project might serve as an aid for other scholars’ constructive work. This seems likely. Of course, it is always better to read Barth for one’s self, but Wood’s book is neatly organized and summarizes key points in Barth’s rather extensive writing on the subject of scriptural interpretation. Moreover, if we are to take Barth at his word – as Wood suggests we do – the key is to focus not on Barth’s hermeneutics but to pay attention to his exegesis, and to do exegesis ourselves. This, in the end, is what most needs to be understood about Barth’s theology of interpretation.

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

Dorrien, Gary. The Barthian Revolt in Modern Theology: Theology without Weapons (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox, 2000)

The Barthian Revolt in Modern Theology: Theology without Weapons 

Dorrien, Gary. The Barthian Revolt in Modern Theology: Theology without Weapons (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox, 2000) x + 239 pp. $27.00 (paperback)

Reviewed by J. Scott Jackson (May 20, 2014)

More than a decade after its publication, this superb study still offers a solid, fresh and provocative entree into the genesis and development of Karl Barth’s thought. Gary Dorrien convincingly depicts Barth as a complex, original thinker who remained permanently, even if ambiguously, rooted in the legacy of Schleiermacher’s theology, even while he was vigorously criticizing the same liberal tradition. Moreover, as this book shows, Barth drew from distinct strands of nineteenth century theology when framing some of his most trenchant criticisms of his peers who emerged from or were influenced by the dialectical theology movement of the 1920s. Though his argument is primarily historical—and he does not count himself among the Barthians—Dorrien shows a keen interest in retrieving key aspects of the Swiss dogmatician’s thought to enrich contemporary constructive work within a pluralistic and postmondern context. To that end, he seeks to show that Barth’s thought is more radical, open, and dialectical than conventional “neoorthodox” readings have suggested. Dorrien, who currently holds the Reinhold Niebuhr professorship at Union Theological Seminary, New York, is perhaps most renowned as a social ethicist. Still, this work shows that he is equally adept as an historical theologian.Dorrien’s densely packed monograph, whose modest length is deceiving, deserves a very careful reading as contemporary scholars continue to revise the picture of how Barth related to his nineteenth century forbears and his twentieth century peers. Newer theology students will find much sure guidance here, and this is a must-read for advanced researchers who delve into Barth’s work from a genetic-historical perspective. Dorrien’s work stands squarely within the three-decades old stream of revisionist Barth scholarship that began in Germany and continues apace in Anglo-American research. More specifically, he embraces the paradigm shift (by now well established) that challenges von Balthasar’s account of Barth’s theology as shifting from “dialectical” to “analogical” thought forms after the book on Anselm.

At first blush, one might read this book as yet another debunking of the myth of the “neoorthodox” movement—an older but persistent account that depicts Barth as leading a cadre of disillusioned young thinkers from the brink of modernist idolatry back into less perilous pastures of Protestant system building. Dorrien, indeed, does deconstruct this received wisdom, and he accentuates the problematic character of such movement labels as “neoorthodoxy” and “crisis theology” (treated most extensively in chapter two). Barth’s relationship with 19th century liberalism—explored more recently in works by McCormack, Gockel and Chalamet—is complicated, to say the least. Dorrien’s work goes a long way toward clarifying the main issues. In this reading, Barth adopted, with some critical modifications, his mentor Wilhelm Herrmann’s iconoclastic stance against all apologetics, his defense of the self-authenticating character (autopistia) of Christian faith, and his insistence on the event character of revelation. Barth is shown to be a startlingly original thinker who sparked a revolution yet was never able to rally his peers into a lasting and coherent theological movement.

Dorrien’s argument hinges upon his reading of Herrmann’s theology and its lasting impact upon Barth’s thought. Herrmann, according to this account, initiated a revolt of his own from within the heart of the Ritschlian school. He did so by retrieving and integrating several discrete threads from the Reformers and German idealists, in particular: Kant’s critical philosophy, which cordons religion off from scientific reason; Luther’s emphasis on justification by faith, which transcends human reason and must be received as a gift and never held as a possession; a right-Hegelian emphasis on revelation as divine self-disclosure, which emphasizes the actualist character of revelation; and, most of all, Schleiermacher’s non-cognitivist account of Christian experience, which grounds piety in the living power that emanates from Jesus’ personality (see pp. 15–27).

As Barth would famously do later, his mentor at Marburg rested upon the perspicacity and power of the gospel to shape the theological agenda, thereby eschewing all apologetics strategies, whether these are based upon epistemology, metaphysics, practical ethical reasoning, or historical spadework into the life and teachings of Jesus. Herrmann convinced Barth that such a conception of revelation and faith as sui generiswas the only effective defense against the corrosive relativism and skepticism emerging from the more radical history-of-religions proponents such as Troeltsch. Barth, Dorrien argues, would always retain a commitment to an open-ended dialectical theology that defied all conservative Protestant efforts to fix dogmas as strictly objective propositional truths passed down through some ostensibly static core of apostolic faith (see pp. 13).

According to Dorrien, the course of Barth’s subsequent career served to mask this constitutive dependence upon his mentor’s work. As the foremost advocate of a return to the pre-Enlightenment wellsprings of theology, Barth had good rhetorical and political reasons to soft-pedal (and probably also to conveniently misremember) the scope of his debt to Herrmann and the liberal tradition. Consequently, scores of Barth’s interpreters have been thrown off track and this confusion has abetted caricatures of the Swiss theologian as a neo-conservative biblicist who repristinated Protestant Scholasticism while dabbling in the dusty tomes of Aquinas and Anselm. On the other hand, Barth does not replicate Herrmann’s program in toto without some critical modifications. He rejected his mentor’s religious individualism—a transition catalyzed especially by his immersion in the socialist struggle and his anti-Nazi political work. He replaced the Romantic fixation on Jesus’ inner piety with a more Kierkegaardian view of the divine Word that speaks freely in the present moment—a move that came to fruition in the second Romans commentary (see. pp. 61–64).

In this reading, Barth’s project is so radical and creative that scarcely even his most fervent admirers follow him down the line. Indeed, it would seem, his interpreters are just barely even beginning to understandBarth, let alone assimilate his insights fully into contemporary projects. According to Dorrien, Barth refashioned “nineteenth-century liberal motifs into a neo-Calvinist theology of Word and Spirit that reclaimed ancient orthodox ways of speaking of Christ as Logos and of God as Triune mystery” (pp. 2–3). Put another way, “With Paul, Calvin and Wilhelm Herrmann, but in a way that made him a more distinctive thinker than he ever acknowledged, he demonstrated the possibility of doing theology as a Word-following dialectic of divine hiddenness and presence that trusted in the sufficiency of the revealed object of faith” (p. 3).

The argument unfolds, more or less, within a chronological framework, the broad lines of which will be familiar to most students of Barth, and ends with a discussion of the critical questions Barth’s work continues to elicit today. A brief summary is in order here. Once he had managed to study at all the major German Universities, the young Barth stormed into the pastorate, green and cocky, as a Marburg liberal who discerned the essence of the gospel in Schleiermacher’s Speeches on Religion. His liberalism was stretched but not broken when he entered the fray of socialist activism in industrial Safenwil. Encounters with bold theo-politics of such radicals as Kutter and the younger Blumhardt rattled his bourgeois liberal certainties even further as he groped fitfully toward a more historically realist and politically relevant conception of the liberating divine Kingdom. The outbreak of the First World War shattered whatever was left of his trust in the liberal establishment as he, dismayed, witnessed most of his former teachers legitimating German nationalist imperialism. From the embers of this disillusionment, a bold new “crisis” theology burst onto the scene. By the time of his second- edition Romans commentary in 1920, Barth and his fellow travelers were in open revolt against their liberal forebears.

As Dorrien deftly shows, the circle of young radicals who coalesced around the Zwischen den Zeiten journal was fissiparous (if not in a publicly visible way) from the very outset in the early 1920s onward, and the doom of the movement was sealed already by the time Barth began teaching Reformed dogmatics at Göttingen. Barth had always kept Gogarten at arm’s length and he began to mistrust Bultmann as soon as the latter began embracing Heidegger’s existentialist anthropology (Barth, conveniently, seems to forget the existentialist themes in Romans II). Brunner, who was never part of the inner circle of dialectical theologians to begin with, had reason to both exaggerate his ties with Barth and, alternately, to stress his differences from Barth as his own interests demanded.

The German Church struggle in the 1930s launched a new chapter, the final one, in the troubled story of the dialectical movement. Differences that had simmered for a decade become painfully public in round after round of mutual recriminations. For his part, Barth began to insist, ever more stridently that any attempt to place natural theology (Brunner) or philosophical anthropology (Bultmann) in the forecourt of the gospel was a step down the path toward idolatry and a move that, he believed, would inevitably aid and abet the National Socialists. To be fair, in some cases he was goaded into the fray—e.g., when Brunner’s strong criticisms of Barth vis-à-vis natural theology prompted Barth’s trenchant Nein! (see pp. 106–111) Dorrien’s account of how Barth deflected all Bultmann’s gestures toward reconciliation and political collaboration at this time makes for particularly painful reading. From the other side, Barth’s former colleagues expressed increasing dismay as he became immersed in orthodox Protestant dogmatics, engaged in dialogue with Roman Catholics thinkers and reasserted such seemingly anachronistic dogmas as the Trinity and virgin birth as non-negotiable for theology.

Misgivings about Barth continued to proliferate during and after the war. Bonhoeffer protested that Barth was piling a heavy-handed revelational “positivism” on the backs of modern believers—“like it or lump it.” Tillich and Thieliecke chided Barth for his putatively retrograde “supernaturalism,” and Reinhold Niebuhr faulted Barth for not entering the lists against Soviet communism. Barth remains resolute in all this, a towering yet solitary figure in Protestant theology. Divine revelation vindicates itself in the life of the church centered on Christ and empowered by the Spirit. The gospel narrative speaks for itself and needs no demythologized props. The theologian stands upon the Word and Spirit without weapons, naked in battle yet free to embrace God’s mission in the world in openness and humility.

According to Dorrien, Barth’s strong suit is also the source of his weakness. He clearly admires Barth but, somehow, the epic dogmatic project as a whole just does not quite hang together. Barth’s dialectical framework, which he never abandoned, manifests an inherent tension that riddled his debates with other dialectically-minded thinkers: His “theology and the movements it inspired contained too many liberal elements to become a genuinely third way in Protestant thinking” (p. 46). The Barthian agenda engenders this dilemma. If it owns up to its liberal roots the old questions resurface: What about the historical Jesus? How can one human faith tradition claim to be unique? How can older, more genteel models of theological discourse address the challenges of radical religious pluralism, not to mention a host of social and political crises?

On the other hand, if the Barthian moves toward articulating a new orthodoxy—a move that has precedent in the master himself—they risk losing the critical edge of the Herrmannian background that Barth never fully lost. In that case, revelation becomes propositional, something (allegedly and practically) within human control. System building ensues, which runs the risk excluding critical voices on the margins. Barth’s own stammering responses to feminist criticisms is a case in point. An interpreter like Thomas Torrance—who becomes something of a straw man in Dorrien’s argument—can push Barth toward a “critical realism” that risks compromising its dialectical edge by engaging in a questionable project of reconciliation with scientific rationality (see pp. 160–63).

Clearly, Dorrien prefers Barth the Herrmannian to Barth the Heppian. In my view, perhaps this is one reason the somewhat stereotyped specter of the crypto-orthodox Barthian functions as a foil for the main argument in this book. It is perhaps somewhat telling that Dorrien, having shown in his introduction that “neoorthodox” is a questionable signifier, later slips into using the term in his own exposition—this time without the quotation marks—as denoting some of Barth’s gestures toward traditionalism that the author finds questionable. Having learned much from this book, I would suggest a somewhat different take: The freedom to be “orthodox,” if the Spirit so moves him, is part and parcel of what makes Barth who he was as a theologian. The freedom to affirm the virgin birth and the Trinity without apologetic somersaults is a key part of what it means to be “dialectical” in a Barthian rather than a Bultmannian sense. It might exhibit a freedom to embrace voices from the past without being enslaved to them. The liberty to be confessional, without equivocation yet also without weapons, might be a way that Barth can embrace aspects of his liberal past without lapsing into neo-Herrmannianism. It might show that Barth really is attempting to do theology in a new key, and that is exactly what Dorrien so persuasively argues that Barth is trying to do.

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

Paul T. Nimmo, Being in Action: The Theological Shape of Barth’s Ethical Vision (London: T & T Clark, 2007)

Being in Action: The Theological Shape of Barth’s Ethical Vision

Paul T. Nimmo, Being in Action: The Theological Shape of Barth’s Ethical Vision (London: T & T Clark, 2007)

ix + 202. $130.00

Reviewed by W. Travis McMaken (March 26, 2008)

Paul T. Nimmo – a lecturer and research assistant in the Faculty of Divinity at the University of Cambridge’s Corpus Christi College – makes a significant contribution to the literature surrounding Barth’s understanding of Christian ethics with the publication of this volume, which is based on his doctoral thesis completed under David Fergusson at the University of Edinburgh’s New College.Nimmo explicates “Barth’s engagement in Christian ethics” with reference to the “particular theological ontology” that Barth employs, one that is “actualistic” in character (1). Admitting that Barth never uses such language himself, Nimmo builds a case for such a reading, citing Eberhard Jüngel, John Webster, and George Hunsinger. This trajectory culminates for Nimmo in Bruce McCormack’s interpretation of Barth’s doctrine of election as “an act in the course of which God determines the very being of God,” concluding that “God is Lord over the very being and essence of God” (8). Just as God is understood as a ‘being in action,’ the human person as ethical agent is understood derivatively as a being in action (12). The ethical agent is constituted as such definitively in the election of Jesus Christ and actually in the event of obedience to and correspondence with the command of God.

Following the initial introductory chapter, Nimmo’s study is divided into three parts; Part One (chapters 2-4) dealing with the “noetic,” Part Two (chapters 5-7) the “ontic,” and Part Three (chapter 8) the “telic” aspects of Barth’s theological ethics understood in light of the concept of ‘being in action.’ Nimmo concludes with a brief assessment of Barth’s theological ethics in the ninth chapter. A bibliography, along with indices of subjects and names, fill-out the volume.
“The command of God attested by Scripture is at the heart of Barth’s moral ontology and his theological ethics” (17). Nimmo undertakes in the second chapter to explicate Barth’s understanding of that command in relation to Scripture. God’s command is, for Barth, an event which is not an abstract given but occurs in a personal manner. Such an event is both concrete and consistent; it “takes place within…the covenant relationship between God and humanity” (20). This context leads Nimmo to reflect on the recurrent theme of the relation between Law and Gospel in Barth’s thought. Nimmo rightly notes that Barth treats the Law only in relation to the Gospel, locating the Christian’s ethical imperative in the latter: “Precisely in the light of the Gospel…there exists a claim on the obedience of the ethical agent” (24). While we have every reason to suspect that God’s command upon us as it encounters us will be in continuity with the witness of Scripture, this witness does not restrict God’s command as it encounters us, nor does it remove the need for encounter. Instead, we “are called to hear afresh the command of God…through the historically specific command of God in the narrative of the Bible” (35).

What does this actualistic understanding of God’s command mean for the discipline of theological ethics? Nimmo addresses this question in his third chapter, examining the limits of theological ethics resultant from humanity’s creatureliness and sinfulness, as well as the nature of God’s command as concrete personal event. Proper theological ethics “is a question of the participation of the ethical agent in the righteousness of Jesus Christ, and therefore the extent to which her action glorifies the grace of Jesus Christ” (43). Central to this chapter is a discussion – in conversation with Nigel Biggar, William Werpehowski, and others – of Barth’s language of ‘formed reference.’ Barth situates “the vertical dimension of the command of God” and the “corresponding horizontal dimension” in the history of the covenant with its “focal point” – and thus theological ethics’ “starting point” (45) – in the “history of Jesus Christ” (46). The formed reference supplied by the covenant of grace functions as “encouragement” and “instructional preparation for the ethical event” (51), but is always limited by the “actualism of the command of God” (52). Nimmo concludes this chapter by discussing casuistry with reference to Barth’s theological ethics, again entering into conversation with other commentators. He notes Barth’s opinion that casuistry “represents the ethical agent’s wish to set herself on God’s throne in distinguishing between good and evil” (52), as well as its tendency to transform God’s command into an abstract system and thereby restrict Christian freedom.

Barth’s treatment of the practice of theological ethics’ is the topic of Nimmo’s fourth chapter. Here, the injunction “that the ethical agent focus on remaining radically open to the command of God and its ever-new demands and possibilities” (62) is central. Although this openness “must be constantly renewed” (63) and “is a matter of prayer,” Barth does not neglect “the past experience and knowledge and activity of the ethical agent” (64). Indeed, Nimmo suggests that Barth sees this history as the formation of a creaturely habitus which builds upon past perseverance in the necessary openness of ethical encounter, in order to determine the best present practice of theological ethics and in anticipation of the further ethical reflection of the future. (65)

The church, in addition to Scripture, has an “important yet circumscribed” (68) role, possessing an actualistically conceived mediate and relative ethical authority by providing the context for ethical reflection. Indeed, the church is “an ethical agent” (72). After defending Barth’s practice of theological ethics from the charge that he fails to engage the empirical and that his conception of God’s command is ambiguous, Nimmo turns to criticisms of Barth’s ecclesiology. An important and beneficial aspect of Barth’s ecclesiology is that it “frees the Church to be the true Church,” that is, “to be truly human” and “to conceive of God as truly God” (81). Barth is confident that God acts within the church, but “the relationship in which obedience and moral formation are primarily located is the relationship between the ethical agent and the living God within the context of the Church and not the relationship between her and the church” (82-3).
Nimmo leaves behind the noetic for the ontic in the fifth chapter, addressing the question of theological anthropology. Barth’s “Christological derivation of theological anthropology results from the eternal election of God to be for humanity in Jesus Christ” (88), and thus the connection between humanity and God is not a necessary analogia entis but a free analogia relationis. There is “differentiation and relation” between the ethical agent and Jesus Christ, and the imago Dei is something to which we are “called to correspond” (91). Human existence is eccentric, with its center and basis in Jesus Christ (96); this does not mean, however that the ethical agent is not self-determining in a relative sense. Nimmo connects these aspects:
There is no question that the ethical agent can directly be the covenant-partner of God that Jesus Christ alone is: rather her destiny is to become a true covenant-partner of God, and this becoming depends directly on the Self-determination of God in Jesus Christ to be for her. Nevertheless, the question of the self-determination of the ethical agent remains one of responsibility, decision, obedience, and action. (97)

One must remember that the ethical agent is both creaturely and sinful, which means that only the “particular calling by the Word of God” (101) makes such becoming possible. Yet, there is “no trace of competition” between God and humanity because “the ethical agent remains under the divine determination” (104) despite sinfulness. This does not constitute a devaluation of creation because creation’s “significance and meaning…[is] found in its teleology, as the external basis of the covenant” (107).

Barth’s understanding of the relation between divine and human action is explicated in Nimmo’s sixth chapter. Before speaking of “derivative and relative” (111) human freedom, one must first understand that “it is only God who is free” (110). Human freedom exists properly in Jesus Christ, but the ethical agent is “awakened to freedom” by the Holy Spirit and exercises her freedom positively “when she corresponds to her own election by…electing God in faith” (113). Thus “freedom is not only a gift, but also a task” – it is “freedom from sin…bondage and death;” and “ for thankfulness, service and joy” (114). Nimmo spends much of this chapter explicating “the unity and the distinction” of divine and human action in Barth’s account of the concursus Dei, and in arguing that Barth’s treatment of baptism in Church Dogmatics IV/4 is a ‘case study’ for this relation.

Sanctification, understood as conformity to Jesus Christ, occupies the seventh chapter. “For the ethical agent to conform herself to Jesus Christ involves living within a circle of first receiving and then responding to divine grace,” which means that conformity is “correspondence in action” (137). This conformity is limited by human creatureliness and sinfulness, such that “the ethical agent has the ability to be a servant and instrument of God only as she receives that ability from God” (152). Still, conformity is real: “The objective reality of what has happened…in Jesus Christ is not without its effects in [the ethical agent’s] life as a being in action” (157). While Barth cannot countenance a habitus of grace, as if grace were a commodity, Nimmo takes his cue from George Hunsinger and argues that Barth does leave room for “a habitus of right practice – of openness and obedience to the command of God” (165).

In his eighth chapter, Nimmo leaves the ontic realm and gives attention to the telos of the ethical agent. The conformity discussed previously is now explored in terms of participation. In the event of grace, we participate indirectly in the knowledge of God in and through Jesus Christ; in our response to God’s command, we participate in Jesus Christ through active correspondence. This talk of participation should not be understood in terms of divinization; rather, it is a question “of the humanization of the ethical agent” (177). Conformity is not only participation, but “what remains” to both church and individual “is to witness before the world to the completion of God’s work in Jesus Christ” (180). Finally, insofar as conformity is participation and witness, it is also “glorification of God by the creature and glorification of the creature by God” (184).

The ninth and concluding chapter contains Nimmo’s assessment of Barth’s understanding of theological ethics. He identifies two chief strengths in Barth’s approach. First, Barth is acutely aware “of the living God and God’s relationship with the creatures of God” (187). This awareness is not naïve for it recognizes the creatureliness and sinfulness of the ethical agent. Second, Barth is acutely aware “of the being of humanity as co-humanity” (189). Church and Christian are for and not against the world because of the commission given by Jesus Christ, and thus the activity of the ethical agent with respect to the neighbor is of vital import. The first of these points is present throughout Nimmo’s volume; the second is somewhat less conspicuous.

There are many things to admire about Nimmo’s treatment. His is an expansive explication of Barth’s thought which, while centered in ethics, ties together the Church Dogmatics in a convincing and accessible way. Much of this has to do with the quality of Nimmo’s writing. The volume proceeds in an orderly manner, with clear sub-division headings and organized prose, and the argument is reinforced by concise introductions and summaries. This structure, which can occasionally feel a bit pedantic, makes the book easy to read. Nimmo’s engagement with secondary literature is concise, insightful, and never lacking in relevance for his argument. Nimmo’s main stylistic flaw is a tendency to rely heavily on quotations from Barth’s text, which unnecessarily clutter the footnotes.

If there is a potential weakness in Nimmo’s explication of Barth, it is his wholesale adoption of Bruce McCormack’s interpretation of the role of election with reference to God’s being. Nimmo’s assumption of Bruce McCormack’s historiography ought not to undermine his work in the eyes of those who would disagree with McCormack’s more recent unfolding of this interpretive position (especially with reference to the doctrine of the Trinity) for the fruit of this more recent development appears only seldom and obliquely in Nimmo’s text. Furthermore, it is not clear that a rejection of this would undermine the sort of actualism on which Nimmo relies.
The adoption of McCormack’s reading of Barth does, however, introduce certain emphases into Nimmo’s argument that, along with approaching Barth from the side of ethics, can mute other aspects of his thought. An instance of this can be found in Nimmo’s discussion of whether participation in Jesus Christ is best understood as communion or as correspondence:
It is clear that …prioritiz[ing] an understanding of participation as union over one of participation as correspondence…is not utterly devoid of support from Barth himself. However, it is to be wondered whether the actualistic ontology…of the Church Dogmatics genuinely allows this prioritization. (179)

The fundamental problem with Nimmo’s approach here is that he conceives of these two interpretations as mutually exclusive. Both aspects must be included in a full account of participation, however. Barth suggests as much when he writes that the fellowship between Christ and the Christian “would not be complete if their relationship were actualised only from above downwards and not also from below upwards, if it were not reciprocal” ( CD IV/3.2, 543). Identifying this downward vector with communion and the upward with correspondence suggests they are two sides of the same coin. Jesus Christ encounters the ethical agent in the power of the Holy Spirit, establishing a relationship of communion and supplying the freedom necessary for the ethical agent to respond with a corresponding act of obedience. Such a conception is consistent with Nimmo’s actualism, while more clearly recognizing the Spiritual dimension inherent in the event of command and response. Nimmo does not fail to note this aspect of the Holy Spirit’s work, but his frame of reference tends to marginalize it.
Such particular concerns notwithstanding, Nimmo’s volume is certainly a significant contribution to the study not only of Barth’s ethics but also of the overall shape of his thought. Being in Action provides an excellent introduction to Barth’s theological ethics and deserves a place on any syllabi or bibliography dealing with Karl Barth’s theology.

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

DeJonge, Michael. Bonhoeffer’s Theological Formation. (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012)

Bonhoeffer’s Theological Formation

DeJonge, Michael. Bonhoeffer’s Theological Formation. (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012), xiv + 158pp. $95.00 (hardback)

Reviewed by Jeffrey Skaff (April 26, 2016)

Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s Habilitationsschrift, Act and Being, is notoriously difficult to understand. In a new book, which began as a dissertation at Emory University, Michael DeJonge, Associate Professor in Religious Studies at University of South Florida, has done a great service to both those new to Bonhoeffer and those who have studied him for years by shedding light on a text many have found virtually inscrutable.The book is not limited, however, to summary and analysis of Act and Being. As the title of the book indicates, DeJonge is most interested in identifying Bonheoffer’s intellectual influences and interpreting his relationship to them. Karl Barth is the main figure in view. In chapter one, DeJonge sets the stage. He describes Bonhoeffer as existing “between Berlin and Barth” (1). While a student in Berlin in the early 1920s, Bonhoeffer encountered Barth’s writing. This led him to begin criticizing the excesses of “historical-critical theology,” including that practiced by his teachers, Reinhold Seeberg, Karl Holl, and Adolf von Harnack (4). At the same time, Bonhoeffer’s relationship to his teachers was never wholly critical. According to DeJonge, in Act and Being Bonhoeffer seeks to merge Berlin and Barthian theology through “a concept of revelation that is both contingent and historically continuous, that captures the characteristics of both act and being” (7). The concept of “person” is the means by which he does so.

The next two chapters in particular expand and develop these claims through close engagement with Act and Being. Chapter two investigates what Bonhoeffer means by “act” and “being,” focusing in particular on what he sees as the philosophical problem of the relationship between them: how to coordinate act and being such that act does not overpower being, or vice versa (19). Interpreting Bonhoeffer on these points is no easy task, but DeJonge’s reading clarifies and convinces. In chapter three, DeJonge turns from philosophy to theology, summarizing Barth’s “act-theology” of the 1920s. He particularly highlights the Reformed dimensions of Barth’s understanding of revelation, which he finds in Barth’s emphasis on the freedom of God and in his commitment to the Reformed non capax, the latter of which is epitomized in the Reformed insistence on the distinction of natures in the person of Christ (47).
Chapter four then presents Bonhoeffer’s alternative to Barth. Bonhoeffer criticizes Barth’s understanding of the freedom of God for making revelation “momentary and discontinuous” (57) and thereby emphasizing discontinuity in the faith of the believer. Although Bonhoeffer shares Barth’s concerns about revelation becoming a merely human possibility, Bonhoeffer believes that the category of “person” unifies subjectivity and objectivity in revelation in a way Barth’s “act-theology” cannot. “A person, unlike a subject, has historically continuous being. A person, unlike an object, escapes the power of the mind and is therefore free to encounter existence” (71). “Personality” equips Bonhoeffer, according to DeJonge, to offer “a ‘substantial’ account of freedom, where God is not free from but rather free for humanity” (76).

Chapter five argues that Bonhoeffer links his understanding of “personality” existing beyond subjectivity and objectivity to the specifically Lutheran insistence on the union of God and humanity in Christ. It is “Christ’s unique mode of being (its Personsein or personale Seinstruktur) that keeps Christ free from objectification and facilitates Christ’s presence in the church” (96). By doing so, “Bonhoeffer rejects what is essential to Barth’s [Reformed] Christological thinking, the discussion of divine and human natures apart from their unity in Christ” (98).

In chapter six, DeJonge evaluates Bonhoeffer’s position. Against both Charles Marsh and Christiane Tietz, who argue that Bonhoeffer’s criticisms of Barth “apply only to an earlier manifestation of Barth’s theology” (101), DeJonge argues that—despite some clumsiness in Bonhoeffer’s reading of Barth—Bonhoeffer’s constructive position offers a genuine alternative to even the mature Barth. Having established the Lutheran provenance of Bonhoeffer’s thought, chapter seven distinguishes it from the Lutheran Karl Holl’s “theology of conscience.” Finally, chapter eight briefly suggests how Bonhoeffer carries these themes from his early “academic” work into his later writings. Although Barth is not the target of Bonhoeffer’s polemics in the later works, DeJonge suggests that the differences between them that Bonhoeffer identified in Act and Being remain.

DeJonge’s claims regarding the significance and persistence of the distance between Barth and Bonhoeffer, first on the freedom of God and second on the proper ordering of abstract dogmatic reflection and the historical person of Christ are the most original aspects of DeJonge’s argument. They are also the most questionable. Since he argues that the differences between the two theologians remain throughout Barth’s writings, it is surprising that DeJonge only cites the Church Dogmatics twice (both from the christology of CD I/2). His suggestions that an understanding of divine “freedom for” cannot be found in Barth, and that Barth reconciles act and being “in the inner-Trinitarian subjective life of God” rather than “the historical person of Jesus Christ,” will be difficult to sustain before Barth specialists. For instance, they might point to the following passage from Barth’s 1956 essay titled “The Humanity of God”:

God wants in His freedom actually not to be without man but with him and in the same freedom not against him but for him, and that apart from or even counter to what man deserves…In this divinely free volition and election, in his sovereign decision (the ancients said, in His decree), God is human. His free affirmation of man, His free concern for him, His free substitution for him—that is God’s humanity. We recognize it exactly at the point where we also first recognize His deity. Is it not true that in Jesus Christ, as He is attested in the Holy Scripture, genuine deity includes in itself genuine humanity? (John Knox Press, 1978, pp. 50-51).

DeJonge’s exposition of Bonhoeffer is clear and compelling. It is essential reading for anyone wishing to understand Act and Being better. Exposition aside, Dejonge’s interest in investigating Bonhoeffer’s intellectual influences is important, as is his desire to establish him as a theologian in his own right. The latter task, however, should not be made to depend on building fences between him and Barth. Bonhoeffer was not interested in doing so, especially after Act and Being, and his theology can stand on its own without it.

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

Neil B. MacDonald and Carl Trueman (eds.), Calvin, Barth, and Reformed Theology (Colorado Springs, CO: Paternoster Theological Monographs, 2008)

Calvin, Barth, and Reformed Theology 

Neil B. MacDonald and Carl Trueman (eds.), Calvin, Barth, and Reformed Theology (Colorado Springs, CO: Paternoster Theological Monographs, 2008), xiii and 181. £19.99 (paperback)

Reviewed by Jesse Couenhoven (November 13, 2009)

This collection of seven essays takes up John Calvin and Karl Barth’s views about the sacraments, the atonement, and the nature and function of Scripture. It will be of greatest interest to readers who are interested in thinking about Barth’s relation to traditional reformed theology, as most of the essays are written with that question in mind, and from the perspective of authors who favor reformed orthodoxy—but most of the essays also serve as capable introductions to Calvin or Barth’s thought on the topic they take up. As with any such collection, the essays vary in quality, and in their interests. Some essays compare and contrast the two theologians, while others focus on one. My own discussion of this text summarizes less than it concentrates on features I found salient in each of these essays.The book lacks a typical editor’s introduction, but the first essay, Carl Trueman’s “Calvin, Barth, and Reformed Theology: Historical Prolegomena,” is meant to fulfill something like that role by “setting the scene” (3). Trueman’s main purpose is to offer an historical overview of Barth’s relationship to the confessional reformed theology that preceded him. In the earlier sections of Trueman’s essay, his central argument appears to be that Barth “did not…grapple with primary texts as one might have expected an historian of dogma to do” (20). Rather, Barth’s understanding of 16th and 17th century Reformed (and Lutheran) theology was mediated through authors like Heppe and Schmid. Scholars sometimes take a thesis of this sort as an opportunity to suggest that the figures in question might have more room for rapprochement than is commonly thought, but Trueman moves in the opposite direction: Barth’s misunderstanding of classic Reformed orthodoxy results in a radical break, a theology that might look, formally, Reformed, but which materially lacks continuity with the Reformed tradition. The final pages of the essay focus on this latter point by criticizing Barth’s attitude towards doctrine and Scripture. However, Trueman presents little evidence that Barth misunderstood the (imprecisely evoked) Reformed traditions about which Trueman worries; moreover, he fails to explain how such misunderstandings are connected to Barth’s well-known disagreements with Reformed orthodoxy.

Trueman makes a number of theological judgments about Barth’s views without seriously engaging Barth’s main theological works. Happily, however, the tone, content, and approach of the three pairs of essays that make up the rest of this slender volume are markedly more theological and irenic than the introduction. The final pair of essays, Stephen Holmes’s “Calvin on Scripture” and Craig Bartholomew’s “Calvin, Barth, and Theological Interpretation” might serve as a more appropriate introduction to the other four essays in the book, since they emphasize the import and challenge of encountering Scripture for both Barth and Calvin—a topic central to the essays in this book, which stress the principle that Scripture is the norm of Christian doctrine.

Against the background of modern theology that is poor at Scriptural exegesis, and historical criticism that lacks an interest in theological interpretation, Bartholomew focuses his discussion on what Calvin and Barth have in common. His task is made easier by the fact that he illumines Barth’s views by attending as much to what Barth actually does with Scripture as what Barth says about Scripture. Bartholomew notes that, unlike most academics today, Calvin and Barth share the view that God speaks to us through his written Word. Barth seeks to make room for historical criticism but does not allow it—or anything else—the hermeneutical priority which the Word itself should have. Bartholomew also disputes claims that Barth’s hermeneutics are postmodern, given that the latter does believe in divine authorial intent. This move highlighted for me a way in which Bartholomew’s discussion lacks nuance: Calvin believes that the human authors of Scripture knew and intended to write of Christ, but Barth is not committed to that view, which makes his view of the literal meaning of Scripture more open to différance than Bartholomew suggests. Bartholomew is right to insist that Barth’s hermeneutics are closer to Calvin than Derrida, but the fact is that he develops concerns of both thinkers in intriguing ways.

Holmes suggests the Institutes are not properly read as a summary statement of Christian doctrine but as an introduction to and preparatory for Calvin’s commentaries (150). I fail to see why the Institutes should not be all of these things at once, but resonate with Holmes’s larger warning that we should be careful about projecting our concerns onto Calvin’s writings, as well as his desire to make reading Calvin’s commentaries more central to reading Calvin. Holmes argues that, for Calvin, the “one constant message running through…Scripture…is simply the person and work of Jesus Christ” (155). At the same time, texts are written in ways that accommodate human readers, which leads Homes to ask how we might know what in Scripture counts as accommodation (159). Holmes’s answer is that Calvin could address this problem with an adequate account of Christological accommodation, one that gives us confidence that God’s revelation is trustworthy, but he appears to have hesitations about whether Calvin can offer us such assistance (161-2). It is natural to wonder whether Barth might be instructive on this front, but that is a topic about which Holmes is silent.

Calvin and Barth’s struggle to hear Scripture aright is highlighted in the first pair of essays in the book, Trevor Hart’s “Calvin and Barth on the Lord’s Supper” and Anthony Cross’s “Baptism in the Theology of John Calvin and Karl Barth.” Both are able and instructive introductions to the topics their titles mention. Not much new ground is covered, but these essays are thoughtful and fair in their treatment of the ways in which Calvin and Barth’s reading of Scripture led them in different directions.

The paucity of Barth’s mature writing on the Lord’s Supper makes it necessary for Hart to reconstruct the main components of Barth’s mature views and arguments about the topic, a task he handles ably. The main question, he indicates, is whether this Supper is a place where God “is active in nourishing and deepening believers’ union with Christ, as well as believers being active in receiving Christ in faith and obedience” (55). His argument against Barth’s decision to support mainly the latter half of that claim is that John 6 can be read as a commentary on the Supper (56). Hart does not, however, give his reply to those who do not read the passage as he does; his attention is not focused on defending a view but on his capable explorations of divine presence in the Supper. I find Calvin’s view of how Christ is present in the Supper, and how that differs from divine presence elsewhere, vague—but that appears to be an intentional feature of the view (44).

In a similar vein, Cross’s essay systematically contrasts Calvin’s sacramentalism with Barth’s anti-sacramentalism. Cross concludes that Barth’s distinction between water baptism and baptism by the spirit lacks an adequate biblical basis (80f). This is a point he asserts more than argues for; those who want Scriptural arguments will have to follow his footnotes. Cross helpfully distinguishes arguments about Spirit baptism from arguments about infant baptism, and one interesting moment in his essay is his brief mention of the fact that although Barth “disassembles the argument for it” and calls for reform, he “nowhere contests or rejects the validity of infant baptism” (79). Cross holds up that position as a model for Baptists (87), and I wish he had explored the implications of that idea further.

A final pair of essays cover Barth and Calvin’s doctrines of atonement, a topic where they have more in common than that of sacramental theology. Neil MacDonald’s “Barth’s Narrative Doctrine of Substitutionary Atonement” is the most original in the book. In brief, his argument is that Barth’s prioritization of the synoptic Gospels over John’s Gospel makes possible Barth’s greater emphasis on the role of YHWH in the passion narrative (98-9). He reads that narrative with a judicial framework, in which the judgment on Jesus is not merely Pilate’s but also the Father’s—an idea MacDonald suggests Barth got from Calvin (105f). This judgment is expressed not only in Jesus’ death but in his resurrection, which expresses that YHWH associates his own soteriological identity with Jesus (104), and which asserts that the eschatological judgment Jesus proclaimed in his earthly ministry has begun to be fulfilled in Jesus himself, partly because Jesus becomes the object of that judgment (108f). MacDonald emphasizes similarities between Barth and Calvin’s views, which makes more significant his reticence about the relationship between Barth’s doctrine of election and the topics he discusses. MacDonald also defends Barth’s position as preferable to Calvin’s because it is more rational by historical and philosophical standards (117), but such claims require a good deal more development: what “rational” means is, after all, a hotly disputed question.

Myron Penner’s “Calvin, Barth, and the Subject of Atonement” makes central the questions about election just mentioned, and is an excellent supplement to MacDonald’s essay, in addition to being a fine summary of central aspects of Calvin’s doctrine of atonement. For Barth, God first and primarily elects not individual human beings but Jesus Christ, and in him all of humanity, both to be reprobate and to be redeemed. Calvin, by contrast, defends the “particularist” view that individual human beings are elected either to redemption or reprobation. This difference in their theologies of atonement is linked to their Christologies: Barth tends to see Jesus as something like a Platonic form of humanity, whereas Calvin’s classical doctrine of the two natures insists that it is not human nature as such that is unified with the Word in Christ but a particular and individual human nature (140). Both locate Christ’s atoning work in “the whole course of Christ’s obedience” as prophet, priest, and king (127), but while Penner appreciates the richness of Barth’s view, he prefers Calvin’s development of this theory of atonement because he does not understand how the Holy Spirit plays a role in Barth’s theory, how anyone is reprobate on Barth’s view, or how Barth’s Christology speaks of a Christ who is really “like us” (144). These are good questions, but a sympathetic reading of Barth suggests that his answers have significant parallels with Calvin’s; for instance, Barth’s discussion of the “impossible possibility” is an attempt to be faithful to the mystery of the idea of reprobation (143), and he agrees with Calvin that the atonement is made real in our lives by the action of the Holy Spirit (134).

Altogether, this is a strong collection of essays. Many of them would be appropriate supplements in introductory or more advanced classes on Calvin, Barth, or both. Disagreements between the authors are evident, but that is a strength of the collection: many of Barth and Calvin’s differences are put on display, as well as their substantial agreements, and the reader is able to appreciate why one might prefer the views of one of these great theologians, or the other—and can also see how fruitful it can be to seek understanding along with both of them.

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

Nimmo, Paul T., and David A. S. Fergusson, eds. The Cambridge Companion to Reformed Theology. Cambridge Companions to Religion (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2016)

The Cambridge Companion to Reformed Theology

Nimmo, Paul T., and David A. S. Fergusson, eds. The Cambridge Companion to Reformed Theology. Cambridge Companions to Religion (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2016), 360 pp. $34.99 (paperback).

Reviewed by See Yin C. Yeung (June 01, 2017)

In 2004, Cambridge University Press published The Companion to Reformation Theology, edited by David Bagchi and David C. Steinmetz. In 2016, CUP renewed and expanded the scope of the project in the new volume The Cambridge Companion to Reformed Theology, edited by Paul T. Nimmo and David A. S. Fergusson. Nimmo is the King’s Chair Professor in Systematic Theology at the University of Aberdeen. Fergusson is Professor of Divinity as well as Principal of New College at the University of Edinburgh. Both are eminent Scottish Reformed scholars in the field of systematic theology. The volume orientates the reader not only to Reformation theology but also to its developments today. At the dawn of the 500th anniversary of the Reformation, this volume is valuable and most timely.The editors explain that this volume takes a different approach in characterizing Reformed theology. Instead of assuming that certain universal Reformed traits necessarily characterize the Reformed tradition – whether they be confessional documents, or the well-known five solas, or the commonly assumed identification with Calvinism – this volume emphasizes “theological variations on common themes” (5). Indeed, this volume emphasizes both commonality and diversity. Unlike the previous Cambridge Companion to Reformation Theology, which is a series of chapters mostly on individual Reformed figures as well as the English and Scottish Reformations, this 2016 volume is divided into three main parts. Part I, “Theological Topics,” explains the “common themes” of reformed theology. Part II, “Theological Figures,” introduces several key Reformed figures, from the Reformation to their modern successors. Part III, “Theological Contexts,” portrays the “theological variations” in vastly different historical and geographical contexts.

There is much to appreciate in this layout. First, while acknowledging that learning about Reformed theology inevitably involves learning about the thoughts of certain key figures, the book does not start with them. Instead, the book starts with the common concerns of the Reformed tradition. Most importantly, it is most fitting that the volume on Reformed theology starts with nothing other than a chapter on Scripture – the Scriptural principle that not only sparked the Reformation but serves as the starting point of Reformed thinking. The second chapter, on confessions, in turn emphasizes that Reformed confessions (mostly local documents) must be assessed by Scripture. As such, they are fallible and reformable. The idea of a universal Reformed confession is therefore ungrounded. What this underscores is that the Reformed tradition is necessarily diverse and constantly reforming (semper reformanda). The remaining chapters of Part I discuss the doctrine of election, Christology, sacraments, and the Christian life. Certainly, the chapters are separated by distinct titles, but a reader will find that all the chapters are deeply intertwined with one another, despite being written by different authors. For instance, Reformed confessions must be rooted in Scripture, Christology goes hand in hand with the doctrine of election, the understanding of sacraments reflects Christology, and the Christian life in turn is a response to the work of Christ. The last chapter in Part I on the Christian Life is of vital importance as faith and merit is still very much what divides the Reformed churches from their Roman Catholic roots. Nevertheless, the content of the chapter seems to be more pastoral than doctrinal, concerning issues such as prayer, worship, and communal life. As such, the chapter applies equally well to other Christian traditions. The section on the controversy over divine vs. human agency is also rather brief (spanning only two pages). A reader interested in the problem of human agency may find this chapter wanting.

Due to space, it is understandable that the number of loci treated in this part is limited. A reader might be concerned that the book has not included a chapter on Reformed ecclesiology, or church authority, as papal authority was one of the dividing issues during the Reformation. It may also be one of the key factors perceived by many Reformed Christians today as distinguishing them from their Roman Catholic peers. However, I think it is precisely within the Reformed spirit to discuss ecclesiology only within the premises of Scripture, confessions, and mission, which is indeed the case with this volume. I think the editors are right therefore in not dedicating a separate chapter to ecclesiology. Another topic missing may be the Reformed understanding of church and state, especially vis-à-vis Luther. It could have been included in the chapter on Christian life. It is unfortunately not included, although understandably so due to limited space. Church and state is undeniably an important concern for many Reformed churches around the world today, including those discussed in Part III. Furthermore, as the editors remark, Reformed theology is distinguished not only from Roman Catholic thought but also from Lutheran thought and from the radical movements of the Reformation (2), a reader may notice that not all topical chapters are able to spell out this multifaceted distinction.

Part II is valuable in helping the reader understand not only the theological starting points and developments of key Reformed figures, but also their legacy in the Reformed tradition. Theologians covered include Zwingli (emphasized as the father of Reformed theology), Calvin, Edwards, Schleiermacher, and Barth. The contributors to this part of the volume helpfully portray the dynamics of political history and personal factors at play during the development of the thoughts of these figures. As the volume devotes a lot of space for theological contexts in Part III, the number of figures covered in Part II is considerably less than those covered in the 2004 Cambridge Companion to Reformation Theology, which encompasses Luther, Erasmus, Melanchthon, Bucer, and even Thomas Cranmer. The 2004 volume also offers chapters on late medieval theology, Lollardy, Hussite theology, as well as the Council of Trent, the Catholic response to the Reformation.

The last part, Part III on theological contexts, is what makes this volume stand out. It reflects how Reformed theology encounters vastly different contexts today, whether historical or geographical. It shows how the Reformation has projected into a multi-centered tradition, and that reformed theology is never simply a Western movement, but a global one. In addition, the theological tradition is also not merely doctrinal in nature but very much practical. The question is therefore how Reformed theology in reality encounters different cultures and contexts. Contexts discussed include puritanism, scholasticism, Europe, the British Isles, North America, Africa, Asia and Oceania. The book closes with a chapter on mission and ecumenism, which signals a unity in spite of diversity. Part III is most interesting as its contributors are writing on the very contexts in which they live and teach (with the exception of Alexander Chow on China). However, an additional chapter or at least a section on the Reformed churches in the Middle East and their encounter with the Islamic world, not to mention Christians’ persecutions in such a context in recent decades, might make the volume even more relevant to different political contexts today.

Personally, as a Reformed Christian born and raised in a Chinese context, I find it difficult to relate to Alexander Chow’s section on China (311-14). He seems to be more interested in giving the Chinese authorities’ account of Christianity in China than in the Reformed community’s understanding of itself. To my dismay, he quoted from “internal government reports,” credited the Communist government’s economic policy for the growth of Reformed Christianity in China, and expressed suspicion of “intellectual” Christians (intellectuals are usually a concern of the authorities) being involved with the 1989 democratic movement (313). More troubling is that Chow did not mention the Three-Self Patriotic Movement, which defines the state-approved, patriotic churches, and by which the government outlaws all other confessing churches. This would be of utter importance for this volume because, when it is the state that determines the proclamation of the church, the very Reformed scriptural principle is at stake. The Chinese context precisely poses the question as to how Reformed churches are to be loyal to the Word of God if they are claimed by other powers. As this volume was published in 2016, it is interesting to note that Chow did not mention at all the increasingly violent persecution of churches by the government in recent years. Inexplicably, instead of documenting how the Chinese Reformed community understands its own tradition, or mentioning the problem of state-sanctioned churches and persecutions, Chow chose to mention a cult called Eastern Lightning (313), which Christians would think is irrelevant to Christianity, let alone Reformed theology. Indeed Chow was writing, not from the Chinese church’s point of view, but from outside. The fact that he did not make any observation about actual church teachings and practices but focused mostly about literature in the market (which he described as “propagat[ing]” Christianity) and online discussions also confirms this.

On the whole, this volume on Reformed theology is an enjoyable and accessible read. Despite being a collection of essays written by different authors, it forms a coherent whole. It is successful in giving readers an overview of the common Reformed themes as well as key theologians. It is also successful in emphasizing their openness to correction in light of Scripture, and therefore their embodiment in diverse contexts. As noted by the editors, this volume “seeks to capture something of the vibrancy and excitement which are the hallmark of the best theological work in any tradition, to indicate and to evidence the generative and constructive contributions which Reformed theology, in all its rich history and proud diversity, continues to make to ecclesial and ecumenical dialogues today” (6-7). The vibrancy as well as the rich diversity are indeed evident. The readable essays are a valuable resource for scholars, students, and lay Christians alike. Students in particular will find the further readings at the end of each chapter a helpful resource.

See Yin C. Yeung, Ph.D. Student, Princeton Theological Seminary

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

Suzanne Selinger, Charlotte von Kirschbaum and Karl Barth: A Study in Biography and the History of Theology (University Park, PA: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1998)

Charlotte von Kirschbaum and Karl Barth: A Study in Biography and the History of Theology

Suzanne Selinger, Charlotte von Kirschbaum and Karl Barth: A Study in Biography and the History of Theology (University Park, PA: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1998), viii + 206pp. $29.00

Reviewed by George Hunsinger ()

When Charlotte von Kirschbaum first heard Karl Barth lecture in 1924, she was 24 years old, financially almost destitute, and in poor health. Deeply religious and a voracious reader with a keen interest in theology, she had already devoured Barth’s 1919 Römerbrief, at the recommendation of her pastor, shortly after it had appeared, and then avidly kept up with Barth’s work through the journal Zwischen den Zeiten. At a time when only a tiny fraction of the general population, virtually all male, went on for a university education, she had been trained for a career as a Krankenschwester or Protestant nurse. It was George Merz, her pastor, who first recognized her intellectual gifts. After guiding her through confirmation in the Lutheran church, Merz included her in the intellectual circle he had gathered around him in Munich, which included Thomas Mann. It was also Merz, by then editor of Zwischen den Zeiten and godfather to one of Barth’s children, who had taken her with him to that lecture, and who introduced her to Barth afterwards. Barth invited them both for a visit to his summer retreat, the Bergli, in the mountains overlooking Lake Zurich.Merz and von Kirschbaum went to the Bergli that summer and returned the next. Von Kirschbaum made a very good impression. She was drawn into the circle of theological friends who spent their summers at the chalet. Pastor Eduard Thurneysen, Barth’s closest friend, and Gerty Pestalozzi, owner with her husband of the Bergli, took an interest in furthering her education. (Becoming a Krankenschwester had required no special academic training or higher degrees.) Ruedi Pestalozzi, Gerty’s husband and a wealthy businessman, paid for her to receive secretarial training, after which she became a welfare officer at Siemans, a large electronics firm in Nuremburg.

In October 1925 Barth switched university teaching appointments from Göttingen to Münster. His wife and family remained behind until a suitable residence could be found. In February 1926 von Kirschbaum visited Barth for a month in Münster, shortly before his family was to join him, but while he was still living alone. Barth’s situation at this time is worth noting. He was 39 years old, had been married to Nelly (then aged 32) for nearly 13 years, and had five young children. The marriage, not a particularly happy one, had by his own account left him feeling resigned to loneliness. After his parents had prevented him in 1910 from marrying Rösy Münger, whom he deeply loved and never forgot—and who died in 1925—he had submitted in 1911 to an engagement and then in 1913 to a marriage, with Nelly, that had in essence been arranged by his mother. (Barth always carried a photograph of Rösy with him for the rest of his life, sometimes wept when looking at it, and would continue over the years to visit her grave.) Although we do not know exactly what happened between Barth and Charlotte von Kirschbaum in that fateful encounter of 1926, we do know that from that point on they were in love with each other, that Barth immediately gave her manuscript after manuscript for advice and correction, and that she committed herself henceforth to doing everything she possibly could to advance his theological work.

After spending a sabbatical at the Bergli in the summer term of 1929, with von Kirschbaum at his side as his aide, Barth announced in October that she would be moving into the family household to be a member of it. This arrangement—convoluted, extremely painful for all concerned, yet not without integrity and joys—lasted for nearly 35 years until 1964 when von Kirschbaum had to be admitted to a nursing home with Alzheimer’s disease. These were exactly the years of Barth’s most productive intellectual life. As his unique student, critic, researcher, advisor, collaborator, companion, assistant, spokesperson, and confidant, Charlotte von Kirschbaum was indispensable to him. He could not have been what he was, or have done what he did, without her.

The reverse would also seem to have been true. Von Kirschbaum was a strong, noble and unconventional woman who made her own choices and willingly bore their great costs. The costs of the arrangement with Barth were many, not least a total rejection by most of her own family, and a thousand constant humiliations from church, society, and the larger Barth clan (not excluding Barth’s mother, who eventually tempered her harsh disapproval). Many real exits opened up along the way (such as a proposal of marriage from the philosopher Heinrich Scholz), but she never took any of them. What she once wrote in particular to a friend would seem to hold true of her whole life: “It is very clear to me that Karl had to act in this way, and that comforts me whatever the consequences.” From her first encounter with his theology in her youth to the very end of her life, she felt gripped by a sense of the greatness of Barth’s contribution, an excitement that she once described simply with the words, “This is it!” During one of Barth’s last visits to her in the nursing home, she said, “We had some good times together, didn’t we?”

We may well wonder also where Nelly Barth was in the midst of all this. There is undoubtedly much we will never know. But we do know that in her own way she never ceased to believe in her husband and his work. We know that the two of them experienced a reconciliation after Charlotte departed the household, that she and Karl both visited her at the nursing home on Sundays, that she continued those visits after Karl died in 1968, and that when Charlotte herself died in 1975, Nelly honored Karl’s wishes by having Charlotte buried in the Barth family grave. Nelly herself died in 1976. Visitors to the Basel Hörnli cemetery today can see the names of all three together engraved one by one on the same stone.

The book by Suzanne Selinger is not the first to cover this territory, nor will it be the last. As a study in the history of theology, it succeeds reasonably well. The sections on how Barth and von Kirschbaum respectively viewed male/female relationships as bearing the image of God are interesting and worth reading. As a biographical study, however, the book seems less successful. The author seethes with so much resentment toward Karl Barth that as I closed the book I had an image of him as St. Sebastian. At the level of adjectives, he takes a lot of hits. Unfortunately, Charlotte von Kirschbaum fares little better. The author unwittingly undermines her purposes of sympathy and compassion—unless one can persuade oneself that it is not demeaning to scorn the life that Charlotte von Kirschbaum actually chose for herself and openly affirmed, as opposed to one that could not have been and never was.

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

Johnson, Junius. Christ and Analogy: The Christocentric Metaphysics of Hans Urs Von Balthasar (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2013)

Christ and Analogy: The Christocentric Metaphysics of Hans Urs Von Balthasar

Johnson, Junius. Christ and Analogy: The Christocentric Metaphysics of Hans Urs Von Balthasar (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2013), xi + 213 pp. $59.00 (paperback).

Reviewed by Ross Jesmont (December 13, 2016)

Part of the Emerging Scholars series, Junius Johnson’s Christ and Analogy outlines the metaphysics that underlines the theology of Hans Urs von Balthasar. A significant revision of his Yale doctoral dissertation, Johnson has added over forty thousand words to his initial project. This book argues that the doctrine of analogy is the key concept that unlocks von Balthasar’s system: “For even though Christ is at the center . . . it quickly becomes apparent that Christology turns upon the doctrine of analogy” (ix). As Johnson comments, two significant difficulties in reading von Balthasar is the scope of his writings and his lack of a systematic method. In advancing his thesis, Johnson maintains that the doctrine of analogy provides an “index of interpretation” or an “organizational principle” for those seeking to navigate von Balthasar’s vast theological corpus. Consequently this book bridges the gap between introductory text and specialist study by presenting a scholarly reading of an under assessed aspect of von Balthasar’s thought that also provides an orientation to his writings.By his own admission Johnson wrote Christ and Analogy as a preparatory work for a later in-depth study of von Balthasar’s theology; a work that is still to be published. The aim of the present volume is to explicate the metaphysics or logic which guides von Balthasar’s thought in order to enable a better comprehension of his treatment of the Trinity, Christology, and grace. Despite Johnson’s intended larger project, Christ and Analogy remains readable as a standalone explication of von Balthasar’s Christocentric metaphysics.

Although the focus of Christ and Analogy is metaphysics, Johnson is clear that for von Balthasar a strong separation between theology and metaphysics is not possible: “Metaphysics can only be discussed in conversation with theology” (2). This is because for von Balthasar metaphysics is fundamentally dependent on theology. Stated simply, “reality is only the way it is because God is the way God is” (5). Therefore, metaphysics is determined by God; “the immanent (Trinitarian) being of God as such is the ground of metaphysics (5). Thus while it is more precise to say that von Balthasar has a sacred metaphysics, by metaphysics this book primarily means the relationship between God and creation.

Distinctively the “point of departure” for von Balthasar’s metaphysics is not an ideal or a theory but the person of Jesus Christ. In attending to creation, created reality, metaphysics is only possible when done in reference to the archetype of all creation. Christ as this archetype stands at the center of metaphysics, mediating the relationship between God and his creation. Yet in placing Christ at the centre of his metaphysics Johnson notes that von Balthasar arguably has two metaphysics, “one based on the pre-Incarnate Christ, and one based on the Incarnate Christ” (107).

The structure of Christ and Analogy reflects this observation, as the book can be divided into roughly two sections: Chapters 2-4 concentrate on von Balthasar’s metaphysics prior to the incarnation, his “Ideal Metaphysics,” while chapters 5-8 address his metaphysics following the incarnation, the “Historic Metaphysics.” Like the earlier distinction between theology and metaphysics this later division is not absolute, as the Ideal and the Historic interact with one and other. The two sections of this book provide a means of outlining the movement of this work, given a detailed outline of its arguments is beyond the scope of a review.

The guiding question for the first half of Christ and Analogy is the nature of the God-creature relation; how the relationship between God and creation is to be understood. While acknowledging the over simplification of this approach, Johnson outlines three possible responses to the question. (1) God and creation are totally distinct: Pure Difference Thesis. (2) There is no difference between God and creation: Identity Thesis. (3) While God and creatures share a likeness there relationship is defined by an even greater unlikeness: Analogy Thesis. Chapters 2-4 present the reasons von Balthasar rejects the extremes of the Pure Difference and Identity Theses in favor of Analogy.

As a mediating approach to the relation between God and creation, the Analogy thesis promotes the positives presented by the alternative theses while overcoming their shortcomings; God is wholly yet still knowable through his creation. Drawing on Bonaventure, von Balthasar argues that the two poles of the analogy are present in Jesus Christ, as both the exemplar of all created beings and the complete expression of God. Johnson highlights that through this understanding von Balthasar sees the movement of analogy as controlled from the side of the Creator not creation. God makes Godself known in order that creation may participate in the divine nature.

In promoting a Christocentric metaphysics von Balthasar recognizes the impact which the incarnation has on his system, but as Johnson stresses the change which leads to the two metaphysics is to be understood as a change in Christ’s person not his divinity. In the incarnation the ideal becomes the historic and in doing so Christ becomes the norm of all history and creation. However, the creation of two metaphysics raises the question of how they relate to each other. Johnson outlines three possibilities: (1) identify a higher system to which both belong; (2/3) subsume one to the other or vice versa. He concludes “that while God may know what relationship holds between the Ideal and the Historical Metaphysics, the Balthasarian system must rest content with only the fact of each” (127). This comment reflects the lack of a critical edge in Johnson’s approach. Possibly a result of being a revised doctoral dissertation, Christ and Analogy leans towards describing the metaphysics of von Balthasar rather than challenging the validity of his presuppositions and conclusions.

The concluding chapters of the book are its most theological, with their attention given to understanding the relation between analogy, the trinity and kenosis. These chapters offer the reader illuminating commentary that requires particular care and attention. One noteworthy insight is that “there is otherness in creation because there is otherness in the Creator” (142). Creation is fundamentally an analogous reflection of its triune Creator who is made known only in the person of Jesus Christ.

Christ and Analogy is a lucid work on a dense topic. The book’s treatment of the relationship between theology and metaphysics, Christology, and place of analogy within theological discourse is pertinent to discussions far beyond the immediate sphere of Balthasarian studies. As an introduction to von Balthasar’s logic this work is commendable because Johnson presents a notably Balthasarian reading of von Balthasar; he quotes extensively from von Balthasar’s writings and uses his familiarity with the texts to succinctly explicate the thought of their author based on his own logic. Unfortunately this clarity is marred by a number of distracting typographical mistakes in the book. Christ and Analogy is a work that repays careful reading with enriching insights into the nature of God and creation. As a preparatory work one is left ready and waiting for Johnson’s future theological installment.

Ross Jesmont, Ph.D. Student, University of Durham

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

Hieb, Nathan D. Christ Crucified in a Suffering World: The Unity of Atonement and Liberation (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2013)

Crucified in a Suffering World: The Unity of Atonement and Liberation 

Christ and Analogy: The Christocentric Metaphysics of Hans Urs Von Balthasar 

Johnson, Junius. Christ and Analogy: The Christocentric Metaphysics of Hans Urs Von Balthasar (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2013), xi + 213 pp. $59.00 (paperback).

Reviewed by Ross Jesmont (December 13, 2016)

Part of the Emerging Scholars series, Junius Johnson’s Christ and Analogy outlines the metaphysics that underlines the theology of Hans Urs von Balthasar. A significant revision of his Yale doctoral dissertation, Johnson has added over forty thousand words to his initial project. This book argues that the doctrine of analogy is the key concept that unlocks von Balthasar’s system: “For even though Christ is at the center . . . it quickly becomes apparent that Christology turns upon the doctrine of analogy” (ix). As Johnson comments, two significant difficulties in reading von Balthasar is the scope of his writings and his lack of a systematic method. In advancing his thesis, Johnson maintains that the doctrine of analogy provides an “index of interpretation” or an “organizational principle” for those seeking to navigate von Balthasar’s vast theological corpus. Consequently this book bridges the gap between introductory text and specialist study by presenting a scholarly reading of an under assessed aspect of von Balthasar’s thought that also provides an orientation to his writings.By his own admission Johnson wrote Christ and Analogy as a preparatory work for a later in-depth study of von Balthasar’s theology; a work that is still to be published. The aim of the present volume is to explicate the metaphysics or logic which guides von Balthasar’s thought in order to enable a better comprehension of his treatment of the Trinity, Christology, and grace. Despite Johnson’s intended larger project, Christ and Analogy remains readable as a standalone explication of von Balthasar’s Christocentric metaphysics.

Although the focus of Christ and Analogy is metaphysics, Johnson is clear that for von Balthasar a strong separation between theology and metaphysics is not possible: “Metaphysics can only be discussed in conversation with theology” (2). This is because for von Balthasar metaphysics is fundamentally dependent on theology. Stated simply, “reality is only the way it is because God is the way God is” (5). Therefore, metaphysics is determined by God; “the immanent (Trinitarian) being of God as such is the ground of metaphysics (5). Thus while it is more precise to say that von Balthasar has a sacred metaphysics, by metaphysics this book primarily means the relationship between God and creation.

Distinctively the “point of departure” for von Balthasar’s metaphysics is not an ideal or a theory but the person of Jesus Christ. In attending to creation, created reality, metaphysics is only possible when done in reference to the archetype of all creation. Christ as this archetype stands at the center of metaphysics, mediating the relationship between God and his creation. Yet in placing Christ at the centre of his metaphysics Johnson notes that von Balthasar arguably has two metaphysics, “one based on the pre-Incarnate Christ, and one based on the Incarnate Christ” (107).

The structure of Christ and Analogy reflects this observation, as the book can be divided into roughly two sections: Chapters 2-4 concentrate on von Balthasar’s metaphysics prior to the incarnation, his “Ideal Metaphysics,” while chapters 5-8 address his metaphysics following the incarnation, the “Historic Metaphysics.” Like the earlier distinction between theology and metaphysics this later division is not absolute, as the Ideal and the Historic interact with one and other. The two sections of this book provide a means of outlining the movement of this work, given a detailed outline of its arguments is beyond the scope of a review.

The guiding question for the first half of Christ and Analogy is the nature of the God-creature relation; how the relationship between God and creation is to be understood. While acknowledging the over simplification of this approach, Johnson outlines three possible responses to the question. (1) God and creation are totally distinct: Pure Difference Thesis. (2) There is no difference between God and creation: Identity Thesis. (3) While God and creatures share a likeness there relationship is defined by an even greater unlikeness: Analogy Thesis. Chapters 2-4 present the reasons von Balthasar rejects the extremes of the Pure Difference and Identity Theses in favor of Analogy.

As a mediating approach to the relation between God and creation, the Analogy thesis promotes the positives presented by the alternative theses while overcoming their shortcomings; God is wholly yet still knowable through his creation. Drawing on Bonaventure, von Balthasar argues that the two poles of the analogy are present in Jesus Christ, as both the exemplar of all created beings and the complete expression of God. Johnson highlights that through this understanding von Balthasar sees the movement of analogy as controlled from the side of the Creator not creation. God makes Godself known in order that creation may participate in the divine nature.

In promoting a Christocentric metaphysics von Balthasar recognizes the impact which the incarnation has on his system, but as Johnson stresses the change which leads to the two metaphysics is to be understood as a change in Christ’s person not his divinity. In the incarnation the ideal becomes the historic and in doing so Christ becomes the norm of all history and creation. However, the creation of two metaphysics raises the question of how they relate to each other. Johnson outlines three possibilities: (1) identify a higher system to which both belong; (2/3) subsume one to the other or vice versa. He concludes “that while God may know what relationship holds between the Ideal and the Historical Metaphysics, the Balthasarian system must rest content with only the fact of each” (127). This comment reflects the lack of a critical edge in Johnson’s approach. Possibly a result of being a revised doctoral dissertation, Christ and Analogy leans towards describing the metaphysics of von Balthasar rather than challenging the validity of his presuppositions and conclusions.

The concluding chapters of the book are its most theological, with their attention given to understanding the relation between analogy, the trinity and kenosis. These chapters offer the reader illuminating commentary that requires particular care and attention. One noteworthy insight is that “there is otherness in creation because there is otherness in the Creator” (142). Creation is fundamentally an analogous reflection of its triune Creator who is made known only in the person of Jesus Christ.

Christ and Analogy is a lucid work on a dense topic. The book’s treatment of the relationship between theology and metaphysics, Christology, and place of analogy within theological discourse is pertinent to discussions far beyond the immediate sphere of Balthasarian studies. As an introduction to von Balthasar’s logic this work is commendable because Johnson presents a notably Balthasarian reading of von Balthasar; he quotes extensively from von Balthasar’s writings and uses his familiarity with the texts to succinctly explicate the thought of their author based on his own logic. Unfortunately this clarity is marred by a number of distracting typographical mistakes in the book. Christ and Analogy is a work that repays careful reading with enriching insights into the nature of God and creation. As a preparatory work one is left ready and waiting for Johnson’s future theological installment.

Ross Jesmont, Ph.D. Student, University of Durham

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

David Haddorff, Christian Ethics as Witness: Barth’s Ethics for a World at Risk (Eugene, Oregon: Cascade Books, 2010)

David Haddorff, Christian Ethics as Witness: Barth’s Ethics for a World at Risk (Eugene, Oregon: Cascade Books, 2010), xii + 482. $54.00

Reviewed by J. Scott Jackson (April 18, 2011)

How can theology speak to a world facing the effects of globalization, economic injustice, rampant militarism and ecological disaster? What guarantees the theological character and authenticity of Christian ethics, thus distinguishing it from secular social and moral theorizing? How may theological ethics avoid the pitfalls of modernist subjectivism without succumbing to a crippling postmodern relativism and without closing off vital conversation with non-Christian resources? David Haddorff, associate professor of theology and ethics at St. John’s University in New York, sets out to answer such questions in a broad and ambitious foray in constructive Christian ethics with Karl Barth as his guide. Barthian ethics, as Haddorff’s construes it, is decidedly post-liberal and more anti-modern than postmodern, but still seeks to “eavesdrop” upon the best insights that secular social theory and ethics can offer.With Barth’s occasional and dogmatic writings on ethics and politics in tow, Haddorff engages a wide array of social philosophers, ethicists and theologians. Barth tends to trump his competitors within this constructive interpretation. Whether or not he is entirely fair to the concerns of Barth’s critics, Haddorff does give a good summary and exposition of Barth’s theological ethics and a helpful overview of key trends in postmodern theories of risk society, the main options in Christian ethics today and some ways these spheres might interact fruitfully. Haddorff admits that his account runs the risk of over-generalizing, but this does not diminish his constructive argument about the character of Christian witness in the world today.

Haddorff depicts Barth, persuasively, as a dialectical thinker, formed by a Chacedonian theological anthropology that integrates divine and human agency within the covenant of grace. Barth the ethicist, then, is able to employ his a priori theological framework creatively in ethical discourse without becoming mired in rigid ideologies. Christian behavior in the individual and social spheres should seek to correspond in faithful witness to God’s prior gracious acts in Jesus Christ rather than to objective divine commandments per se. According to Haddorff, such transparency to the logic of divine agency, understood in trinitarian and christological terms, guards Barth from falling into ideological extremes – for example, of state-planned Marxist economies vs. free market capitalist ones, or unbridled militarism vs. absolute pacifism. This does not mean that Haddorff simply portrays Barth as an ethical and political centrist in all cases; rather, the main point is to keep central theological claims as fundamental to all ethical proposals. Dogmatics should set the agenda for anthropology, and thus also for Christian ethics. This notion of witness proves to be a fruitful trope for reading Barth’s ethics, though Haddorff affirms it is impossible to reduce the complexity of Barth’s work to a single formula. A confessional commitment to the concreteness of the divine-human covenant partnership distinguishes Barth and his followers from ethical theorists who base their systems upon universal rules (deontology), outcomes (teleology) or abstract virtues (aretology).

In Haddorff’s reading of Barth, to live authentically means to mirror God’s grace and love as each concrete situation requires. In a Chalcedonian pattern (Haddorff draws upon Hunsinger here), the divine initiative in Christ establishes true human freedom rather than subsuming creaturely agency within an arbitrary divine command schema, contrary to what some of Barth’s critics have claimed. Response to divine command always remains dynamic and relational, empowering and liberating humanity to engage openly with ethical challenges as they arise. “By shifting the focus away from ‘universal reason’ and toward the church’s witness, individual Christians can further rediscover their vocational identity as individual witnesses in their discipleship, while living out God’s promise of faith, hope, and love in a world at risk” (7).

The book is divided into four parts, which roughly trace the development of Barth’s theology and ethics chronologically from 1916 to the 1960s, although the parts are relatively discrete within the overall argument and are more thematic than strictly chronological. Haddorff situates Barth’s ethics within the Swiss theologian’s own sociopolitical contexts, from the critique of liberal theology in the wake of World War I, to the early ethics lectures, to the essays addressing the German Church struggle, to the ethical sections of Dogmatics vols. II and III, and finally to the lecture fragments on the ethics of reconciliation (The Christian Life). Curiously, there is no discussion of Barth’s socialist writings during the Safenwil pastorate. The main thrust of the argument is not a historical or genetic survey but, rather, mines Barth’s corpus for its contemporary constructive relevance. “Barth is important for Christian social ethics because he not only takes theology and God seriously, but he also takes society seriously” (2). Haddorff intersperses the expository sections of Barth with critiques of modern and postmodern social theorists and ethicists, including both secular and Christian thinkers.

Part one traces the conceptual crisis, begun in the Enlightenment and continued in much postmodern thought, that divorces ethics from theology. According to Haddorff, Barth’s rediscovery of divine otherness drove him to reject an ethics rooted in universal human reason (Kant) or pre-thematic religious experience (Schleiermacher). Haddorff rehearses a familiar narrative of Barth’s shift from anthropocentric foundationalism to a particularist theocentric account rooted in revelation. This account does not really address recent scholarship (from McCormack and others) that explores the nuanced ways Barth remained in critical conversation with such formative modern thinkers throughout his career.

In a wide ranging critique that echoes Milbank, Haddorff worries that the marginalization of basic Christian claims in contemporary intellectual circles drives many Christian ethicists to lay their foundations in ostensibly neutral social sciences and theories. Such secular frameworks, he claims, bear an indifference or even hostility to theology that prompts many Christian ethicists to forfeit the resources of the theological tradition. Christian ethics divorced from orthodox theology becomes another form of the modern preoccupation with anthropology. In other words, some religious ethicists imbibe too uncritically the “methodological universalism” of modernity, with its obsession with “clear” and “distinct” ideas; or alternately, they get too caught up in a postmodern hermeneutics of suspicion that derails all meaningful God-talk from the outset. Whether or not his critique of recent thinkers is persuasive, Haddorff does show the appeal and relevance of Barth’s contribution. “Theological ethics begins with God’s covenantal relationship to humanity, as unveiled in Jesus Christ, which then opens up space for personal moral responsibility in response to God’s gracious action” (27). Consequently, “Emerging from this theological framework, Christian ethics concentrates on the actual personal circumstances and actions, in which persons seek to act in responsible ways corresponding to overarching reality understood by theological ethics” (ibid).

Part two paints the broad landscape of contemporary social theories. Haddorff contrasts “deconstructionist” theorists whose postmodern skepticism leads toward a stifling relativism with “reflexive” theorists who, more modestly, appropriate late modern criticism in service of a chastened sense of moral realism that recognizes its own limitations. Between these two approaches, Haddorff prefers the latter as more practically useful. Still, in his view, both responses fail to provide an adequate basis for discerning the true nature of the good. This failure comes from the vacuum caused by lack of a belief in God. Thus, reflexive late modern thinkers offer a realist and pragmatic program for ethics that avoids the extreme skepticism of deconstructionists but fail to ground their search for the concrete good in a theologically founded notion of the good. This critique strikes me as a bit unfair: central to a reflexive standpoint is a chastened view of human knowledge that accepts the limited character of its own formulations. If Haddorff is commending a dialectical and open-ended ethical paradigm on a specifically Christian theological basis, what is to prevent other thinkers from doing so on a non-Christian basis?

Part three fills out the exposition of Barth’s ethics further under the rubric of witness. More specifically, the grace manifest in election and covenant constitutes free agents who can respond in love to God’s prior action. This two-sided aspect of Christian life – free divine initiative and free human response – mirrors the Chacedonian pattern that characterizes the Church as a whole (again, Haddorff follows Hunsinger here). Haddorff contrasts this dynamic notion of witness with a stifling casuistry framed by abstract principles. Such a stance empowers believers to resist the powers that afflict humanity – which Barth names (in The Christian Life) as leviathan (political absolutism), mammon (economic determinism), ideology and the chthonic powers of human creativity run amok.

According to Haddorff, Christian ethicists seek to ground their ethics in some general anthropological paradigm such as a notion of the reflexive moral self. Notions of divine agency tend to be eclipsed by anthropological claims, he argues. For example, Gustafson and Lovin have accused Barth of walling off theological ethics from a broader scrutiny that employs publically accessible notions of the common good. Some Christian ethicists, by contrast, risk reducing the presence of the work of God in Jesus Christ to the Christian community and its distinctive practices. In this latter vein, Haddorff suggests that such theologians as Hauerwas and Milbank, who have more affinities with Barth than his more liberal critics, risk their own form of anthropocentrism by framing Christian ethics too exclusively within the realm of character-forming ecclesial practices. Both approaches, taken to extremes, risk reducing the realm of ethics to the human and missing the dialectical character of ethics that Barth upholds.

In part four, Haddorff weaves together his readings of Barth to address key areas of constructive inquiry in contemporary society. This is the most interesting and cohesive part of the book. The structure follows the three parts of Barth’s doctrine of reconciliation in Church Dogmatics IV/1-3. First, in the political realm, Christian witness is set against leviathan’s overweening pretensions as a manifestation of the sinful pride overcome in the incarnation of the Son of God. Barth faced the power of leviathan in the rise of National Socialism; now in the wake of (very real) threats from terrorism in the post-9/11 age, we see disturbing trends to extend American imperialist aims under the guise of national “security.” In response to such challenges, Haddorff commends the power of faith as the church’s public witness against pride. This includes a realistic civic faith in the possibilities for promoting peace and justice within a liberal democratic society that avoids the extremes of tyranny and anarchism. Second, in the economic sphere, Christian witness promotes love and care for the other in the face of the sin of sloth that pits individuals against each other in a competitive consumerist economy. Haddorff names the power of sloth in the public sphere as mammon, which represents not wealth per se but, more generally, the human tendency toward self-seeking gratification. As forces of greed disrupt and polarize communities along socio-economic lines, Christians bear witness to the power of holiness and community that Christ brings as the exalted human being for others. Under postmodern conditions, mammon rears its head in an indifferent and relativistic attitude. By contrast, Christian love is expressed, politically, in the quest for economic justice in solidarity with the poor and oppressed that avoids the extremes of unbridled capitalism and an ideologically rigid state socialism. Third, in terms of environmental witness, the truth of Christ counters the human sin of falsehood that makes humanity easy prey to ideological manipulation. A renewed sense of Christ as font of all truth means that creation is not an indifferent sphere but is the theater of the divine covenant of grace. Embracing this truth, human beings as covenant partners are freed to work toward constructive proposals for ecological renewal and sustainability.

Haddorff’s work may not be the ideal text to use as a general introduction to Barth’s theological ethics. Exposition of Barth is interwoven with discussion and critique of a wide range of contemporary perspectives in social theory and ethics, and complex issues are sometimes treated in a cursory manner. Moreover, in my view, the most significant omission is that Haddorff does not discuss Barth’s early activism in socialist politics, nor does he explore whether these early radical commitments shed any light on Barth’s mature work and vice versa. No text preceding Barth’s repudiation of liberal theology in 1916 is discussed.

Christian Ethics as Witness is best read as an often insightful essay in constructive theological ethics. This work would be of interest to scholars who work in the area of Barth’s ethics or of Christian ethics more generally. Whether or not one agrees with Haddorff’s specific constructive proposals, he suggestively offers a creative model for drawing upon a major theologian to address some of the urgent needs that riddle a world at risk.

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

Cortez, Marc, Christological Anthropology in Historical Perspective: Ancient and Contemporary Approaches to Theological Anthropology (Grand Rapids, MI: Zondervan, 2016)

Christological Anthropology in Historical Perspective: Ancient and Contemporary Approaches to Theological Anthropology 

Cortez, Marc, Christological Anthropology in Historical Perspective: Ancient and Contemporary Approaches to Theological Anthropology (Grand Rapids, MI: Zondervan, 2016), 233 pp. $27.99 (paperback).

Reviewed by Timothy McGee (April 25, 2017)

In his latest text in theological anthropology, Christological Anthropology in Historical Perspective, Marc Cortez surveys the Christian tradition in hopes of showing how Christology has informed various anthropologies. The book is extremely well-written, both in terms of the accessible language used and in the way Cortez guides his readers straight to the heart of various theological arguments. The deft summaries of these major theological voices, coupled with a good use of secondary materials, make the book ideal for classroom use. Each chapter focuses on a particular theologian, with the exception of the analysis provided in the final chapter, which means that each chapter stands on its own, allowing it to be easily excerpted for a supplemental course reading.For his studies, Cortez engages one theologian from the patristic (Gregory of Nyssa), medieval (Julian of Norwich), and Reformation (Martin Luther) periods before turning to major modern and contemporary theologians: Friedrich Schleiermacher, Karl Barth, John Zizioulas, and James Cone. Knowing that selection is always normative, Cortez clarifies that he chose these authors in part because they offer relatively “high” Christologies. If the goal is to show how various anthropologies are structured by or grounded in Christology, then theologies that strongly emphasize the distinctiveness of Christ in relation to all other humans will offer more insight into how Christology functions in this determinative way (24).

Cortez is aware that his focus on method (226-7), or even the thematic focus on theological anthropology (24), is not a timeless issue shared by all these authors. Though Christology is central for some authors, like Karl Barth and James Cone, Cortez has to argue for this centrality for other figures. He notes John Zizioulas might be understood as a more Trinitarian than christological thinker but argues that the application of the trinitarian term “person” to human beings is structured by Zizioulas’s Christology (164). Similarly, Martin Luther’s notion of justification by faith moves from soteriology to Christology once justification is understood as being “righteous in Christ,” which becomes, on Cortez’s reading, “the essence of what it means to be human” for Luther (85). Cortez understands that each doctrine is interconnected with the rest yet believes he can isolate the Christology from this dense theological web to show how it plays a stronger, more determinative role in each theologian’s anthropology

There is, however, a significant procedural problem in his approach. Cortez wants to read each author along a kind of foundationalist trajectory, such that Christology operates as the basis of—offering epistemic warrant or grounds for (20) —anthropological claims. Each chapter therefore begins with a broad survey of a major christological theme in that author’s work before turning to show how it impacts his or her anthropology overall and in regard to a specific issue, like race, sexuality, vocation, or the mind-body problem. The texts he engages, however, were not written in this fashion and do not show evidence that the authors thought in this way. Further, to argue that Christology is determinative, one must isolate the Christological moment from the rest of the theologian’s doctrinal framework, which entails downplaying the way a particular Christology itself might be heavily determined by other doctrinal concerns, like Trinitarian personhood for Zizioulas or soteriology for Luther.

More problematic, however, is a point Cortez doesn’t consider. Cortez admits that culture, experience, and all sorts of other sources of data will influence any theologian’s anthropology (232). Christology is, therefore, not the only source of information, though it “alone reveals the ultimate truth of humanity” (228). The problem here is that Christology is presumed to have achieved some kind of cultural transcendence, functioning now as a kind of purely theological “hermeneutical lens” through which to decipher and correct all other accounts (228). Yet, it is quite evident that every Christology is set within certain intellectual, cultural, and material contexts. For instance, though Cortez may be correct that even Schleiermacher’s central category of religious feelings is structured by his Christology (123), Schleiermacher’s emphasis on experience itself, which is central to how he develops his Christology, comes not only from his own historical context, but also from a specific set of anthropological convictions. One could make similar points for each other authors Cortez analyzes. To frame the issue another way, Cortez does not maintain a careful distinction between the person of Jesus Christ and the intellectual discipline of Christology, something that raises questions both in terms of how he reads each author and what he ultimately hopes to gain through these readings.

Given the setting of the review, it will be apposite to say a few words about his treatment of Barth. Cortez’s chapter relies on his previous monograph on the mind-body problem in relation to Karl Barth’s theological anthropology (Embodied Soul, Ensouled Bodies: Bloomsbury T & T Clark, 2008). It is, like every other chapter, extremely clear and focused in its treatment, and, perhaps given his previous treatment of the theme, it is the shortest chapter, coming in at just over twenty pages. Barth’s commitment to offer a Christological anthropology gives Cortez the occasion to provide a more precise articulation for how such a “truly christological anthropology” will operate (162). Cortez specifies that there is a first set of arguments, moving from Christology to a set of implied, and therefore obligatory, claims about human existence. This initial move is then followed by an application of these general, christologically mandated beliefs to “particular anthropological issues” (162), like the relationship between the body and the mind, or many others. Though suggesting that Barth offers this “nuanced” methodology (162), Cortez also acknowledges that Barth never provided “principles” for making this movement from Christology to general anthropological claims (148), an absence that should perhaps give Cortez more pause than it does, especially since Barth is the figure most focused on this kind of Christological reasoning.

In his treatment, Cortez describes how, for Barth, the Gospels portray the soul of Jesus as directing his body (152). Cortez notes the biblical texts Barth cites as support for his view but misses an opportunity to reflect on an underlying problem for Barth, as well as for any Christological anthropology: the biblical authors wrote accounts of Christ out of their own cultural and theological frameworks. That Scripture speaks of Jesus Christ in a certain way, for instance, as an “embodied soul” (modifying Cortez’s chapter title), need not imply that such a hierarchal and dual ontology—spiritual and material substances—is required. It is a missed opportunity, both for the way this hierarchical ordering plays out all across Barth’s theological anthropology, most notably and controversially in his account of the relationship between men and women, and also for showing again how difficult it is to decide which aspects even of the biblical accounts should be taken as providing clear and theologically mandated anthropological claims.

If this review has focused on these methodological issues as opposed to the historical surveys of every figure, it is because Christological anthropology, for Cortez, is defined by this methodological and epistemic concern to reason from Christology to anthropology. This concern shapes which authors are discussed, how each chapter is structured, what themes are drawn out, how they are explicated, and the introductory and concluding discussions in the book as well. Those who largely share Cortez’s interests will find much to take from the book. Those who might be less interested in or suspicious of this his approach will certainly find aspects dissatisfying or problematic, and yet even they still have much to gain from the book. Though one might wish any account of Schleiermacher’s anthropology to mention and even engage his connections to the racialized anthropologies and global politics of the time, still, a clear account of some of the central theological claims he makes can be extremely helpful. Cortez offers these clear and concise engagements for each figure he considers.

Overall, the book is a considerable achievement, covering a vast amount of terrain with insight and clarity, all in under two hundred and fifty pages. Whether introducing new readers to major theological voices or refreshing the memories of those who’ve engaged them before, the ease in Cortez’s exposition makes the book well worth the read and a good resource to keep on the shelf.

Timothy McGee, Ph.D. Candidate, Southern Methodist University

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

Migliore, Daniel L., ed. Reading the Gospels with Karl Barth (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2017)

Reading the Gospels with Karl Barth 

Migliore, Daniel L., ed. Reading the Gospels with Karl Barth (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2017), xxvii + 226 pp. $35.00 (paperback).

Reviewed by Stephen J. Plant (March 23, 2018)

I can not recall when I first heard the phrase “that’ll preach” used to describe a theological insight capable of illuminating a typical congregant hearing a sermon. Another variant, the question “will it preach?”, subsequently became helpful to ask seminarians about their essays and occasionally to ask colleagues about their teaching. The importance of being able to cash theology in as preaching is something Barth was well aware of. In the 1951 preface to Church Dogmatics III/4, Barth noted that it had been three decades since he was actively engaged in pastoral ministry and in “expounding the Gospel Sunday by Sunday.” Yet, he continued, “what I have done in the meantime has been intended for its benefit” (CD III/4, xi).

In the 11 essays in Reading the Gospels with Karl Barth, which were first rehearsed at the 2015 Karl Barth Conference at Princeton Theological Seminary, we have an impressive body of evidence that Barth’s theology “preaches.” In addition to 11 essays, the book also includes a sermon, which is where I want to begin my remarks. A sermon written for a particular moment in time and a particular congregation rarely transfers successfully to print where, lacking context, the living, spoken word usually turns to lifeless symbols on the page. But Fleming Rutledge’s sermon on Matthew 25:1-13 is exceptional. It was delivered on June 22nd, 2015, days after the killing of parishioners of Emanuel A.M.E. Church in Charleston, South Carolina. The grace with which she finds illumination of and from this dreadful event in the parable of the bridesmaids (“What’s in those lamps?”) is unforgettably powerful. Ending a book on Barth’s use of the Gospels with a sermon is not only apt, but it is also in every sense inspired. Perhaps if Rutledge’s sermon did not simply have to be the final word, Migliore’s introduction would have been better placed as a conclusion to the collection. As a dutiful reviewer I read it first, but with growing regret, as its succinct summaries of all the essays to follow tended to spoil the surprise of each essay when I came to read them. It is, of course, a fault I now repeat!

The collection begins with Jürgen Moltmann’s essay on “The Election of Grace” in §32 and §33 of CD II/2. For Moltmann, it “is the invaluable merit of Karl Barth to have overcome” the “dualism of belief and unbelief in Christian theology” in his doctrine of election (3). One of the ways Barth does this is by relocating election in the context of God’s self-affirmation since, as Barth puts it, ‘“Everything which comes from God takes place ‘in Jesus Christ”’ (5). On this basis, Moltmann moves to address a number of temptations that a doctrine of election can face, including a temptation to fear one’s faith may be too weak to fight against injustice.

Each subsequent essay exhibits a similar form by setting out to examine critically Barth’s reading of a passage “in the Gospels to determine the ways in which his readings are distinctive or novel” (xiv). In chapter 2, Richard Bauckham considers Barth’s reflections on John 1:1-18. Bauckham, one of only two New Testament specialists to contribute to this volume, offers an appreciative yet critical study of Barth’s somewhat “eccentric” exegesis. Barth’s exegetical approach, which gives preeminence to theological interpretation in relation to other reading strategies, means he does not show much interest in the way “logos” was used in parallel ways in Platonic, Stoic, or Rabbinic sources. The incarnation for Barth is an event “in both eternity and time” (21). But out with the historical-critical bathwater goes the baby: Bauckham regrets that Barth neglects both the literary structure of the Prologue and the importance of its relation to Genesis 1:1-5.

Eric Gregory (chapter 3) explores Barth’s use of the parable of the Good Samaritan. He approves of Barth’s determination to supplement moral applications of the story with an evangelical or soteriological reading in which (as Barth put it) “the primary and true form of the neighbor is that he faces us as the bearer and representative of divine compassion” (45). On this basis, Gregory draws “out some implications for Christian communities often at the forefront of humanitarian aid” (51). Diaconal service to the poor, caring for the sick, the prisoner etc., can never “’be more than drops in a bucket’” for Barth – but such ministry nonetheless witnesses to “the cosmic work of Christ in free obedience” (p.52).

Willie James Jennings (chapter 4) sets Barth’s treatment of the story of the Rich Young Man (Mark 10:17-31) against the background of Barth’s critique of the Swiss Government’s poor record in relation to refugees – particularly Jewish refugees – and the Swiss banks’ willingness to profit from Nazi loot during the war. Barth’s “very different fiduciary vision of the divine promise bound up with the command of God”, Jennings concludes, “could help us think out the relation of money to divine promise in ways that might draw Christians to the freedom of God and away from the anxiety of the rich man” (66).

Paul Nimmo (chapter 5) has the briefest biblical text in view in Matthew 9:36. But Barth’s treatment of Jesus’ compassion for “the crowds” in CD IV/2 opens up several illuminating inquiries for theological anthropology, atonement theory, and what Jesus’ compassion shows us about the compassion of God. The Greek verb, usually translated “compassion”, is related to the Greek word for entrails or bowels (splanchna), which suggests that Jesus’ compassion has a deep and visceral quality. Nimmo rightly describes Barth’s conclusion about the relation of Jesus’ compassion to His Father’s as unequivocal and shocking: “the compassion of God truly concerns His splanchna and thus no less than in the case of all God’s other attributes His eternal and simple essence” (79).

Chapters 6 and 7 both deal with the same Gospel passage: the parable of the Lost Son in Luke 15:11-32, and Barth’s extraordinary Christological reading of it in CD IV/2, §64. Daniel L. Migliore’s sympathetic and intelligent essay (chapter 6) draws out some of the distinctive features of Barth’s treatment of this parable by comparing it with that of Hans Urs von Balthasar. While von Balthasar did not devote quite the focused attention to the parable that Barth did, von Balthasar reads the parable in a Trinitarian way, that is in terms of the Father’s relationship with the Son. In chapter 7, Kendall Cox illuminates some striking similarities between Barth and Julian of Norwich’s treatment of the parable of the Prodigal Son. Like Barth, Julian went beyond typical commentary, which read the parable as involving a contrast between repentant sinners (the prodigal son) and law-bound Jews (the older). Julian, in continuity with Barth, proposes that ‘“In the servant [i.e., the younger son] is comprehended the seconde person of the trinite, and in the servant is comprehended Adam: that is to sey, all men’” (112). Cox goes on to make an intriguing suggestion that in both Julian and Barth, the parable of the prodigal son effectively functions “as a thumbnail of all the doctrinal elements of reconciliation” (117).

In chapter 8, Paul Dafydd Jones explores Barth on Jesus’ agony in the garden of Gethsemane. Jesus’ prayer to the Father in each of the Synoptic Gospels that the cup pass/be removed from him has long played a role in Christological and Trinitarian debates, for example in the Monothelite/Dyothelite controversies of the 7th century. In his compelling essay, Jones uses Barth to shed light upon a number of centrally important questions. He begins by discussing Barth’s relation to the past. Barth notes previous theologians but does not feel bound to repeat their conclusions. Rather, for Barth, it is practically an axiom that “dogmatic work succeeds when it makes sense of God’s self-revelation, to which Scripture is the principal witness” (140). Barth is consequently uninterested in certain kinds of speculation about Christ’s inner life. What the Gospels show us, simply, is that “In his prayer to the Father, Jesus freely decides to open himself to sin and to God’s rejection of sin” (147). Jesus freely commits himself to the worst that human sinners can do and to the worst that God can do in rejecting sin. Moreover, this free commitment is made, not by Jesus’ human will alone, or by his divine will alone, but by the Son in whom full humanity and divinity are one. Thus: “During the passion, and especially on the cross, the Chalcedonian adjectives – inconfusione, immutabiliter, inseparabiliter, indivise – no longer apply only to Jesus. They also apply to the work of God and the work of sinners” (146).

Bruce L. McCormack, in a provocative essay (chapter 9), leads off with José Saramago’s controversial novel The Gospel According to Jesus Christ, which subjects “the principal agent at work in the drama’ of Jesus’ life ‘viz. God’” (157). How could God have protected Jesus from Herod’s murderous wrath and not the other innocent children of Bethlehem? In Barth’s treatment of the “cry of dereliction” as “the judge judged in our place” in CD IV/1, McCormack finds at least part of an answer. For Barth, the passion of Jesus is the passion of God himself. On the cross, God experiences death humanly – yet without compartmentalizing suffering to the human nature alone. In the cross, God gives himself – as Barth puts it “but He does not give himself away” (165). Saramago says God – should he exist – is guilty. It “seems to me,” McCormack concludes, “no other answer will do but death in God as a self-imposed act of public acknowledgment of the evil that was, in a very real sense, necessary to the accomplishment of God’s love” (167).

Beverly Roberts Gaventa (chapter 10) treats Barth’s reading of the Emmaus road story, in which both Barth and Gaventa find hints about Luke’s view of Scripture. A customary description of the book of Acts is that it is a history of the Church. Gaventa believes this neglects the extent to which Acts is the second part of an account of the life of Jesus begun by Luke in his Gospel. Jesus constantly appears as an active, living agent in Acts. In Barth’s reading of the Risen Lord’s conversation with the disciples on road to Emmaus, Gaventa sees a robust theology of revelation that can undergird such an understanding of Jesus’ presence in Scripture.

In chapter 11, Shannon Nicole Smythe examines Barth’s word study of paradidómi in the New Testament (normally translated by Barth “handed over” or “delivered”). In CD II/2, §35.4 Barth pursues some of the uses of the term, which he believes is “no mere semantic accident” (189). Smythe uses this discussion to unlock what is at stake in Barth’s conviction that “what God elects in eternity is precisely the history of Christ” (191). God’s unchanging being is constituted by God’s choice of humanity in Jesus Christ’s self-giving love.

Bonhoeffer once told his seminarians that every good sermon should contain a whiff of heresy. Even where Barth’s readings of Gospel texts give off a theologically idiosyncratic odor – as the books on Barth’s shelves in Basel still conjure the scent of his tobacco – they will still “preach.” On every page, this splendid collection provokes reflection that is rich in possibilities for theologians and preachers seeking to hear God’s voice in the witness of the Gospels.

Stephen J. Plant, Dean and Runcie Fellow, Trinity Hall, University of Cambridge

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

William H. Willimon, Conversations with Barth on Preaching (Nashville: Abingdon, 2006)

Conversations with Barth on Preaching 

William H. Willimon, Conversations with Barth on Preaching (Nashville: Abingdon, 2006), 346. $22.00 (paperback)

Reviewed by Jason T. Ingalls (February 01, 2007)

William H. Willimon’s Conversations with Barth on Preaching interacts expansively with Karl Barth on a topic dear to the life of the church. While Willimon loves Barth’s theology and theological rhetoric, he has reservations about Barth’s explicit reflections on preaching. Willimon’s work rests on this complex interaction of appreciation and critique. One the one hand, Willimon will assert “I am not a Barthian” and yet say on the next page, “I need Barth.” (3, 4) Creative tension marks Willimon’s attempt to exposit and interact with Barth on preaching.As a preacher, Willimon makes an interesting statement about the location necessary for understanding Barth’ work: “I do not think that anyone should venture to interpret Barth who is not a preacher, that is, without being a participant in the Holy Spirit-dependent task that Barth assumes” (4). Later in the work, Willimon writes, “It does not take long, wandering through the Dogmatics, to realize that Barth is about the creation of a world through his words. He never speaks as a detached, dispassionate academic, but rather as a preacher seeking to persuade” (95).

Willimon understands Barth’s thought on preaching as the interaction of the positive and negative aspects of Revelation. Positively, God miraculously reveals the Word of God in Christ, Scripture, and Preaching. Negatively, since it is always miracle, there can never be a natural “point of contact” between God and humankind (150ff, where Willimon ably describes Barth’s thought on the “point of contact”). Preaching itself is a Holy Spirit-wrought miracle of grace, a witness to the Resurrection of Jesus Christ, “Easter Speech” (225; cf. also 225-237 where Willimon develops a list of implications of Easter for preaching).

According to Willimon, Barth’s preacher is John the Baptist in Grünewald’s famous Isenheim altarpiece. He or she stands off to one side of the Crucified and dares merely to point. Willimon calls these “two Barthian tests for faithful preaching”: “hint, pointing toward, inclination” and “distance, detachment” (6). The preaching task is, therefore, a daring task. Preachers dare “merely to point” to the Crucified and in faith hope for the Word of God (79, 82). There is no human condition for knowing God, but Willimon points out that in the miracle of grace “we can speak about God because God has broken the silence between us and turned to us. God has become objective to us and thereby rescued us from our subjectivity” (71). Without rhetoric, there is no distraction from the Word of God revealed in Jesus, Scripture, and Preaching.

In Willimon’s reading of Barth, the preacher is therefore bound in irony: a preacher must speak a word about God that cannot be spoken. The preacher does not control the Word of God and so cannot “bring” it to the congregation. Instead, he or she can only hope and pray and point (100). Rigorously consistent, Barth explicitly rejected the uses of introductions and conclusions in sermons and leveled a harrowing critique of sermonic “rhetoric” (49, 161). Preachers should preach as though “nothing had happened,” even when that thing was Hitler and the atrocities of the Third Reich (72). Barth did not want preaching to be interesting because it was either useful or relevant. If it was going to be interesting, he wanted it to be interesting because it was the Word of God meeting the congregation in a miracle of grace (47).

Willimon notes, however, that Barth was not altogether consistent in practice with his explicit statements about preaching, showing, for instance, several places where Barth used introductions and conclusions in his own sermons (183-4). On the whole, Willimon finds Barth’s sermons deficient (110). Against Barth’s explicit argument against rhetoric, Willimon raises Barth’s masterful, lively, and energetic rhetoric in Church Dogmatics and other theological writings (2). Willimon wants preachers to emulate Barth’s rhetorical and theological boldness (111-2). Barth’s theological work “shows a connection between the form of his theology and his subject matter [the living Word]” and is a “grand performance of theology” (110-1). According to Willimon, wrapped in its object, preaching should ascend the heights and dredge the depths of the Word, offering it with both skill and humility, always pointing toward the Crucified and conscious of the distance. “Preaching is dramatic, effusive presentation of God’s word, so that God’s word is heard through it, if God wills” (111). Thus, Willimon argues that Barth’s theological style contradicts his explicit rejection of rhetoric in preaching, and Willimon calls for preachers to “reflect upon the peculiar sorts of rhetoric that are demanded by the various aspects of the Gospel” (250).

There seem to be two types of rhetoric involved here, one that Barth is trying to forswear and the other that Willimon is trying to uphold, and they differ according to their aim. The first rhetoric is the kind that seeks the listener in order either to manipulate or touch that “point of contact” between the human and the divine. This is obviously problematic from a Barthian perspective because it “points” the wrong direction. It assumes that instead of pointing toward the Cross, the preacher can point at the audience in order to awaken something either naturally or supernaturally placed within them. The other, second rhetoric is the kind that Willimon seeks to maintain, that “peculiar” rhetoric demanded by the gospel itself, the speech that is true to its object. This is elicited speech, speech designed not to awaken something in the hearer but to bear authentic witness to Revelation. It points to God-in-Christ, not God-in-us.

That this distinction is not explicit in the book points to a frustrating weakness in Willimon’s conversation with Barth. On occasion, Willimon explicates one side of Barth’s understanding, critiques it, and then brings in the other side almost as an afterthought (a related concern are the times when Willimon raises objections from Barth’s contemporaries and then fails to properly respond to them, either for himself or for Barth; 136, 173). As often happens in Barth, the other side exculpates him and renders Willimon’s arguments pointless. Willimon introduces one section this way, “One of the maddening, delightful things about conversation with Barth is that as soon as one has found something to criticize in his position, he manages to contradict or to correct that position” (195). I do not know about Barth, but I do know it is maddening to be following an argument against Barth’s thought only to have the whole argument overturned by a quote from Barth himself, a quote that raises distinctions that neither contradict nor correct the earlier position but show the place in which the argument does and does not work. While such an approach to the project might have ended in a much shorter book, it would have been worthwhile in the formation of Willimon’s rhetoric in relationship to preaching.

Also frustrating are the ways in which the format of Willimon’s book detracts from his substantive engagement with Barth. Willimon’s margins, small-print sections, and sermons add unnecessary clutter. The margins and type-set of the book are small and difficult to read. The difficulty grows when Willimon imitates Barth’s small-print sections in the Dogmatics, but instead of doing his most engaging work there, as Barth did, these sections (offset by different font that does not always appear smaller than the main text) are mainly dispensable, though there are a few exceptions. Willimon spends nearly twenty full pages of small-print on an overview of philosophy from Plato to William James (49-64). Late in the book, he pursues an equally ambitious (if not lengthy) history of rhetoric (86-90). While these two sections might be helpful, they would have fit more appropriately in appendices. The editor’s decision to use endnotes instead of footnotes compounds the problem. While mainly unhelpful items remained in the small-print sections, the real gems (including all the CD references) lay hidden in the back of the book. The full texts of Willimon’s sermons also clutter the reading experience. Conversations with Barth on Preaching could have been fifty to one hundred pages shorter than its current 315 pages while only gaining insight and effectiveness.

While aggravating, these problems do not detract from the usefulness of the book in the hands of an able theologian/homiletician. Willimon’s sometimes deficient conversation with Barth is at least thorough and creative, and his overviews of philosophy and rhetoric would be extremely helpful to seminary classes in preaching or pastoral theology. Also, since the work emphasizes preaching as miracle and witness to God’s reconciling work in Christ, I would suggest this book to any pastor who feels like their preaching is hitting a brick wall and looking for encouragement to enliven their exposition. One cannot interact with Willimon and Barth on the topic without being made aware again of the place, prominence, and power of Christian preaching done in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

Rosalene Bradbury, Cross Theology: The Classical Theologia Crucis and Karl Barth’s Modern Theology of the Cross (Eugene, OR: Pickwick Publications, 2011)

Cross Theology: The Classical Theologia Crucis and Karl Barth’s Modern Theology of the Cross

Rosalene Bradbury, Cross Theology: The Classical Theologia Crucis and Karl Barth’s Modern Theology of the Cross (Eugene, OR: Pickwick Publications, 2011), xiv + 324. $37.00 (paperback)

Reviewed by Andrew Root (June 26, 2012)

In her book entitled Cross Theology, Rosalene Bradbury provides a needed text on the theologia crucis and Karl Barth. Bradbury is a scholar from New Zealand and the book, originally her dissertation, is excellently researched and highly readable—two things unfortunately not always accomplished in dissertations or theology books. Cross Theology thus commends itself as an important work to anyone in Barth studies or with interests in the theology of the cross.The book is broken into two substantive parts. Part one lays out in great depth the author’s understanding of theologia crucis‘s essence, setting the baseline she will use to judge whether Barth himself is a theologian of the cross. This part almost has the feel of a lawyer seeking to make a case, as she continues to ask: What really is the theology of the cross? Bradbury’s examination is extensive, returning continually to the statistical presence of articles on the theology of the cross in the American Theological Library Association (ATLA) database and using these articles to chart the interest in theologia crucis and its multiple interpretations. This ATLA exploration may seem unconventional but it adds much to her argument, nicely highlighting her many points. Like a good lawyer, Bradbury states her position in the introduction: she believes that Karl Barth is the first (and most significant) theologian of the cross in the twentieth century.

Bradbury begins with a very helpful historical overview of the theologia crucis, embedding this “thin tradition” (as the theologia crucis is often called) in the context of epistemological and soteriological issues even while she is careful to note that the crucified Christ is the very central motif through which all theological reflection must be vectored for those working within this “thin tradition.” She sees a line like a red thread running through the Christian theological tradition that connects these theologians of the cross in a movement from Paul to Athanasius to the German mystics to Luther and finally, as she will argue in part two, Karl Barth.

Before delving full force into this argument, chapter one provides an extensive literature review of the theology of the cross’s contemporary interpretation. Bradbury sees a continuum of interpretation, with some asserting that thetheologia crucis is essentially a doctrinal position on justification, others using it as a social critique, some defining the theology of cross very narrowly and others very broadly. This is an exercise in setting the stage upon which she will later place Barth. But even with Barth a hundred or so pages from full consideration, the set itself is so well constructed as to be helpful in its own right.

The heavy lifting begins in chapter two. Epistemology is the focus here, and Bradbury laces Paul, Athanasius, the mystics, and Luther together to explore the impact that theology of the cross has on the knowledge of God. Bradbury explains how theologians of the cross perceive all knowledge of God to be contingent on God. Only by God does the human knower know anything of God. For theologians of the cross, knowledge of God results from attending to God’s action and especially as perceived in the event of the cross. What can be known about God can only be known through the way God has unveiled Godself in the cross. A theologian of the cross is committed to the view that only God is the measure of God, and that all knowledge of God must be found in Christ crucified.

If this epistemology is a major part of what makes one a theologian of the cross, then another is a certain soteriological perspective. Chapter three picks this up by again turning to Paul, Athanasius, the mystics, and Luther. Bradbury helpfully attends to the resurrection here. This is important for her argument because some have disqualified Barth as a theologian of cross due to his focus on resurrection and human participation in God’s glory. It is further important because Barth’s assertions help shake the theologia crucis from the heavy hands of cold existentialism, a kind of (ironically) triumphalistic depression. Placing the resurrection within the theology of the cross avoids this without losing the heart of the tradition. Bradbury shows how the theology of the cross leads to an understanding of resurrection that rejects any anthropocentric path to God. The God of the cross moves from death to life; always out of death and always for the sake of life. This pushes theologia crucis into eschatological perspective, but what demands note is this movement “from death to life” that lies at theologia crucis‘s heart. It is so central that it becomes a hermeneutic strategy, a way of interpreting God’s action—hence beautifully connecting epistemology and soteriology.

If chapters two and three do the heavy lifting, then chapter four summarizes and explores implications. Bradbury spends her time here highlighting theologia crucis once again and, like a good lawyer, providing readers with a checklist of what makes for a theology and theologian of the cross. Bradbury offers a nice excurses into the Heidelberg disputation to conclude this chapter and the book’s first part.

All this work in part one enables Bradbury to make the case in part two that Karl Barth is a theologian of the cross. She begins by articulating Barth’s indebtedness to the thinkers she used previously in articulating this theological tradition. Of chief importance here is her work in chapter five to reveal Barth’s connection to Luther. Bradbury knows that Barth is a man of his times—he is a modern theologian—and is not simply returning to an old reformational orthodoxy. Barth is doing something new and unique for his time, but Bradbury argues that he does so in part by retrieving these theologians of the cross—and most especially Luther.

Chapter six deals with secondary literature on Barth and the theology of the cross. Bradbury explains why thinkers like Berkower and Douglas John Hall argue that Barth’s mature theology moved away from theologia crucis, and why others contend that Barth was a theologian of the cross from start to finish. This is a tedious chapter, although an important one. But chapter seven and eight are where Bradbury really makes her case, and does so convincingly. Starting with Barth’s epistemology, she shows how strictly he attends to the singular articulation of God’s self-revelation in Jesus Christ and how this self-revelation centers upon the cross itself. Just as theologians of the cross before him, Barth was uncompromising in his assertion that God is known only through God. Finally, Bradbury shows in chapter eight that Barth maintains the theologia crucis tradition by seeing God’s glory and our experience of it only through the cross, and by arguing that election and salvation are determined by God’s action alone. Just as in the “thin tradition,” Barth has no room for an anthropocentric path to God’s glory.

Setting the conversation around epistemology and soteriology, Bradbury does an excellent job convincing the reader that Barth is a theologian of the cross. Furthermore, Karl Barth deserves a place among its champions, taking his place as its twentieth century representative with Athanasius in the fourth century, the German mystics in the fourteenth century, and Luther in sixteenth century. Cross Theology is well worth the price of admission, paying the reader back two- or three-fold in insight and inspiration.

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

Christophe Chalamet, Dialectical Theologians: Wilhelm Herrmann, Karl Barth and Rudolf Bultmann (Zürich: TVZ, 2005)

Dialectical Theologians: Wilhelm Herrmann, Karl Barth and Rudolf Bultmann

Christophe Chalamet, Dialectical Theologians: Wilhelm Herrmann, Karl Barth and Rudolf Bultmann (Zürich: TVZ, 2005), 327. EUR 37,00

Reviewed by Benjamin Myers (February 16, 2007)

“It is strange to realise that we are so close to each other and yet speak such different languages” – with these words, Karl Barth summed up his relationship to his old friend and nemesis, Rudolf Bultmann.The relationship between Barth and Bultmann is one of the most fascinating and most perplexing subplots in the story of modern theology. From these two thinkers sprung the two dominant schools of twentieth-century theology – and while they had originally viewed themselves as allies in a common cause, Barth and Bultmann came to regard each other with mutual hostility, aversion, and above all bewilderment. Given all this, it’s unfortunate that so few books have explored in detail the relationship between these two remarkable thinkers.

Christophe Chalamet’s groundbreaking new study thus offers a major contribution to our understanding of modern theology. In this work, Chalamet offers the most comprehensive exploration to date of the relationship between Barth and Bultmann. His basic argument is that, in their early years, no one influenced Barth and Bultmann more decisively than their teacher at Marburg, Wilhelm Herrmann. It was here, as students under Herrmann, that they found the basic insights that would later lead to the development of “dialectical theology.” From their earliest days as students, they were both struggling to do the same thing: to fight “against both the left and the right of the theological spectrum” (p. 13), against both “the liberal and orthodox schools” (p. 80).

From Herrmann, these two students learned that God can be spoken of onlydialectically. We cannot speak of God with just one word. Instead, there must be at least two words, two opposing statements: thesis and antithesis, “the dogmatic and the critical, the Yes and the No, the unveiling and the veiling, objectivity and subjectivity” (p. 148). The point of such dialectics is not to find a neutralising synthesis or “middle way” – rather, in the tension between thesis and antithesis, the theologian “leaves a space free in the middle and hopes that God himself will intervene, since only God can say his Word” (p. 148).

Drawing on such a dialectical method, Barth set out to be “more conservative than the conservatives and more liberal than the liberals” (p. 124). When he published his explosive commentary on Romans, very few people had the dialectical frame of mind necessary to understand it – but, as a good Herrmannian, Bultmann was one of the few scholars in Europe who appreciated what Barth was doing. For his part, under the influence of Herrmann, Bultmann was able to clarify his own theological programme as early as 1925 – and he would then “spend the rest of his life trying to unfold the consequences” of his Herrmannian heritage (p. 164).

It was precisely here, however, that the conflict between Barth and Bultmann had its roots. For, as early as 1925, Barth was bidding “a theological farewell to Herrmann” (p. 177). His crucial step was to reverse Herrmann’s dialectic of Law and Gospel – in Barth’s view, the Yes of the Gospel must precede the No of the Law. Bultmann, on the other hand, remained a faithful disciple of Herrmann (and a faithful Lutheran), and his whole theological programme was radically driven by the primacy of Law over Gospel, by a belief that “the No of [God’s] judgement … conceals the Yes of God’s grace” (p. 199).

As Chalamet persuasively argues, an understanding of the dialectical character of Bultmann’s theology allows us better to appreciate some of the most controversial aspects of his work, such as his Sachkritik, his polemic against the Jesus of history, his demythologising, and his existentialist exegesis. Against the common objection that Bultmann made theology the servant of existentialist philosophy, for instance, Chalamet points out that Bultmann always understood the philosophy–theology relationship dialectically. And while Bultmann’s “demythologising” programme has so often been caricatured and misunderstood, Chalamet highlights the fundamental dialectic at the basis of demythologising – a dialectic between scripture and Scripture, between human words and the Word of God.

In any case, as the years went by, Barth and Bultmann were increasingly aware of the great distance between them. By 1937, Bultmann was insisting that he no longer read Barth’s Dogmatics, since “it’s too awful” (p. 262). And, in turn, Barth reacted with horror to Bultmann’s demythologising, and especially to his reliance on the philosophy of Heidegger.

Still, for all their differences, Barth and Bultmann remained “dialectical theologians.” In very different ways, they were both trying to speak about the God who is hidden in his revelation; following Herrmann, their different theological programmes remained oriented around the fundamental dialectic of “the revelation of God in its concealment” (p. 250). Thus both the deep affinity and the irreconcilable differences between Barth and Bultmann were due in great part to their different ways of appropriating and modifying the theology of their early teacher, Wilhelm Herrmann.

Chalamet’s Dialectical Theologians is a first-rate study of the two most important theological thinkers of the twentieth century. It is the most profound and searching analysis to date of the complex relationship between Barth and Bultmann, and it is essential reading for anyone interested in the origins and development of that extraordinary theological movement known as “dialectical theology.”

Note: This review first appeared on Benjamin Myers’ blog, Faith and Theology, and may be accessed here.

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

Kilner, John F. Dignity and Destiny: Humanity in the Image of God (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2015)

Dignity and Destiny: Humanity in the Image of God 

Kilner, John F. Dignity and Destiny: Humanity in the Image of God (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2015), 414 pp. $35.00.

Reviewed by Max Heidelberger (September 21, 2017)

John F. Kilner’s new study of the imago dei, entitled Dignity and Destiny: Humanity in the Image of God, is not—to use the classic phrase—reinventing the wheel. The ground Kilner covers is well trod, and there is not much new machinery here. What Kilner highlights, rather, is the centrality of the proverbial wheel itself to the larger history of Christian thought and practice. Kilner shows that the doctrine of the imago dei has the capacity to “foster both liberation and devastation,” since this concept has had both a humanizing and dehumanizing role within Christian discourse (3). The various ways and means by which God’s image has been invoked throughout the history of doctrine are not mere theological curiosities, but sites of struggle, fraught with hidden agendas, cultural preferences, and deep ethical implications. To cut through this complexity, Kilner claims to offer a purely Bibliocentric—and therefore Christocentric—account of the imago dei, which identifies and minimizes historical, cultural, and critical preference insofar as this is possible. Dignity and Destiny is clearly intended to be a teaching tool, and the scope of the book is broad, covering topics and texts that have been exegeted in greater detail elsewhere. Still, Kilner’s central claim and contribution is his forceful identification of the capacity of the imago dei to help and to harm. In this sense, Dignity and Destiny is the story of an idea, offered with suggestions for how we might better ourselves in asking what can only be one of the most central theological questions: what is God communicating by making human beings in God’s image?Kilner divides his discussion into three parts. Part I concerns “The Human and Divine Context,” which outlines the implications for the discussion of the imago dei as a whole. As mentioned above, this is where Kilner makes his best case for the book’s importance. In Chapter 1 entitled “Much Is At Stake,” Kilner describes the imago dei’s capacity for liberation and devastation, and provides three reasons for why the doctrine occasionally goes awry: poor attention to Biblical texts, the Bible’s own opacity on the issue of God’s image, and the tendency of theologians to import their own doctrinal and cultural commitments into the discussion. Kilner uses Karl Barth as an example in this case, demonstrating that Barth’s understanding of God’s image-as-relationship was indebted to the I-Thou concept within Martin Buber’s existentialism, rather than a biblical account (49). Kilner is not necessarily critical of this evolution since it is unclear how theologians ought to divorce interpretation from contemporary influences. Indeed, Kilner admits that he “does not pretend to be immune from such influences” himself (50). Still, Kilner contends that a heightened awareness of context-specific biases can go a long way in separating the dangerous excesses of the image from its liberative roots. Having laid bare the difficulties of the doctrine, Kilner concludes the first section by offering a bare definition of image as a connection which invites reflection: “Being in the image of God turns out to mean having a special connection with God and indeed a meaningful reflection of God” (54). Human beings’ status as reflections of God is both present (insofar as Christ is the image of God) and ultimate (insofar as humanity will one day perfectly image of God), revealing a tension between likeness-image and imprint-image—to bear God’s image as a human creature is to bear similarity, but to bear God’s image as Christ is to possess God’s very identity. Image thus has immense Christological implications, as well as implications for human dignity.

The second section of Kilner’s book focuses on this latter concern; indeed Part II is simply titled “Human Dignity.” This is the most dense portion of the book, and it is here that Kilner sets out to address his central concern: the image’s capacity for liberation and devastation. Kilner makes clear that the image among human beings is universal, and he gives special attention to biblical treatments of women as equal image-bearers with men to prove this point (85-94). Kilner also separates functional, spiritual, or attributional understandings of the image from the proper ontological one, asserting that the imago dei is not achieved by action or belief, but simply by virtue of being created in the divine image (105). Kilner also addresses sin’s impact on the image here, crucially arguing that there is no scriptural basis for believing that the image of God can be damaged or lost. The consequences of believing the latter is to diminish respect for the dignity of human beings, with implied permission for oppression, discrimination, and exclusion. The damage of sin is to humanity, not the image of God—is damaged creatures that are restored, not a damaged image (141). Kilner is notably running against a number of Christian ethicists and theologians on this issue, particularly figures like Reinhold Niebuhr, Stanley Leavy, Ellen Ross, Emil Brunner and Helmut Thielicke, all of whom described at various turns a “lost,” “bent,” “weakened,” or “fractured” image. Scholars of Karl Barth will note that Kilner explicitly addresses Barth’s affirmation in CD I/1 that the image of God “is altogether lost,” observing that Barth remains in line with other neo-orthodox protestant theologians on this issue (161). It is at this point that Kilner makes his heftiest—and given the theologians he contends with, his most controversial—normative claim, arguing that “the Bible consistently avoids indicating that the image of God is either lost or damaged in human beings—now or in any day” (174). The image has been neither virtually nor actually damaged, and to infer this can have serious consequences. Kilner writes, “while the metaphor of a corrupted or defaced image may be convenient for certain theological purposes, the harm risked by using it far outweighs the gain” (176).

Part III of Dignity and Destiny is titled “Human Destiny,” and it concerns God’s intention for human beings to bear and reflect God’s image. Since the imago dei itself does not need to be fixed or restored—since it was never lost—humanity now becomes the site of renewal in Christ, who is both “the standard and enabler of who people are to be, as created in God’s image” (233). The incarnation and the atonement do not change the image, but rather humanity itself is changed by the unchanging image (234). Kilner identifies this dynamic in three key passages: Romans 8, 2 Corinthians 3, and Colossians 3, and he conflates this renewal of human beings with the restoration of humanity’s original destiny in Adam and Eve. In looking back to Eden and looking forward to the eschaton, Kilner demonstrates the “already-not-yet” nature of renewal in God’s image. The image, essentially, “is about a destiny in which God intends that humanity will manifest attributes resembling God’s, in appropriate measure, to God’s glory” (281). Humanity’s capacity to manifest these attributes is never lost; however, sin’s damage to people —not to the image—requires restoration so that human beings can experience and enjoy the fullness of their similarity to their Creator.

In his conclusion, Kilner recaps all three sections of his discussion with the following: “connection with God is the foundation of human dignity,” while “reflection of God is the aspiration of human destiny,” and finally that “all of humanity participates in human dignity” and “all of humanity is offered human destiny” in Christ (311). Kilner closes his book by revisiting the ethical implications of his argument, and calling for the church to recover the creation of humanity in the imago dei as its rallying cry.

Kilner’s book is dense with biblical exegesis and boasts an immense bibliography, which makes it an outstanding introduction for students who want to dig deeper into the history of the doctrine of the imago dei. Kilner does not contribute anything particularly new to the discussion, but he firmly anchors himself in a specific camp while also articulating the reasoning and rationale of those who would approach the imago dei differently. While Dignity and Destiny is an eloquent account of the doctrine of the imago dei, in both scripture and Christian thought, the book’s greatest strength is Kilner’s powerful invitation to reconsider the ethical and practical implications of Christian doctrine. Kilner’s connection of the imago dei to historic and systematic oppression, while also highlighting its powerful capacity for liberation, demonstrates acute anthropological concern, not only for the veracity of biblical ideas, but for their proper application in both church and society. For this reason above all others, Dignity and Destiny will likely be used as an introductory text on the imago dei for years to come.

Max Heidelberger, Wheaton College

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

Thomas, Günter, Rinse Reeling Brouwer and Bruce McCormack eds., Dogmatics After Barth: Facing Challenges in Church, Society and the Academy (Leipzig: CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform, 2012)

Dogmatics After Barth: Facing Challenges in Church, Society and the Academy 

Thomas, Günter, Rinse Reeling Brouwer and Bruce McCormack eds., Dogmatics After Barth: Facing Challenges in Church, Society and the Academy (Leipzig: CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform, 2012), xvi + 203 pp. $18.20 (paperback).

Reviewed by Mark Lindsay (April 11, 2017)

Dogmatics after Barth? For some, such a question will sound absurdly unnecessary. For others, the suggestion alone will sound an ominous death-knell. And yet, it was to precisely this question that an international working group devoted themselves—a collaboration between the Protestant Theological University in Kampen, Princeton Theological Seminary, and the Rühr-Universität in Bochum, and which culminated in a 3-day conference in Doorn in April 2011.Rather obviously, this is not the only collection of essays that deals with the contested issue of Barth’s legacy. Michael Dempsey’s Trinity and Election in Contemporary Theology (Eerdmans: 2011), Gibson and Strange’s Engaging with Barth: Contemporary Evangelical Critiques (Bloomsbury T&T Clark: 2009), and indeed Princeton Seminary’s 2013 conference, “Karl Barth in Dialogue: Encounters with Major Figures,” together represent just a sampling of the many recent works that have sought to bring Barth’s theology into constructive conversation with our present day. Nonetheless, this particular collection provides us with something quite different. Rather than addressing the nature of Barth’s legacy in the context of a particular doctrine, or in dialogue with specific individuals, the essayists here explore the multivalent term in the book’s title, “after Barth.”

As the editors note, doing theology “after Barth” can simply be a function of temporality, recognising the self-evident point that Barth has been dead for nearly fifty years and so we cannot but do theology after him. But theology “after Barth” can and must also take into consideration the way in which the theological landscape itself has altered dramatically since 10 December 1968, with the advent (and arguably demise?) of liberationist, postliberal and ecumenical enterprises, and the more recent appearance of various indigenous and postcolonial theologies. Third, theology “after Barth” might, and for some will, mean doing theology in the manner of (though hopefully not in slavish devotion to) Barth. These three readings of the book’s title thus provide the structural shape of the collection, corresponding to new contextual readings (part 1), methodological challenges (part 2), and the reconsideration of key loci of Barth’s thought (part 3).

In part 1, we are presented with accounts of the multiplicity of ways in which Barth has been received in five different geographical contexts, from Europe to southern Africa, and across to Korea and Australia. Dirkie Smit notes in chapter one that, while Barth has had an enormous impact in South Africa, it has been, and continues to be, a contested and controversial influence. Whether it be the employment of Barth’s joyful proclamation of Jesus Christ as God’s great Yes against the natural religiosity of apartheid idolatry, or the refusal to excise the political implications of Barth’s theology, reading Barth in South Africa has always been a reading against the grain of popular civic and religious ideas. Yet Smit concludes with the possibility that perhaps the “South African Barth” is unrecognisable from the “real” (read “European”) Barth and that this caricaturised figure is likely not the best guide for the future of South African theology.

In chapter two, Myung Yong Kim records a fascinating history of Korean Presbyterianism, which has been characterized by a deep division between conservatives and moderates, and represented institutionally by competing Presbyterian seminaries (the Tong-hab and the Hab-dong). Spearheaded by two Korean graduates of Princeton Theological Seminary, each of whom emerged with diametrically opposed theologies, these seminaries have either repudiated Barth for his alleged liberalism, or championed him for his neo-orthodox credentials. Kim also notes a further set of tensions, namely the suspicion with which Barth is viewed by Minjung theologians, ironically by his not being liberal enough. In short, Kim’s depiction of Korean Presbyterianism is one in which the conservative (he says fundamentalist) wing has dominated the theological field and set the conditions under which Barth is to be understood. Yet, if Kim’s terminology accurately depicts the categories by which Barth has been read in Korea, it is hard to escape the conclusion that Barth has been caricaturised by all sides, with neither ‘liberal’ nor ‘neo-orthodox’ particularly helpful descriptors, but rather adjectives that have served merely to polarise and provoke.

Benoît Bourgine and Susanne Hennecke provide readings of Barth in his more ‘natural’ surrounds of continental Europe, particularly the Francophone countries and the Netherlands. For Bourgine, the challenge of Barth is how, in a secularised society, theology can exist as scientifically credible within the academy, constructively critical in the Church, and publicly responsible in society at large. Hennecke meanwhile, brings Barth into conversation with Kornelis Miskotte, noting how Barth’s Dutch interpreter contextualises Barth within the frame of post-war cultures of nihilism.

In the final chapter of section one, Ben Myers turns our attention to Australia’s reception of Barth. Noting the historic peculiarity that the study of theology has been almost entirely excluded from state-funded universities since the first of them were founded in the 1850s, Myers focuses his attention on the ecclesial reception of Barth. More specifically, he addresses the way that the Uniting Church in Australia (UCA), which came into being in 1977 as a union of Methodist, Presbyterian and Congregationalist traditions, ‘was deeply shaped by Barth’s theology of the 1930s’ (54). Myers argues that the Basis of Union—the foundational document of the new Church—was intentionally structured to approximate the Barmen Declaration, with Barmen’s language of witness to Christocentric revelation infusing the whole text. In my view, while Myers correctly identifies the UCA as the Australian church most obviously influenced by Barth, I would suggest that he under-estimates the emerging vitality of Barthian scholarship within the country’s universities. Similarly, and I say this as an Anglican, I would also offer that he skews the picture slightly by condensing Australian church life to the UCA.

Section 2 of the book traverses key methodological issues. Bent Flemming Nielsen begins by exploring why Scandinavia, and Denmark in particular, has had such trouble understanding Barth. In response, he argues that too much effort has been expended seeking just the semantic meaning in Barth’s theology, whereas the real search for meaning must recognise the eventful activity of Barth’s speech. From the Elgersburg lecture in 1922, through Nein! and the “Anselm book,” Flemming seeks to demonstrate that the really interesting aspect of Barth’s theological endeavour is less the linguistic value and more the deep structure of implied subjective action. Such praxis not only speaks to the limitations of human “God-talk.” but opens up possibilities of rendering Barth’s theology as liturgy, which in turn facilitates a renewal of our understandings of corporeality.

The chapters by Paul Nimmo, Matthias Gockel and Árpád Ferencz take up the question of the task of dogmatics, both as Barth saw it himself and as it relates now to a post-Barthian world. Nimmo, enquiring into the way in which Barth understood the dogmatic task, reminds us that for Barth dogmatics functioned critically, scientifically, actualistically and performatively. Above all, though, dogmatics exists in and only in the Church, where alone it is meaningful. Yet Nimmo points out the irony that most of “Barth’s own career . . was in the context of higher education,” on which he never really reflected theologically (89). In an increasingly secularised society, therefore, what it means to do theology in the context of publicly-funded and non-religious education rather than within the church compels us to think “after Barth” in a number of different ways.

Similarly, Ferencz asks about Barth’s ongoing relevance within Church and Academy, but does so from the perspective of post-Communist Hungary. On balance, he seems ambivalent. On the one hand, he applauds the anti-ideological tone of Barth’s “de-centered” dogmatics that is grounded in the fragility of all human thought before God, and that thus serves all contexts that are oriented around authoritarian ideology. On the other hand, he betrays a reluctance to admit any practicality to Barth’s theology, saying even that its utility “finds its place elsewhere and not in the sermon” (128). One must ask whether or not Ferencz has adequately appreciated Barth’s commitment to preaching, and indeed to vitality of theology to congregational life.

Gockel returns us to the heart of theology, the knowledge of God on the basis of God’s Self-knowing, and thus the paradox that the object of theology is a Subject. Referencing Barth’s 1929 essay “Schicksal und Idee in der Theologie” and his later more developed theological ontology in CD II, Gockel neatly demonstrates the connection between what it is possible to know and then say about God, and what God says to Himself about Himself, as the “One who loves in freedom.” Seeing this as the herald of Barth’s doctrine of election, Gockel concludes with the suggestion that dogmatics after but in the manner of Barth should abstain from any speculation about God’s being that divorces Him from creation and covenant. Thus, in a nod to the Trinitarian-election debates, Gockel—who has been aligned with McCormack amongst the “revisionists”—argues that if as Barth claims God is truly affected by His creation, then the full realization of the divine Self-identity is contingent upon the history of creation (121-122).

The final section of the book takes up specific doctrinal motifs that are found in Barth’s theology and that may be pregnant with utility for our present theological context. Darrell Guder again draws our attention to the deeply missional character of the Church Dogmatics. In particular, he argues that our own ability to critically engage with the non-churched world in which we live is heavily dependent upon our understanding of how that world got to where it has got, and how we parse that history through the lenses of God’s love and redemptive activity. Barth, says Guder, is a model for that type of missiological contextualisation that does not, however, prioritise context over gospel. Guder further suggests that other missional aspects within the Dogmatics include a reminder that sanctification cannot be divorced from a consequent sending, and therefore that for Barth talk of the “benefits” of salvation ought be replaced with language of vocation; and that a missional reading of Barth’s ecclesiology offers a challenge to inherited concepts of ministerial orders and ordering.

In Bruce McCormack’s chapter, we are encouraged to explore the future of Protestant ecumenism by considering Barth’s model of engaging with both Reformed and Lutheran traditions, and his eventual transcending of the polarities by which those sixteenth century debates were framed. This, says McCormack, is a more fruitful avenue for ecumenical endeavour than current Protestant theology that is, in his own view, these days neither confessional nor ecumenical.

Gerrit Neven brings Barth into conversation with French philosopher Alain Badiou—and, through him, Blaise Pascal—to ask whether theology as such even has a future after the Twentieth Century. Using the motif of “Event” (Ereignis) that is common to both Barth and Badiou, and referencing Barth’s second commentary on Romans, Neven affirms the possibility that future theologies may in fact have infinite possibilities, so long as they move beyond static ontology and towards the plurality of revelatory eventfulness. This, he argues, is what Badiou extrapolates from Pascal, and what can likewise be extrapolated from Barth. Nevertheless, while I think that Neven has correctly identified the iconoclastic nature of Barth’s Romans, my concern is that he has consequently so de-identified the eventfulness of revelation—“’the good and joyful truth’ may occur at any time or place, and in any domain of knowledge” (178) —that his version of contemporary theology is devoid of precisely the Christian specificity that Barth would require as theology’s sine qua non.

George Harinck offers a somewhat revisionist chapter on the historiographical reception of Barmen. While appropriately provocative, the chapter is, to my mind, one of the lesser lights in the collection. Notwithstanding his appreciation for the Declaration and the Synod as a whole, Harinck argues along familiar lines that Barmen was deficient in its silence on the “Jewish Question” and ultimately—and necessarily—a fatally compromised document. Such has been argued before. But his contextual contention, that the Confessing Church never fought against the Nazi policy of Gleichschaltung (because its members were fundamentally sympathetic towards Nazism), flies in the face of the most reputable histories of the Kirchenkampf and fails to recognize that there in fact was a Church Struggle.

In the final chapter, Günter Thomas reprises the long-contested theme of whether and how Barth’s theology can intersect constructively with political engagement. Noting the necessary limitations (what he calls “disassociations”)—principally, that Barth’s hermeneutic of politics and culture was both underdeveloped, and conditioned by a context that is no longer ours—Thomas nevertheless sees some political utility in Barth’s dogmatics. In particular, he points to Barth’s manner of relating creation to covenant (CD III/1) as a repudiation of that postlapsarianism that, with the help of Augustine, reduces history to a cosmic battle between good and evil. With that dualism out of the way, Barth is able to contend that the political realm ought not be concerned solely with “limiting, fighting and suppressing the power of sin” (188). Similarly, Barth’s rejection of a theology of Ordnungen breaks open the Platonic categorization of world and society, making every aspect of social life available to an encounter with God’s fidelity and grace. Without therefore being an uncritical apologist for Barth’s political theology, Thomas seeks to retrieve the possibilities of utilising Barth’s dogmatic presuppositions for a post-Barthian political ethic.

In sum, then, this collection takes the reader on a fascinating geographical, methodological and doctrinal journey into a dogmatic world shaped by but not subservient to Barth’s particular insights. There are, inevitably, problems with the book. Aside from the variable quality of the chapters, to which I have already referred, the book is shot-through with spelling and typographical errors, and with an annoying inconsistency in the formatting of footnotes. To my mind, even the front-cover looks rushed, and in greater need of editorial discernment. If, however, one can get beyond these flaws, there is much here to be read with profit.

Mark Lindsay, Joan F W Munro Professor of Historical Theology, Trinity College Theological School – University of Melbourne

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

Karl Barth and William H. Willimon, The Early Preaching of Karl Barth: Fourteen Sermons with Commentary by William H. Willimon. Translations by John E. Wilson. (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 2009)

The Early Preaching of Karl Barth: Fourteen Sermons with Commentary

Karl Barth and William H. Willimon, The Early Preaching of Karl Barth: Fourteen Sermons with Commentary by William H. Willimon. Translations by John E. Wilson. (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), xvii + 171. $24.95

Reviewed by David B. Ward (October 06, 2010)

Where some theologians’ works read like sunken ships full of historical treasure, Barth’s writings and sermons give the reader an inside view of a caterpillar’s metamorphosis. The transformation we encounter in Barth seems ever present and ever current as we face our own need for theological and ministerial transformation.This metamorphosis is precisely why this new translation of Barth’s early sermons is so valuable to English speaking students of Barth. We are familiar with the later sermons found in Deliverance to the Captives. More recently The Word in this World: Two Sermons by Karl Barth has given us a brief before-and-after contrast view of the homiletical transformation that both drove and was driven by Barth’s theological shifts. The Early Preaching of Karl Barth now illuminates what came between the before and the after.

Fourteen sermons are presented from Barth’s time as a pastor in Safenwill. The sermons begin with March 4, 1917 and end on December 26, 1920. This critical three-year period extends from the tail end of the First World War to the year preceding Barth’s invitation to be a professor at Göttingen. Just one year prior to the first sermon in this volume, Barth presented his lecture The Strange New World of the Bible, confessing the nearly limitless and impossible task of preaching accompanied by the necessity of preaching in face of the divine call to preach.

Several distinct and significant shifts occur over the course of these fourteen sermons. The first sermons all begin with “Dear friends!” This direct address usually moves immediately into a discussion of the generalized human condition. For example, the first sermon uses the beggar on the way to Jericho as a metaphor for “what ‘life’ can make of us, today”(1). The homiletician could easily lay the template of a problem-solution form over Barth’s sermon and find it very fitting. The problem of the human situation is prompted by “a blind beggar sitting by the road” and Christ is presented as the answer to despair and resigned hopelessness. The fourth sermon on Luke 3:21 follows Barth’s brief greeting with “Truthfully all of us wish that God would be well pleased with us” (37). Human needs seem to drive these sermons from beginning to end, even as Barth turns his attention Godward.

The first clear and significant shift occurs in December of 1918. “Dear friends” is dropped from his manuscripts and does not return. The sermon immediately focuses on the preoccupation of the text without concern for developing a human point of contact. By 1919, in Willimon’s words, “Barth’s sermons sound as if the young preacher is finding his voice” and, unlike his earlier sermons, “this sermon manages to maintain focus and attention”(107). Those familiar with Barth’s chronology will find this distinctive shift fascinating in connection with the publishing the first edition of his commentary, Der Römerbrief (1919). By the last two sermons the key themes of Barth’s theology start to emerge in their homilietical form. There is a thoroughly christological focus centered in the text that stands in stark contrast to the first few highly anthropological sermons. The criticism of religion as a way of climbing to God, or trying to speak of God by speaking of human beings in a louder voice, receives rhetorically forceful treatment. The dialectic between the revelation and hiddenness of God, as well as the wholly Other God and the God of the incarnation, strike strong resonant notes in the last few sermons collected in this volume. This God cannot be known simply by reflecting on human needs or through religious striving. The transformation is well under way.

Willimon offers highly accessible introductions to the development of Barth’s thought and the theological milieu in which he was situated. His analysis of Barth’s sermons seeks to be both appreciative of even the most immature preaching represented in this collection, and also objectively reflective on the most thoroughly ‘Barthian’ of these sermons. Willimon says of this theological giant-in-the-making’s March 3, 1918 sermon, “this sermon just doesn’t work as a sermon”(54). Some readers may tire of the commentary on Joel Osteen and Rick Warren that crop up repeatedly. Willimon’s frustration with health and wealth preaching on the one hand, and purpose driven preaching on the other, is clear. However, he is likely preaching to the choir on these points. The readers would have been better served if this hobbyhorse had been replaced by in-depth reflection on more academically accepted preaching practices that Barth’s own preaching development might challenge.

A significant note of praise for Willimon arises in his recognition of a praxis orientation in Barth’s theological development, although Willimon does not use this technical phrase. Praxis orientation moves from theory-laden practice, to theoretical reflection on that practice, and back to practice again. Willimon notes that for Barth “the true theme of theology” was the difficulty of preaching itself, and highlights the role Barth’s own parishioners had in rupturing his preceding theology and homiletical practice (xii). Though he may exaggerate the point through undue generalization, Willimon is certainly correct about Barth when he claims that “before it matures in the classroom, faithful theology is born in the pulpit” (xiv).

The English speaking Barth scholar will find fluid translations of Barth’s early sermons to aid in her studies of Barth’s theological development as it presented itself in the pulpit. Homileticians will be prompted to reengage several perennial questions for homiletics: how to speak of God when we cannot speak of God, and how to proclaim the gospel when the people want to know how to save their marriage, their jobs, or their war torn world. The young pastor will likely find comfort in Barth’s stumbling attempts to learn to preach while preaching. More experienced and thoughtful preachers will also see a transformation of theology in the pulpit that should prompt long examination of many current preaching models, and the implicit theology they embody.

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

Yocum, John. Ecclesial Mediation in Karl Barth (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2004)

Ecclesial Mediation in Karl Barth 

Yocum, John. Ecclesial Mediation in Karl Barth (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2004), xxiii + 200 pp. $135.00 (hardback).

Reviewed by W. Travis McMaken (February 01, 2007)

This volume comprises “a refined and slightly expanded version” (vii) of Yocum’s doctoral thesis, which he completed at Oxford under the supervision of John Webster. It is organized around three attempts, three claims, and one neglected conversation partner. Yocum attempts first to understand “Barth’s treatment of ecclesial mediation in light of his rejection of the concept of sacrament,” second to read the Church Dogmatics “as a whole” on this theme of ecclesial mediation, and third to connect this theme to Barth’s theological anthropology (xi). The first of Yocum’s claims is that Barth’s late rejection of sacraments “is not a necessary correction of his earlier theology, but rather a subversion of important elements of it” (xi). His second claim is that the polemical nature of Barth’s theology influences the content of that theology “in some important ways” (xv). Third, Yocum claims that ecclesial mediation is a central theme for Christian theology in that it helps us to understand the sort of relationship that “obtains between God and human beings” (xx). Yves Congar, a representative of “Roman Catholic Ressourcement” (xxi) that Yocum sees as providing an answer to Barth’s rejection of the sacraments, is the neglected conversation partner.The chapters of this study are organized according to the structure of the Church Dogmatics, such that each chapter deals with themes treated in a particular volume of CD. Yocum’s starting point in the first chapter is Barth’s assumption of “a communion of human and divine action in the work of revelation” (1). Proceeding through discussions of Barth’s theological method, the relation of theology to preaching, and of religion to sacraments, Yocum comes to understand the basic shape of Church Dogmatics I as sacramental.

Barth depicts divine and creaturely action as united, though not symmetrical: divine action is always logically and casually prior to the human action which attests it. Nonetheless…a certain instrumental role is given…to creaturely being (30).

Still, Yocum identifies the “seed of [Barth’s] rejection of sacraments” in his “notion that the Church has nothing to do but believe and give thanks” (27). Congar’s understanding of epiclesis as central to the sacraments is briefly offered as a way forward.

Yocum’s second chapter discusses the basic “structure of divine and human action” that Barth explicates in his doctrine of God, namely, that “divine action is always prior to, yet not exclusive of, but rather the ground of human action” (32). The high point of this chapter comes with his discussion of the place of community in Barth’s doctrine of election, in which Yocum identifies a tension between the “already completed and fully effective nature of the history of Jesus Christ” and the function of the community as a “genuine, visible and effective” witness to Christ (59). For Yocum, this tension leads Barth to an increasing separation of divine and human activity, especially in Church Dogmatics IV. But Yocum maintains that this divergence is not a necessary product of Barth’s doctrine of election precisely because election involves God’s establishment of human persons as God’s covenant partners. Drawing on the Apostle Paul and Yves Congar, Yocum maintains that we must be able to speak of the creature as an active participant in the work of salvation, especially at the ecclesial and sacramental level.

Chapter Three seeks to build on the previous chapters by exploring precisely what it means that “God’s act calls forth and demands corresponding human action” in a covenant that is “both accomplished and ongoing history” (68). This leads Yocum to a discussion of covenant, history and time, through which he comes to understand Barth’s position as depicting “eternity as embracing time on all sides” such that God “is able to accompany the creature who dwells in time” (81). A discussion of Barth’s doctrine of concursus reveals that “Barth ascribes a genuine causal efficacy to creatures in natural operations” (84) while at the same time affirming God’s causality in producing these effects, thus “attributing a single effect to a variety of causes which operate in different ways” (85). However, Barth limits this secondary causality of the creature to the natural sphere, a point that Yocum regrets and seeks to undermine through a discussion of Barth’s angelology. His contention is that, if angels act as creaturely servants of revelation in a way that is “not a threat to the divine agency” (95), why should similar action be denied to human beings?

Coming to Church Dogmatics IV/1-3 in his fourth chapter, Yocum begins with a discussion of the polemical horizon of Barth’s theology: a theology that “is determined to a large extent by what he wishes to rule out” (98). The targets of Barth’s most concentrated polemics in CD IV are identified as Bultmannian existentialism and Roman Catholic sacramentalism. As these polemic and dogmatic concerns converge, they produce a general tendency…to secure the adequacy and completeness of the work of Christ and the freedom, integrity and autonomy of the human agent, by establishing separate, though corresponding, spheres of human and divine operations (103).

This tendency is traced through Barth’s ecclesiology, touching subsequently upon the themes of sanctification, proclamation and vocation. Perhaps the fundamental issue that Yocum raises in this section, in conjunction with Barth’s emphasis on the objectivity of Christ’s work, “is whether there is not a kind of mediated immediacy” (132). Except for Barth’s willingness to grant this in the case of prophets and apostles, and perhaps in preaching, his tendency toward a “very strong distinction of agents and actions” (132) leaves Yocum with little hope.

The fifth and final chapter deals with the baptism material in Church Dogmatics IV/4. Yocum provides an episodic history of how Barth’s thought on the sacraments developed, moving from the 1937-8 Gifford Lectures, to a discussion of the posthumously published portions of CD IV/4, to a treatment of the 1943 lecture on “The Teaching of the Church regarding Baptism.”

Following a careful and admirably succinct description of Barth’s understanding of baptism in CD IV/4, Yocum offers a critical assessment. This assessment begins on a positive note with mention of Barth’s concern for a “faith that gives rise to active witness” (161) before moving on to critique Barth’s exegesis, his understanding of traditional sacramental doctrine, his lack of consideration for the communal nature of a human person’s identity, and his christology. This last point is especially interesting in that Yocum, without making the comparison explicit, seems to accuse Barth of the same christological imbalances that many find in Calvin, namely, of being “over-cautious against the danger of ‘confusion’ of nature” (169) and of giving too little attention to the work of the Holy Spirit.

In his conclusion, Yocum first endeavors to consolidate his reading of Barth on ecclesial mediation by clarifying how Barth’s rejection “of the sacramental action of baptism with water undermines a good deal of Barth’s theology in the earlier volumes” (172) and emphasizing once again the role that Barth’s polemical concerns played in this rejection. The final section is given over to a discussion of Congar’s sacramental theology with its concern for pneumatology (as seen especially in Congar’s interest in epiclesis) and in the joining of divine and human activity in the sacraments “on the basis of faith in the promise of God” (180).

Yocum’s volume certainly has many positive qualities. His discussions of Barth’s theology are textually driven and generally faithful. However, there remain certain deficiencies, three of which we will mention briefly. The first of these deficiencies is the composite character of Yocum’s study. His three attempts, three claims, and one neglected conversation partner put an undue strain on his prose. These things are difficult to hold together and his volume at times seems to lack cohesion. This is related to the second deficiency, namely, the lack of a more sustained engagement with Congar. Although this is more of a reader’s regret than a deficiency, that Congar appears only briefly and sporadically is certainly a disappointment. The third deficiency is to be found in his discussion of Church Dogmatics IV where the quality of Yocum’s exposition diminishes, perhaps understandably so in light of the vast tracts of text that he must cover. The theme of his treatment of this material is the increasing disjunction between divine and human activity in Barth’s thought. But, to affirm this is to overlook passages in which Barth holds divine and human activity closely together. For instance, consider the following:

The creaturely is made serviceable to the divine and does actually serve it. It is used by God as His organ or instrument. Its creatureliness is not impaired, but it is given by God a special function or character. Being qualified and claimed by God for co-operation, it co-operates in such a way that the whole is still an action which is specifically divine (IV/2, 557).

Or, consider even this fleeting comment from Barth’s discussion of the role of the Christian community in baptism with the Holy Spirit: “[The work of the community] stands or falls with the self-attestation and self-impartation of Jesus Christ Himself, in which it can only participate as assistant and minister” (IV/4, 32). That the community may ‘only’ assist and minister does not diminish the fact that it does indeed assist and minister! It seems as though Yocum’s dissatisfaction with Barth’s final rejection of water baptism as sacramental has lead him to overstate Barth’s disjunction between divine and human activity within Church Dogmatics IV.

These things notwithstanding, Yocum’s treatment of ecclesial mediation in Barth’s work is a challenge to those who understand Barth’s theology either in terms of a decisive shift or in terms of enduring continuity, and is therefore a real contribution to Barth studies.

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

Williams, Stephen N. The Election of Grace: A Riddle without a Resolution? (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2015)

The Election of Grace: A Riddle without a Resolution?

Williams, Stephen N. The Election of Grace: A Riddle without a Resolution? (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2015) viii + 221 pp. $26.00 (paperback)

Reviewed by Jordan Bradford (September 08, 2016)

Stephen Williams’ The Election of Grace: A Riddle without a Resolution is the first published volume in the Kantzer Lectures in Revealed Theology series sponsored by the Carl F. H. Henry Center for Theological Understanding at Trinity Evangelical Divinity School. Williams’ first two chapters consider a biblical theology of the Old and New Testaments respectively on the doctrine of election and eventually lands on an Augustinian understanding of election and predestination. This is followed by two chapters on dogmatic theology that form the main substance of the book. The first of these, “Dogmatic Limits,” attempts a defense of Anglican Charles Simeon’s view that the theological propositions pertaining to election (and predestination) that stand in conceptual tension with one another should not be given dogmatic systematization regarding their interrelationships. The second, “Dogmatic Difficulties,” aims to show that this Augustinian doctrine faces no significant challenge from considerations often raised against doctrines of election. Finally, the book ends with a critical appendix on Karl Barth’s doctrine of election.Williams begins by quickly outlining the Old Testament narrative with an eye to Israel’s election before turning to the burning question: why is biblical election exclusive? According to Williams, it is because the election of a particular people is christologically and incarnationally necessary for reconciliation. In other words, there is “no possibility of his [Christ’s] coming into it [the world] without the prepared and particular connection of nation and of history” (26). Further, election dynamically (and sometimes interruptedly) bestows the privilege not only to service, but, perhaps scandalously, the privilege of communion with and knowledge of God. The scandal only increases when it is found in Revelation that election is tied to a group that will reign in some undetermined sense in the eschaton, but this smaller riddle drops out of the wider discussion in favor of explicating the more controversial riddle of predestination in the New Testament.

Williams’ exegesis of relevant New Testament texts is understandably brief in order to facilitate the movement towards dogmatics. He quickly settles on an Augustinian view of predestination, defined later in the book as “a positive predestination to life which is not a universal predestination, not conditional on foreseen faith, and not the predestination of a collective or group of unspecified membership” (169). With the acceptance of an Augustinian doctrine of predestination there naturally appears an important question: must we also accept double predestination, that there is an antecedent decree of reprobation for those not elected and predestined to life? The rest of the chapter is devoted to arguing that scripture contains no explicit grounds for such a decree.

If we follow Williams and accept that there are no explicit scriptural grounds for an antecedent decree of reprobation, might we not still be forced to accept that it exists as a logical entailment of Augustinian predestination? The chapter “Dogmatic Limits” argues for a negative answer to this question. Williams wants to maintain both of these theological propositions: “[1] Those who receive Jesus Christ are drawn in time by the Father who purposed from eternity to do so. . . [2] Those who do not receive Jesus cannot blame the Father for not having drawn them in time nor claim that they have been antecedently excluded from eternity” (118). How are we to systematize these two theological statements? Williams argues that such a question is actually mistaken. Developing Charles Simeon’s mediating position in the 18th and 19th century Arminian/Calvinist disputes, Williams rejects the systematization of these statements, instead opting for the Wittgensteinian view that “Our job is to know how truth x applies to our lives and how truth y applies to our lives, not the relationship between x and y” (115). Existential reconciliation therefore takes priority over conceptual reconciliation. Convergent reason to accept this thesis is given by an appeal to Immanuel Kant’s general metaphysical skepticism. Although the inference from Augustinianism to an antecedent decree of reprobation based on God’s immutable will seems prima facie to be an obvious and elementary deduction, it “generates too many speculative metaphysical questions, both about what happens in time and about its relation to what happens in eternity” (133). “Augustinian Mysterianism” therefore appears to be an apt title for the doctrine of election and predestination espoused throughout the book.

The last chapter considers well-known difficulties regarding the doctrine of election. How does it square with God’s mercy and justice? Williams begins by diffusing the standard answer – that justice is all that sinners deserve and mercy is not owed to anyone – by speculating that the nature of God as such is to be merciful and that therefore God could not, without ceasing to be God, have withheld mercy from sinners. In its place he argues that given his unsystematized doctrine of election, the contrast between mercy and justice should be revised. God’s predestination is obviously a mercy, but the fact that those who are reprobate are not caused to be so by an antecedent decree and were genuinely summoned to receive Christ shows that they too were also given mercy as opposed to solely justice.

Next he tackles the question of assurance, giving a nod towards Karl Barth’s doctrine of election. How, he asks, can we be assured of our own election if election is not universal, that is, if Christ’s work does not signify my (individual) election? Williams emphasizes that any non-universalist interpretation of election is going to struggle for a satisfactory answer and ties assurance to sanctification. To avoid the Barthian doctrine of universal election, Williams states that “The genuineness of summons and opportunity for those who reject it implies a provision of God in the atonement of Jesus Christ wider than its provision for the elect” (160). Just how wide this provision is, what it consists of, and how it can cover the non-elect is left as another riddle.

The question of assurance flows naturally into the question of perseverance. The language of promise and warning becomes complicated when applied to the collective group of Israel in the Old Testament or the recipients of epistles in the New Testament, as they can be applied to a group composed of those both eternally secured and those who are not, and to different individuals at different times. Thus the language of predestination cannot be “semantically sealed off against the possibility of the same variation” (165). This has made dogmatic inquiry more complicated and confused than it should. One is elect – and will presumably persevere on Williams’ account – if they express repentance and bear fruit.

Having already made reference Barth’s work in passing, Williams ends the book with an appendix dedicated to a critical discussion of Barth’s unique doctrine of election. As is well known, Barth was distinctive in that he held election to be universal while denying that this necessarily led to universalism. Behind the reasoning that led to this somewhat unusual conclusion was Barth’s doctrine of God and distaste for natural theology. A possible psychological explanation for Barth’s attack on natural theology and acceptance of universal election, says Williams, is an existential fear: “Natural theology will not yield a gracious God [who has elected me], and nothing must cloud our discovery of him in Jesus Christ” (207). For Barth, election must be universal, for if it is not, then God cannot be known as the gracious God, because Jesus’ work could not be known with complete assurance to be God’s pledge of grace for me. Throughout the appendix Williams tackles this suggestion on biblical grounds: election “is always discriminate in Scripture” (187). He even goes as far as to say that Barth’s view of scripture is “mired in illogicality and injustice” (199).

Williams’ Augustinian Mysterianism may be perceived by readers – especially those within evangelicalism, who make up no small part of the intended audience – as violating the perspicuity of scripture and promoting a tension within it. Those Arminians and Calvinists who emphasize biblical exegesis will almost certainly not be persuaded to accept Williams’ account, as his exegesis is fast-paced and left largely undefended. His criticism of Barth on biblical grounds will satisfy some and be ignored by others. To truly establish his overall case would require many weighty tomes that cover everything from biblical exegesis to philosophical theology. Nevertheless, those like myself who are skeptical of forming a theological system and believe him to be working in the right direction will find Williams’ work a necessary, even refreshing, account of Christian dogmatic theology. The healthy skepticism in dogmatic matters defended in The Election of Grace show that we may indeed have to live with some riddles of election left unresolved, existentially embracing scripture’s truths without conceptually reconciling them.

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

Grebe, Matthias. Election, Atonement and the Holy Spirit: Through and Beyond Barth’s Theological Interpretation of Scripture (Eugene, OR: Pickwick, 2014)

Election, Atonement and the Holy Spirit: Through and Beyond Barth’s Theological Interpretation of Scripture 

Grebe, Matthias. Election, Atonement and the Holy Spirit: Through and Beyond Barth’s Theological Interpretation of Scripture (Eugene, OR: Pickwick, 2014), xxii + 289 pp. $36.00 (paperback).

Reviewed by Adam J. Johnson (July 05, 2016)

Matthias Grebe, in Election, Atonement and the Holy Spirit, dives into the heart of Barth’s theology, confronting the simultaneity of God’s “Yes” and “No” across the doctrines of election and atonement. In charitable opposition to Barth, Grebe offers an account in which God only says “Yes” in Jesus, developing what he takes to be a more biblical, consistent and trinitarian account of these core doctrines.Grebe interacts with the doctrine of election at two different levels: dogmatically, by exploring the doctrine of election, and exegetically, via a careful interaction with Barth’s exegesis of Lev. 14 and 16. This is precisely what we should look for in a good book on Barth—the kind of work that takes him seriously enough to disagree with him, and on the grounds that Barth himself establishes: biblical exegesis.

Grebe seeks to demonstrate that “Christ did not bear sins in the way the Azazel-goat did (by bearing them upon itself and thus taking divine punishment). Instead . . . Christ was a sin offering and did not, therefore, bear sin on the cross” (3). This is no trivial matter, for if in fact Christ did not bear the rejection of God in our place, then Barth’s formulation of double election (in which Jesus is both the object and subject of election, electing himself to bear our rejection, that we might be elect in him) suffers the loss of a considerable biblical support. To put Grebe’s argument as concisely as possible, if Jesus fulfills the role of both goats, in Yom Kippur, Barth’s doctrine of double election stands; if he takes upon himself the role of the sin-offering, but not the goat sent out into the wilderness, to Azazel, then Barth’s doctrine calls for significant reformulation. Grebe’s key question is thus: “how can Jesus simultaneously fulfill the role of both goats, that of the sin offering as well as the goat sent to Azazel, two animals that serve completely different functions and have different fates?” (65).

Those familiar with Barth’s doctrine of election will find Chapter 1 to be a clear and helpful reminder of Barth’s argument, with particular attention to CD II/2, pp. 354-66. Chapter 2 delves into exegetical matters, exploring the concept of Existenzstellvertretung (a vicarious offering of one’s life as an equivalent substitution for the forfeited life of another,” with particular emphasis on participation, and little or no reference to punishment or appeasement (cf. 68-9)), a linguistic analysis of kipper and the hattat (sin offering, or “purification offering,” as Grebe argues (72)), the role of blood, and Yom Kippur. In doing so, Grebe comes across a number of differences (and similarities) with Barth’s account (85-6). The net result is Grebe’s proposal that Jesus be seen as fulfilling the role of only one of the goats (the sin-offering goat), whereas the goat sent to Azazel remains unfulfilled by the death and resurrection of Christ. “This would result in the conclusion that Jesus Christ, with both his divine and his human nature, is only the elect of God”—a thesis with profound results for Barth’s theology (94).

Chapter 3 explores a variety of doctrines (covenant, anthropology, sin/nothingness) in preparation for the fourth and in many ways central chapter of the book, which considers Barth’s account of Jesus, the Judge Judged in our place. Grebe argues that Barth should have developed the argument of CD IV/1 from a cultic rather than forensic basis, and that the result would have been a more consistent and biblical doctrine, unperturbed by the artificial and ultimately detrimental incorporation of God’s “No” into Jesus’ death on the cross. “We have to disagree with Barth’s . . . point where he talks about God’s No, Jesus standing under the wrath and destruction of God . . . In fact, Jesus was rejected by others and ‘precisely herein he was not rejected by his Father’ (citing Pannenberg, ST 3:452)” (165). The reasons for this rejection of “God’s ‘No’” are manifold, including problems with Barth’s doctrine of election (already mentioned), trinitarian problems (172, 182, 194-5, 197), and problems with the view of sin implied (as though it were a transferable substance) (182ff., 195-6). The upshot is a critique of Barth thoroughly indebted to Existenzstellvertretung, which is then played out across a series of doctrines in the fifth chapter, particularly Pneumatology and the question of universalism in Barth.

In response to Grebe’s argument, I have three comments. First, while his engagement with Barth’s exegesis of Lev. 14 and 16 was very thorough and interesting, those passages form one part of a larger exegetical argument which depends greatly on Barth’s exegesis of David and Saul, and ultimately on such New Testament passages as Ephesians 1:4 (247). While Grebe’s work moves in good directions, and certainly challenges some of Barth’s main doctrines, the argument as a whole calls for further consideration along the lines begun here in chapter 2. In other words, I found Grebe’s work provocative, but inconclusive, calling for further development along precisely those exegetical lines which Grebe himself lays out.

Second, I found myself having to work hard to read Grebe charitably at certain points, when it seemed that he was making overly hasty criticisms of Barth, particularly when Barth offers rejoinders to those criticisms elsewhere in the Church Dogmatics. Grebe’s argument that Barth’s view essentially posits a rupture within the Trinity, a fact he says Barth failed to consider (182), would be a prime example. I found myself wishing that Grebe would have engaged Barth’s account of the Trinity in such passages as CD IV/1, 253 and CD IV/2, 343, and his distinction between Gottesferne and Trennung (which to my mind clearly distances him from a Moltmann-esque account of the rupture within the Trinity). Grebe’s treatment of the Son of Man and Son of God distinction struck me the same way (94-5). Grebe’s thesis cuts so directly to the core of Barth’s thought, that perhaps this is unavoidable—a book of this scope simply cannot develop the implications of Grebe’s critique in a way that will satisfy those more eager to defend Barth.

Third, my biggest challenge was to understand Grebe when it came to his own account of Jesus’ death for us, for it seemed to fall prey to some of the same criticisms Grebe leveled against Barth. For instance, Grebe argues against a traditional view in which sin is “viewed as a defilement, something that must be removed. It is also seen as a barrier preventing fellowship with God” (182). Rather, sin “is something that resides within the person; so it is not simply an object that can be dealt with. Rather, the sinful nature is intimately bound up with the entire person and it is therefore the person, as opposed to simply the sin, that is sinful and constitutes the problem” (183). Grebe takes Barth to understand sin in the former, traditional sense, allowing for a transfer of sin from ourselves to Jesus, that he might be rejected in our place. Against such a view, “it is not that something needs to be taken away, but that the whole person needs to die, because sin resides within that person, to be resurrected again in order to be with God” (185; cf. 190).

Setting aside whether Barth has such a view of sin (and I am not sure he does), we will focus on Grebe’s constructive work, where he claims: “the whole Christ-event should not be seen as an act that was both negative and positive but rather was a wholly positive act by Jesus that brought humanity into fellowship with God” (p. 193). How one can set aside the negative aspect of Christ’s work while affirming that “the whole person needs to die” is not immediately evident. Grebe affirms that “we do not abrogate the negative aspect of the cross . . . But the No of the Father is not spoken against the Son—instead it is spoken through the Son against Sin” (195; cf. 196). But this seems to be precisely what Grebe was arguing against—an account that treats sin almost as a substance, an entity, which can be addressed apart from or independently of the sinner.

If in fact sin is bound up with the being of the sinner (183), then saying “No” to sin simply is saying “No” to the sinner (cf. 249-50). The question then is whether 1) the “No” is said to the sinner inasmuch as she is in Christ, which is then taken up within the larger “Yes” toward which the passion of Christ is ordered in the resurrection, or 2) put alongside the “Yes” in Christ, in the form of a double-predestination (which Grebe obviously rejects). Reading chapter 4 carefully, I found myself unable to hold together Grebe’s account of sin with his account of Christ’s work in a way which either set Grebe’s view apart from an older Calvinism (which he rejects), or distinguished Grebe’s view from Barth’s own in a way that avoided the simultaneity of the “Yes” and “No” which is so central to Barth’s argument (with the latter always ordered toward and taken up within the former). One of Grebe’s concluding statements would seem to support precisely such a “No” of death, taken up within the “Yes” of the resurrection, both of which happen in Christ, the one rejected for us that we might be reconciled to God in him: “Christ takes humanity’s sinful existence with him into his extraordinary death and in this way makes an end to sinful humanity. However, because humanity is united with him in death, she is also united with him in his resurrection and thus… the person ‘in Christ’ will be given a new resurrection body and be brought into contact with God” (p. 254).

The future of Barth studies lies in moving beyond him, by doing the kind of exegetically informed dogmatics he himself practiced. We find an excellent example of this in Grebe’s interaction with Barth’s exegesis of Lev. 14 and 16. Ultimately, however, I found more resources within Grebe for a Barthian reconstrual of Existenzstellvertretung such as to include a negative component therein, rather than an Existenzstellvertretung correction of Barth such as Grebe wants to provide. This, however, is neither here nor there in the long run, so long as systematic theologians are doing the kind of exegetical and linguistic work Grebe is doing here—for this is precisely the kind of engagement with Barth which will ultimately further the discipline.

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

David Gibson and Daniel Strange, (eds.). Engaging with Barth: Contemporary Evangelical Critiques, (Nottingham: Apollos, 2008)

Engaging with Barth: Contemporary Evangelical Critiques

David Gibson and Daniel Strange, (eds.). Engaging with Barth: Contemporary Evangelical Critiques, (Nottingham: Apollos, 2008), 403 pages. $39.95 (paperback)*

Reviewed by Melanie Webb (February 08, 2012)

If the early days of evangelical interest in Barth’s thought can be characterized as “infatuation” (13), as Carl Trueman insinuates in his foreword to Engaging with Barth, evangelicalism’s relationship with Karl Barth has taken another step towards maturity with this volume. The editors, David Gibson, a minister and doctoral candidate in Aberdeen, and Daniel Strange, a lecturer in culture, religion, and public theology at Oak Hill Theological College in London, have assembled a team of contributors that well represents Anglo-American Reformed evangelicalism, particularly branches of Scottish Presbyterian pedigree. Contributors seek from Barth’s theology both challenging and constructive reflection on their own views, while maintaining the central themes and tenets of traditional Reformed orthodoxy, as represented in such documents as the Canons of Dort and the Westminster standards. Consequently, this volume does not represent the evangelical community as broadly as the title might suggest. While it has some confessional breadth and reaches geographically from the British Isles to the Antipodes to North America, large segments of the broader evangelical picture are absent – e.g., the Wesleyan or Pentecostal traditions.Of the several criticisms of Barth’s theology that recur throughout this volume’s introduction and twelve chapters of this volume, the following four seem most central to the book’s project.

First, Barth’s Christocentrism revitalizes theological discourse but does so by unnecessarily (and unintentionally) reducing the theological enterprise to a Christic principle. Christ is the “determinative reference and model for the construction of Barth’s whole discourse” (22). Yet, for Henri Blocher, Barth’s thought convolutes creation and redemption due to his erroneous reading of Scripture. Blocher summarizes Barth: “Jesus’s manhood existedin the beginning, with the consequence that all human beings, by virtue of (the first) creation, must be said to be ‘in Christ’” (47). In contrast, Blocher contends that “human beings, though they were created by the Logos, are not ‘in Christ’ before they come to distinct faith in him” (48). Blocher’s chapter overlaps nicely with David Gibson’s discussion of Romans 9-11 in Barth’s doctrine of election. While Barth sets forth the name of Jesus Christ as the hermeneutic through which all Scripture is to be read, Gibson argues that “the text begins to warp under the Christological weight it is made to bear. The result is an exegetical treatment that is by turns brilliant and complex, but also ultimately unsuccessful” (138). Blocher and Gibson both criticize Barth for departing from what they take to be Scripture’s meaning (cf. 48). Though Gibson does not draw on Eberhard Busch’s well-known work on Barth’s reading of Romans 9-11, he offers an ingenuitive criticism of election’s place in Barth’s theology.

Perhaps most difficult for traditional Reformed thought is Barth’s concentration of election and reprobation in the one Jesus Christ. A. T. B. McGowan challenges the priority of Christ over Adam in Barth’s treatment of the covenant concept (126; 133). Oliver Crisp also protests the reductive singularity of Jesus Christ, saying that it seems as though “the only person who suffers reprobation and who might, as a consequence of this, be a candidate for punishment in hell, is Christ” (305). A reading of §30 in Church Dogmatics II/1, where Barth explicates hell in terms of the crucifixion, would have considerably strengthened Crisp’s discussion. Crisp engages Barth’s doctrine of election through a comparison with Jonathan Edwards, whom he thinks exemplifies the traditional Reformed focus on God’s sovereign glory and justice in his administration of punishment. Yet for Barth, God’s love of the reprobate in Christ is God’s love of his own enemies; for God to sustain the reprobate as reprobate is for God to contradict Christ’s command to love one’s enemies (CD II/2, 319). In Crisp’s analysis, Barth’s doctrine of election is neither consistent nor coherent according to traditional Reformed principles, particularly that opera trinitatis ad extra sunt indivisa (317). Though Barth himself resisted the employment of principles in the development of theology, Garry Williams’ chapter on Barth’s doctrine of atonement concludes that the problem in Barth’s theology is that his characterization of Jesus Christ does not derive from the full breadth of Scripture (cf. 269). For Williams, as for Gibson, Barth places disproportionate and misleading emphasis on the name Jesus Christ such that it assumes the role of an abstracted principle; even though Barth sought to avoid this, he failed (269; 139).

Second, Barth’s understanding of reflexive intratrinitarian love and the hiddenness of God convolutes his presentation of the incarnation as salvific. In treating Barth’s trinitarian theology, Michael J. Ovey concludes that Barth’s Christology is not conducive of human access to divine love and salvation. Rather, the focus on Jesus Christ as a single divine subject detracts from the believer’s experience of the Father’s love (230). Similarly, in his chapter on the visibility of God, Paul Helm considers the consequences of believing, as Barth does, that “God freely reveals himself and that this revelation of himself is solely and exhaustively in Jesus Christ” (273). He negotiates his reading of Barth on God’s freedom through frequent reference to Bruce McCormack and Paul Molnar’s published debates, and concludes that Barth’s doctrine of God’s freedom enmires him in an unintentional affirmation of the inscrutable hiddenness of God and unreliability of revelation (297-8). Moreover, he avers that Barth is neither consistent with Scripture (298) nor as internally consistent as Calvin (294-6), finally preferring Calvin to Barth. This brings us to a third consistent critique of the volume.

Third, Barth’s thought relies on a doctrine of revelation that grounds the validity of faith in God but does not comply with the law of non-contradiction or traditional reliance on Scripture as consistently reliable revelation. Sebastian Rehnman treats Barth’s explicit comments on contradiction at the head of CD I/1. His discussion attempts to provide an analytic philosophical warrant for Barth’s larger project, but in the end concludes that this is unfeasible (76; 83). He upholds the Athanasian Creed as the standard of which Barth falls short (cf. 70-71). Rehnman is concerned with the validity of truth claims and justified belief, rightly acknowledging that “Barth would counter by stating that the triunity and incarnation of God are known only by revelation” (68). It is worth noting that, for Barth, revelation is all the warrant such claims need. This does not mean that the law of non-contradiction does not matter; only that, although what is revealed may not comply with the law of non-contradiction to our satisfaction, we are not to disregard any aspect of God’s revelation. Rehnmann demonstrates the incompatability of traditional Reformed reliance on right reasoning and Barth’s understanding of the role of God’s revelation in our knowledge of God, but does not address the decisive question of how fallen humanity can rely on reason’s deployment of logical principles for the purpose of knowing God.

In a more engaged reading, Mark Thompson insists that Barth “must be allowed to define himself” (172). In his chapter on Barth’s doctrine of Scripture, Thompson represents Barth in a intelligible manner to an evangelical audience that is committed to Scripture as a consistently reliable source for knowledge of God. Thompson criticizes Barth for collapsing revelation, inspiration, and illumination together as simply revelation. He appreciates the Barthian focus on the humanity of Scripture, but insists on the transformation of human words in God’s choice to employ them for his purposes (cf. 194). Since Thompson assumes a human language prior to redemptive revelation, he implicitly senses the co-identification or conflation of creation and redemption in Barth’s thought. Yet, he does not address Barth’s christologically modified supralapsarianism wherein there are no human words prior to God’s making use of them as he first speaks his “Yes” in the election of Jesus Christ (cf. CD II/2, 127-45, esp. 140-2; CD III/3, 35-9). For Barth, debates regarding mechanical and organic inspiration of Scripture miss the larger redemptive picture to which Scripture is a witness. Nonetheless, Barth’s view of Scripture does not embrace the redemptive historical emphasis, and Thompson does not find it desirable to displace a focus on the arc of redemptive history with a focus on the one man Jesus Christ. Rather, he insists that the words of human authors in the preserved texts might consistently be read as God’s words (cf. 195). Thompson traces Barth’s rejection of a traditional Reformed doctrine of Scripture to a misunderstanding of its central figures inherited from Heinrich Heppe (189) and, in part, Herman Bavinck (105).

Fourth, Barth rejects Reformed orthodoxy due to a misunderstanding of Protestant orthodoxy that he rightfully criticizes but sadly propagates. As a result, Barth’s engagement with the tradition is unreliable, making his recommendations potentially superfluous to the tradition that he failed to understand. Thompson (189), Ryan Glomsrud (87), and Donald McLeod (341) all note Barth’s miscomprehension of Protestant orthodoxy in the centuries following the Reformation. Underneath the assessment that Barth fails to represent fairly Reformed orthodoxy is the suggestion that, had Barth read these figures for himself, he might have found them a fruitful resource for his own theology and not departed as far from the tradition as he did. For instance, McGowan chides Barth for assessing Reformed covenant theology too narrowly in conversation with Johnannes Cocceius while overlooking the likes of John Murray (131-2). Nonetheless, the contributors variously indicate that reading Barth on Reformed orthodoxy requires untangling his historical analysis in order to judge his criticisms in light of his understanding, or lack thereof, of traditional Reformed thought.

For those looking to cross the divide between Barth and evangelicals that is often invoked from both sides of the chasm, Michael Horton’s concluding chapter on Barth’s legacy for evangelical theology is promising. He encourages readers to engage with Barth in a broader ecumenical project while openly affirming his own evangelical identity. Horton explicitly states his intent to join Barth in working with the tradition, and to use him as an ally in “the struggle to define the church and its mission” (374). Those reading Barth should ask not “whether Barth is worthy of being included [in what passes as evangelical today] but whether he would want to be included in such a movement” (374). As a result, Horton pushes against the boundaries of evangelical attitudes towards Barth. Evangelicals may relate to him as an ally without requiring his identification as “one of us.”

Many Barthians will find the majority of essays in this volume dissatisfying because of the commitments that undergird each contributor’s engagement and color their reading of Barth. In many respects, the volume assumes that to be Barthian is incompatible with a robust evangelical identity. Though Barthians may benefit from the present volume, it is not written for them. This volume is for those who are compelled by aspects of Barth’s thought and its impact, and who want to incorporate his insights into their existing theological commitments without compromising the integrity of those commitments and their place in traditional Reformed communities. The editors explicitly locate themselves in the ironically critical trajectory of G. C. Berkouwer and John Webster, both of whom have provided close analyses and appreciative appraisals of Barth’s contributions without either exalting him or denouncing him on account of their other commitments. Engaging with Barth perceives its titular theologian as neither satisfactorily evangelical nor satisfactorily Reformed. It engages with him as a theologian who is, at turns, fashionable, fecund, and frustrating for Anglo-American confessionally Reformed evangelical Christians.

For evangelicals who have read Barth and want critical theological engagement with him, this volume opens up provocative avenues for further discussion. For Barthians, it is worth noting this recent initiation of dialog from evangelicals. The contributors engage much of Barth’s corpus, but sustained consideration of Barth’s doctrine of creation (CD III) is curiously absent in a work that regularly returns to the insufficiency of Barth’s presentation of history and humanity. Indexes of names, subjects, and biblical references are provided along with a select bibliography of Barth’s works. Though not every contributor treats Barth with equal nuance, we can hope that intra-Reformed discussions continue to advance in the trajectory of the contribution made by David Gibson, Daniel Strange, and their array of contributors in Engaging with Barth.

*Ed. note: This work is also available to North American audiences, published by T & T Clark in 2009.

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

David Clough, Ethics in Crisis: Interpreting Barth’s Ethics (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2005)

Ethics in Crisis: Interpreting Barth’s Ethics

David Clough, Ethics in Crisis: Interpreting Barth’s Ethics (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2005), xix + 143. $84.95

Reviewed by Matthew J. Aragon Bruce ()

In this book, David Clough, Tutor in Ethics and Systematic Theology at St. John’s College, Durham, argues that Barth’s theological ethics have, with few exceptions, been misunderstood. He puts forth a constructive proposal for theological ethics by means of a convincing reconsideration of Karl Barth’s ethical thought and its development. Expanding upon his 2000 Yale dissertation, Clough builds upon Bruce McCormack’s criticism of von Balthasar’s thesis and argues that Barth’s theological ethics are in continuity from the second edition of The Epistle to the Romans (Romans II) on through the Church Dogmatics(CD), i.e. Barth’s ethics remained a dialectical “Ethics in Crisis” throughout his work.Clough’s proposal, in short, is that a proper theological ethics will be one that has learned from Barth that we cannot claim to have absolute knowledge of what God’s will is in a particular situation, but neither can we refrain from attempting to discern what it is. Ethics, for Barth, is never a secondary discipline to be distinguished from regular dogmatics. Because of this, theological ethics will be permanently confronted with the crisis brought out by God’s self-revelation in Jesus Christ which puts all human knowledge into question.Clough offers a correction to what he sees as the two major ethical interpretations of Barth. Either Barth has (1) offered a destabilized and irresponsible ethical formulation that gives little room for human action and as such we would do well to leave it behind, or he has (2) supposedly denied that ethical knowledge is possible resulting in a “contentless norm” that is to be praised, at least according to several post-modern thinkers. Clough’s criticism of both of these views is that they have only picked up on one side of the dialectic—the negative side—and have missed out on the positive side altogether. Clough’s analysis is that in Romans II the negative side of the dialectic, human-not-doing, takes up the bulk of the work, functioning as a rhetorical device to get the reader’s attention as to the reality of the crisis. It is only after this does Barth brings in the positive side of the dialectic, God’s Yes and human freedom. Neither side of this dialectic can be left behind in responsible theological ethics, nor are we to strive for a Hegelian synthesis of thesis and antithesis, rather “the brokenness of the relationship between God and humankind and our predicament resulting from it can only be expressed in the brokenness of the language of dialectical theology” (15).

Clough proceeds by a systematic analysis of Barth’s work in Romans II and the CD. In Chapter 2 he discusses Barth’s treatment of specific ethical issues under the headings love and community; and war, peace, and revolution. This corresponds with Chapters 6 and 7 in which Barth’s treatment of these themes in the CD is discussed. These two chapters allow Clough to compare Romans II and the CD, successfully demonstrating the overall continuity, albeit with modification and development, between the thought of the younger and mature Barth.
Clough demonstrates that he is a master of secondary literature. He systematically responds to various critics of Barth’s ethics and shows how they have missed various aspects of Barth’s arguments. From uncompromising critics such as Robert E. Willis to appreciative supporters of Barth’s work like John Webster, Clough demonstrates that the majority of the criticisms are due to an under-appreciation of the dialectic at work in Romans II. He is especially harsh on post-modern interpretations which revel in the supposed lack of structure exhibited by Barth’s ethical formulation. These interpreters are shown to have little grasp of the logic of Barth’s thought and are deftly dismissed.

Particularly insightful is Clough’s treatment of the work of John Howard Yoder. Yoder praises Barth’s work but considers his treatment of preparation for the treatment of war to be inconsistent with his overall consideration of peace and war. Clough points out that while Barth does decidedly move towards pacifism in the CD, any advocacy for either war or strict pacifism would be a violation of Barth’s metaethical principles. However, Clough is no advocate of some sort of “Barthian Scholasticism” and he agrees that Barth’s consideration of preparing for war is inconsistent and offers a correction to Barth that is in continuity with Barth’s overall thought. Clough argues that Barth’s ethics must allow for the possibility that the use of force is the proper response to God’s command, but that there is no mandate for purposively preparing for this action. Christians are to devote their time to preparing for peace; in fact, according to Barth, the Christian vocation is peacemaking. (90-98).

In his discussion of the metaethics of the CD, Clough demonstrates the evolution of Barth’s thought by bringing out the relationship between ethics and election. Barth’s new understanding of election allows for the positive side of the dialectic—human freedom and agency—to be given greater attention. Through the understanding that we are elected to be God’s eternal covenant partners, the role of ethics is now that of seeking an answer to how we should respond to this election and what God wants from us as covenant partners. “The world is still under the judgment of God’s ‘No’ and far distant from its redemption, but we can claim our place as covenant partners of God and be freed for life under the affirmation of God’s ‘Yes’” (64). In the CD, Barth’s ethics take the form of Divine Command Ethics (something he does in the 1928/29 Ethik as well, see below) while retaining a dialectical structure in continuity with Romans II. This dialectical ethics is understood by Clough as follows:

Our ultimate responsibility is to live in accordance with God’s word to us, yet there is no single place we can turn to find it, and do definite methodology to follow. The command is universal, yet particular to each person and each moment in time. We exist in the completed kingdom of God where we are commanded to love God, yet we also exist as those on the way to the Kingdom who are commanded to love our neighbour. We are justified and love with agape, yet are sinners and love with eros. We know we are called to be peacemakers, yet we cannot make pacifism a final absolute. We are called to action of the side of the victims of capitalism, yet we know human forces of reaction and revolution are irrelevant in the face of the revolution of God (113).

In this light, Barth’s ethics is dubbed an “ethics for wayfarers” (theologia viatorum), in which we are called to be faithful, humble, and active in our pursuit of what God would have us do. We cannot impose any structure upon ethics that will impede our listening to the Word of God, nor can we advocate for a “contentless norm” that negates our ability to identify injustice or properly direct our obedience. Clough has masterfully shown that Barth’s ethics avoids these two poles and gives us a critical but substantive theological ethics with which to follow, obey, and remain open to the grace of God.

There is one major deficiency in this volume. Before proceeding to a discussion of the CD, Clough discusses Barth’s work from 1921-1932 (the period between Romans II and the CD). This section coincides with McCormack’s thesis that there was no dramatic shift from dialectic to analogy and supports the reading that dialectic is a consistent aspect in Barth’s thought. The arguments made in this chapter support Clough’s interpretation of Barth and his analysis of the Göttingen and Münster Dogmatics as well as the Anselmbuch, among other of Barth’s works, is excellently done. However, there is no coverage of the posthumously published 1928/29 lecture series on Ethics, nor the 1929 lecture “The Holy Spirit and the Christian Life.” The fact that there is not only no analysis of these works, which are explicitly about ethics, nor even a footnote or bibliographic reference acknowledging the existence of these works is a conspicuous lacuna in a study whose intention is to both explicate and show the development of Barth’s theological ethics. Clough’s study would have been enhanced by the addition of this material, and as there is limited analysis of it in the secondary literature his work would have been all the more original and complete.

This major lacuna aside, this is an excellent book that will quickly become a definite and reliable guide to Karl Barth’s ethics. Not only that, it is a fine piece of constructive theology. Clough’s work is no mere explication of Barth. It moves beyond Barth and does not simply offer corrections to Barth’s work. This study also points out the implications of dialectical ethics so as to serve those who are committed to engaging in ethics and dogmatics which are informed by the self-revelation of God in Jesus Christ.

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

Fout, Jason. Fully Alive: The Glory of God and the Human Creature in Karl Barth, Hans Urs von Balthasar and Theological Exegesis of Scripture (New York: Bloomsbury T&T Clark, 2015)

Fully Alive: The Glory of God and the Human Creature in Karl Barth, Hans Urs von Balthasar and Theological Exegesis of Scripture

Fout, Jason. Fully Alive: The Glory of God and the Human Creature in Karl Barth, Hans Urs von Balthasar and Theological Exegesis of Scripture (New York: Bloomsbury T&T Clark, 2015), 224 pp. $122.00 (hardcover).

Reviewed by Ashleigh Elser (September 21, 2017)

Jason A. Fout’s latest book takes its title from an oft-quoted line from Irenaeus’ Adversus Haereses: “the glory of God is the human being fully alive.” While Fout departs from this popular translation of Irenaeus’ aphorism in the body of his text, preferring a closer rendering of vivens homo as “living human,” his argument about the relationship of divine glory to the human creature remains tethered to the word “fully” in the title’s translation. In Fully Alive, Fout considers how the fullness of divine glory might empower a corresponding fullness of human agency. Contesting the terms of “heteronomous” theologies of glory that tend to narrow or bracket human agency, Fout advances a vision of divine glory as a relational overflow, which exercises our creaturely capacities—and specifically, our capacities for interpretation.Fout outlines the terms of his proposal in chapter 1, arguing for an understanding of divine glory that engenders what he calls a “non-heteronomous dependence” between God and human creatures. “The glory of God, far from dispensing with the self, actually constitutes a self that is capable of glorying God,” Fout writes, “a self which is ‘glorified’ by God in being constituted as an agent” (34). Unlike conventional, heteronomous doctrines of glory that demand “wooden obedience and conformity,” Fout argues that the glory of God enlivens human agency, inviting “conversational, creative response” and making room for the kind of discernment, creative performance, and “faithful questioning” that Fout finds modeled in scripture.

Chapters 2, 3, and 4 take up the writings of two twentieth-century theologians—Karl Barth and Hans Urs von Balthasar. These chapters offer a comparative analysis of two promising but, on Fout’s reading, ultimately narrow accounts of the relationship between divine glory and human agency. While both Barth and von Balthasar depict divine glory in relational terms as an “overflow” of divine joy (Barth) or love (von Balthasar) into creaturely life, Fout argues that these kindred accounts of glory often fail to live up to their own best insights on this score. By presenting a form of determinative “straight-line” obedience or pious self-effacement as the proper human response to God, these theologies of glory bracket out or even evacuate human agency.

While Fout’s criticism of these two accounts of glory proceeds along a number of lines, a central theme (and the one I will focus on here) is his claim that Barth and von Balthasar fail to grapple with the complex picture within the Bible regarding the relationship between divine glory and human agency. For example, Fout argues that Barth’s narrow understanding of the forms of divine revelation results in a correspondingly narrow range of appropriate responses to God. If revelation only comes “in the indicative and imperative or nothing else,” as Barth argues, then obedience to God always demands “precise performance or identical repetition,” with no room for discernment, doubt, creativity, or exploration (73, 101).

Although Fout finds much to commend in von Balthasar’s vision of the relational dynamics of God’s glory, he worries that von Balthasar’s model of relational, self-giving love encourages a “hyperbolic self-dispossession” that ultimately effaces human agency (115). “Although the human is active,” Fout writes, “the human activity seems to be primarily one of keeping one’s own agency in check” (123). Von Balthasar puts forth Mary as an exemplar of this form of self-dispossessing love, but Fout argues that Mary’s response to God is not purely receptive or submissive. Instead, the Gospels depict Mary as one who “questions, discerns, and wonders,” modeling a form of obedience characterized by dialogue and interpretive agency rather than passive, self-emptying assent (141).

The book proceeds in its fifth and final chapter by analyzing the shortcomings of Barth and von Balthasar’s accounts of glory to Fout’s own constructive proposal, grounded in a theological exegesis of select scriptural passages. Taking up material from Exodus, 2 Corinthians, and the Gospel of John, Fout draws out what he calls the “relational” dynamics of God’s glory, reframing it as a matter of God’s “honor, praiseworthiness, and (richly specified) identity” that “effects in creation what it is” (146, 191). As figured in the transfigured countenance of Moses, God’s glory begets glory, makes time for questioning and discernment and makes room for “a creative, responsive obedience, which engages human agency” (187).

This is a book about the meeting of divine glory and the human creature, but it is also, implicitly, a book about revelation. Though human agency appears in a variety of forms throughout this text, questions about interpretive agency remain in the foreground and constitute one of the strongest contributions of this work. How do we understand the relationship between divine glory and human agency as it is preserved in the words of the Bible or in the language and images of our theological tradition? Is God’s revelation self-evident and self-interpreting, or does it invite or even demand the creative, thoughtful participation of human interpretive agents?

Drawing on the work of thinkers like Paul Ricouer, David Ford, and Rowan Williams, Fout places himself firmly in the latter camp and offers his readers several suggestive meditations on the creativity, discernment, and human agency that animate all of our attempts to “think after” God.

Readers of Barth will appreciate the detailed analysis of Barth’s account of divine glory in the Church Dogmatics (CD) II/1 and IV/3.1, as well as Fout’s comparison of Barth and von Balthasar’s treatments of glory, which proves to be both illuminating and provocative. Those acquainted with the last decade of Barth scholarship will be familiar with Fout’s questions about human agency, which animate his reading of the CD. These questions have largely been asked and answered by scholars like Paul Dafydd Jones and John Webster in the direction of Barth’s Christology, which take seriously Barth’s claim that Jesus provides the ontological determination of what it is to be a human being. In this text, however, discussion of Jesus’ human agency seems strangely absent—both in Fout’s analysis of Barth and in his own constructive presentation. Given both the scope of this text and Fout’s interest in scripture, I wondered why Fout did not turn to Barth’s meditation on Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane in CD IV/1. Surely, this is a moment in which Barth’s understanding of obedience makes room for conversation and discernment. Is this event not the very form of “faithful questioning” that Fout has in mind? The omission of any sustained attention to Christ’s human agency seems particularly striking given the fact that the Irenaean aphorism, from which Fully Alive takes its title, appears in context as a statement that primarily refers to the fullness of Jesus’ humanity and then only secondarily to the ways in which God’s glory might be manifest consequently in our own human lives.

There may be reasons, of course, for finding Jesus’ humanity to be an insufficient answer to the incisive questions Fout raises about the relationship of divine glory to human agency, particularly his questions about the human qualities of our theological reflection or the human creativity implicit in the composition and redaction of scripture. Making these reasons explicit would lend further conceptual clarity to Fout’s argument. Even still, Fully Alive is well worth the read—not only for its scholarly contributions to a number of fields (including Barth scholarship), but for the suggestive power of Fout’s proposal that the glory of God might somehow inhere even in our lingering interpretive questions; glory gives rise to thought, and then gives time, and makes room.

Ashleigh Elser, Lilly Postdoctoral Fellow in Humanities and the Arts, Valparaiso University

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

Tyler Wittman, God and Creation in the Theology of Thomas Aquinas and Karl Barth (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2019)

God and Creation in the Theology of Thomas Aquinas and Karl Barth 

Tyler Wittman, God and Creation in the Theology of Thomas Aquinas and Karl Barth (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2019), 328 pp. $105.00 (hardback).

Reviewed by Jeffrey Skaff (September 04, 2019)

It’s hard not to worry when one sees a new book promising to treat two major figures on a major theological topic. Even if the author has mastered two sets of primary and secondary literature well enough to get the exposition of both figures right, the reader often leaves wondering what the point of the exercise was. What do the two accounts of this topic have to do with each another? Why treat them side by side? When this question can be answered, sometimes it’s simply that they have been brought together so that one can be made to beat up on the other. More positively, the reason can be ecumenical. In this book, Tyler Wittman attempts a third approach. He justifies bringing together two figures for a constructive reason.The figures are Thomas Aquinas and Karl Barth. The topic is the God-world relation. Wittman believes both Thomas and Barth can contribute something today to “the confession of God as God” (especially 4-14, 73, 142, 176-7, 253-4, 293-5). Given its frequency, I wish he had spent more time unpacking the phrase. As best as I can tell, it functions as shorthand for two affirmations. First, God must be able to be articulated apart from God’s activity in the world. Second, God’s activity in the world must correspond to who God is. In Wittman’s judgment, both Thomas and Barth can uphold both affirmations and so “confess God as God.” This confession—especially Thomas’s understanding of it—provide an alternative to contemporary doctrines of God guilty of “unwarranted historicism” (279).

The bulk of the book exposits first Thomas then Barth on these matters. The chapters on Thomas concentrate on particular Questions in the Prima Pars of the Summa Theologiae (ST). Given the depth of these questions and the mountains of literature on them, one has to choose certain places to focus one’s energies in giving yet another account of them. Wittman emphasizes three specific things in his reading. First, he highlights Thomas’s “moral concern” in these Questions, by which Wittman means Thomas’s belief that right understanding of God “results in pious gratitude and worship” (29). Second, he interprets the relationship between God’s simplicity and perfection as a “complementary interplay” (87). That is, simplicity and perfection guide theological speech by demanding “reciprocal moments of affirmation and negation” (54). Third, ST I.26, on divine blessedness, is Thomas’s summary of God’s eternal self-sufficient unity.

Not every reader of Thomas will share every interpretative judgment Wittman makes along the way. Some will find it easy to nitpick. But it would also be difficult to disagree with his general conclusions: (1) Thomas offers a robust account of God’s being in itself apart from creation. (2) God’s being in itself encompasses God’s activity in creation.

Similarly, the broad strokes of the exposition in the three Barth chapters will spark little debate, even if the details might. In the first of these chapters, Wittman explores how Barth’s doctrine of God in CD II arises from Barth’s belief that the proper object of theological inquiry is God in God’s relation to the world. The second extends this to Barth’s criticism of nominalism, the term Barth assigns to theologies that ascribe an improper distance between creaturely language about God and God in Godself (179). It is worth noting that Barth includes Thomists and the Protestant orthodox in his criticism. Wittman focuses on Barth’s doctrine of election in the next chapter, highlighting especially how it limits what Barth is willing to say about God’s life apart from creation (239-43).

The expository chapters are all well done. In his treatment of both figures, Wittman is judicious. When he does raise concerns, especially about Barth, he proceeds delicately. He acknowledges well Barth’s motivations, identifies the possible tensions they create, and tries to resolve those tensions. He gives various interpretative camps their due without decisively aligning himself with any of them. His desire to pursue the truth of the matter at stake—rather than resolve an interpretative dispute—assists this charity and agility.

In these chapters many readers of Thomas and Barth will find things to consider they had not before. But as is often the case in works such as these, the claims and arguments of the final chapter are those most worth considering. Here Wittman develops constructive judgments about the differences between Thomas and Barth and about what is at stake in them. He argues that their understanding of theology’s object separates them. For Thomas, it is God in Godself. For Barth, it is God in God’s relation to the world (268-9). I think this might be right and identifying it is one of the great strengths of the book.

What does this formal difference between them amount to? Wittman worries that Barth’s understanding of theology’s task creates material deficiencies in Barth’s understanding of the God-world relationship. He assumes that the ability to give a robust description of God’s existence apart from the world is the only way to maintain God’s non-dependence on the world. Wittman also concludes that metaphysics, and especially metaphysics like Thomas’s, are necessary for properly upholding the distinction between God and creation (see especially 293). In doing so, Wittman joins an increasing number of Protestant theologians (see, for instance, Aquinas Among the Protestants, Manfred Svensson and David VanDrunen, eds). Because Barth does not fully articulate an account of God’s being in itself and cannot because of his reliance on a Hegelian rather than Aristotelian understanding of perfection, Barth also cannot properly uphold the distinction between God and creation. Or so Wittmann concludes.

Other approaches to this constructive issue are possible, approaches that stick closer to Barth. One can share Wittman’s concern for maintaining a God-world distinction while remaining ambivalent about Thomas’s (or anyone else’s) metaphysics. God’s non-dependence on creation may not require a conceptually prior account of God’s existence apart from self-determination for creation. Instead, one need only insist that God’s self-determination is merciful. If God’s determination for the world was externally forced upon God or was necessary for God’s perfection, it would not be merciful. No separation between God’s being and act is needed to uphold God’s independence from creation in God’s activity toward it, only specification of the kind of act God’s self-determination is. Mercy, not metaphysics, bears the material weight here.

Such a move may begin to lessen the distance Wittman perceives between Thomas and Barth on these issues. Like Barth, Thomas believes that mercy stands at the beginning of every work of God (ST I.21.4). Thomas affirms too that God’s will is eternally determined in one specific direction—God does not deliberate. And, finally, for both Thomas and Barth, God’s will is God’s being. As such, finding self-determination for creation in Thomas might not be as difficult as one might think. Bearing out these suggestions will have to wait for another day. This book provoked me to reflect on them. I suspect that will be the case for all who care not only about Thomas and Barth, but also about rightly articulating the relationship between God and creation.

Jeffrey Skaff, Ph.D., Princeton Theological Seminary

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

Johnson, Adam J., God’s Being in Reconciliation: The Theological Basis of the Unity and Diversity of the Atonement in the Theology of Karl Barth, (London: T & T Clark, 2012)

God’s Being in Reconciliation: The Theological Basis of the Unity and Diversity of the Atonement in the Theology of Karl Barth

Johnson, Adam J., God’s Being in Reconciliation: The Theological Basis of the Unity and Diversity of the Atonement in the Theology of Karl Barth, (London: T & T Clark, 2012), x + 220pp. $120.00 ($34.95, paperback)

Reviewed by Scott Rice (January 02, 2014)

If the thought of Karl Barth continues to be appropriated as a theological resource in the English speaking context in years to come, it will be due to the impact of constructive works like this one. In God’s Being in Reconciliation, Adam Johnson (now assistant professor of theology at Biola University) deploys a creative perspective on Barth’s theology that unites scripture’s diverse expressions of Christ’s saving work by way of the doctrine of God. While much current discourse on atonement approaches the subject noting either the plethora of metaphors or cultural variations that might make up a coherent framework, Johnson’s argument, in an improvisation on 2 Cor. 5.19, turns to “the God who was in Christ accomplishing atonement” (5–9). His treatment of Barth results is a refreshing look at how scripture’s diverse ways of speaking about the atonement might be unified by attending to their ultimate ground in the unity-in-diversity of the perfections of God’s triune being.Johnson sets the stage in chapter two by laying out the central features of Barth’s being-in-act ontology and its relation to his doctrine of election. Familiar to most Barth readers, Johnson makes the claim that God’s being is one with his acts of self-manifestation (32), and that this self-manifestation centers upon the person of Jesus Christ (40, 43). In chapter three, Johnson turns to Barth on the Trinity. Two points from this chapter stand out: first, Johnson focusses on the full presence of God in Jesus which results from the divine unity; and second, he highlights how Barth’s use of traditional concepts and maxims for the divine distinctions—like perichoresis andopera trinitatis ad extra sunt indivisa—underscore the dynamic relation of God’s unity-in-diversity. For example, the divine distinctions provide an antecedent basis for God to assume and reconcile the other-ness which is sinful humanity without ontological separation (67, 70, 83). With this treatment of God’s being-in-act, the christological center of God’s self-manifestation and the Trinitarian distinctions in place, Johnson moves on to explicate the connection in Barth’s thought between the divine perfections and the atonement.

Chapter four lies at the heart of Johnson’s argument. In the first half of the chapter, he develops Barth’s inclusion of the divine perfections within the doctrine of the Trinity to unearth its implications for atonement. The result: “the perfections of God’s one being bear the impression of that triunity,” a formal “unity in diversity” pattern in which each perfection belongs wholly and equally to each of the three eternal modes of God’s being (99–100). While each perfection evinces the entirety of God’s essence, the perfections, corresponding with the traditional concept of perichoresis and the opera ad extramaxim, are marked by a unified inter-relation, inseparable from one another (102). Consequently, scripture’s diverse ways of speaking about the atonement that takes place in Jesus Christ—God fully present in the locus of his reconciling ways (chapter 2)—reflects “the oneness and multiplicity of the being of God by witnessing to the role of the divine perfections in Christ’s reconciling work” (125). Theories of atonement can and ought to identify how such ways of speaking are rooted in God’s being without simultaneously claiming exclusivity or primacy for one or another, just as each perfection belongs truly and wholly to God’s self. Moreover, Johnson notes that this approach clears the way for filling out underdeveloped expressions of reconciliation in scripture.

Chapter five reiterates Johnson’s thesis through the perspective of the doctrine of sin. Just as sin in its many variations is revealed in Christ on the cross, so too is revealed the diversity of the divine perfections which there confront sin.

Chapter six is the other particularly innovative section. Here Johnson puts his project to practice at length by developing one such underdetermined salvific expression through the perfection of (omni)presence. This is done by placing scriptural themes concerning God’s presence and absence to Israel and its temple alongside New Testament temple imagery. From this, he offers an atonement theory using a modified version of CDIV’s well known “Four-Fold ‘For Us’” framework: Christ comes as the temple in the form of God’s promised presence; Christ bears the fate of the temple which departs from God, undergoing the divine forsakenness God brings upon himself and remaining present to God when the former temple had not; and finally, Jesus shows himself to be God’s temple, the divine presence which he yields to his church by the Spirit (182–92). Johnson believes that this approach has multiple benefits: (1) it makes explicit otherwise latent themes associated with God’s (omni)presence; (2) it recognizes an important connection between thinking about atonement in both testaments; and (3), it highlights the connection between sin and God-abandonment (193).

God’s Being in Reconciliation is a lucid and well-developed argument which maintains a consistent engagement with prominent Barth scholarship, both past and more contemporary. Most notable, however, is the solution Johnson proffers to the problem of accounting for scripture’s diverse ways of speaking about the atonement by grounding them in the unity-in-diversity of the triune God. It is not only the material content of Johnson’s work that is important, but also the form of his reading of Barth. He takes Barth as a source in the theological task and then creatively applies—and, when necessary, corrects—Barth’s thought to address contemporary theological issues.

A specific implication latent in Johnson’s work is worthy of note. Although he does not go as far as saying that incorporating Israel into atonement theories working with the divine perfections should be, to borrow a phrase from him used elsewhere in the text, a “dogmatic priority,” his temple theory of atonement, immersed in the text of the Old Testament, takes an important step in this direction (120). If Barth is right to say that at the center of God’s being-in-action is the eternal election and actual assumption of a man from 1st c. Judea, then this ought to have a greater impact on all our attempts to understand and articulate the atonement.

The reader will likely ask concerning the resurrection’s place in this work. Johnson admits that he postpones dealing at length with this significant event (along with a more explicit focus on the Holy Spirit) due to the scope of his task and the lacuna in atonement scholarship on this particular subject (199-200). But something is certainly lost if the bifurcation of cross and resurrection does not include an adequate treatment of their inter-relation, even if that bifurcation arises only for heuristic purposes. For instance, in Johnson’s temple theory of atonement, the presence of the Spirit in Christ that is repeated in the lives of believers is possible only on the presupposition that a future has been opened up by the risen one (194). When Johnson does take up the other side of the atoning event, one hopes that he will give attention to the necessary relationship between the cross-event and the resurrection. That said, this criticism and suggestion only intends to strengthen an otherwise excellent and fruitful argument that incorporates Barth’s theology for the present in an admirable way.

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

Hare, John E. God’s Command. Oxford Studies in Theological Ethics (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 2015)

God’s Command. Oxford Studies in Theological Ethics

Hare, John E. God’s Command. Oxford Studies in Theological Ethics (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 2015), 368 pp. $110.00 (hardcover).

Reviewed by Joseph Lim (October 30, 2018)

Morality is an essential feature of religious life. Following God involves discerning which acts one ought to do and seeing them to completion. Behind this ostensibly straightforward principle lie some difficult decisions, as there are diverse metrics by which one can adjudicate between acts. The complications multiply for religious individuals, who must integrate two seemingly discordant claims: God supplies action-guiding commands and prohibitions, but we must also work out for ourselves which acts to pursue and not pursue (1). How then are divine prescriptions ordered to the tall, often bewildering task of determining what one must do? Can divine command, of itself, motivate religious persons to choose the moral life?These questions, among others, animate God’s Command by John Hare, the Noah Porter Professor of Philosophical Theology at Yale University. Though Hare rightly calls the book a “work of philosophy,” justifying his claims via philosophical argumentation rather than by reference to religious texts, he engages with a number of important theologians such as John Duns Scotus and Karl Barth (vi). Seeking to expand the conversation outside Christian circles, Hare also treats Islamic (e.g. Abū Manṣūr al-Māturīdī) and Jewish (e.g. Marvin Fox, David Novak, and Franz Rosenzweig) figures. The book’s impressive breadth notwithstanding, this review will focus primarily on Hare’s argument in relation to Christianity. Barthians in particular will find much of interest in this text. Barth’s theological insights figure prominently as Hare develops his ethical framework and attempts to show how it fits within the Christian tradition.

Chapter 1 begins immediately with Hare’s overall thesis: “what makes something morally obligatory is that God commands it, and what makes something morally wrong is that God commands us not to do it” (1). The claim requires him to first demonstrate morality’s dependence on religion overall. Thus, he provides three arguments, either drawn from or inspired by Immanuel Kant. The argument from providence states belief in God is necessary for the assurance that morality and happiness are consistent. Human beings are both rational and creatures of sense and need. Hence, their highest good is a combination of two irreducible goods: “virtue,” the disposition to live morally, and “happiness,” the fulfillment of one’s sum inclinations (8). Since it is easy to doubt this concurrence is possible (individuals often obtain happiness at the cost of morality and vice versa) one must believe in a God who providentially brings it about. The argument from grace claims that although morality requires one to rank duty over happiness, human beings are radically incapable of doing so. The key for Hare is that “while ‘ought’ implies ‘can’, ‘ought’ does not imply ‘can by our own devices’” (13). This motivates belief in a God who supplies grace to meet the moral demand. Finally, in the argument from justification, Hare claims we should be moral because God commands it. This begs the question: why should we do what God commands? If following divine commands is itself morally obligatory, the argument is viciously circular. Hare answers that the obligation to obey God is not itself generated by divine command, but rather known from its terms. “God” is the supreme good, and the good is to be “loved.” Loving God means sharing God’s ends, which includes willing what God wills for our willing, namely obedience (17-18).

If divine command is indeed the metric for moral evaluation, Hare must describe the features that allow it to bear such a role. This is the central concern of Chapter 2. He begins with an account of prescriptions in general. Whereas descriptions are meant to give truthful accounts of the world, prescriptions aim to bring about change in the world through communication of one’s desires (34). Hare expounds one kind of prescription: divine commands that generate obligation. Such commands do not permit non-compliance, imply punishment will follow from failure to carry out the command, and, crucially, exhibit internal reference to the commander’s authority (49). God, who is sovereign over all ends, supremely good, and perfectly wise to bring them about in the best possible way, has rightful authority to command us (51).

The focus of chapter 3 is the eudaemonist view that all human action aims toward happiness. Since eudaemonism motivates moral living with the promise of happiness, Hare must challenge it in order to maintain divine command as the best reason to be moral. He provides two main criticisms. First, it is not necessarily true that being moral secures happiness, because some sources of happiness fall outside morality’s purview and living morally often comes at the cost of happiness (63-64). Second, being moral only to secure happiness is an “unacceptably self-regarding” motivation (66). For the remainder of the chapter, Hare treats four attempts to defend eudaemonism from this latter criticism. Particularly noteworthy is his response to Jean Porter, who claims “the individual belongs in a nested series of comprehensive general goods: the political community, the natural world, and God’s friends” and that, necessarily, individual happiness can never conflict with these wider goods (89). Hare responds that there are obvious examples where these goods do conflict (e.g. soldiers, for the good of their communities, must kill at the cost of their own happiness). The key here is that, whereas eudaemonists assume happiness alone motivates action, Hare posits a second motivator: duty. If we accept this double-source view of motivation, the question then becomes why we should rank duty over happiness (72). Hare answers that God’s command makes it obligatory.

In Chapter 4, Hare treats deductivism, the competing view that we can deduce our obligations from “natural facts,” i.e. descriptive statements about human properties and actions (99). Finding capacity-based accounts of human nature too restrictive, Hare offers his own: “human beings are by nature such that they are fulfilled, or they reach their end, by loving God” (101). Since we cannot deduce obligations from these terms, obligatoriness is contingent upon divine command alone. Mark Murphy alleges that this leaves us with a dilemma (102). If natural facts never bear upon obligatoriness, it seems actions are moral only because God arbitrarily commands them. But if natural facts are relevant to (though not constitutive of) obligatoriness, they appear to constrain what God commands. Hare finds it unproblematic that divine commands are constrained by human nature, because they aim toward what is good forhuman beings (105). Thus, there is a relationship of “fittingness” between divine commands and human nature. Two important implications follow. First, the good “overridably constrains” and is therefore prior to the obligatory, eliminating Murphy’s worry about divine arbitrariness (105). Second, we can make presumptions, though not outright deductions, about morality from natural facts. Hare elaborates: “We should probably not take something as commanded by God if it does not fit the characteristic kind of loving of God done by a rational animal” (106). For instance, given that human beings reach their end by loving God, we may presume that God would not command us to murder an innocent person, as this would prevent her from properly loving God in the future.

In Chapter 5, Hare discusses three themes in Barth’s treatment of divine command. First, Barth emphasizes divine command’s particularity: “there is for each one of us a specific and unique form of life before God to which we are called” that develops as we attempt to obey God’s commands (144). Hare employs Scotus’ notion of “haecceity” to elaborate this point. An individual’s haecceity, constituted by her “special relations,” distinguishes her from others and generates obligations particular to her (149). Thus, all persons are obligated to love God particularly, as their unique relationships with God demand. Second, Barth claims divine sovereignty complements human freedom. Crucial here is his distinction between “natural freedom,” the capacity to choose one action or another, and “freedom” properly speaking, where one wills to do what God wills for her willing (159). Although human beings can act for the sake of either happiness or duty, they are unable to rank duty over happiness with any characteristic regularity. God’s grace, then, enables us to meet the moral demand, though not irresistibly. We must also align our wills to divine command in prayer (163). Finally, Barth catalogues five features of the phenomenology of receiving a divine command: the command is apprehended clearly and has an external origin, and the commander is familiar, authoritative, and loving (179).

Readers of Barth are sure to benefit from God’s Command. Hare’s consistent employment of Barthian concepts, combined with his sustained engagement with diverse traditions, yields a sophisticated moral framework that places Barth in direct conversation with well-established figures in ethics. This comparative approach sets Hare apart from the more focused efforts of Gerald McKenny, Paul Nimmo, John Webster, and William Werpehowski. Hare emphasizes Barth’s placement of biblical theology at the center of moral “instruction,” providing a compelling alternative to Kirk Nolan’s virtue-based and Matthew Rose’s natural-law-focused readings of Barth’s ethics (152). As Hare attempts to flesh out the mechanics of divine command, he welcomes Barth’s conclusions about human nature. The result is an account that both details the human capacities involved in the reception of divine command and takes seriously traditional Christian commitments. The Christian affirmation that God is love, for instance, far from being relegated solely to the practice of systematic theology, functions as a normative principle for discerning obligatory acts. For theologians seeking to integrate Barth’s theology with his ethical contributions, God’s Command is an exceptional resource. Philosophically rigorous, deeply attentive to theological concerns, and liberal in its interaction with various traditions, it is a must-read for all students of moral theology.

Joseph Lim, MTS Student (Moral Theology), University of Notre Dame

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

Wüthrich, Matthias D. Gott und das Nichtige: Zur Rede vom Nichtigen ausgehend von Karl Barths KD § 50 (Zürich: Theologischer Verlag Zürich, 2006)

Gott und das Nichtige: Zur Rede vom Nichtigen ausgehend von Karl Barths KD

Wüthrich, Matthias D. Gott und das Nichtige: Zur Rede vom Nichtigen ausgehend von Karl Barths KD § 50 (Zürich: Theologischer Verlag Zürich, 2006), 400 pp., € 38.00.

Reviewed by Alexander Massmann (June 27, 2008)

“We are at one in Christ, but not in the devil.” With these words Barth commented ironically on his debate with Lutheran theologians about the devil. In Gott und das Nichtige, Wüthrich takes a close look at the development of Barth’s interpretation of evil, or “das Nichtige” as Barth called it, focusing particularly on section 50 (“God and Nothingness,” CD III/3; 1950), but also on Barth’s thought before and after section 50. He evaluates Barth’s interpretive choices and adds a brief reflection on how to approach the problem today.Wüthrich notes that “nothingness,” an English translation of das Nichtige, is confusing. In its aggressive dynamic, das Nichtige is far from being nothing, while an editor’s note CD even asserts the opposite (CDIII/3, 289). It seems best to retain the German word.

According to Wüthrich, no monograph on Barth’s § 50 has grasped das Nichtige in adequate complexity to date. Krötke’s valuable Sin and Nothingness neglects the role of death, the devil, demons, and chaos. Wüthrich’s monograph is also the first thorough historical reconstruction of Barth’s thought on the matter. Moreover, he treats a vast amount of scholarship in German and English. Over 2,000 footnotes and a few excursuses as well as many sections in small print elaborate profusely on particular details.

Wüthrich identifies as Barth’s strengths his suggestive language and the many phenomena it addresses, his sensibility for collective blindness, and his narrative mode of presentation. However, the weaknesses are “not insubstantial” (335): Barth tends to discount history and denies the human ability to recognize das Nichtigein concrete experiences. In his assertion that das Nichtige is indeed vanquished, Barth “joins Job’s friends” in a problematic attempt to explain evil (369). By contrast, Wüthrich himself stresses the Biblical traditions of lament, which he views as a prerequisite for addressing das Nichtige appropriately.

Wüthrich’s historical-genetical analysis of the concept points to some remarkable developments in Barth’s thought. In III/1 Barth attributes the existence of das Nichtige to God’s permission. Ultimately Satan and all demons are corrupted creatures, and creation can be called “very good” only with the caveat that the beholder penetrate some dark clouds that, paradoxically, have already evaporated due to Christ’s victory. In § 50, by contrast, Barth calls it blindness to confuse the true Nichtiges with creation. Distinguishing das Nichtige from both God and creation, he introduces an elusive third mode of being. Moreover, the shadow-side of creation gains in importance. There are ‘evils’ which belong to creation, and they are not strictly evil or nichtig. Thus creation is unequivocally good and created ‘evils’ need to be distinguished from das Nichtige. Nevertheless, according to Barth, created ‘evils’ are often confused with das Nichtige due to its vicious, elusive character. This goes together with what is likely the most characteristic thought of § 50: Barth’s assertion that the true Nichtiges can only be grasped in Christ’s story; it is recognized only insofar as it is already defeated in Christ’s cross.

Barth’s distinction between das Nichtige and the ‘good’ creaturely ‘evils’ begs the question of how das Nichtige achieves its elusive mode of existence. Barth notes that, according to Schleiermacher, sin – or a lack in the feeling of absolute dependence – presupposes redemption, or the feeling of absolute dependence. While scolding neoprotestantism for belittling evil, Barth praises Schleiermacher for the view that sin only exists in relation to redemption. Since Barth traces redemption back to election, he adapts Schleiermacher’s thought to das Nichtige by applying it to his doctrine of election. As Wüthrich explains, the doctrine of election now drives the development of Barth’s thought. The result is the paradox of God’s generative rejection: God elects humanity and rejects evil, and not only is God’s election effective, but even rejection brings about its object, evil itself – which, however, is not created but only results as that which is condemned to non-existence. Das Nichtige results from redemption since it is ‘willed into being’ by the sheer effectiveness of God’s not willing it.

According to Wüthrich, the apparent logical problem of this construction does not serve a better understanding of Jesus Christ’s story. Instead Barth labors to defend an abstract notion of omnipotence against the idea that God’s sovereign work of salvation is put at risk by evil (103). At the same time, God is so holy that God does not positively will evil, and the concept excludes a Manichean dualism. Wüthrich calls the paradox of rejection a “regulative borderline statement” (”regulative Grenzaussage,” 106) since it is mainly intended to balance two concepts, God’s omnipotence and God’s holiness.

If a “regulative borderline statement” is to be understood along the lines of Kant’s “regulative idea,” Barth would not be trying to describe reality, but would be pursuing heuristic purposes in anticipating the unity of thought by means of a mere hypothesis. However, the paradox of generative rejection does not, in fact, support the notion of omnipotence, as Wüthrich implies (106), and he agrees that it attributes an ultimate, eternal presence to das Nichtige (331f).

Perhaps Barth’s paradox of God’s generative rejection was inspired by Christ’s passion. Wüthrich refers to Barth’s view that at Golgotha, God used das Nichtige as an instrument to defeat das Nichtige (166). In a different context Wüthrich also notes that das Nichtige is active “[u]nder God’s decree*” (35; cf. 328) – according to the first three words of Barth’s summary statement of § 50. It could be added that Barth declares that “even though das Nichtige does not will to do so it is forced to serve [God]…” The very last words of § 50 consider das Nichtige working “for good for those who love God” (III/3, 367f/425). All in all, Wüthrich could have made it even clearer that Barth strongly emphasizes God’s instrumental use of das Nichtige in the very first and last words of § 50 – five years after the liberation of Auschwitz.

Wüthrich points to this problem indirectly when describing how Barth criticized two Lutheran theologians in 1945. They contended that demonic powers had “driven Germans … to all those atrocities” (238f), which Barth considered a rash attempt at exculpation. Along these lines Wüthrich views it as a strength that Barth was critically aware of how a nation or, for that matter, theologians are not protected from collective blindness. Barth acknowledged the power das Nichtige exerts, but he refused to use evil as an escape from responsibility. Wüthrich describes “prevenient structure” in the power das Nichtige exerts, which should not be reduced to the human will or the consequences of sin.

These thoughts underline the elusive character of das Nichtige, which is easy to underestimate. Barth’s christological focus is crucial in pointing this out. Nevertheless, the specific christological focus of CD III also gives rise to the critique that Barth discounts history (Berkouwer). After Christ’s victory over das Nichtige, Barth asserts that it is no more than a fleeting shadow, its power attributable to “the blindness of our eyes” (III/3, 424/367).

At first the supposed lack of historical awareness is countered by Wüthrich’s analysis of Barth’s mode of speech in § 50. The section is repeatedly marked by narrative elements: “Now* [God] … is prepared … [to be] humiliated … and injured by nothingness … Now* He casts Himself into this conflict” (III/3, 411f/356f). This narrative, performative progression slowly transforms the solemn concerns of faith into the joy of Easter. However, the historical texture of Barth’s thought goes even further. In § 69.3 Barth presents Christ’s prophetic work as an ongoing struggle enabling us to recognize Christ’s victory and participate in it. According to Wüthrich Barth considers “the imputation and appropriation of Christ’s victory … utterly fragile and endangered” (314).

Nevertheless, Wüthrich rightly takes issue with Barth’s assertion that das Nichtige is a mere illusion, contrasting that claim with New Testament statements (317). He also observes that the last words of § 69.3, the confession to “Jesus the Victor,” merely reflect the heading “Jesus is Victor,” again conveying the impression that victory is a matter of course. Barth himself admits that sickness “is no illusion” (III/4, 364) and that it may sound “overly* audacious” (III/3, 419/363) to claim that das Nichtige has no objective existence. All in all, there is some truth to the charge that Barth discounts the historical dimension of das Nichtige.

In § 50 Barth denies that anyone could recognize das Nichtige in concrete experiences unless guided by the christological presuppositions of § 50. Wüthrich objects, asking whether it is not Barth, of all people, who is belittling evil (330). Moreover, Wüthrich asks why Barth identifies Christ’s victory over das Nichtige with the cross instead of Christ’s resurrection (167). Human suffering is indeed unlikely to receive due attention if the cross is associated much more closely with victory than with defeat.

Wüthrich’s perceptive analysis rightly points to such problems. However, he seems to stop short of identifying a problem in the evaluation of Barth’s thought. It is reasonable to praise Barth’s sensibility to collective blindness, and it is certainly wrong to distrust individual experience in principle. However, it is problematic to simply choose the good aspect and refuse the negative. Why should the judgment of suffering individuals be immune to blindness, while other collective judgments are not? For example, the 9/11 attacks, perceived by the public as utterly evil, served as a powerful justification for political steps that, in part, wreaked even greater havoc. Thus we are facing a wider, over-arching theological problem in the apprehension of evil.

All in all Wüthrich favors Barth’s interpretation of evil in III/1 to that in III/3. Wüthrich asserts that the characterization of creation as “very good” in Gen 1 encompasses grave ambivalence within creation. Accordingly, his final chapter stresses Biblical instances of lament, which he considers the proper way to approach perceptions of evil. When not pursuing the idea of the good shadow side of creation, Barth is more inclined to accept lament (340); otherwise he tends to consider it sinful defiance. Systematic theology on the whole also neglects the category of lament and ignores drastic suffering – as may, for instance, “praise and worship”-services. Wüthrich draws on Barth’s christological focus, however, in emphasizing Jesus’ cry of dereliction. In the midst of suffering, lament can restore human dignity. Moreover, Wüthrich also assumes that in misery we are faced with God working against God (353; cf. 347), which is, however, in conflict with his case “against the reconciliation of God with misery” (345). He also opts to raise the question of theodicy and to keep it open (374f). God’s omnipotence seems to be tacitly presupposed here, and presumably it would have been beyond the scope of the present monograph to achieve more clarity. Nevertheless, it should be noted that Wüthrich maintains two prerequisites for a new theology of das Nichtige: It should not differentiate between good shadow sides of creation and uncreated evil, but incorporate evil into a more complex view of creation. Further it should approach the problem of evil in a mode of speech that is open to lament.

Wüthrich’s Gott und das Nichtige is a substantive contribution to Barth research and offers subtle advice for addressing the question of evil. Charitable but not uncritical toward Barth, Wüthrich’s judgment strikes a good balance. At times his wealth of information might have been reduced for the sake of a clearer argument. The book presents Barth’s thought on das Nichtige as a theology in transition which retains both faithful and questionable elements of classical theology, which ultimately does not pay enough attention to Biblical aspects, and which dares to chart creative new ways in dogmatics, arriving at sometimes good, sometimes problematic results.

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

Wüthrich, Matthias D. God and Nothingness: The Speech of Nothingness from Karl Barth KD § 50 (Zurich: Theological Verlag Zurich, 2006)

God and Nothingness: The Speech of Nothingness from Karl Barth KD § 50

Wüthrich, Matthias D. God and Nothingness: The Speech of Nothingness from Karl Barth KD § 50 (Zurich: Theological Verlag Zurich, 2006), 400 pp., € 38.00.

Reviewed by Alexander Massmann (June 27, 2008)

“We are at one in Christ, but not in the devil.” With these words Barth commented ironically on his debate with Lutheran theologians about the devil. In Gott und das Nichtige, Wüthrich takes a close look at the development of Barth’s interpretation of evil, or “das Nichtige” as Barth called it, focusing particularly on section 50 (“God and Nothingness,” CD III/3; 1950), but also on Barth’s thought before and after section 50. He evaluates Barth’s interpretive choices and adds a brief reflection on how to approach the problem today.

Wüthrich notes that “nothingness,” an English translation of das Nichtige, is confusing. In its aggressive dynamic, das Nichtige is far from being nothing, while an editor’s note CD even asserts the opposite (CDIII/3, 289). It seems best to retain the German word.

According to Wüthrich, no monograph on Barth’s § 50 has grasped das Nichtige in adequate complexity to date. Krötke’s valuable Sin and Nothingness neglects the role of death, the devil, demons, and chaos. Wüthrich’s monograph is also the first thorough historical reconstruction of Barth’s thought on the matter. Moreover, he treats a vast amount of scholarship in German and English. Over 2,000 footnotes and a few excursuses as well as many sections in small print elaborate profusely on particular details.

Wüthrich identifies as Barth’s strengths his suggestive language and the many phenomena it addresses, his sensibility for collective blindness, and his narrative mode of presentation. However, the weaknesses are “not insubstantial” (335): Barth tends to discount history and denies the human ability to recognize das Nichtigein concrete experiences. In his assertion that das Nichtige is indeed vanquished, Barth “joins Job’s friends” in a problematic attempt to explain evil (369). By contrast, Wüthrich himself stresses the Biblical traditions of lament, which he views as a prerequisite for addressing das Nichtige appropriately.

Wüthrich’s historical-genetical analysis of the concept points to some remarkable developments in Barth’s thought. In III/1 Barth attributes the existence of das Nichtige to God’s permission. Ultimately Satan and all demons are corrupted creatures, and creation can be called “very good” only with the caveat that the beholder penetrate some dark clouds that, paradoxically, have already evaporated due to Christ’s victory. In § 50, by contrast, Barth calls it blindness to confuse the true Nichtiges with creation. Distinguishing das Nichtige from both God and creation, he introduces an elusive third mode of being. Moreover, the shadow-side of creation gains in importance. There are ‘evils’ which belong to creation, and they are not strictly evil or nichtig. Thus creation is unequivocally good and created ‘evils’ need to be distinguished from das Nichtige. Nevertheless, according to Barth, created ‘evils’ are often confused with das Nichtige due to its vicious, elusive character. This goes together with what is likely the most characteristic thought of § 50: Barth’s assertion that the true Nichtiges can only be grasped in Christ’s story; it is recognized only insofar as it is already defeated in Christ’s cross.

Barth’s distinction between das Nichtige and the ‘good’ creaturely ‘evils’ begs the question of how das Nichtige achieves its elusive mode of existence. Barth notes that, according to Schleiermacher, sin – or a lack in the feeling of absolute dependence – presupposes redemption, or the feeling of absolute dependence. While scolding neoprotestantism for belittling evil, Barth praises Schleiermacher for the view that sin only exists in relation to redemption. Since Barth traces redemption back to election, he adapts Schleiermacher’s thought to das Nichtige by applying it to his doctrine of election. As Wüthrich explains, the doctrine of election now drives the development of Barth’s thought. The result is the paradox of God’s generative rejection: God elects humanity and rejects evil, and not only is God’s election effective, but even rejection brings about its object, evil itself – which, however, is not created but only results as that which is condemned to non-existence. Das Nichtige results from redemption since it is ‘willed into being’ by the sheer effectiveness of God’s not willing it.

According to Wüthrich, the apparent logical problem of this construction does not serve a better understanding of Jesus Christ’s story. Instead Barth labors to defend an abstract notion of omnipotence against the idea that God’s sovereign work of salvation is put at risk by evil (103). At the same time, God is so holy that God does not positively will evil, and the concept excludes a Manichean dualism. Wüthrich calls the paradox of rejection a “regulative borderline statement” (”regulative Grenzaussage,” 106) since it is mainly intended to balance two concepts, God’s omnipotence and God’s holiness.

If a “regulative borderline statement” is to be understood along the lines of Kant’s “regulative idea,” Barth would not be trying to describe reality, but would be pursuing heuristic purposes in anticipating the unity of thought by means of a mere hypothesis. However, the paradox of generative rejection does not, in fact, support the notion of omnipotence, as Wüthrich implies (106), and he agrees that it attributes an ultimate, eternal presence to das Nichtige (331f).

Perhaps Barth’s paradox of God’s generative rejection was inspired by Christ’s passion. Wüthrich refers to Barth’s view that at Golgotha, God used das Nichtige as an instrument to defeat das Nichtige (166). In a different context Wüthrich also notes that das Nichtige is active “nder God’s decree*” (35; cf. 328) – according to the first three words of Barth’s summary statement of § 50. It could be added that Barth declares that “even though [das Nichtige] does not will to do so it is forced to serve [God]…” The very last words of § 50 consider das Nichtige working “for good for those who love God” (III/3, 367f/425). All in all, Wüthrich could have made it even clearer that Barth strongly emphasizes God’s instrumental use of das Nichtige in the very first and last words of § 50 – five years after the liberation of Auschwitz.

Wüthrich points to this problem indirectly when describing how Barth criticized two Lutheran theologians in 1945. They contended that demonic powers had “driven Germans … to all those atrocities” (238f), which Barth considered a rash attempt at exculpation. Along these lines Wüthrich views it as a strength that Barth was critically aware of how a nation or, for that matter, theologians are not protected from collective blindness. Barth acknowledged the power das Nichtige exerts, but he refused to use evil as an escape from responsibility. Wüthrich describes “prevenient structure” in the power das Nichtige exerts, which should not be reduced to the human will or the consequences of sin.

These thoughts underline the elusive character of das Nichtige, which is easy to underestimate. Barth’s christological focus is crucial in pointing this out. Nevertheless, the specific christological focus of CD III also gives rise to the critique that Barth discounts history (Berkouwer). After Christ’s victory over das Nichtige, Barth asserts that it is no more than a fleeting shadow, its power attributable to “the blindness of our eyes” (III/3, 424/367).

At first the supposed lack of historical awareness is countered by Wüthrich’s analysis of Barth’s mode of speech in § 50. The section is repeatedly marked by narrative elements: “Now* [God] … is prepared … [to be] humiliated … and injured by nothingness … Now* He casts Himself into this conflict” (III/3, 411f/356f). This narrative, performative progression slowly transforms the solemn concerns of faith into the joy of Easter. However, the historical texture of Barth’s thought goes even further. In § 69.3 Barth presents Christ’s prophetic work as an ongoing struggle enabling us to recognize Christ’s victory and participate in it. According to Wüthrich Barth considers “the imputation and appropriation of Christ’s victory … utterly fragile and endangered” (314).

Nevertheless, Wüthrich rightly takes issue with Barth’s assertion that das Nichtige is a mere illusion, contrasting that claim with New Testament statements (317). He also observes that the last words of § 69.3, the confession to “Jesus the Victor,” merely reflect the heading “Jesus is Victor,” again conveying the impression that victory is a matter of course. Barth himself admits that sickness “is no illusion” (III/4, 364) and that it may sound “overly* audacious” (III/3, 419/363) to claim that das Nichtige has no objective existence. All in all, there is some truth to the charge that Barth discounts the historical dimension of das Nichtige.

In § 50 Barth denies that anyone could recognize das Nichtige in concrete experiences unless guided by the christological presuppositions of § 50. Wüthrich objects, asking whether it is not Barth, of all people, who is belittling evil (330). Moreover, Wüthrich asks why Barth identifies Christ’s victory over das Nichtige with the cross instead of Christ’s resurrection (167). Human suffering is indeed unlikely to receive due attention if the cross is associated much more closely with victory than with defeat.

Wüthrich’s perceptive analysis rightly points to such problems. However, he seems to stop short of identifying a problem in the evaluation of Barth’s thought. It is reasonable to praise Barth’s sensibility to collective blindness, and it is certainly wrong to distrust individual experience in principle. However, it is problematic to simply choose the good aspect and refuse the negative. Why should the judgment of suffering individuals be immune to blindness, while other collective judgments are not? For example, the 9/11 attacks, perceived by the public as utterly evil, served as a powerful justification for political steps that, in part, wreaked even greater havoc. Thus we are facing a wider, over-arching theological problem in the apprehension of evil.

All in all Wüthrich favors Barth’s interpretation of evil in III/1 to that in III/3. Wüthrich asserts that the characterization of creation as “very good” in Gen 1 encompasses grave ambivalence within creation. Accordingly, his final chapter stresses Biblical instances of lament, which he considers the proper way to approach perceptions of evil. When not pursuing the idea of the good shadow side of creation, Barth is more inclined to accept lament (340); otherwise he tends to consider it sinful defiance. Systematic theology on the whole also neglects the category of lament and ignores drastic suffering – as may, for instance, “praise and worship”-services. Wüthrich draws on Barth’s christological focus, however, in emphasizing Jesus’ cry of dereliction. In the midst of suffering, lament can restore human dignity. Moreover, Wüthrich also assumes that in misery we are faced with God working against God (353; cf. 347), which is, however, in conflict with his case “against the reconciliation of God with misery” (345). He also opts to raise the question of theodicy and to keep it open (374f). God’s omnipotence seems to be tacitly presupposed here, and presumably it would have been beyond the scope of the present monograph to achieve more clarity. Nevertheless, it should be noted that Wüthrich maintains two prerequisites for a new theology of das Nichtige: It should not differentiate between good shadow sides of creation and uncreated evil, but incorporate evil into a more complex view of creation. Further it should approach the problem of evil in a mode of speech that is open to lament.

Wüthrich’s Gott und das Nichtige is a substantive contribution to Barth research and offers subtle advice for addressing the question of evil. Charitable but not uncritical toward Barth, Wüthrich’s judgment strikes a good balance. At times his wealth of information might have been reduced for the sake of a clearer argument. The book presents Barth’s thought on das Nichtige as a theology in transition which retains both faithful and questionable elements of classical theology, which ultimately does not pay enough attention to Biblical aspects, and which dares to chart creative new ways in dogmatics, arriving at sometimes good, sometimes problematic results.

The views here are strictly Expressed Those of the author; They Do not Necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

Matt Jenson, The Gravity of Sin: Augustine, Luther, and Barth on Homo Incurvatus in Se (London: T & T Clark, 2006)

Matt Jenson, The Gravity of Sin: Augustine, Luther, and Barth on Homo Incurvatus in Se (London: T & T Clark, 2006), xii + 202. $39.95

Reviewed by Jason T. Ingalls (July 23, 2008)

We need to hear more about sin. While Matt Jenson’s thesis is more nuanced, his recent volume seems to be saying just that. Jenson claims that we have lost a specific way of speaking and thinking about our human condition and that this loss does a disservice to ourselves and our fellow human beings. So, in Jenson’s account, not only do we need to hear more about sin, but we also need to be able to conceptualize and talk about sin in ways that are true both to our experience and to the revelation of God in Jesus Christ.In an attempt to find better ways to think and talk about the pernicious reality of sin, Jenson introduces, expounds, and extrapolates the notion of homo incurvatus in se – “humanity ‘curved in on itself’” (2) – as a basic paradigm that helps us describe, name, and identify sin in a relational context. Taking the relational turn in contemporary ontology, theology, and anthropology for granted, he argues that “the image of being ‘curved in on oneself’ is the best paradigm for understanding sin relationally, that it has sufficient explanatory breadth and depth to be of service to contemporary Christian theology” (4). St. Augustine of Hippo, Martin Luther, Daphne Hampson, and Karl Barth are his able conversation partners.

Jenson starts with St. Augustine because it is here that theincurvatus in se conception begins to develop. Augustine is important for a relational idea of sin precisely because, as Jenson shows, Augustine’s doctrine of sin is already relational in character. Jenson carefully outlines Augustine’s thought, starting with the prelapsarian human condition and spending time with Augustine’s explication of Genesis 1-3. Before the Fall, Augustine characterizes human beings as necessarily relational and social in character, with reference both to God and each other (8). Augustine’s conviction that “in Adam all sinned” is basically relational (16) and the origin of evil is placed squarely in the human will (cf. 20) as a privation of the will. In other words, sin is a turning of the will away from its proper object. Sin is a break in relationship with God that leads necessarily to a break in relationship with others. In sin, human beings fall into slavery to themselves and cease to live lives of freedom in the sight of God. Humanity’s choice to be radically autonomous from God is the root of all evil. This ugly root Augustine calls pride, and the antidote he gives is humility. Augustine’s humility is not a self-abasement, as some might think, but a realization of one’s ontological participation in God and one’s redemption in Christ (cf. 9-13). This humility is highly relational, requiring a turning away from the self to God and others. Jenson does a fine job of showing that the “ambiguous inwardness” of De Trinitate, with Augustine’s admonition to look within for the imago dei, does not vitiate the basic relationality of Augustine’s account.

Where Jenson critiques Augustine is that the “in then up” account of human relationality in De Trinitate is not yet “sufficiently Christian” because Augustine’s Christ “remains a glorious via rather than a redefinition of Augustine’s God” (43-44). Augustine conceives of humanity as necessarily relational but the relation is between the soul and the “fleshless God.” Christ’s human nature is a type of “shortcut” to divinity, and his mediation ceases at the eschaton to be replaced by the beatific vision. Jenson argues that Augustine did not follow his relational insights through “to a sufficiently objectivist, extrinsic and materially mediated account of the Christian life” (46), though Jenson considers Augustine’s idea of humility as a turning away from the self to God and others as a step in the right direction.

Martin Luther radicalized and reorganized Augustine’s insights around the guiding metaphor of homo incurvatus in se. Accepting Augustine’s basic emphasis on pride and humility, Luther applies incurvature not only to the totus homo but also to homo religiosus, thereby rejecting any type of incremental growth in righteousness that remained in Augustine’s thought. Luther also radicalizes Augustine’s ideas about the order of loves in which the soul climbs higher and higher through desire until it finds its rest in God. Since even the religious person is curved in on itself, desire has no place. Pride is the paradigmatic sin, as it was in Augustine, and the prideful person can desire nothing but themselves. Our desires cannot take us to God. Only faith can do that. In radicalizing incurvature, however, Luther retains the basic structure of ascent in Augustine’s thought while replacing desire with faith and grounding it in the mediation of Christ in a way that Augustine did not. According to Jenson’s reading of Luther’s famous dictum simul iustus et peccator, we are all – even the most pious among us – completely trapped and curved in on ourselves while simultaneously being turned out from ourselves by our faith in Christ.

Pride is the paradigmatic sin for both Augustine and Luther, but Jenson does not think this account is adequate. This leads him to interact with feminist theologian Daphne Hampson’s post-Christian critique of Luther in order to complicate the pride-as-sin paradigm. Hampson critiques the Augustinian tradition’s understanding of incurvature by arguing that considering pride to be the paradigmatic sin does not account for women’s experience of sinfulness. Hampson argues that women’s cardinal sin is not pride, but is rather a lack of self-assertion, a falling back into oneself that she names self-diffusion or sloth. It is here that Jenson does his best work in applying Hampson’s insight that the pride-as-sin paradigm is insufficient while offering a substantial critique of her post-Christian feminism. Challenging Hampson’s implied gender essentialism, Jenson acknowledges that he himself needs the grammar of sloth and self-diffusion to speak of his own sinfulness and that it would be a tragic waste if we were to deny women and men the ability to speak of their sinfulness as either pride or sloth, for they are “complementary aspects of the same pathology” (129, quoting McFadyen, Bound to Sin, 156). Whether, to follow Kierkegaard, the sin is “in despair willing to be oneself” (pride) or is “in despair not willing to be oneself” (sloth), the basic pathology is still an incurvature, either in activity or passivity.

It is in conversation with Karl Barth that Jenson finally develops the “sufficiently objectivist, extrinsic and materially mediated account of the Christian life” that he wanted from Augustine (46). Barth defines human sinfulness by means of Christology and plots his three forms of sinfulness (falsehood, pride, and sloth) along a Christological grid. The first sin, and the covering for the other two, is falsehood in which the human being denies the knowledge that the life, death, resurrection, and ascension of Jesus Christ includes them and was for them by grace. But once human beings become aware of this claim, their reaction is characterized by the other two forms of sinfulness: pride or sloth. In pride, we deny our participation in Jesus Christ’s servant humility, thus trying to establish our own being. In sloth, we deny our participation in Jesus’ royal resurrection and ascension where we are set in him at the right hand of God the Father. In pride, we amplify our being in order to deny the call to humility. In sloth, we subsume our being in order to deny the call to victory. Whether by self-assertion or self-diffusion, we try to deny what is basically true of us in Barth’s account: we are established from all eternity in the person and work of Jesus Christ.

The greatest strength of Jenson’s work is his ordered emphasis on revelation and experience. It seems that for Jenson an account of sin must not only make sense dogmatically; it must also illumine the experience of people trying to use the grammar of faith to describe their own sinfulness. This ordered twin emphasis allows Jenson to handle Hampson’s critiques fairly and charitably. By accepting that pride-as-sin is not sufficient to describe both women’s and men’s experience of sinfulness, he opens the door for an expanded grammar and vocabulary that does justice both to revelation and the lived Christian life. By allowing pride and sloth to be different expressions of incurvature, Jenson broadens the metaphor of homo incurvatus in se in dogmatically and practically helpful ways.

That Jenson sometimes loses focus on his topic is this book’s greatest weakness. His descriptions are accurate, fair, and charitable, but sometimes he gives lengthy explanations at the expense of clarity, concision, and analysis when simple descriptions should suffice. Yet, in a theological world in which thinkers like Augustine, Luther, Hampson, and Barth are consistently stereotyped and pigeon-holed, one wonders how else Jenson could have advanced his argument to those whose minds he would like to change. If it is true, as he claims, that a relational ontology coupled with a relational understanding of sin as incurvature are the best ways to conceive of the human person in relationship with God and the world, then, perhaps, he can be forgiven going the extra miles necessary to reclaim the ideas of these thinkers (especially Augustine) for contemporary theological reflection.

G. K. Chesterton in his Orthodoxy said that the truly remarkable thing about Christianity is not that it predicted the obvious things about humanity but that it instead foresaw the obscure and difficult ones. It is the same with Jenson’s account here. By resuscitating and expanding homo incurvatus in se as a metaphor for sinfulness, Jenson points to something unexpected but true about us and about the world: we need to hear more about sin. In The Gravity of Sin, Jenson proves himself an able guide to this rediscovery of ourselves.

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

Rosner, Jennifer M. Healing the Schism: Karl Barth, Franz Rosenzweig, and the New Jewish-Christian Encounter (Bellingham, WA: Lexham Academic, 2021)

Healing the Schism: Karl Barth, Franz Rosenzweig, and the New Jewish-Christian Encounter

Rosner, Jennifer M. Healing the Schism: Karl Barth, Franz Rosenzweig, and the New Jewish-Christian Encounter (Bellingham, WA: Lexham Academic, 2021), 288 pp. $ 34.99 (paperback).

In this second edition of Healing the Schism: Karl Barth, Franz Rosenzweig, and the New Jewish-Christian Encounter, Jennifer Rosner brings a new perspective to healing the ancient tensions inherent in Jewish-Christian dialogue. She begins by highlighting the main causes of this ancient schism. Then, from the work of Scott Bader-Saye she identifies four key events, “[which] set the frame for … a new chapter in Jewish-Christian relations …” (246): the collapse of Christendom, the Holocaust, the creation of the modern state of Israel and rise of the Messianic Jewish movement. Rosner believes that these events have contributed to a “widespread reassessment of the relationship between Christianity and Judaism” (2).

Rosner’s study explores “these developments from a theological and doctrinal perspective, focusing specifically upon the Christological and ecclesiological revisions that have accompanied and provoked this widespread assessment” (3). To do this, she journeys with key twentieth and twenty-first century Jewish and Christian theologians who have “significantly contributed to the theological re-envisioning of the relationship between Judaism and Christianity” (3). She asks each of them a key doctrinal question posed by Catholic theologian Bruce Marshall: “To what extent does their thought affirm (or contribute to the affirmation of) both the universal, ecclesially mediated saving mission of Christ and the irrevocable election of the Jewish people, which necessarily includes the ongoing practice of Judaism?” (9).

Karl Barth’s doctrine of election and its relationship to the command of God is the focus of Rosner’s first chapter. For Barth, Jesus Christ is “both the elect man and the electing God” (45) where Israel represents “the elect man (who turns away from the electing God)” and the church represents “the electing God (who turns towards the elect man)” (48). Despite Israel’s resistance to their election and the church’s calling on the grounds of its election, both Israel and the church are elect in Christ (49). Whereas for Barth the church is “the perfect form of the one community of God” reflecting God’s mercy to humanity, Israel witnesses to the judgment from which God has rescued humanity (49).

Rosner rightly recognizes that because Barth grounds the election of Israel within the election of Christ, “Israel is not ultimately at liberty to determine its own destiny” (73). Furthermore, Barth’s consistently negative portrayal of Israel and the “Synagogue” informs his understanding of Jesus’ Jewishness (72). Rosner explains: “Barth offers a theologically powerful understanding of Israel’s existence in Christ, but he lacks an adequate conception of Christ’s existence in Israel. Here Barth’s de-historicized Christology yields an anemic portrayal of Jesus’ Jewishness” (75). In tandem with Stephen Hayes, she believes that Barth’s understanding of Jewishness is primarily grounded in being a negative model of humanity which, while chosen and called by God, does not respond to God (83). This understanding has led Barth to “unwaveringly condemn rabbinic Judaism” (84) because for him there is no sense in which “Jesus himself conformed to Jewish practice, nor any indication that he taught his Jewish followers to do likewise” (77). Ultimately, “while Barth safeguards the Jewishness of Jesus as an essential feature of his Christology, he fails to reckon with the practical implications of this claim” (78).

Rosner concludes that Barth’s doctrine of election and Christocentric ecclesiology strongly uphold the first part of Marshall’s framework. However, with regard to the Jewishness of Jesus, Barth does not leave room for a positive assessment of Judaism “that is not explicitly centered on Christ” (94). Thus, Barth fails to satisfy the second part of Marshall’s question.

Chapter two turns to Franz Rosenzweig, attempting to discover how his work might complement that of Barth. Rosner focuses on Rosenzweig’s seminal work The Star of Redemption, particularly part 3 where Rosenzweig “fleshes out the relationship between Judaism and Christianity’’ and their “parallel yet distinctive trajectories towards redemption” (98). Redemption for Rosensweig is “the process by which man, awakened to revelation, loves his neighbor and thereby the world” (98). For Rosensweig, Judaism ushers in redemption. As Rosner summarizes, “Like the burning core of a star, their [the Jewish people’s] existence must continue to burn without reference to the outside… The Jewish people’s vocation is characterized by a prescribed inwardness, and it is within this inwardness that it lives out the commission of love of neighbor” (100). Christianity on the other hand is represented by the rays that emanate from the core of the star and “exist only by virtue of the burning core” (100). Rosner helpfully notes that for Rosenzweig, Christianity, unlike Judaism ushers in redemption by being dependent upon its “outward promulgation” and is by necessity “missionary” (106). She points out that Rosenzweig understands Christianity and Judaism “as counterweights for one another, each preventing the other from falling into the dangers that perpetually tempt it” (110). The dangers inherent in each faith arise in Rosner’s words, “from their separate but corollary tasks and foundations” (112). She explains that for Rosenzweig, because Christianity has pagan roots, there will always be a danger of deifying that which is not God, be it people or the world. Judaism’s biggest danger on the other hand is in becoming too insular and forsaking “the rest of the world” (112).

Ultimately God “who is truth, is only fully made known in the eschaton when the deep division of Judaism and Christianity is finally and ultimately reconciled” (110). Hence Judaism and Christianity “verify truth in their own way” with the Jew “being born into his vocation” while the Christian is “awakened” into his (110). For Rosenzweig, redemption has universal scope albeit through the different and “mutually exclusive” vocations of Jews and Christians (129).

Rosner argues that in Rosenzweig’s thought “the twin vocations of Judaism and Christianity, the dual loci of redemption’s proleptic presence … reinforce the juxtaposition between Christ and the Jewish people” (129). This coupled with the fact that for Rosenzweig, Jesus “never completely dons a Jewish identity” leaves the first part of Marshall’s framework unfulfilled (143). However, Rosner notes that Rosenzweig construes Torah observance as a means by which Jewish people “live into redemption” (143). In other words, “Torah observance is the actualization of the Jewish people’s election” (143). As such, Rosenzweig’s work upholds the second part of Marshall’s framework (143).

In Chapter 3 Rosner examines “a small constellation of post-Holocaust Jewish and Christian theologians who both build upon and extend the trajectories charted by Barth and Rosenzweig” (145). They include Thomas Torrance, Will Herberg, Michael Wyschogrod, Ignaz Maybaum, R. Kendall Soulen, Scott Bader-Saye, Robert Jenson, George Lindbeck, and David Novak, among others. In reviewing their work, Rosner notes that their theologies come across similar dangers to that of the theologies of Barth and Rosenzweig (perhaps due to their respective proximities to Barth and/or Rosenzweig’s thought). One danger is the “summing up [of] Israel’s vocation in Christ to such an extent that the Jewish people do not retain any positive vocation of their own” (191). This is to “essentially collapse Israel into Christ” (191). The opposite extreme is also problematic – that of preserving Israel’s ongoing positive vocation at the expense of diminishing Christ “such that he becomes merely an exemplary model of Israel’s faithful obedience” (192). Yet still, “a more pronounced version of this danger can be seen in the dual-covenant model, whereby Christ’s significance never even makes contact with the people of Israel” (192).

At the end of this chapter Rosner surmises that while the work of the post-Holocaust theologians partially bridges the gap between Barth and Rosenzweig, there is, as of yet, no “clear picture of how Israel’s unique mission can be preserved while simultaneously upholding the connection forged through Christ between Israel and the church” (195). A constructive theology that satisfies both parts of Marshall’s question, seems at this juncture, “elusive” (196).

For Rosner, the Messianic Jewish community has the potential to play a pivotal role in this endeavor, and it is at this point, in the fourth and final chapter of her book, that she introduces the theology of Mark Kinzer. For Kinzer “Israel’s enduring covenantal vocation and Yeshua’s pivotal role in the divine plan are central presuppositions of Messianic Jewish theology” where Messianic Judaism is seen as a branch of Judaism and not Christianity (Rosner quoting Kinzer, 199). Kinzer contends that Jesus is “the essential link between Judaism and Christianity… as the thoroughly Jewish Messiah of Israel” and “Lord of all creation” (202). This implies that the church and the Jewish people are mutually dependent upon one another: “While the church is tasked with holding the Jewish Messiah before the eyes of the Jewish people, the Jewish people are tasked with reminding the church just what that Messiah’s Jewish identity entails” (212).

Rosner notes that for Kinzer, Christ fulfils Israel’s destiny to carry out its two-fold mission of “ushering creation into consummation” and in “defeating the forces of chaos” that threaten it (213). But in doing so she recognizes that Kinzer portrays the Jewish people as unwitting yet indelible participants in “the redemptive work of their unrecognized Messiah” (225). Because of the permanency of Israel’s role in God’s redemptive plan for the world, Rosner explains that Kinzer proposes a twofold ecclesiology that comprises three distinct yet interrelated ecclesial groups: the people of Israel as one group, the body of Christ as a second group with a third bridging group comprised of Messianic Jews which in Rosner’s words acts as an “an overlapping subsection of both Israel and the church” (225-226).

In this model the Messianic Jewish community acts as an “ecclesiological bridge” between Christianity and Judaism and not as a missionary endeavor to the wider Jewish community. Rosner describes the model as serving “as a witness to Israel of the abiding presence of its Messiah in its midst, and as a witness to the larger Christian church of God’s unfailing love for and election of the Jewish people” (231). She notes that this is the central tenet or “capstone” of Kinzer’s theological system: a “bilateral ecclesiology” where Jews and Gentiles coexist as the ekklesia (232). This model is “an extension of the people of Israel by virtue of Christ and the ongoing presence of the remnant (that is, the Messianic Jewish community)” (238).

While the bulk of Kinzer’s theology has yet to be written, Rosner recognizes that there are concerns about his project, chiefly around his understanding of Christology, soteriology and salvation. Marshall wonders if “bilateral ecclesiology” could collapse into syncretism. Therefore, Rosner rightfully believes that Kinzer’s theology requires more development and clarification on these as well as other issues. But she is equally convinced that Kinzer’s thought provides “a workable answer to Marshall’s question” in that it is uniquely capable of honoring the core convictions of both Judaism and Christianity by affirming “the universal applicability of Christ’s mission and call to discipleship without undermining or eclipsing Israel’s unique covenantal vocation” (238).

However, Rosner concludes her book by admitting that Kinzer’s vision gives rise to an unavoidable challenge: “If the kinds of communities that Kinzer is advocating prove somehow unsustainable, this will be a direct reflection upon the theological paradigm undergirding both those communities. However, if such communities continue to grow and thrive, perhaps this will be an additional sign that Messianic Judaism does indeed have a unique and significant contribution to make” (251-252).

While Kinzer recognizes that his thought “raises as many questions as it answers” (244), one also wonders if Marshall’s question could ever be fully answered. It has to be recognized that Christianity and Judaism hold to separate and competing truth claims. On the one hand, Christianity holds that the Messiah has already come. On the other, Judaism holds that the Messiah has yet to come. It is in this space that Jewish-Christian relations exist where Kinzer’s recognition of the limitations of his position has the potential to be a useful guide for the thought of others.

However, notwithstanding the enormity of the task at hand (most notably regarding the theological work that needs to be accomplished), Rosner’s work, as a critically constructive commentary on the new Jewish-Christian encounter, stands as foundational to any future discussion about the role that Messianic Judaism might play in Jewish-Christian dialogue. She writes with integrity and clarity, providing insight into some of the deepest challenges that Christianity and Judaism face as we continue to journey together into the twenty-first century. As someone involved in Jewish-Christian dialogue at a local level, I for one appreciate her contribution. But I also recognize that Messianic Judaism is very much a minority position betwixt those of world-wide Judaism and Christianity. I agree with Rosner’s conclusion and wait to see if Messianic Judaism will be a bridge between these two world faiths for the majority of participants of either faith.

Glenn A. Chestnutt, Lead Minister, The Church of St. Andrew and St. Paul, Montreal

Paul Dafydd Jones, The Humanity of Christ: Christology in Karl Barth’s Church Dogmatics (London: T&T Clark, 2008)

The Humanity of Christ: Christology in Karl Barth’s Church Dogmatics

Paul Dafydd Jones, The Humanity of Christ: Christology in Karl Barth’s Church Dogmatics (London: T&T Clark, 2008), xiii + 290. $130.00 / £65.00

Reviewed by Darren O. Sumner (April 20, 2010)

The Humanity of Christ supplies the field of contemporary Barth scholarship with one of its most significant works of the twenty-first century so far through a thorough examination of a major locus in Barth’s theology. Originating as a doctoral dissertation at Harvard University and recently honored with the Templeton Award, Paul Dafydd Jones’ book examines Christology diachronically through the Church Dogmatics. As the title suggests, at issue for Jones – associate professor at the University of Virginia’s Department of Religious Studies – is Barth’s robust account of the humanity of Jesus Christ, in opposition to the common charge “that Barth’s strong affirmation of Christ’s divinity makes for an enfeebled account of Christ’s humanity” (3). Meticulously researched and organized, the work synthesizes much of theDogmatics, offering summaries and insightful analysis of Barth’s theology.According to Jones, Barth strikes a vital balance between affirming Jesus Christ’s ontological complexity and personal simplicity in an ordering of divine-human relations that identifies Christ’s human work as that of “‘correspondence’ to God’s prevenient direction” (5). Apart from a summary introduction and a conclusion that briefly inquires into the application of Barth’s Christology for ethics and political theology, the book consists of four large chapters. In the first, Jones lays out key christological concepts through studying four topics: 1) the anhypostasia/enhypostasia distinction, which Barth favored; 2) the standing Barth grants the Chalcedonian Definition; 3) prolegomenal moves in CD I/2, including a) Barth’s commitment to a Reformed emphasis on the differentiation of Christ’s natures (over against a Lutheran emphasis on their perichoretic relationship); b) an interest in dyothelitism; and c) Christ’s assumption of sinful ‘flesh’; and 4) the relationship between historical-critical questions and Barth’s dogmatic portrayal of Jesus Christ. Jones identifies the points at which Barth appropriated the tradition and where he reconfigured it for his own actualistic purposes, such as Barth’s preference of ‘essence’ (Wesen) over the Chalcedonian ‘nature’ (Natur) and his use of the minimalist formula, vere Deus vere homo (7). Due to his “circumspect attitude towards conceptual abstraction” (31) and desire to draw christological conclusions from the witness of Scripture, Barth attempted to integrate the concerns of both the Alexandrian and Antiochene schools in a way faithful to Chalcedon’s efforts, yet dispensing with the council’s conceptual apparatus.

Jones’ work is predominantly descriptive here in the first chapter. Concepts such as the logos asarkos, sinful flesh, and the extra Calvinisticum are raised. Jones rightly presses that, for Barth, Christ’s humanity is more than simply a medium in and through which God instrumentally reveals himself. Barth followed the Sixth Ecumenical Council (Constantinople III) in affirming both two wills and two operations, or agencies, in Christ. By ‘will’ Barth does not mean a ‘faculty,’ Jones suggests, but “a more radical affirmation of ‘the unity of act and being’ that characterizes Christ’s divine-human person,” agency “understood expansively to encompass cognitive and affective processes, decisions, and the realization of intention” (41-2). To avoid the charge of Nestorianism, of ‘agency’ read so strongly that a duality of Christ’s person emerges, Barth affirmed that Christ’s humanity apart from the incarnation was anhypostatic, lacking subsistence and reality in itself (23), and only enhypostatic in its unio personalis with the Son of God. Thus, while Christ possesses a discrete center of willing and acting according to his humanity, that human agency is not a ‘person’ in its own right and apart from its union with God qua Son. This qualification is profoundly important for Barth’s Christology and soteriology and, as we shall see, stirs up difficult interpretive waters.

In Chapter 2, Jones turns to volume II of the Dogmatics, moving beyond Barth’s preliminary (and rather traditional) Christology in I/2 to the complex relationship between the doctrines of Christ, the Trinity, and election. This is seen in God’s capacity for self-determination, the love of God as integral to God’s being, Jesus’ role qua human in covenantal history, and Barth’s stunning identification of Jesus Christ as both ‘electing God’ and ‘elected human.’ Indeed, says Jones, God’s election of Jesus Christ – God’s self-determination to implicate the human history and reconciling work of Jesus in God’s own eternal being – signals God’s affirmation of humanity itself. The doctrine of election, then, is the soil in which Barth’s mature Christology is cultivated.

Jones engages vital (and controversial) issues here, not the least of which is the distinction between God’s immanent life and economic activity (65). Barth “closes the ‘ontological gap’” between the eternal Son and the incarnate Son. His concern “is to describe Jesus Christ as an event and person constitutive of God in God’s second way of being” (66). There is in Barth a direct (if carefully delineated) identification of the man Jesus Christ with the eternal Son, so that one cannot dispense with his human essence when talk turns to God’s immanent life qua Son. “God makes humanity part of God’s being. Divine identity is not unyieldingly ‘inviolate’ (i.e., ontologically uncomplicated, constituted only by ‘pure, unadulterated divinity’), because God freely incorporates ontological difference into the divine life” (78). This is a radical and far too unappreciated move in Barth, but one that Jones sees as decisive. What do theologians do with this? Rather than signaling for a retreat (either from Barth, or from an actualist reading of his divine ontology), Jones’ conclusion is exactly right: with Barth “a strict partition of God’s immanent being as Son and God’s economic work as Son is no longer dogmatically viable” (67).

Jesus as the ‘electing God’ and ‘elected human’ stands as the centerpiece of Chapter 2, and rightly so. Jones looks at the first predicate from four angles: 1) as “a statement about God’s loving intention, appropriable especially to the divine Son;” 2) as “an affirmation that God as Son presents Godself and acts in human history;” 3) as “a claim about the divine subject who grounds and directs the life of Jesus Christ;” and 4) as “the contention that God himself, as Son, bears the rejection owed to sinful humankind” (80). This multiform description of what Barth has in mind by such a deceptively simple and innocuous phrase as “electing God” is instructive, demonstrating Jones’s ability to identify the core convictions that motivated the author. The second predicate, that Jesus is also ‘elected human,’ signals that God protects and preserves the integrity of Jesus’ human nature, taking it into God’s own life and so constituting his being qua Son. Here Jones considers the function of the logos asarkos (91-96), as well as Barth’s view of eternity (99-102).

After a brief look at Barth’s “christologically normed theological anthropology” (117) in CD III/2, Jones turns to volume IV/2 in Chapter 3. He criticizes Barth’s patriarchal views on gender and the impact of such “social-scientific and cultural discourses” on his christological concentration (118). Following this, he provides what is perhaps the most extensive treatment of Barth’s use of the communicatio naturarum and idiomatum in print today. One need not read far in the Dogmatics to discover Barth’s concern with the Lutheran genus maiestaticum and the impact of the sixteenth century eucharistic debates on Christology. It may be surprising to see Barth linger here at the communicatio, a point where his penchant for conceptual recasting (in dynamic terms of event, rather than static terms of nature) might lead him to downplay or reject the traditional approach to Christ’s person. Instead, this engagement “enables him to clarify his understanding of Christ’s humanity, thereby lending greater precision to and augmenting significantly the claims of II/2” (121). Barth’s treatment is significant not because he replaces “nature” (Natur) with “essence” (Wesen) – though he does do this – but because he situates the discussion soteriologically, in correspondence with Christ’s divine humiliation and human exanination (cf. 122). This is quite different from the tradition’s tendency to see humiliation and exaltation as temporal descriptions of the Son’s incarnation and, later, glorification. In Barth’s hands, however, “humiliation and exaltation no longer relate to the course of Christ’s life; they now anchor dogmatic descriptions of the modes of existence that respectively characterize the divine and human essences” (125).

Also earning significant treatment in Chapter 3 is Barth’s concern with the singularity of subject in the incarnation – what Jones calls Jesus’ “personal simplicity.” Here Barth sounds “a Cyrillian note” (129), pressing the selfsame identity of the eternal Son and Jesus Christ so that the former cannot be considered in absence of the latter – in absence, that is, of his history. Jones points to Barth’s use of ‘participation’ as a way to illustrate the mutual correspondence and coherence of the divine Son and the man Jesus; the term “allows Barth to suggest that the union of humanity and divinity in Christ’s person is an event mutually confected and, in some respect, mutually forged, given the concurrent activity of Christ’s humanity and Christ’s divinity” (133). Therefore, while the divine Son and the man Jesus are by no means two subjects, they each possess an agential power by which they each take part “in the task of upholding the numerical simplicity of Christ’s person” (133). The divine agency gives and the human agency receives, so that salvation is actively effected by … two coordinate but asymmetrically related agential realities” (144).

Jones’ emphasis on human agency achieves its zenith in his reading of Barth on the communication of graces (138-41). The dialectic of grace and gratitude reflects the proper place of the human essence in theunio hypostatica and hedges off any implication that the divine Son makes merely instrumental use of the human essence. Because God’s ‘summons’ to humankind is answered by the Son qua human, “Christ’s human essence does not exist as a lifeless, insensible vehicle of the Son’s economic working” (139). Thus, Christ as a human person is not merely acted upon, but “is also spurred to act humanly.” This is his gratuitous response to God from our side, on our behalf, which is Christ’s exaltation of humanity – “the birth of human agency in Christ’s act of gratitude” (140-41). Divine and human activities concur and correspond in this man (153; cf. 151).

From volume IV/2, Jones turns back to IV/1 in his fourth chapter, with a look at Barth’s concepts of history (Geschichte) and obedience (Gehorsam). The former is, of course, indispensable for the actualist approach that Barth takes to dogmatics. History is significant because it is here that the divine intention is realized, so that “the life of Jesus Christ constitutes the identity of Jesus Christ” which, in turn, “God makes constitutive of the identity of God qua Son” (191). This is a fine sum of Barth’s actualistic Christology: a dynamic construal of history, and not the static realm of ‘nature’ or ‘essence,’ is where the life of Jesus is the life of the eternal Son of God. Obedience, in turn, is a controlling category for Barth’s Christology – from the relation of the Son to the Father, to Gethsemane, to the cross as revealing Christ’s participation in atonement by means of his own willing sacrifice. Vital to his account of Christ’s obedience, Jones notes, is that Barth understands this orientation as occurring within the life of God: the obedience of Jesus Christ to his Father is not just a human event, but the way of the Son’s eternal being with and toward the Father.

Jones divides the topic of obedience into Christ’s “divine obedience” and “human obedience,” pressing dual agency as the hermeneutical key to Barth’s Christology. Divine obedience “supports Barth’s conviction that it is truly the divine Son who indwells Jesus Christ” (205), stressing that the eternal Son is not different from the Son revealed in Jesus. Perhaps more profoundly, Jones suggests, Barth refines his doctrine of God in §59 in such a way that “his radically actualized ontology overcomes the unnecessary idea that either an affirmation of God’s personal unity or God’s tri-personality must have logical priority” (211; cf. footnote 57). Neither of the classic loci in the doctrine of God, de Deo uno or de Deo trino, are granted priority over the other.

With Jesus’ human obedience Jones returns to the communicatio operationum, which suggests to him that both human agency and divine agency cooperate to effect the one goal of reconciliation (216; cf. 223-25, 249-50). Jones identifies the ‘human action’ and ‘divine action’ in Jesus as distinct but corresponding – one divine initiation, the other human reception. In Gethsemane the human Jesus is realizing, acknowledging, and conforming himself to the divine will (231-42). How closely this apprehends Barth’s view is debatable. For Barth, the “common actualization” of divine and human essences appears not to be two actions seen in correspondence but a single action considered at once from two vantage points. Jesus does not act divinely and, in coordination, humanly; rather his actions simultaneously have divine and human significance. This is how Barth maintains the dyothelitism of Constantinople III, and can speak of a plurality of agencies in the Mediator while yet subjecting these principles to the singularity and simplicity of his person.

If there is any point of caution in this tremendous work, then, it is that Jones’ emphasis on human agency at times unbalances Barth’s insistence upon the singularity of the acting Subject who is the incarnate Son. Jones has a tendency, particularly in the latter half of the book, to speak of Christ’s double agency in such a way as to leave one wondering whether he is, in fact, still describing a singular Subject. For example: The man Jesus’ “human constancy (an unflagging self-determination to be the Son)” is paralleled with God’s constancy (the self-determination of the Son to be Jesus), which “together compromise Christ’s identity” (112). Jones further remarks that God unites “this human,” rather than humanity (an anhypostaticnature), with God qua Son (115). And on Jones’ reading, the divine and human essences together “enact and realize Christ’s personally simple identity,” because “the man Jesus … does not lack agential power (an essential property of human being), and he exerts this power in a way that contributes to, and in fact assists in the establishment and preservation of, the personal simplicity definitive of his divine-human person” (133). That this is fully Chalcedonian explanation of Constantinople III’s “two wills and two operations” is uncertain.

For Jones, the dogmatic emphasis upon human agency seems to function as a bulwark against an instrumentalist view of Jesus’ humanity – thus his desire to maintain Jesus of Nazareth as an “agential power” alongside God the Son. When he is on guard against the tendency toward a dual-subject Christology, Jones is unimpeachable. When that warning falls aside (signaled, for example, by his suggestion that Barth ultimately assigns anhypostasia and enhypostasia a limited role, 25-26), Jones allows himself to speak of ‘the human Jesus’ when what he seems to mean is ‘Jesus’ human agency.’ Perhaps this is mere semantics. What is lacking, however, is a description of what ‘agency’ means to Barth (and to Jones), how this is related to Barth’s dyothelitism and the Sixth Ecumenical Council’s two ‘operations,’ and how a duality of agencies (“two agential powers,” 202) in Jesus does not result in a duality of agents.

Anyone familiar with the organization and scope of the Church Dogmatics will immediately appreciate that an attempt to provide an account of Karl Barth’s Christology is an immense undertaking. The doctrine of Christ touches every area of the Dogmatics, and functions as a conceptual control to most, and so few have attempted anything like this project. Jones rightly acknowledges that his own account of this central locus in Barth’s theology is in no way exhaustive; “with Barth, there is always more that can be said” (242). The author’s analysis is careful and penetrating, with a measured dose of his own constructive syntheses. Jones is upfront about his own influences and sympathies, including commitments to feminist concerns, “postmetaphysics,” and an interest in narrative theology shaped by the school of Hans Frei (cf. 12-13). The Humanity of Christ offers an invigorating reading of a significant element in Barth’s thought, and thus it is highly recommended for serious students of Barth.

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

Viazovski, Yaroslav. Image and Hope: John Calvin and Karl Barth on Body, Soul, and Life Everlasting. Princeton Theological Monograph Series (Eugene, OR: Pickwick, 2015)

Image and Hope: John Calvin and Karl Barth on Body, Soul, and Life Everlasting

Viazovski, Yaroslav. Image and Hope: John Calvin and Karl Barth on Body, Soul, and Life Everlasting. Princeton Theological Monograph Series (Eugene, OR: Pickwick, 2015), 286 pp. $34.00 (paperback).

Reviewed by Daniel Rempel (June 22, 2017)

How are Christians to speak about the soul? This is the question Yaroslav Viazovski attempts to answer in Image and Hope: John Calvin and Karl Barth on Body, Soul, and Life Everlasting. For Viazovski, there are four functions of the soul: “(1) the soul makes us distinct from animals and gives us unique dignity, (2) the soul makes us rational and moral agents, (3) the soul is the bridge to the transcendent reality of God, (4) the soul guarantees life after death” (4). Because of both his motivating question, as well as his definition of the soul, Viazovski work is an attempt to uncover an ontological anthropology—a study of what man is—through “a functional comparative study of John Calvin’s and Karl Barth’s ontological anthropologies” (5).Viazovski’s work is yet another in the comparative studies between the work of Calvin and Barth (See Neil B. MacDonald, Carl R. Trueman, eds. Calvin, Barth,and Reformed Theology. Eugene, OR: Wipf and Stock, 2008; David Gibson, Reading the Decree: exegesis, election and Christology in Calvin and Barth, London: T&T Clark, 2009; Cornelius van der Kooi, As in a Mirror. John Calvin and Karl Barth on Knowing God: A Diptych, trans. Donald Mader, Boston: Brill, 2005. For Barth’s work on Calvin, see Karl Barth, The Theology of John Calvin, trans. G.W. Bromiley, Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1995 ). However, while any student of Barth will know of the influence of Calvin on Barth’s theology, Viazovski’s rationale for placing these two theologians in conversation is more than that. For Viazovski, Barth’s introduction of a relational interpretation of the image of God “may be one of the greatest changes in theological anthropology that has occurred since Calvin” (6).

Another reason for placing these two in conversation is that Calvin and Barth represent opposing theological anthropologies: the dualist and the monist (5). For Viazovski, Calvin’s “axiological dualism” of the separation between the material and spiritual is problematic. Viazovski is uncomfortable about speaking of such a separation in the holistic existence of the human. As a result, Viazovski desires an anthropology that does not result in said axiological dualism. For Viazovski, the way to do this comes through Barth (11). Through placing these theologians in conversation, Viazovski hopes to explicate both Calvin and Barth’s anthropology, how Calvin ultimately comes up short, and how Barth can help offer a corrective to Calvin.

Beginning with Calvin, Viazovski engages with the Institutes, Psychopannychia, as well as a host of Calvin’s commentaries on the Bible in order to explicate Calvin’s understanding of the ontological basis of the human being (8). Weaving together these sources, Viazovski highlights four main themes found in Calvin’s anthropological work: the image of God; the knowledge of God; immortality and the intermediate state; and the resurrection and the ultimate hope.

For Calvin, “to have the image of God is to be human” (15). Furthermore, “humanity is constituted by the faculties of the human soul” (19). Therefore, Calvin finds the ground of one’s humanity in the soul. One may conclude solely on this evidence that for Calvin, all goodness of humanity is found in the soul, and all evil is found in the body. However, Viazovski is careful not to let the reader fall into such a misunderstanding of Calvin. No, he says, for Calvin “there was no part of man, not even the body itself, in which some sparks [of God’s glory] did not glow” (35). Because the body is God’s creation, there is goodness within the body. However, “the soul is superior to the body” and therefore ” ultimately it is irrelevant if the image of God is present in the body in some measure or not” (38). Thus, while having a body is imperative for humanity to live as God’s creatures, and thus carries an intrinsic importance, such importance is dwarfed by the exceeding magnitude of the human soul. Thus, Calvin frames the subjects of the knowledge of God, immortality and the immediate state, and the resurrection and the ultimate hope as treatises on the human soul, with only passing references to the role and function of the body within this divine framework, for it is in the soul that the human finds their worth in God.

Viazovski transitions from Calvin to Barth in a chapter explicating the differences between Calvin and Barth’s method and thought. Showing his indebtedness to Bruce McCormack, Viazovski argues that one of the significant differences between the epistemologies of Calvin and Barth is that Barth is “a modern theologian” (119). Citing McCormack’s work Orthodox and Modern (Baker, 2008), Viazovski lists four characteristics that qualify a theology as modern: [1] an acceptance . . . of critical methods for studying the Bible; [2] a recognition of the loss of respect among philosophers for classical metaphysics . . . ; [3] the recognition of the breakdown of the old Aristotelian-biblical cosmology . . . ; [4] and acceptance of the necessity of constructing doctrines of creation and providence which find their ground in more modern theological and/or philosophical resources” (119-20). Noting McCormack’s criteria of modern theology, Viazovski claims that what makes Barth specifically a modern theologian is that “Barth apparently accepts the Hegelian presupposition that being is becoming but keeps to a strict Creator/creature distinction” (127). Said differently, for Calvin, there is a quantitative difference between God and humanity in that the finite cannot comprehend what is infinite (122). For Barth, on the other hand, the problem is qualitative: “God belongs to the sphere of the unintuitable therefore human beings . . . cannot know God” (122). All of this is to say, “a comparison of Calvin’s and Barth’s anthropologies is, then, not a simple and straightforward comparison. Rather, it is the putting, side by side, of two anthropological systems which belong to different philosophical contexts” (129). It is with this understanding that Viazovski moves to his engagement with Barth’s anthropology.

Unlike his explication of Calvin, which drew from multiple sources to provide a cogent account of Calvin’s theological anthropology, Viazovski limits his engagement with Barth to Church Dogmatics (CD) III/2, which he describes as Barth’s “systematic presentation of the doctrine of man” (133). By engaging Barth, it is Viazovski’s aim “to analyze how Barth’s relational approach to the image of God overcomes the axiological dualism inherent in Calvin’s view of the image, how he understands the soul/body relationship from a holistic point of view and, finally, what his monism does to the ultimate hope of man” (133).

Viazovski begins his engagement with Barth with the understanding that “if, in Calvin, the starting point was the doctrine of imago Dei, in Barth, it is the Christological concept of the real man” (133). For Barth, anthropology is grounded in Christology (136). The human Jesus is “the ontological determination of all human beings” (137). Thus, for Barth, human ontology is not rooted in something essential to our own being, but rather in something exterior to ourselves, that is, the person of Jesus Christ. Therefore, for Viazovski, the heart of Barth’s innovation of theological anthropology is that “humanity must partake of [Jesus] . . . It is to be explained by Him, not He by it” (143). Jesus is “the real man” and therefore Jesus is God’s revelation of our true humanity (163). According to Viazovski, “real man, then, is the fundamental anthropological concept in the thought of Karl Barth. It is the starting point of his anthropology and controls all secondary statements about man” (164). Thus, while for Calvin our ontological status is based in the image of God that has been imparted upon us, in Barth our humanity is not found in our own being, but in the relationship we have with Christ, who is the determination of who humanity indeed is.

As a whole, Viazovski provides adequate accounts of the theological anthropologies of Calvin and Barth that will engage both newcomers and experts of Calvin and Barth respectively. However, the nature of the task as he presented it may have shown its difficulties in Viazovski’s writings. What I mean by this is that in the section of Calvin’s anthropology, Viazovski gave himself the task of synthesizing a theological anthropology through engaging with the Institutes, Psychophannia, and a host of Calvin’s biblical commentaries. Without commenting on Viazovski’s conclusions regarding Calvin’s theological anthropology, there was a rigidity to Viazovski’s work on Calvin that made reading difficult in some sections. At times, there were leaps between claims that could have been smoothed out with greater care.

However, any rigidity present in Viazovski’s work on Calvin disappeared when he began engaging with Barth. Working systematically through CD III/2 allowed Viazovski to create a smoother, cohesive narrative of Barth’s theological anthropology. The reader benefitted from this approach, and what we are left with is an engaging and educating account of Barth’s theological anthropology and how it differs from Calvin.

Additionally, as Viazovski’s goal in this book is to work towards the question of how Christians are to speak about the soul, I would have appreciated more of his own voice in this work. While the accounts of both Calvin and Barth were insightful, I would have appreciated more critical engagement with each author. Viazovski showed a slight amount of personal flair in the final chapter, critiquing Barth’s account of the afterlife (or lack thereof), however, as a reader, I was curious to hear Viazovski’s voice throughout the whole of this book.

Altogether, however, Viazovski’s Image and Hope has provided a helpful engagement with both Calvin and Barth. Theology is always influenced by the philosophical assumptions brought to the discipline, and Viazovski has shown this to be a major difference in the work of Calvin and Barth. Additionally, he has shown some of the benefits and deficits of both authors work, and the consequences of various philosophical assumptions. More importantly, however, Viazovski has assembled a resource that helps human beings understand themselves holistically: body, mind, and soul. While it is not uncommon for theological anthropologies to focus on one aspect of the human person above and beyond the rest—this elevation is usually found in the soul—Viazovski refuses to allow his reader to assume any such dichotomy. Rather, in the unity of the body, Viazovski has shown how human beings can understand who we are in relation to Christ.

Daniel Rempel, M.A. Theology Student, Canadian Mennonite University

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

Edwin Chr. van Driel, Incarnation Anyway: Arguments for Supralapsarian Christology (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008)

Incarnation Anyway: Arguments for Supralapsarian Christology

Edwin Chr. van Driel, Incarnation Anyway: Arguments for Supralapsarian Christology (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008), xi + 194 pp. $74.00

Reviewed by David W. Congdon (October 06, 2010)

The debate between infralapsarianism and supralapsarianism is often treated as a matter of only historical interest. The perceived esotericism of the words and their connection to speculative flights of scholastic fancy have led many to believe that these positions are irrelevant to contemporary constructive theology. It is therefore much to Edwin van Driel’s credit that he demonstrates the significance of this debate for theological work today. The question raised by these two positions is whether “the incarnation is contingent upon sin” (4). Does the divine will to become incarnate logically precede or follow the will to allow sin? The majority report throughout Christian history has been the infralapsarian thesis that incarnation follows sin. That is, God would not have become incarnate had humanity not fallen into sin. Van Driel presents a case for the minority view that God would have become incarnate regardless.The book, which began as his 2006 dissertation at Yale University, is “a constructive and not a historical study” (171). Though he spends the majority of the time exegeting the supralapsarian positions of Schleiermacher, Isaak Dorner, and Karl Barth, this is clearly for the purpose of setting up his own theological position and not for exploring the history of the debate. Each of these theologians presents a different argument for supralapsarian christology: Schleiermacher grounds his in redemption, Dorner in creation, and Barth in eschatological consummation. Van Driel finds each position, considered individually, hampered by ambiguities and inconsistencies, though he appropriates elements from each for his own constructive position.

Van Driel begins by looking at Schleiermacher’s theology, which is “a reflection upon the experience of redemption and absolute dependence” (10). He examines this theology in terms of its (a) ontological framework and (b) christological basis and content. The claim he makes in this chapter is that there is an unacknowledged conflict within and between these two aspects—ontology and christology—in Schleiermacher’s theology. The ontological problem is due to a tension between two “ontological profiles.” The first (what van Driel calls omnipotence I) restricts creaturely freedom in such a way that while human beings have a “freedom of spontaneity,” this freedom occurs within the scope of God’s causal power. The divine causality encompasses and grounds the entirety of finite reality. The second (omnipotence II) is a restriction on divine freedom such that “God cannot do otherwise than what God does” (13). The divine will is exhaustively realized in the actual world; there are no alternative possibilities for finite reality. This latter ontological profile precludes any discussion of counterfactual possibilities or God’s motivation for doing this versus that.

Within this ontological framework, Schleiermacher develops his christology as the necessary outworking of the original divine decree. The appearance of Christ as the ideal (Urbild) of humankind is the necessary completion of creation, not an addition to creation that responds to the appearance of sin. Because of omnipotence II, divine causality cannot, by definition, be in response to any creaturely activity. God’s causal agency is absolute and thus nonreciprocal. This is what makes Schleiermacher’s christology supralapsarian. Logically, however, this also means that God ordained sin along with its redemption in Christ (24). More importantly for his overall thesis, van Driel claims that this foreordination of both sin and redemption instrumentalizes Christ and makes him only relatively and quantitatively distinct from the rest of humankind. The dialectic of sin and redemption are the means toward a final goal that has no need for Christ: viz., God’s impartation of the divine to all reality. The significance of Jesus Christ “is radically noneschatological” (26). Or as van Driel puts it later, “the eschaton is the consummation of Christ’s redeeming influence, but without need for Christ’s abiding presence” (59). In the end, the central problem from van Driel’s perspective is that Schleiermacher’s ontology precludes the possibility for alternative realities, and yet his christology does not logically make Jesus the only possible redeemer. Schleiermacher even makes counterfactual statements in this regard (28). Van Driel’s proposed solution is to dispense with omnipotence II, and he finds assistance in this task from analytic philosophy of religion (14n24).

Van Driel next takes up Dorner’s complex supralapsarian christology, grounded primarily in creation. This chapter is one of the most interesting due to the unfortunate neglect of Dorner in contemporary theology. If van Driel’s book helps to reintroduce Dorner into the current theological conversation, that would likely be its greatest contribution. Dorner’s theological system depends on his distinction between the natural or physical and the ethical, which he views in ontological rather than moral terms (as we find in the Ritschlian approach). The concept of “the ethical” refers to the “absolute highest and rationally necessary thought” and is thus “identical with God” (37). The ethical is distinguished from the physical by being the unity of necessity and freedom, of being and will. God can only be this unity as the Trinity, and creation is “the ethical and necessary product” of this trinitarian God. This unity of freedom and necessity allows Dorner, unlike Schleiermacher, to affirm alternative possibilities and divine motives in his discussion of God. Nevertheless, like Schleiermacher, the act of creation for Dorner—and its corresponding consummation—is strictly necessary as the product of God’s ethical nature (cf. 40-41, 51).

Dorner’s supralapsarianism is creational in nature because religion is “not primarily about sin, atonement, and reconciliation,” but instead concerns the “consummation of humanity’s essential nature” (45). The incarnation is, for the most part, not the means toward a greater end, but is itself the goal of creation and the fulfillment of humanity’s being as an ethical creature existing in a reciprocal relationship with God. The problem van Driel finds with Dorner’s approach lies in the fact that he is not consistent in his understanding of the incarnation. There are three questions that Dorner does not sufficiently address: (a) is the incarnation ontological or interpersonal?; (b) is the incarnation a means or an end?; and (c) is God’s motive for becoming incarnate (viz. love) necessary or contingent? While Dorner is inconsistent or ambiguous on these points, van Driel argues for viewing the incarnation as an interpersonal eschatological end grounded in God’s contingent love (as God’s will rather than nature).

Chapters four and five both deal with Barth’s theology, and together constitute over a third of the book’s length. The first deals with Barth’s “supralapsarian narrative” and the second with his “supralapsarian ontology.” Van Driel distinguishes the two because unlike Schleiermacher and Dorner, Barth’s ontology is controlled by the biblical narrative of Jesus Christ’s life-history. The fourth chapter thus expounds Barth’s “narrative,” by which van Driel means Barth’s doctrine of election. Here he does a fine job of rehearsing Barth’s exegetical arguments for his understanding of Jesus Christ as both the subject and object of election. Many of the ideas and issues that he will critique at the end of the next chapter are raised here in this survey of Barth’s theology. Two key points are (a) that “election is an eschatological category,” which means that “the eschaton precedes everything else” (78); and (b) that election involves “an ontological connection” between Christ and all other human beings (72).

The fifth chapter on Barth’s ontology is the longest in the book and the most complex. The first half deals with the subject of election, and the second half with the object of election and rejection. For readers familiar with recent debates in Barth studies, the first half will feel the most familiar in terms of content. This is because van Driel here continues his debate with Bruce McCormack regarding the relation between election and triunity that van Driel began in 2007 with an article in the Scottish Journal of Theology. Though the article originally came out of this dissertation, he has revised this section for publication to include a response to McCormack’s reply to his article. Van Driel’s position remains essentially unchanged: he insists that “Barth’s doctrine of election has no ontological consequences for the notions of immanent Trinity, Logos asarkos, or God-in-Godself” (103). The processions and the missions are two separate moments in the eternal life of God, he argues, because the Son cannot be the subject of his own generation. The problem, according to van Driel, is that Barth’s statement that “Jesus Christ is the subject of election” is ambiguous (101); it therefore should be read in the light of ostensibly clearer statements. Interestingly, this places Barth interpretation in the same problematic situation as biblical interpretation. When the Reformers claimed that “Scripture interprets itself,” they said that the clearer passages should interpret the more obscure ones. But who decides what is clear and what is obscure? Finally, it is also worth noting that van Driel’s argument in this section parallels his argument against Schleiemacher’s “omnipotence II” mentioned above. McCormack’s position is opposed to counterfactual speculation, and by opposing McCormack, van Driel remains consistent in his affirmation of speaking about counterfactual possibilities with regard to God.

The more interesting part of this chapter comes in van Driel’s discussion of election’s object. Of all the material in the book, I found this section the most enlightening and significant. Van Driel makes three main claims. First, in a brilliant section, he notes that while Barth replaces the categories of substance with that of history, the logic of history functions in precisely the same way and for the same purposes as the traditional metaphysical substance ontology. For Barth, “history is ontology,” van Driel states (108). Barth’s view of Christ’s life-history functions according to what van Driel will later identify as the “logic of assumption,” which abstracts from the personal, concrete reality of human historicity by positing a general humanum in Christ. This is a crucially important insight. Second, van Driel spends a good deal of time critiquing Barth’s conception of time and eternity, especially when it comes to the eschaton. According to Barth, the eschaton is not the continuation of temporal life, but is rather “a preservation of the life lived” (113). This conflicts, van Driel claims, with Barth’s conception of the resurrection, which “implies a continuance of temporal existence” (114). “Why,” he asks, “is creation only an intermezzo and not the continued active partner over against God?” (118).

The third and final critique concerns the true focus of God’s saving work, which Barth himself says is not sin but ratherdas Nichtige (“nothingness”). The problems here are manifold and resist easy summary. The heart of the critique is that Barth makes God’s rejection a creative act that produces a “third kind of being,” viz.das Nichtige(118). This power of evil then continually threatens creation, such that God’s saving work “is therefore to safeguard threatened creation from the abyss of das Nichtige” (120). The whole doctrine of “nothingness” that Barth develops finally rests upon a presupposed axiom: “all of what is not God necessarily lapses into evil unless God incorporates it into God’s own being. . . Creational life itself is governed by entropy” (122). Though Barth does not explicitly develop this thesis, van Driel argues cogently that this is the assumption controlling Barth’s supralapsarianism. Barth’s position is eschatological in orientation because the primary need is “for creation to receive a share in God’s life” (122).
In chapter six, van Driel reviews the three key “conceptual structures” that appeared in his analysis of Schleiermacher, Dorner, and Barth. By elucidating these structures, he both shows where these three supralapsarian positions differ from each other and sets up his own constructive position to follow in chapter seven. The first and most important concept is the felix culpa, that is, the notion that the fall into sin was a “happy fault” because “it triggered greater gain than would otherwise be received” (127). While thefelix culpa is essential to infralapsarianism, Schleiermacher and Barth both make it central to their supralapsarian theologies, which leads them to make the fall necessary to creation. The problem with this first conceptual structure is that “the good needs the bad in principle,” but this “devalues the excellence of the good.” It fails to realize that the presence of God is “an excellent good in and of itself” (131). The second structure concerns Dorner’s theology and the fact that he makes the incarnation to be a “necessary implication” of God’s act of creation (133). But this conflicts with the ethical and interpersonal conception of the divine-human relationship that Dorner articulates (rightly, according to van Driel). The problem here is that Dorner and others ground the incarnation in some aspect of creation. The solution, van Driel argues, is to ground it instead in God’s character. The third conceptual structure is the relation between christology and pneumatology, and this is where van Driel explicates the “logic of assumption” that begins to make an appearance in his critique of Barth noted above. Here he argues for an “ontological over-againstness between the divine and the human” (141). Instead of a substance ontology (even when construed as history), we need a more robust pneumatology.

All of this sets up van Driel’s constructive supralapsarian position in the final chapter. Like Barth, his is rooted in eschatological consummation. But, drawing upon Dorner, his position is ethical, interpersonal, and contingent in nature—rather than ontological and necessary. Moreover, where Barth’s eschatology is rooted in the divine decision of election, van Driel’s is rooted in the embodied life of the resurrection. He presents three arguments for supralapsarian christology: (a) an argument from “eschatological superabundance” (150), in which what we gain in Christ cannot be contingent upon sin (contra the felix culpa); (b) an argument from the vision of God, according to which if the beatific vision—i.e., what we gain in Christ—is supralapsarian, then the incarnation is as well, because full intimacy with God requires sensory bodily contact; and (c) an argument from divine friendship, in which God’s relation to humanity is motivated “by a delight in and a love for the other” (160). God desires to be in an intimate relationship with humanity, regardless of humanity’s sinful rejection of God. The last argument is finally the crucial one. Friendship is a non-necessary, contingent, embodied relation between two persons. It brings in the category of divine motivation and reciprocity missing from Schleiermacher, emphasizes the ethical and interpersonal aspects in Dorner without the need of an ontology, and stresses the eschatological dimension in Barth without making the eschaton the mere preservation of a past life.

Van Driel’s book is a rich and provocative exploration of supralapsarian christology. There is much here worth lingering over. The question, however, is whether his proposal ought to be adopted. On a purely logical level, his model seems to be as satisfactory as the next. And certainly his proposal has much to commend it. He strongly rejects the instrumentalizing of Christ that is common to almost the entire Christian tradition. He offers a robust “eschatological imagination” (164). And he also avoids the speculative nature of traditional supralapsarianism, which tended to frame the problem in terms of the question: would God have become incarnate had humans not sinned? For all these benefits, though, it is impossible to overlook the fact that van Driel’s position is explicitly designed to avoid the cross. Supralapsarianism, for him, is opposed to atheologia crucis. He says as much in his discussion of divine friendship:
Jesus calls his disciples friends in the context of a conversation about his imminent death: “No one has greater love than this, to lay down one’s life for one’s friends” (John 15:13). But while the death is motivated by friendship, the friendship is not motivated by death. Jesus becomes his disciples’ savior because he is their friend; not the other way around . . . If the incarnation only happened as a function of God’s reconciling action, there would be no need for a continued bodily existence of Christ after crucifixion and death. (161)

The hole in van Driel’s position looms large: Why did Jesus die? Is the cross necessary in any sense? In light of his arguments, this reviewer must conclude with: no, the cross is not necessary. Jesus death could be simply an accident of his controversial preaching and the sinfulness of humankind. Van Driel’s christology has no apparent connection to a doctrine of the atonement, in large part because such a doctrine does not seem necessary. Or if it is necessary, then it needs to be completely rethought, which could be very insightful if he were to explore such a project. If he is right—as I believe he is—to reject the substance ontology that makes Jesus the bearer of a general humanum, then atonement could be conceived as the contingent encounter between each individual and the living Christ (as the crucified one) in the eschatological consummation. That is at least an interesting possibility worth exploring.
As it stands, however, van Driel’s position suggests that God’s desire for friendship and love for humanity precedes (and could logically even preclude) any concern about sin and reconciliation. He even suggests that a gospel of sin and redemption is problematic because “in a time such as ours . . . the sense of sin is minimal” (166). “In my proposal,” he says, “we do not have to preach sin before we can preach Christ; we can preach Christ as the offer of love and friendship with God; and it is thereafter, in the light of that offer of friendship and love, that human beings discover themselves as sinners” (166). While this ordering is correct—and quite Barthian—what does it mean to then discover oneself as a sinner? Does that mean we come to see the significance of the cross of Christ? Or is it rather that we see ourselves as unfaithful friends of God who need, by God’s grace, to return to a right relationship? These questions remain unanswered in van Driel’s otherwise thorough explanation. While he makes an impressive case for a supralapsarian incarnation, one has to wonder if the sharp separation between christology and atonement exchanges biblical fidelity for logical soundness.
Incarnation Anyway is an important book that brings a whole set of ideas and concepts back into the contemporary theological conversation. Van Driel does this in clear, concise prose that is easy to follow and compelling. As a surprise bonus, the book concludes with a bibliographical genealogy of supralapsarianism that may be the most helpful five pages in the entire book. All in all, whether his proposal finds wider acceptance or not, this is a book that professors, students, and ministers will all benefit from reading and engaging.

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

Ables, Travis E. Incarnational Realism: Trinity and the Spirit in Augustine and Barth (London: T & T Clark, 2013)

Incarnational Realism: Trinity and the Spirit in Augustine and Barth 

Ables, Travis E. Incarnational Realism: Trinity and the Spirit in Augustine and Barth (London: T & T Clark, 2013), 288 pp. $130.00 (hardback).

Reviewed by Luke Zerra (September 03, 2015)

A pervasive tendency in contemporary theology has been to cite Augustine as bestowing a problematic legacy to Western Trinitarian theology. Augustine – as theologians such as Catherine Lacugna, Colin Gunton, and Robert Jenson tell us – is insufficiently Trinitarian, emphasizing divine unity and downplaying the role of the Spirit to the point of losing sight of God’s triunity. Karl Barth, despite initiating the Trinitarian revival of the 20th century, has been critiqued along similar lines. To his critics, Barth’s emphasis on divine subjectivity is overly monistic and potentially modalistic, his focus on God’s eternity divorces the immanent Trinity from the economy of salvation, and his doctrine of the Spirit reduces the Trinity to – in the words of Jenson – a “binity” of Father and Son (105).In Incarnational Realism, Travis E. Ables offers an analysis of Augustine and Barth’s respective pneumatologies in order to counter this “standard narrative” of a supposed trinitarian decline in Western and Augustinian theology (17). Ables claims that at its best Western theology presents a vision of God as a singular self-diffusive act of love and that pneumatology is the means by which we are able to talk about our own participation in this act of self-giving (12). While much of modern trinitarian theology assumes that Christology and pneumatology “operate univocally (and thus competitively)” (187), Ables seeks to show that Western theology ideally teaches that knowledge of God is only possible in the incarnation and that “the work of the Spirit is to make us contemporaneous to, and participants in, the incarnation” (189). This “incarnational realism” is present in both Augustine and Barth, showing that neither in fact suffers from a pneumatological deficiency, and that each theologian offers important correctives to the other’s thought (189).

After sketching how modern theology has sought to approach Trinitarian theology by privileging either the communion of the divine persons or the historicization of the divine being (17-18), Ables turns in chapters 2-4 to Augustine’s De Trinitate. For Ables, apophaticism is key to Augustine’s Trinitarian thought. As supremely unknown, God is only revealed in Christ’s descent to us and in our elevation in the Spirit to the knowledge of God. Rather than amounting to a Neoplatonic natural theology, the famous psychological analogy is then “not an analogy at all, but rather a description of the actualization of the image of God by grace . . . bringing us into union with God” (55). This enactment of the imago dei takes place in and through the Spirit, being the basis of what Ables terms “Augustine’s Ethical Apophaticism” (101). This is the claim that while theological speech ends in unknowing, we come to contemplate God by loving the neighbor, seeing the face of Christ in the other as we participate in God through the Spirit (101-104). For Ables, Augustine’s pneumatology of ethical apophaticism counters both modern theology’s portrayal of Augustine as lacking pneumatological depth as well as Radical Orthodoxy’s positive retrieval of Augustine, which Ables claims reduces the Spirit to a logical necessity (101-104).

In chapters 5-7 Ables turns to Barth, focusing on tracing the development of Barth’s pneumatology in the Church Dogmatics (CD). Looming over Ables’ entire discussion of CD is his claim that Barth’s trinitarianism pivots between an “Augustinian” tendency – which emphasizes divine simplicity and self-giving – and a “Hegelian” tendency focused on divine pluralism (109). In a way, Barth’s pneumatology across CD is a dialectic between these two supposedly contradictory tendencies.

Ables finds an Augustinian tendency in Barth’s dialectic of revelation in CD I/1. Here pneumatology is at the heart of revelation, allowing us to be participants in God’s revelatory self-giving (107). God’s unity means that “God has one work of revelation, God’s self-giving in Christ, and the work of the spirit is the moment of participation in Christ that is at the same time inherent in that work” (114). Similarly, Barth’s famed doctrine of election in CD II/2 has resonances with the Augustinian notion of the totus christus, revealing that participation is objectively grounded in the particular person of Jesus and subjectively enacted through the Spirit (121-125). CD I/1 and II/2 then both rely on the Augustinian notions of simplicity and self-giving as the work of Christ and the Spirit are united in the acts of revelation and election.

On Ables’ account problems arise when Barth deviates from Augustinianism simplicity. Case in point is Barth’s problematic discussion of gender roles in CD III. Here the Hegelian tendency “demands an economy of grace characterized by the mutual production of identity and the instrumentalization of the other . . . Just as God needs another to know Godself and escape the confines of a static and monistic substance, so man needs another—woman—to know himself and escape the solipsism of the solitary self” (130). Chapters 6 and 7 are further devoted to exploring Hegelian idealism in Barth, particularly in relation to CD IV and the influential work of Bruce McCormack. In short, Ables claims that idealism necessitates an other, thereby detracting from Barth’s most essential insight: namely that “there is one common agency and work of God, in the form of God’s self-giving in Jesus Christ, a single and simple self-donation that proceeds from the Father and incorporates us in the work of the Spirit” (150).

Much is to be commended in Ables’ work. He is a clear writer with a gift for lucid explanations of complex ideas and schools of thought. As such, the book is as helpful for demystifying contemporary trajectories in trinitarian theology as it is for analyzing the thought of Augustine and Barth. Further, while much defense of Augustine’s trinitarianism has come from historical theologians such as Lewis Ayers, Michel Barnes, and Rowan Williams; Ables’ work is helpful in offering a defense from the realm of systematic theology, adding an important voice to the debate over Augustine’s legacy.

That said there are some concerns to be raised with Ables’ volume. Surprisingly, the work does not discuss the filioque, a seemingly important point for a book on Western trinitarianism and pneumatology. This is especially the case given Ables’ noting of the importance of Eastern paradigms and theologians in the 20th century trinitarian revival (4-9). This omission – noted by Ables but with no reason given – is likely and understandably due to the limits of space in an already dense book (14).

Further, while Ables’ challenging of masculine language for God is necessary and laudable, his decision to refer to the Holy Spirit with feminine pronouns needs more elaboration and unpacking. While Ables may be correct that in doing so “we can think of the Spirit less as a lone girl, taking a backseat to the starring roles accorded to the guys” (15), Elizabeth Johnson and Sarah Coakley have raised important points about this potentially leading to the devaluation of the Spirit, an end that runs completely against Ables’ goal.

Another concern lies in Ables’ tendency to replace one declension narrative with another. While Ables laments how many theologians subscribe to the “standard narrative” of Augustinian trinitarian decline, much of Incarnational Realism is predicated on a skeptical stance toward Hegel’s legacy in modern theology. While Ables offers compelling reasons for his concerns, much of his engagement is in fact with readers of Hegel rather than Hegel himself. While Ables cedes that his work cannot offer a full internal critique of Hegel (172), Ables’ claims would be strengthened if he were to emphasize that his critique is of particular interpretations of Hegel among theologians and less so with Hegel himself. This is important in a context where a growing body of scholarship – not only by philosophers such as Terry Pinkard and Robert Pippin, but also by religious ethicists like Thomas A. Lewis and Jeffrey Stout – has challenged longstanding interpretations of Hegel’s thought.

These criticisms aside, Ables’ volume is an important work for those interested in Augustine, Barth, and contemporary trajectories in trinitarian theology. Ables succeeds in presenting Augustine and Barth as exemplars of Western trinitarian thought at its best: namely, of God as a singular act of self-giving revealed in Christ and in which we participate through the Spirit. Both students and critics of Augustine and Barth will find much insight and value in this book.

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

Collins Winn, Christian T. “Jesus is Victor!”: The Significance of the Blumhardts for the Theology of Karl Barth. (Eugene, OR: Pickwick, 2009)

“Jesus is Victor!”: The Significance of the Blumhardts for the Theology of Karl Barth.

Collins Winn, Christian T. “Jesus is Victor!”: The Significance of the Blumhardts for the Theology of Karl Barth. (Eugene, OR: Pickwick, 2009), 330 pp. $38.00 (paperback).

Reviewed by Matthew J. Aragon Bruce (June 30, 2016)

Anyone with more than a superficial interest in the theology of Karl Barth has encountered the name “Blumhardt.” But many Barth scholars would have little to say if asked about the Blumhardts and their influence on Barth. One the one hand, some might mention their watchwords “Jesus is Victor!” or “Thy Kingdom Come!,” which are prominent themes in Barth’s thought. On the other hand, we might hear something, perhaps with some embarrassment, about the spiritual struggle in Möttlingen and the reported case of demonic possession and an exorcism performed by the elder Blumhardt. And perhaps one or two might even echo Bultmann’s exasperation with ‘obscurantism and superstition” and quip, “The Blumhardt legends are to my mind preposterous” (Rudolf Bultmann, “A Reply to the Theses of J. Schniewind” in Kerygma and Myth I, ed. Bartsch, trans. Fuller; London: SPCK, 1972, 120). Yet it is a fact that that this father-son duo, Johann Christoph (the elder) and Christoph Friedrich (the younger), exercised a considerable influence on modern Protestant theology; not only Barth, but Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Emil Brunner, Friedrich Gogarten, Jürgen Moltmann, Eduard Thurneysen, and even Paul Tillich, all claimed to be influenced by them in some fashion. Indeed, in a 1936 essay aimed to introduce an American audience to “Contemporary European Theology,” Emil Brunner wrote:

The real origin of the Dialectic Theology is to be traced, however, not to Kierkegaard, but to a more unexpected source, to a place still farther removed from the main theological thoroughfare—to the quiet Boll of the two Blumhardts . . . Both men experienced the reality of the power of the Spirit of the living God in a specially vigorous and powerful way. They were not theologians but they could make theologians think. Theology has worth only when there lies at the root of it something other than theology—that insight and life which were powerful in both Blumhardts. (Emil Brunner, “Contemporary European Theology” in The Church Through Half a Century: Essays in Honor of William Adams Brown, ed. Cavert and Van Dusen; New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1936, 141-42.
So, “just who are these Blumhardt characters anyhow” and how did they influence Barth? It is these questions that Collins Winn seeks to answer for his readers. And answers he provides! Collins Winn persuasively demonstrates that the Blumhardts “were of decisive importance for Barth’s theology” (xiii, 281). Moreover, this influence was not isolated to the earlier stages of Barth’s career as commonly thought; the Blumhardts’ influence is present at every stage of his development, explicitly influencing, e.g., the content and structure of the final volumes of the Church Dogmatics.

It is worth noting that one of the strengths of this book is that the Blumhardts are presented as neither proto-Barthians nor of interest only because of their relationship to Barth. Rather, they are allowed to speak for themselves and are revealed as significant resources for contemporary Christian thought in their own right. Despite the title, this is a book about Barth and the Blumhardts and only as such about the significance of the Blumhardts for Barth.

The book consists of the five chapters, which, after a lengthy yet valuable literature review (Ch. 1), can be divided into two parts. The first part provides an introduction to the life and thought of the elder (Ch. 2) and the younger (Ch. 3) Blumhardt. The second part explicates the significant role played by both Blumhardts in Barth’s early (1911-19) development (Ch.4), and their enduring presence in his theology from Romans to the final volumes of the Dogmatics (Ch. 5).

In the first part, Collins Winn gifts English-language readers with what is one of the best, succinct introductions to the life and thought of the Blumhardts presently available. Regarding the elder Blumhardt, readers are introduced to both his biography—his deep, if complex, roots in Württemberg Pietism, his ministry in Möttlingen and especially the struggle involving demonic possession and exorcism and subsequent spiritual revival in the village, and the community he formed at Bad Boll – and his thought – his Christocentric reading of the Old Testament, his understanding of the Kingdom of God, his pneumatology, and most importantly his eschatology. The same pattern is followed for the younger Blumhardt. In careful conversation with German secondary literature, Collins Winn focuses his attention on the Blumhardt son’s hope for apokatastasis, his eschatological Christology, and his emphasis on God’s love and its revolutionary consequences, particularly solidarity with the poor and oppressed. This latter emphasis leads to the younger Blumhardt’s political involvements, which would have a profound influence on Barth. His turn to religious socialism – seeing in it a parable of the kingdom of God – and subsequent theological disenchantment with socialism, has obvious parallels with Barth’s life and intellectual development.

In Chapter One, Collins Winn provides an analytical review of previous scholarship on Barth’s development that gives attention, or does not, to the influence of the Blumhardts. While there is wide acceptance among Barth scholars that the Blumhardts influenced Barth, this influence has, until now, only rarely been explored with any depth. According to Collins Winn, the Blumhardts’ influence has nether been fully understood nor had much effect in accounts of Barth’s development, with the result that Barth himself has not been fully understood. Von Balthasar, e.g., does not mention the Blumhardts at all. Others, such as Berkouwer and McCormack, in different ways and to different degrees, recognize the importance of the Blumhardts, but give little space to their contribution to Barth’s development. Still others, particularly those who focus on Barth’s political commitments and activities (e.g. Marquardt, Gollwitzer, and Gorringe), do recognize the central importance of the Blumhardts, particularly their teachings about the Kingdom of God. Yet these interpreters give insufficient attention to the Blumhardtian influence on Barth’s dogmatic theology. Those who have recognized that the Blumhardts played a central role in Barth’s theology as a whole, e.g. Joachim Berger, Hans Frei, Eberhard Jüngel, and Gerhard Sauter, tend to limit their attention to the early stages of Barth’s career. This results in the misleading impression that the Blumhardts were only significant for the early stages of Barth’s development. Moreover, these interpreters either fundamentally misunderstood the Blumhardts and their relationship to Pietism (Frei) or their work remains mostly untranslated (Berger, Sauter, and to a lesser degree Jüngel).

Through a careful dialogue with prior scholarship, Collins Winn moves the conversation about the Blumhardts and Barth forward by focusing on eschatology as the central loci of the Blumhardts’ influence. Following the Blumhardts, Barth understood eschatology not merely as “last things,” i.e. as victory of Jesus leading to the eternal life of the individual, but as the victorious in-breaking of the Kingdom of God into the here and now andits revolutionary consequences for the Christian community and the world:

The material transformation that occurred in the victory of Jesus on the cross and in the resurrection has implications for the larger social and political life in which human beings find themselves . . . There is no area of human life that is not affected and taken up into the transformation wrought in Jesus Christ . . . The influence of the Blumhardts’ eschatology reaches across doctrinal lines. This is no less the case in its influences on Barth’s theology. It affected his approach to theological language; it contributed to the shape of his particular integration of theology and ethics; and it most certainly shaped certain aspects of Barth’s Christology, ecclesiology, anthropology, creation and theology of election (64).
In the second part, Collins Winn aims to show just how the Blumhardtian eschatology influenced Barth’s theological oeuvre.

In Chapter Four, Collins Winn narrates an episode of Barth’s early development, focusing on his encounter with the Blumhardts. He closely follows and builds upon McCormack’s account of Barth’s genetic development, providing a congenial complement to McCormack. This chapter contains a detailed account of how and when Barth encountered the Blumhardts. The Blumhardtian influence began in Barth’s youth. His father, Fritz, was one of the last students of JT Beck, whose work is prominent in both the first and second editions of the Römerbrief. Beck was a classmate of the elder Blumhardt and a significant theological influence on the younger. Barth himself made note of his maternal aunt, Elizabeth, who often stayed at Bad Boll and whose Christian devotion and piety made a mark on the young Karl. Barth’s direct engagement with the Blumhardts came later, primarily mediated at first through his close friend Eduard Thurneysen, who arranged Barth’s “decisive” face-to-face encounter with the younger Blumhardt in 1915. The most valuable aspect of this Chapter however is the engagement with Barth’s earliest writings on the Blumhardts. By interpreting these texts with a careful eye to the socio-historical content, Collins Winn convincingly demonstrates that the Blumhardts were among the main catalysts for Barth’s break with Protestant Liberalism and turn to “the Strange New World in the Bible.” Collins Winn’s discussion of Barth’s 1919 Tambach lecture is especially valuable. He shows that the Blumhardts were a significant force behind Barth’s association of the Kingdom of God with the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead and that this remained a central feature of Barth’s thought throughout subsequent developments. Collins Winn is absolutely correct when he writes, “if there is a center to Barth’s theology then it is the resurrection of Jesus Christ” (200). This section should be considered as required reading for those interested in the Barth’s development.

It is Chapter Five however where Collins Winn makes his strongest contribution to Barth studies. Throughout this chapter, Collins Winn reminds his readers of “the critical independence that Barth showed vis-à-vis the Blumhardts” (211). He highlights the fact that Barth’s “primary allegiance was not to a specific theological tradition, but to the living Christ who was, is and will be the kingdom of God” (214). Readers of Barth are well aware that he freely corrects, supplements, critiques, and even dismisses the thought of even his closest interlocutors when they are found wanting. This is no less true of the Blumhardts. But Collins Winn demonstrates that Barth’s conviction that the living, risen Christ is the standard by which all theology stands or falls was something he came to by means of the influence of the Blumhardts. There is much to commend in the final chapter. Highlights include Barth’s response to Berkouwer in CD IV/3.1 concerning the charge of Barth’s ‘triumphant’ christocentrism. Collins Winn demonstrates in detail that the Blumhardtian theme “Jesus is Victor!” is central to Barth’s thought and uses this to show why Berkouwer’s critique misses its mark. Barth is not working “with a Christ-principle” as Berkouwer supposes, something analogous to the Reformed orthodox principle of election and divine decision, but rather “with Jesus Christ himself as attested to by Holy Scripture (232, citing CD IV/3.1, 174). Barth’s Christology does not operate with an abstract “cognitive concept or conceptual principle of grace” but “with the living history of Jesus the Victor, as attested in Scripture, and as experienced anew by the Blumhardts… rooted in the narratives of Scripture that points beyond itself to an actual concrete occurrence” (245). In addition, the chapter includes helpful treatments of the form and content of Barth’s doctrine of reconciliation in CD IV.1-3 and on the theme “Thy Kingdom Come!” in the posthumously published fragment The Christian Life.

There is one potential problem with the book that is worth noting. While Collins Winn never makes such a claim explicitly, and, as noted above, rightly recognizes that the living Christ is the center of Barth’s theology, there is a danger of perceiving the Blumhardts as the primary influence behind several of the loci of the Church Dogmatics. Calvin, Luther, and Schleiermacher, e.g., are discussed only in passing and there is almost no discussion of Barth’s philosophical influences. This is understandable as this is a book on Barth and the Blumhardts and Collins Winn is striving to overcome the relative neglect of the Blumhardts in Barth Studies, which he so amply demonstrates in Chapter One. Nonetheless, it is essential that Collins Winn’s book be read along with other, broader, accounts of Barth’s genetic development and the content of his theology.

I signal this danger because Collins Winn has so convincingly proved his thesis: “that not only were the Blumhardts of great importance for Barth’s break from the Protestant liberal theology that he had been trained in as a student, but that these two men… and the powerful theological vision that animated their lives and thought remained of great importance to Barth, even to his mature theology” (281). This book should be considered required reading for future researchers working on the development of Barth’s thought. Moreover, the influence of Blumhardts should no longer be neglected as regards the content of Barth’s theology. Finally, it is the hope of this reviewer that this book will lead contemporary students of theology to take and read the Blumhardts themselves, be it with, beyond, or even against Barth.

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

Stefan Holtmann, Karl Barth als Theologe der Neuzeit. Studien zur kritischen Deutung seiner Theologie, Forschungen zur systematischen und ökumenischen Theologie, vol. 118 (Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2007)

Karl Barth als Theologe der Neuzeit. Studien zur kritischen Deutung seiner Theologie, Forschungen zur systematischen und ökumenischen Theologie, vol. 118

Stefan Holtmann, Karl Barth als Theologe der Neuzeit. Studien zur kritischen Deutung seiner Theologie, Forschungen zur systematischen und ökumenischen Theologie, vol. 118 (Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2007), 444 pages. € 79,90

Reviewed by Christophe Chalamet (December 10, 2008)

This remarkable dissertation is – as the author himself indicates – less about Barth himself than about a certain circle of his interpreters in German scholarship. Rather than directly contributing to the theme “Karl Barth and modernity,” Holtmann wishes primarily to help “clarify the implications” (18) of that theme. He does so by first presenting and evaluating what Trutz Rendtorff (part 1), Falk Wagner (part 2), and Friedrich Wilhelm Graf (part 3) have written about Barth, before turning to two additional interpreters: Dietrich Korsch (part 4) and Georg Pfleiderer (part 5). This selection of Barth interpreters is critical. The first three scholars under consideration are sometimes referred to as members of the “Munich school” of Barth interpretation (a designation Holtmann avoids throughout the book in order not to blur the differences between these authors, as he makes explicit on p. 409). They are some of the major voices in what has been and still is a sharply critical appraisal of Barth’s legacy. Indeed, as I would put it, most of these scholars are associated with the “Troeltsch renaissance,” to which they have been key contributors in the last decades. So Holtmann focuses his attention on voices who have expressed some of the most stringent criticisms of Barth.The first part of the book, which is also by far the longest one, begins with a close analysis of Trutz Rendtorff’s early publications, starting with his 1958 dissertation on “The Social Structure of the Community”. In it Rendtorff analyzed the theme of modern society’s “autonomy”. The emancipation of Western European societies from their religious roots has led the churches to a state of “permanent” and acute “crisis” (26). This statement reveals much about Rendtorff’s methodology, in which phenomenology and sociology take precedence over the more traditional dogmatic approach. Already in 1958 his aim was to retrieve the broad methodological orientation used by Ernst Troeltsch – an orientation eclipsed by Barth and more generally by the “theologians of the Word” such as Gogarten and Bultmann (28-29, 72). It thus appears that Rendtorff was intent, right from the beginning, to privilege a phenomenological and universal starting point for his theological work, in explicit contrast with the particularism of the biblical and dogmatic approach preferred by several dialectical theologians. Theology had to be done once again from an external standpoint (”Aussenperspektive”; 53), in the footsteps of two towering Enlightenment theologians: Semler and Troeltsch. Rendtorff was seeking to construct a “rational,” “natural” theology (84-5).

Rendtorff’s method as well as his inclination toward Troeltsch might presage a strictly negative evaluation of Barth’s theology. In fact, things are not that simple. The most striking aspect of Rendtorff’s interpretation of modern Protestant theology is his thesis that, far from breaking from late 19th century thought (Harnack, Troeltsch), the dialectical theologians sought to retrieve modernity’s theme of autonomy and thus must be seen as a constructive extension of 19th century thought (100-7). Barth did not ignore the modern problems of subjectivity, autonomy and self-consciousness. Rather, he revitalized them theologically in his own way, namely by “relocating” them in his doctrine of God (107-113). Rendtorff’s thesis was first expressed in 1972, in a section from his book Theorie des Christentums. Historisch-theologische Studien zu seiner neuzeitlichen Verfassung. Rendtorff’s appreciation for Barth’s achievement is limited: he deems it a significant – insofar as the theme of autonomy is now placed at the center of the theological construct – but ultimately inadequate effort, and thus calls for its sublation. Holtmann briefly sketches what Rendtorff sees as inadequacies, but it appears to be related to Barth’s use of Scripture as an instance of heteronomy (112). Another important difference lies in the fact that Rendtorff refuses to distinguish the Church’s being from its phenomenological, sociological dimension, whereas Barth, following the Reformers, understands the Church theologically and confessionally in relation to Scripture and revelation (143).

In his short summary of the first part of the book, Holtmann states that the question whether Rendtorff’s sophisticated interpretation actually conforms with Barth’s own theological intention is not as important as evaluating Rendtorff’s constructive proposal per se. Reading between the lines, the reader may discern that Holtmann has not been convinced by Rendtorff’s program of a “theory of Christianity” based on Troeltsch’s insights (156).

Part two begins with what looks almost like an apology for Falk Wagner: Holtmann states that even though Wagner crudely misunderstood Barth and polemicized against him, it remains interesting to uncover the presuppositions which led to these misunderstandings and polemical attacks. To put it clearly: what led Wagner to see certain parallels between the material shape (”inhaltliche Struktur”) of Barth’s theology and the theoretical constructs (”Theoriebildung”) of Stalinism and Nazism (173, 218)? With his emphasis on Christ’s triumphant reconciliatory work, which takes place independently of any human cooperation, Barth has constructed a “ruinous” idea of the absolute, for it lacks the presence of a truly “other,” according to Wagner. God “plays with himself,” in Barth’s theology. An “assimilation” (the ominous word “Gleichschaltung”) and elimination of the “other,” i.e. of human beings as contingent and free beings, has taken place. God’s omnicausality resembles certain forms of pantheism and the assimilation of the human counterpart betrays signs of a “tyranny” (214-217, 246). God’s absolute sovereignty leaves no room for human freedom. Interestingly, Holtmann does not see such criticisms as mere polemics based on an erroneous reading of Barth’s works (219). Rather, they must be understood as the logical consequence of Wagner’s interest in a theoretical construct of the notion of absolute. Building on the philosopher Wolfgang Cremer’s “theory of the absolute” and wishing to transcend the divide between theology and philosophy, Wagner considers the “idea of God” as triune to be a necessary rational thought, attained speculatively, rather than a reality known only through revelation and faith (174-182). Wagner’s speculative idealism is also apparent in the way a logically necessary idea – the “idea of God” as triune – serves to ground human subjectivity and consciousness within a theory of the absolute (185). The doctrine of the Trinity is “reconstructed” by Wagner “within the framework of a theory of the absolute” to ground “the self-acquisition and self-foundation of self-consciousness” [”die absolutheitstheoretisch rekonstruierte Trinitätslehre als Selbsterfassung (und -begründung) des Selbstbewusstseins”]; 186). What is apparent is that Wagner has lost all confidence in the possibility of any kind of theological realism, which he simply identifies with “premodern supranaturalism”. Everything in theology is conditioned by and dependent on (human) subjectivity. There lies the starting point of all theoretical constructs, including the “idea of God as triune” and christology. Human consciousness, in its active mode (”die Selbstbewusstseinstätigkeit”), is not only the source of theological constructs, it is also the subject matter of theology (223). Now that is quite an antagonistic approach, compared to Barth’s intention! It appears that Wagner did not even try to take up Feuerbach’s challenge (yet he hoped to counter Feuerbach’s critique by speaking not just of the individual but also of the universal consciousness, which he identified as God; 226). Another problem lies in the instrumentalization of the “absolute” in Wagner’s project. As Holtmann points out, in Wagner’s theology “the absolute” is a necessary thought only insofar as it serves to ground subjectivity and consciousness (192). Finally, near the end of part two, Holtmann mentions how Wagner’s more recent criticisms portray Barth as a theologian who used theology to further his personal ambition and quest for power. Barth spoke of the absolute to absolutize his own finite position (251). Here Holtmann rightly takes the gloves off and admits that Wagner’s comments do not reflect a real attempt to understand Barth’s thought (250).

The third part of the book begins by showing how Friedrich Wilhelm Graf’s earliest critique of Barth’s theology, published in 1975, is partly indebted to Falk Wagner’s views on subjectivity and freedom, before arguing that Graf follows Troeltsch rather than Rendtorff and Wagner in his assessment of Hegel’s metaphysics: Hegel’s thought was directed at the right aim, but his “deductive metaphysics of the absolute” (Troeltsch), with its abstraction from the social, cultural and political context, can no longer be pursued, (275-6). Troeltsch’s decisive influence is apparent in Graf’s “historicization” (”Historisierung”) of Barth, which seeks to contextualize his thought. Modernity is essentially a revolutionary way of thinking historically (”historische Denkrevolution”; 286). Using that Troeltschian standpoint, Graf concludes that Barth’s theology is “antihistorical”. Unfortunately, as Holtmann points out, this narrow focus on the problem of historicism does not allow Graf to fully contextualize Barth and to consider what he might have learned from certain “positive” (or conservative) thinkers such as Johann Tobias Beck, Christoph Blumhardt, or Hermann Kutter. More importantly, it neglects material questions such as the question of God (288-9). Holtmann then provides an excellent survey of Graf’s critique of the impact of Barth’s “antiliberalism” during the Weimar Republic. In an article from 1986, Graf has stated that even though Barth’s attitude with regard to democracy and parliamentarism was unambiguous (read: positive), his theology did lead to a relativization of democracy (Barth’s theology “faktisch demokratierelativierend gewirkt hat”; 296). Holtmann disagrees with this assessment. In his opinion, Graf does not try to understand what might have motivated Barth to criticize “liberalism” (313). Certainly, Barth did express some regrets regarding his relatively few public pronouncements against the various antidemocratic forces in Germany in the 1920’s. As a foreign citizen and as a theologian who wished to focus on the center of Christian theology, he did not speak out as clearly and as often as he could/should have (313-4). But Holtmann admits, with Graf, that Barth did not attempt to ground democratic values theologically in any constructive sense until 1938’s Rechtfertigung und Recht(319). Contrasting Graf’s work with Wagner and Rendtforff, Holtmann signals the decisive difference between them: a constructive project on the basis of a critique of Barth’s theology is absent in Graf’s works. Rather, he is content to evaluate Barth’s thought from a Troeltschian perspective, locating Barth in his socio-cultural milieu (326). But even this “historicization” is not adequately pursued by Graf, for it ignores a number of significant authors and texts, including many volumes published in recent decades as part of Barth’s complete works.

The last two parts of the book consist of “side glances” at two additional interpreters: Dietrich Korsch and Georg Pfleiderer. Korsch’s positive contribution, compared to Rendtorff, Wagner, and Graf, has been to take into account the central motif in the Church Dogmatics, namely the “prior facticity of the Christ event and its contemporary proclamation” (340). Korsch thus corrects their insufficient consideration of some of the basic material decisions in the Church Dogmatics (355), and he is interested in identifying the conditions of possibility for furthering the legacy of dialectical theology after and beyond Barth. Also noteworthy is the fact that Korsch places Barth in conversation with Wilhelm Herrmann and Friedrich Schleiermacher, rather than using Troeltsch as a measuring stick (344). Korsch discerns the importance for Barth of the facticity of Jesus Christ’s self-attestation (”Selbstbezeugung”), a starting point which obviously differs from Schleiermacher’s and Herrmann’s interest in human consciousness and subjectivity. But Korsch leans towards abstraction with his analysis of the “structure” of Barth’s thought: the center of theology tends to become a “principle” rather than an event (355).

Moving on to his final interlocutor, Holtmann retraces in great detail Pfleiderer’s interpretation of the development of Barth’s thought, from his earliest writings to the early 1930’s (371-403). Holtmann sees the influence of all previous authors in Pfleiderer’s account (405-6). Pfleiderer’s overarching concern is to show the “practical” character of Barth’s theology, which aimed at constituting a “church” with a theologically clear collective subjectivity (361). Barth’s Tambach lecture, for instance, was a “performative act” meant to create a community among theologians. Grasping the content of that lecture was supposed to have practical consequences: the theme of the electing God simultaneously served as a theological call to discipleship (390). The “applicatio” was inherently present within the theoretical construct (402). This model, according to Pfleiderer, betrays the influence of Marburg neo-Kantianism, a philosophical school for which reason itself “generates” reality. If Barth’s theology is somehow compatible with modernity, it has much to do with these affinities. As Holtmann sees it, Pfleiderer’s main objective is to analyze the way in which Barth’s theologyfunctions. Barth’s own self-understanding, i.e. his way of locating himself in relation to the biblical-reformatory trajectory, is seen as a secondary decision and as a means to an end (405). This interpretation is in fact shared by Rendtorff, Wagner and Graf, who refuse to take Barth at his word when he claims or hopes to be a biblical theologian. What Barth did was merely “clothe” his own ideas in biblical garment (416). Imagining that he might have received theological impulses from Scripture would be utterly naïve and is unnecessary. Holtmann is correct to take issue with this interpretation. He asks: can Barth’s theology be understood if one does not take his use of Scripture seriously? Holtmann’s conclusion is that the five authors under consideration have not taken into consideration the most important reference for Barth’s theology.

Holtmann proves to be equally charitable and perceptive in his detailed presentation and analysis of these five authors. One senses that, far from simply condemning Barth’s critics, he genuinely wishes to understand them and to begin a conversation with them. It is to be hoped that his conversation partners (at least those who are still living) will respond to his critique. In the meantime, Holtmann’s book is a must-read for anyone interested in the critical reception of Barth’s theology.

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

McCormack, Bruce L. and Clifford B. Anderson, eds. Karl Barth and American Evangelicalism (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2011)

 Karl Barth and American Evangelicalism

McCormack, Bruce L. and Clifford B. Anderson, eds. Karl Barth and American Evangelicalism (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2011), 400 pp. $38.00 (paperback).

Reviewed by SueJeanne Koh (December 07, 2016)

Karl Barth and American Evangelicalism is a collection of essays that arose from the second annual Barth Conference at Princeton Theological Seminary, which took place in June 2007. Alongside other recently edited volumes, Karl Barth and Evangelical Theology (ed. Sung Wook Chung, 2008) and Engaging With Barth: Contemporary Evangelical Critiques (eds. David Gibson and Daniel Strange, 2009),this volume reflects the ambivalent but ongoing relationship between evangelicalism broadly construed and the impact of Karl Barth’s theological writings.This particular volume focuses in on American evangelicalism through the particular antagonistic relationship between Cornelius Van Til and Karl Barth. What this accomplishes is the ability to hone in on theological issues of concern that have particularly persisted for those who claim Van Til as part of their intellectual heritage. This heritage arose from the “modernist-fundamentalist” split, most clearly characterized in the establishment of Westminster Theological Seminary in 1929 by J. Gresham Machen. Though the disagreement between Van Til and Barth was years later and in one sense may be narrowly interpreted as a scholastic argument between neo-Calvinists and Barthians, in another it had broader implications for the contours of American evangelicalism as it sought to define its place in the social and cultural landscape of the twentieth century. Van Til may not be a name that comes to mind immediately when thinking about the prominent figures of twentieth-century American evangelicalism, but his consistent and ongoing criticism of Barth’s theology—even if not completely on target, as essays by George Harinck and Bruce McCormack indicate—and influence at Westminster have allowed for implicit familiarity with his thinking in Reformed circles. This is both the strength and the weakness of the volume. It allows, for the most part, a sustained thematic coherence throughout but at the expense of other doctrinal themes that are important to American evangelicals, such as the relationship between justification and sanctification, limited atonement, and baptism and communion.

The first two essays by George Harinck and D.G. Hart helpfully illuminate the historical genealogy and context of Van Til’s work. Harinck carefully provides the evidence that Van Til’s approach to Barth was influenced by his interactions with both Dutch neo-Calvinism and the theology of “Old Princeton.” Van Til took the concerns about Barth’s theology from the Dutch neo-Calvinists and translated these into a polemical defense of “Old Princeton” theology against Barth’s “unorthodox” theology. The result over the years has been a continued mutual but unnecessary suspicion between Barthians and neo-Calvinists, for while Van Til did anticipate some later evangelical concerns about Barth’s theology there were also areas of convergence. Hart points to this more balanced reception of Barth’s work through his historical narrative and genealogy of neo-Evangelicals, broadly associated with the pan-denominational organizations of Fuller Theological Seminary and Christianity Today.

Essays by John Hare and Clifford Anderson take up one of Van Til’s main criticisms of Barth, specifically Barth’s reliance on Kantian philosophical categories, which Van Til believes renders Barth’s theology “unfaithful to the gospel” (90). Hare’s essay is elegant and provocative in now he argues that not only is Van Til’s interpretation of Kant incorrect, but so is Barth’s interpretation, and so the two actually find themselves on the same side of the issue. Hare argues that more current scholarship and research on Kant show that there is nothing in Kant’s epistemology itself that is inconsistent with the gospel and that in fact Kant provides room for the workings of God’s grace. The import of Barth’s appropriation of Kant for evangelical theology is revealed at the end of Anderson’s contribution. Barth’s adaptation of the Marburg neo-Kantian “transcendental turn” speculatively allows for the possibility of a place for religious experience, which risks becoming an avenue for natural theology yet is so important for the evangelical narrative of conversion.

Significant concerns about Barth’s theology often arise from his actualized Christology, with the contention that it results in an abstract conception of the church and universalism. Michael Horton’s essay is particularly illuminating insofar as he delineates the differences between Barth’s Christology and Reformed theology of covenant and election. Although Horton ultimately argues that Barth’s Christology acts as a hermeneutic that obscures the soteriological dynamism of Reformed theology and the witness of scripture, Horton also recognizes the genetic similarities of the two and the possibility of further generative conversation. Adam Neder’s essay on Barth’s innovation regarding the hypostatic union takes up this possibility and provides a nice contrast to Horton’s piece. Neder argues that Barth, while finding resources for his Christology within the Reformed and Lutheran traditions, was above all invested in unfurling what he found in scripture for the sake of doing “evangelical” theology.

Next, Kimlyn Bender and Keith L. Johnson address the theme of ecclesiology, but from two different angles. Bender suggests that because American evangelicalism is marked more by doctrinal assumptions rather than confessional or denominational identity, the result has been “a kind of thin theological gruel owing more to the market and to cultural trends than to the developed theological heritage of the churches” (185). What Bender argues is that while Barth may have had some sharp words for evangelicalism today, he would have appreciated its catholic and ecumenical emphasis. Ultimately, Barth’s conceptualization of the church as “both [the] invisible and visible” body of Christ allows for a richer ontological ground for evangelical identity. Johnson takes up the concern expressed among some evangelicals that Barth’s ecclesiology does not allow for significant ontological expression of human action. He argues that Barth’s conception of the concursus Dei allows for the distinct but vital relationship between God’s action and ours, a necessary outworking of Barth’s doctrine of election. While I am unsure of Johnson’s discussion of the concursus Dei mapping so neatly onto Barth’s account of water baptism, this connection is one that evangelicals might find instructive in terms of strengthening ecclesial identity.

Bruce McCormack and Suzanne McDonald focus on the persistent charge of “universalism” in Barth’s theology, a worry that McCormack analyzes as one that funds all other evangelical concerns about Barth. McCormack’s essay takes up the Pauline witness to the question of eschatology and “hell” and reads it alongside both Barth’s early engagement with Paul in The Epistle to the Romans and his later doctrine of election. McCormack argues that Barth ultimately withdraws from a final affirmation of apokatastasis because of his commitment to upholding the diversity of scriptural voices. McDonald takes a fresh approach to the question of apokatastasis by asking what it means to be “in Christ,” thus bringing into sharper focus the Trinitarian shape of election. Through an examination of John Owen’s pneumatological understanding of election, McDonald reframes the Reformed evangelical concern about Barth’s bent toward “universalism” as one about the relationship between Christology and pneumatology.

The final set of essays in this volume takes up contemporary themes that intersect with American evangelicalism more broadly: the challenge of historical criticism via Carl Henry and Hans Frei (Springs), the emerging church (Franke), and Radical Orthodoxy (Hector). In the final essay, Todd V. Cioffi examines Stanley Hauerwas’s sharp church-state distinction and his use of Barth in support. Cioffi distinguishes Barth’s understanding of the church-state relationship from Hauerwas’s, and argues that Barth’s theology allows for active Christian participation in political and social affairs as affirmation of Christ’s lordship. From one perspective, the inclusion of this last set of essays seems only relevant to the subset of American evangelicals who have an interest in Radical Orthodoxy or who are explicitly familiar with the emerging church. So readers should remind themselves of the particular lens through which this volume is most fruitfully read: the doctrinal differences between Cornelius Van Til and Karl Barth, and the ways in which Radical Orthodoxy or the emerging church draws upon those differences. Finally, Bruce McCormack’s afterword provides a succinct but clarifying analysis of the problems of Van Til’s critique of Barth (e.g., his analysis only extends up to CD II/1) and the remaining fundamental contrasts between the two. While this conclusion might be read as a dismissal of Van Til in the end, McCormack submits instead that it is not “self-evident” about which path to choose. In saying this, he suggests that an ongoing and active searching of the scriptures as the living Word of God and tradition is what marks evangelicalism, more so than an allegiance to a particular figure or commitment to particular issues.

Given the ways in which American evangelicalism has found itself allied with strange bedfellows in the past year and how it has become overwhelmingly identified with certain social and political concerns (e.g., the status of same-sex marriage, the pro-life movement), reading this volume was initially a bit of an exercise in cognitive dissonance. It is also true that the racial and ethnic makeup of American evangelicalism is transforming evangelicalism from the inside out, and so some consideration or acknowledgement of this would have also been appreciated. However, this volume will be helpful to the careful and sympathetic reader who is familiar with Reformed evangelicalism and is interested in clearing the ground of some of the misconceptions regarding Barth and the doctrinal commitments of evangelical theology. Nuanced attention to doctrinal issues cannot fully solve the problems and issues of life together, but perhaps revisiting doctrine along the lines of what we see in this volume may force us to better articulate the connections to its outworking.

SueJeanne Koh, Th.D. Candidate, Duke Divinity School

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

Werpehowski, William. Karl Barth and Christian Ethics: Living in Truth (Burlington, VT: Ashgate Publishing Company, 2014)

Karl Barth and Christian Ethics: Living in Truth

Werpehowski, William. Karl Barth and Christian Ethics: Living in Truth (Burlington, VT: Ashgate Publishing Company, 2014), xv + 188. $104.95 (hardback)

Reviewed by Matthew Dowling (December 03, 2015)

“The dogmatics of the Christian Church, and basically the doctrine of God, is ethics” (CD II/2:515). This, as much as any statement, captures how Barth thought of the ethical task. When one grasps something of the profundity of this statement, then one will have a better sense of how inseparable Barth considered the link between how the Church should live and the task of theology. As Barth contended, the Church should seek to follow the will of God, an assertion he rooted in the claim of God on the people of God, because the covenant relation that God established with humanity has a double implication: election and command. It is the broad topic of divine command ethics which William Werpehowski critically and constructively engages in his book, Karl Barth and Christian Ethics: Living in Truth.Dr. Werpehowski currently holds the Robert L. McDevitt, K.S.G., K.C.H.S. and Catherine H. McDevitt L.C.H.S. Chair in Catholic Theology at Georgetown University. He previously spent several decades as a professor of Theology and director of the Center for Peace and Justice Education at Villanova University.

This volume was published by Ashgate as part of their Barth Studies series and was a focus (in draft form) of members of the Yale-Princeton Theology Group who convened in Princeton in 2012 to discuss it. As Werpehowski states in his preface, he hopes readers will “come away with a deeper comprehension of [Barth’s] ethics and a greater readiness to think critically with him in conversations about what Christians ought to be and to do.” The content of the book is comprised of material previously available in print but brought together here and revised (chapters 1-6, 9) with the addition of new material (chapters 7, 8, and 10).

Werpehowski’s volume proceeds in two parts. The first part is given over to “Divine Command, Narrative, and Ethics” and is comprised of chapters 1-4. Readers familiar with Werpehowski’s work will recognize in these chapters his continuing engagement with Barth’s surprising relation of divine command ethics, narrative theology, and virtue ethics. In part two, “Virtue, Moral Practices, and Discernment,” the discussion and critical engagement in the chapters centers upon specific moral themes and development in the area of theological ethics shaped by Barth’s consideration of the “reality-constituting acts of God” and his theology, which presupposes a “moral ontology.”

In Chapter One (“Divine Commands and Philosophical Dilemmas”), Werpehowski examines Barth’s approach to the question of the nature and source of the good (asking “Why ought we to obey the command of God?”) and shows, in dialogue with formulations from the famous “Euthyphro Dilemma” and Kant’s Metaphysics of Morals, that because God is fundamentally for us in Jesus Christ, God has claimed us as Lord and Master in such a way that human obedience is an expression of our fellowship with God and conformity to Jesus Christ. In other words, humans freely, authentically, and fully assent to God’s self-disclosure. As Werpehowski summarizes, “God’s commands are right because God commands them; but what God commands is always bound to the divine decision that is Jesus Christ” (12).

In his second chapter, “Command and History,” Werpehowski engages two important thinkers and their contemporary critiques of Barth’s ethics of divine command: James M. Gustafson and Stanley Hauerwas. By suggesting that their readings of Barth are too restrictive both with respect to the portion of the ethical writings considered and the general style of interpreting Barth, the author attempts to show that Barth’s ethics are able to account for important facets of human moral agency. As he suggests, Barth’s ethics incorporate a concept of history which grounds reasons for action, character, and ‘growth-in-continuity’ (categories considered missing by the critics) in his category of “history of relationship with God.” For this reason Barth’s ethics ultimately do not fall to these important thinker’s critiques. Barth’s Christian ethic is, qualifiedly but genuinely, an ethic of virtue. Like John Webster’s excellent work on human action and moral theology (to mention just one scholar), Werpehowski is not to be missed as a counterpoint to those interpretations which underestimate Barth’s moral ontology.

Chapter three “Narrative and Ethics”, begins with the observation that Barth’s interest in the history of God in Jesus Christ warrants our interest in the category of narrative. He suggests that Barth’s account of God’s being as a being-in-act and of the being of Jesus Christ as constituted by this action means that a narrative interpretation is at work in Barth’s theology (38). Content in the chapter explores how biblical narrative figures in Barth’s theological ethics. Particularly interesting in this section is the analysis of Barth’s take on suicide and the synthetic manner in which Barth read from a number of different and complex texts towards a theological and ethical consideration of killing oneself. Not to be missed, readers should note Werpehowski’s four guidelines for evaluating Barth’s ethical vision listed at the end of the chapter.

In what is likely the heart of the book, chapter four, “Realism and Discernment”, finishes the first major part of the volume with a discussion about how (what Werpehowski calls) God’s “dynamic realism” stands at the center of Barth’s ethical thought. Werpehowski explores the significance of Barth’s “conceptual redescription” in theological ethics as he subverted modernity’s claim that the moral world could be organized around the self in such a way that the self was a kind of moral spectator and center of judgment. Rather, as a determination of the elect because of the election of humanity by God who is for us, the elect creature exists in grateful witness, who, because she knows grace, she knows God’s sovereign will and desires in gratitude to do it as she is addressed by God. In essence, Barth’s project counters the incipient nihilism of the Kantian ethic, as he builds a theological ethic on the foundation of Jesus Christ. This analysis is really about how one hears the divine command and the ways that divine grace impacts human moral action. Werpehowski explores a very interesting facet of Barth’s theological ethics in the remainder of the chapter: how his critical exposition of themes and their implications for faithful response and action bear on issues of sickness and illusion (with Mary Baker Eddy as the dialogue partner) and how one should honor bad parents. As Werpehowski concludes, “a practice of pursuing a coherent normative account of Christian existence through testing and revision of the language of faith, forged in Bible and tradition, is an essential aspect of Barth’s theological work and, I think, one of his great contributions to Christian ethics today” (62).

Part two comprises chapters five through ten and is given over to “Virtue, Moral Practices, and Discernment.” This section in many ways represents an application of the first part of the book and Barth’s theological ethic to various areas of concern. Here we must be more brief. Chapter five (“What Shall Parents Teach Their Children?”) and six (“In Search of Real Children: Innocence, Absence and Becoming a Self”) explores the divine command in the realm of parental responsibilities and the vocation of children. Chapter seven (“Love of God and the Moral Meaning of Joy”) analyzes how the affection of joy and the disposition of virtues enable us to feel joy well and can serve as a basis for integrity in the Christian life (note this chapter’s reflection on joy in the thoughts of Karl Barth, Julian of Norwich, and Thomas Aquinas). Chapter eight (“Hiddenness, Disclosure, and the Reality of God: The Practice of Truth Telling”) looks at the practice of truth telling and being truthful. Both Barth and Bonhoeffer’s reflections are brought critically together in this chapter to great effect.

Chapter nine (“Practical Wisdom and Integrity”) explores the virtues of prudence and practical wisdom and the sort of “surpassing reasonableness” to which it disposes in the sanctified life of the justified sinner who is reconciled with God in Jesus Christ. Chapter ten (“Desire, Reverence, and Friendship”) is an extensive and free-flowing theological exchange which examines the topic of the love of neighbor.

Weaknesses in the book, if present, were not noted by this reviewer. One of the strengths of this volume, aside from it being a collection of work from a respected, veteran scholar, is that there is a coherent flow to the chapters which readers will likely appreciate. Also, it is always appreciated when an author or editor uses footnotes rather than endnotes – this work has footnotes. An index is included in the volume. The preface to the book is a helpful orientation for readers who may not be as familiar with Barth’s ethical project and Werpehowski’s work within it. Reading a collected volume of this kind from cover to cover is made easier by the applied nature of the second part of the book, which will likely draw the reader along.

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

Wigley, Stephen D. Karl Barth and Hans Urs von Balthasar: A Critical Engagement (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 2007)

Karl Barth and Hans Urs von Balthasar: A Critical Engagement 

Wigley, Stephen D. Karl Barth and Hans Urs von Balthasar: A Critical Engagement (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 2007), xiv + 178 pp. $145.00 (hardback)

Reviewed by John L. Drury (September 02, 2008)

Toward the end of his life, Hans Urs von Balthasar said of his multi-volume trilogy, “I wrote it all for Barth – to convert him.” Stephen Wigley’s new book can be read as an exposition of this revealing statement. Wigley’s central claim is that Balthasar’s critical engagement with Barth shaped the deep structure of his trilogy. Barth is not merely one interlocutor among others for Balthasar, but rather is the key to understanding the whole of his theology. Although this is not a particularly original or controversial thesis, the enduring significance of Barth for Balthasar’s theological project is all too often forgotten or suppressed. So Wigley’s book contributes to the ongoing appropriation of Balthasar’s legacy by keeping his conversation with Barth in the foreground.

Wigley advances his argument by first discussing Balthasar’s book on Barth, followed by an overview of Balthasar’s trilogy that highlights the presence of Barth as the key conversation partner. This method has the advantage of showcasing the breadth of Balthasar’s engagement with Barth, as opposed to many previous studies that compare the two figures on a selected topic. Unfortunately, given the vastness of Balthasar’s output, this method consistently lends itself to mere summary even when the arguments call for closer examination. Wigley repeatedly acknowledges the limitation of such summarizing, but does not take any significant steps to mitigate its effects. Nevertheless, Wigley makes some crucial claims worthy of attention. I will identify and discuss three such claims, and then offer some more general criticisms of the book.

Wigley’s three most crucial claims are embedded within a single sentence in the conclusion of the book. “What this book does argue is that … the formof von Balthasar’s debate with Barth (centring on a christological reinterpretation of the analogy of being) … provides the key influence which in turn goes on to govern the structure of von Balthasar’s subsequent trilogy” (160, emphasis original). The three claims correspond to the three italicized words.

The first claim concerns the form of Balthasar’s debate with Barth. Balthasar’s book on Barth, argues Wigley, is not only an exposition but also a work of theology in its own right. Balthasar exposits Barth in order to respond to his theology. Of course, anyone who actually read Balthasar’s 1951 book would know this. Yet it is all too easy, especially in the midst of the recent renaissance in Barth studies, to reduce the significance of Balthasar’s book to its interpretive schema. Balthasar’s interpretive schema, famously focused on analogy, functions as a point of entry to reinterpret the analogy of being Christocentrically, thereby taking on board Barth’s driving concerns even while demurring from his views on analogy.

Wigley is certainly right in his description of Balthasar’s intentions, and his treatment of Balthasar’s book on Barth sets up his larger argument nicely. However, it should be noted that exposition and response can be distinguished but cannot be separated. Balthasar’s critical response to Barth claims to follow through on Barth’s own insights in order to arrive at a Catholic position concerning the analogy of being. As Wigley puts it, “Barth has, as it were, not moved far enough” (44). Such an internal critique presumes the accuracy of Balthasar’s interpretation of the trajectory of Barth’s development. At this point, Wigley gives Balthasar too much credit. If it turns out that Barth was not moving in the direction Balthasar thought he was, then Balthasar’s alternative, though it may be justifiable on other grounds, does not succeed as a critical response to Barth. The historical questions of Barth interpretation and the systematic questions of how to respond to him cannot be separated. Wigley has rightly characterized Balthasar’s overarching purpose, but has failed to acknowledge the interconnectedness of exposition and response.

The second claim concerns the key influence on Balthasar’s theology. Of all the many figures Balthasar constructively engages throughout his work, who is the key to unlocking his theology? Wigley argues that Barth is the key influence in Balthasar’s development. In the epilogue, he contends with the recent counterclaims of Mark McIntosh and Kevin Mongrain, who argue respectively that Maximus and Ignatius of Loyola or Irenaeus via Henri de Lubac are the key influences on Balthasar’s thought. Although Wigley acknowledges the significance of these and other figures for Balthasar, he claims that Barth is the key influence developmentally, inasmuch as Balthasar’s critical response to Barth occasions and drives his trilogy.

The justification of such a claim would require the collection and analysis of considerably more evidence than Wigley supplies, especially from Balthasar’s earlier writings, personal correspondence, and unpublished papers that might reveal more of Balthasar’s self-understanding. Yet, at least in terms of Balthasar’s major publication – the trilogy – the significance of Barth is unquestionable. Wigley’s work serves to block those who wish to downplay Barth’s influence. The negative function of this claim is more important that its positive counterpart, because it is doubtful whether debates over who is the key influence on a figure are productive or even meaningful. The more important question is how a theologian creatively integrates many influences within his or her own constructive project. How Barth and Irenaeus fit together within the developing structure of Balthasar’s thought is far more interesting than which one is supposedly more influential. The mention of structure brings us to Wigley’s third claim.

The third and final claim concerns the structure of Balthasar’s theological trilogy. Wigley claims that Balthasar’s choice to structure his major theological publication around the three transcendentals (beauty, goodness, truth) is a function of his Christological reinterpretation of the analogy of being and therefore a direct consequence of his debate with Barth. Put succinctly, Balthasar’s response to Barth is architectonic.

The depth of this structural claim renders it both the most important as well as the most unwieldy of Wigley’s claims, for it suggests the corollary claim that Barth’s influence continues ‘underground’ even as Balthasar’s explicit engagement with Barth subsides over the years. On the one hand, such an underground influence is fruitful for interpretation because it enables one to see Barth’s role in the conversation even when Balthasar does not mention him. On the other hand, such presumed underground influence lets Wigley avoid the interpretive question: Why does Barth’s presence on Balthasar’s pages wane over the years? Wigley acknowledges but does not explain this phenomenon (88-89). Discussion of a few selected later texts where Barth does appear is not sufficient to answer this interpretive question. One must also attend to contextual factors, such as the cooling of their relationship after the publication of the second edition of Balthasar’s book on Barth. Although I tend to agree with Wigley’s structural claim, such weakness in execution raises serious doubts about the overall method of this book, which brings us to some more general criticisms.

Wigley’s reading of texts is unsatisfactory. This does not necessarily undermine the crucial claims highlighted above, but it certainly leads to numerous weak spots, blind spots, and outright errors. Such methodological inadequacy applies differently to different authors in question. Bluntly stated, Wigley interprets Balthasar flatly, represents Bruce McCormack falsely, and does not engage Barth at all.

Wigley claims to employ an “old-fashioned and ‘historico-critical’” (160) method, but he seldom places Balthasar in his wider historical context. Both diachronically and synchronically, Wigley’s interpretation of Balthasar is flat. Although he discusses Erich Przywara in the first chapter and refers to him throughout the book, Wigley does not take time to assess the developments and changes in his thought, nor does he address the complexities of Balthasar’s relationship to him. One gets the impression that Balthasar remained firmly supportive of Przywara’s earlier views throughout his career, when in fact both Balthasar and Przywara continued to develop and grew substantially apart in the process. Balthasar developed his Christologically-grounded analogy of being along this trajectory, which was certainly not fully operative from 1951 on as Wigley seems to suggest. Furthermore, the short-lived yet decisive place of Gottlieb Söhngen in the debate over analogy is entirely overlooked. Many more examples could be given, but these are sufficient to illustrate the endemic problem.

In the course of discussing Balthasar’s book on Barth, Wigley sets his sights on McCormack’s criticisms of Balthasar. McCormack offers an alternative developmental paradigm to the so-called “von Balthasar thesis” that Barth turned from dialectic to analogy in his Anselm book. Wigley claims that McCormack “does not do justice to the subtlety and detail of von Balthasar’s exposition” and obscures the fact that “Balthasar was not seeking simply to introduce and interpret Barth, but to engage and respond as a Catholic theologian” (41). As a criticism of McCormack, the second claim is a red herring. Although Balthasar’s intentions are crucial for understanding his constructive relationship with Barth, good intentions do not always make for good interpretation. Challenging Balthasar’s interpretation of Barth does not obscure Balthasar’s systematic intentions, but rather takes seriously the interconnectedness of interpretation and response. The first claim would be damning, if it were true. However, it is not. The only evidence Wigley cites to illustrate McCormack’s injustice to Balthasar’s “subtlety and detail” comes directly from McCormack’s own concessions (41-42). Wigley completely ignores McCormack’s detailed five-point argument against the received paradigm (Karl Barth’s Critically Realistic Dialectical Theology pp. 434-441). Wigley cites Balthasar’s emphasis on Barth’s “inner consistency” as evidence of a convergence between the two interpretations (42). However, this misses the import of McCormack’s interpretive paradigm: that Barth consistently developed along a materially different trajectory than Balthasar had supposed. The net result is a gross misrepresentation of McCormack’s argument, setting the book off on the wrong foot from the beginning. This misstep is especially unfortunate because it is entirely unnecessary. Wigley’s overall argument does not require that Balthasar’s interpretation of Barth be wholly accurate. Wigley would have been better off acknowledging that contemporary Barth scholarship has supplanted much of Balthasar’s interpretation and then moving on to show how Balthasar’s engagement with Barth functioned in Balthasar’s own development.

Even more disappointing than the flat reading of Balthasar and misrepresentation of McCormack is the complete lack of direct engagement with Barth. Although he cites Barth’s texts at numerous points, Wigley does not analyze in detail any of his arguments on their own terms. He only repeats Balthasar’s praises and criticisms. This lack of direct engagement contributes to a failure of follow-through regarding the subterranean influence of Barth. For instance, Balthasar’s anthropology and Christology in volumes two and three of Theo-Drama invite systematic comparison with Barth’s own exploration of these topics, but no such analysis is given. Along with these missed opportunities, there are a number of mistaken citations from Barth’s corpus that betray a lack of attention to detail.

Readers expecting a critical engagement with Barth and Balthasar will undoubtedly be disappointed. Perhaps a better title for this book would have been “Han Urs von Balthasar’s Critical Engagement with Karl Barth.” We will have to wait for a truly critical engagement with both figures. In the meantime, this volume provides a sort of “checklist” for further study by identifying many of the key places where Balthasar directly engages Barth. As such it will be of interest to some specialists, and may in due course serve to stimulate much needed research into the complex relationship between two of the church’s greatest theologians.

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

Reeling Brouwer, Rinse H. Karl Barth and Post-Reformation Orthodoxy (Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2015)

Karl Barth and Post-Reformation Orthodoxy

Reeling Brouwer, Rinse H. Karl Barth and Post-Reformation Orthodoxy (Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2015), viii + 275 pp. $119.95 (hardcover).

Reviewed by Matthew A. Frost (August 08, 2016)

Since Bruce McCormack’s Karl Barth’s Critically Realistic Dialectical Theology, the lion’s share of work in the field has gone to handling—and arguing about—the implications of that set of historiographic insights. Only a handful of works since have engaged at length in that kind of thorough investigation, which makes it a pleasure to see this new collection of pieces from Ashgate (also available under the Routledge imprint) pursuing just such a course. Dr. Rinse Reeling Brouwer of the Protestant Theological University in the Netherlands has assembled here six detailed essays into Barth’s development in relation to the theologies of the 17th and early 18th centuries. Only two of these handle Barth’s use of Heinrich Heppe’s 19th-century compendium of the period, and the approaches involved reflect the author’s commitment to the primary sources.Thorough and insightful in their details, each of these six chapters has appeared elsewhere in an earlier form over the last decade, whether in a conference volume or—in the case of the comparative loci analysis in the sixth chapter—in the author’s own textbook. Their collection here serves as a solid and accessible point of reference, advancing our understanding of Barth’s progress from Göttingen to his mature dogmatics. The “and” of the title appears as a series of lively conversations that Barth is having with fellow practitioners engaged in a common task. The depth and structural attention Reeling Brouwer devotes to each of these interlocutors is valuable in its own right, teaching the reader as much (if not sometimes more) about the older theology in the course of describing Barth’s engagement with it.

The introduction to the volume is practically a chapter of original work in its own right, justifying the author’s framing of Barth as an engaged interpreter and critic of primary sources from this period. While it is unfortunate that Barth’s—often uncharitably—critical reception among the adherents of these older theologies necessitates such a proposal, Reeling Brouwer’s work is well-suited to its defense. His tour of the relevant sources from Barth’s personal library, complete with annotated tabular listing, allows the author to proceed into a description of the contributions of those old Protestant works to the excurses of each volume of the Church Dogmatics. Whether Barth has gotten them right—he certainly refused on principle to follow the older theologies at numerous points—Reeling Brouwer has given us every reason to push further ad fontes with him, explicitly echoing Barth’s own assertion that we “need not stop at either Schmid or Heppe, but must seek out and traverse the more arduous road to the sources” (6). This is a necessary approach if we would move beyond the limitations left by his reception history.

The first chapter draws on Amandus Polanus (1561–1610) and his Syntagma theologiae Christianae to trace a line from Barth’s early teaching at Basel through his published doctrines of God and creation. In pursuit of a “dialogical dogmatics,” where we hear the sources speaking in their own rights, Reeling Brouwer begins with a structural analysis of Polanus’ massive Syntagma intended to surpass the existing literature. This makes possible a more thorough accounting of Barth’s misgivings about what we might otherwise call “metaphysics” in his engagement with Polanus’ Ramist dichotomies. It also allows for perspective on Barth’s misunderstandings. Perceptively, however, the author does not stop with these, instead locating Barth’s key disagreements in the question of the proper subject matter of theology, and in the epistemological necessities of points of view three centuries apart.

The Leiden Synopsis purioris theologiae, with its attempted forward-looking defense of “pure doctrine” after the Synod of Dort, governs the second chapter in a similar fashion. Where Barth relied on Heppe for this text at Göttingen, Reeling Brouwer shows us how the original text came into Barth’s hands in 1928, and how its direct influence appears in corrections of the Münster prolegomena, Barth’s subsequent lectures, and his mature dogmatics. The wide-ranging thematic comparisons of this chapter do much to illustrate its conclusion that Barth is contesting not the applicability of reason to theology, but the character of reason relative to revelation, as well as what it may be said to contribute to dogmatics.

In the third chapter, the author’s detailed attention to relatively obscure sources gives way to a broader attention to the work of Johannes Cocceius (1603–69), whose contributions to Federal Theology are more widely known—and against whom Barth wrestled in pursuit of a better understanding of “covenant.” Keeping up the dialogical theme, Reeling Brouwer manages a balanced approach that poses questions to and from both Cocceius and Barth, while pushing forward with a better grasp of Barth’s own view in the integration of both protological and eschatological concerns.

Karl Barth himself comes to the fore in the second half, as Reeling Brouwer begins to lead with the interpreter rather than the sources. Not surprisingly, this approach begins with a fourth chapter focusing on Barth’s reading of Heppe for his dogmatics lectures at Göttingen. The author attends closely to Barth’s final course on reconciliation at Göttingen, from the summer term of 1925, from the angle of the ad fontes necessity Barth would later declare in his introduction to Bizer’s 1935 edition. Under this approach, Heppe becomes more clearly a guide to the sources than a surrogate for them, even as the weaknesses of his guidance remain in the doctrine of the church Barth taught at that time. Reeling Brouwer does well to keep the forward view always in sight, reminding us that Barth moved beyond this work, and often in preferable ways.

In the fifth chapter, much as it seems Reeling Brouwer would prefer to extend favor and charity toward the theologians of the early 18th century that Barth handled in his winter 1932–33 course on Neo-Protestantism at Bonn, Barth’s own response to these “Janus-faced” thinkers constrains him. Their maintenance of earlier Protestant orthodoxy, combined with adaptation to the needs of Modernity, is the opposite of the approach Barth would find necessary in the face of the German church struggle. That opposition is borne out in Barth’s conflicts with his more neo-orthodox Zwischen den Zeiten colleagues of the time. His insistence on “taking the next step,” not merely accommodating older orthodoxy to newer times, is well-presented here, and ends with Reeling Brouwer suggesting that we review our own eirenic or polemic approaches to orthodoxy and Modernity in light of the times.

The sixth and final chapter returns to Heppe’s compendium in order to discuss Barth’s developing methodological concerns in constructing dogmatic theology. Reeling Brouwer’s thorough walkthrough of Barth’s developing dogmatic lecture series by comparison with Heppe is far more productive of useful ideas than can be adequately summarized here. It gives both skeleton and flesh to the ghost of the idea that Barth preferred a loci approach to any systematic theology. The author illustrates compellingly that a loci approach does not imply any lack of structure, and shows the ways Barth’s chosen structures emerged from critical engagement with his predecessors. Barth’s noteworthy reticence to engage in methodological description of his own work has left a gap in this space for far too long. It is a delight to see it filled, not only for the benefit of Reeling Brouwer’s own students in the Netherlands, but now also for the English-language academic audience.

The even-handed treatment given in this volume, both to the older Protestant theology and the development in Barth’s own, should commend it to scholars in both fields. For some of these materials, the standard approach leans heavily on Richard Muller’s Post-Reformation Reformed Dogmatics. With the recent Logos project translating Polanus’ Syntagma, and Brill’s bilingual reference edition of the Synopsis purioris theologiae, it is useful to have fresh secondary approaches to this material as well. But of course, the primary value is to Barth scholarship, and Reeling Brouwer has given a solid example to follow—and frequently an enjoyable read. Engaged readers should also have a look at the extended notes linked in the acknowledgements, which contain the kind of detailed citations of the older and less-accessible literature—along with occasional color commentary—that a reader of Barth’s excurses will find helpful yet refreshingly brief.

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

Johnson, Keith L., Karl Barth and the Analogia Entis (New York: T&T Clark, 2010)

 Karl Barth and the Analogia Entis

Johnson, Keith L., Karl Barth and the Analogia Entis (New York: T&T Clark, 2010), ix + 244pp. $120.00 (pbk. $44.95)

Reviewed by Han-luen Kantzer Komline (May 29, 2013)

Interest in the dispute between Karl Barth and Erich Przywara over the analogia entis has recently undergone a revival as John Betz and David Bentley Hart have led the effort to rehabilitate Przywara’s work. Keith Johnson’s defense of Barth’s criticism of Przywara’s analogia entis comes at just the right time to add a vigorous new perspective to the discussion. But this book does more than make a persuasive case for the validity of Barth’s critiques. It also sets forth Barth’s own evolving views on analogy, offering a compelling alternative to Hans Urs von Balthasar’s interpretation in his classic The Theology of Karl Barth. Balthasar contended that Barth’s attention to the substance of theology eventually transformed his method so as to lead him away from dialectic, toward analogy, and therefore toward Catholicism. Johnson proposes that just the opposite was the case. Barth’s ultimate decision to embrace a form of analogy was anything but a correction of his earlier assessments of Przywara’s position, still less a capitulation to Catholic perspectives. With Barth’s mature doctrine of analogy, his earlier quintessentially “Protestant” critiques had attained full bloom.The structure of Johnson’s monograph already drives home a substantive point. Only after spending four chapters meticulously examining previous interactions between Barth and Przywara does Johnson address Barth’s infamous repudiation of the analogia entis in 1932 as the “invention of the anti-Christ” (123). This statement, Johnson illustrates, did not emerge from a vacuum but from nearly a decade of direct and indirect exchange. In chapters six and seven, Johnson evaluates Barth’s mature position on analogy vis-à-vis the Catholic theologians Gottlieb Söhngen and Hans Urs von Balthasar. The inclusion of these chapters is instructive too: the story of Barth’s thinking on analogy continues well beyond the mesmerizing polemical fireworks of 1932.

As it turns out, Johnson shows, this story begins where Przywara’s thinking on analogy does. The first world war irrevocably shaped the attitudes of both theologians toward analogy, though each drew a different conclusion from its events: “While Przywara believed the church had done too little in the face of this tragedy, Barth believed that it had done too much” (14). Przywara intended his doctrine of analogy to encourage the political activity and influence of the church in postwar culture and society. Barth sought to foreclose uncritical efforts to claim God for human political and social agendas. Neither Barth nor Przywara ever abandoned his initial stance on how Christianity and the wider culture should relate. Yet both Barth and Przywara were reformers who sought to help the church avoid its previous mistakes.

Especially in the early chapters of the book, Johnson gives readers more than his title promises, devoting as much careful and sympathetic attention to Przywara as he does to Barth, —and often more, measured by pages of coverage. Not only Barth had grave concerns about the ideas of his counterpart: Przywara saw Barth as a potent threat to the enterprise of cooperation between church and civil society, faith and reason, revelation and philosophy. According to Przywara, Barth’s theology so stressed God’s all-consuming agency as to render the church and her mission irrelevant. Johnson does more than engagingly retell the more familiar story of Barth’s early development from the angle of his evolving perspectives on analogy. He also introduces Przywara’s, lucidly summarizing the complex argumentation of his little-known writings precedingAnalogia Entis, including its most important precursor, Religionsphilosophie katholischer Theologie (1926).

Whereas the trajectory of Przywara’s thinking had been more or less set at the outset, Barth’s thinking on analogy underwent considerable and sometimes surprising convolutions on the way to his mature position. In a brief window of time following his move to the largely Catholic Münster, Barth even made an astounding attempt to appropriate a version of Przywara’s analogy of being. Ironically, it seems to have been Barth’s first encounter with Przywara in person, and his intensive reading of Religionsphilosophie in preparation for it, that decisively disabused him of Przywara’s account. Upon Barth’s invitation, Przywara traveled in February of 1929 to participate in a seminar Barth was teaching on Thomas’s Summa Theologiae. During the visit, Barth heard Przywara deliver a lecture, engaged with him in a seminar setting, and spent two evenings with him in his own home. Familiarity rather than ignorance, Johnson proves, prompted Barth’s eventual critiques. This case is convincing not least of all because of Johnson’s own familiarity with Przywara’s early oeuvre and the patience with which he introduces his readers to it.

In “Fate and Idea,” a series of lectures Barth delivered in Dortmund shortly after Przywara’s visit, we see the fruits of his intensive engagement with Przywara. Barth states in this work: “everything that is exists as mere creature in greatest dissimilarity to the Creator, yet by having being it exists in greatest similarity to the Creator. That is what is meant by analogia entis.” Johnson’s conclusion that “Barth’s summary description of ‘what is meant’ by analogia entis corresponds directly to Przywara’s description of it” (98) downplays Barth’s misrepresentation of Przywara’s analogia entis. Far from implying parity between similarity and dissimilarity, Przywara places a decided accent on the latter. Still, Johnson identifies the heart of the disagreement with clarity and fairness: divergent ideas about what constitutes revelation separate Barth and Przywara, and this divergence stems from their differing views on the implications of human sin. For Przywara, sin does not undermine either creation’s revelatory function or human access to revelation. For Barth, sin entails that God’s revelation to the sinner requires God’s justification of the sinner, a new creation, not just the fulfillment of natural human capacities. This is why for Barth “the doctrine most central to the knowledge of God is not creation but justification” (108). Thus, Johnson argues, Barth’s reasons for rejecting the analogia entis “stand directly in line with the reasons Luther and the Reformers gave for turning away from Roman Catholicism centuries earlier” (121).

One might wish for a little more expansion on this claim. Later in the book Johnson cites Barth’s observation in “Nein!” that the statements of Calvin and Luther had to be sharpened in order to maintain their position. Barth went beyond the Reformers, he shows readers, by applying the principle of justification to epistemology as well as to soteriology. If this is the case, how, if at all, might Barth’s innovation upon their teaching entail a critique of their views as well as Przywara’s? For instance, Johnson observes that after Przywara’s second visit to Barth in 1931, this time to a seminar on “The Problem of Natural Theology,” “Barth’s seminar turned to the opening sections of Calvin’s Institutes on the Christian Religion, and there they found a clear Protestant alternative to the Roman Catholic view as Przywara had presented it” (125). In a footnote Johnson observes that “Barth would turn to these passages from Calvin again on the discussion of the same topic during his response to Emil Brunner’s Nature and Grace.” Yet in Barth’s famous “Nein!” to Brunner, Barth himself states that “What Calvin wrote in those first chapters of the Institutes has to be written again and this time in such a way that no Przywara and no Althaus can find in it material for their fatal ends” (Natural Theology, Wipf & Stock 2002, 104). How does the tension reflected in this statement cohere with, or complicate, Johnson’s presentation of Barth as the champion of the Protestant Reformation’s position on the issue of analogy? The significance of Johnson’s important claim that the dispute between Barth and Przywara is really a reprise of disputes between the Reformers and Rome hinges on the answer to this question.

Johnson’s primary task in the book’s first part, however, is to assess the validity of Barth’s criticisms of Przywara, and he continues to execute it with remarkable sympathy, finesse, and precision as he explicates Przywara’s daunting magnum opus in chapter five. Johnson shows how Analogia Entis deepens Przywara’s insights from Religionsphilosophie without departing from them. Here Przywara continues to present the analogy of being not merely as one among many metaphysical theories, but as the underlying structure of creaturely being as such. Philosophical insight alone can uncover the similarity between human being and God’s being since creaturely being is obviously contingent upon an external source. Christian theology, however, is necessary to appreciate the even more basic feature of God’s relationship to humanity: dissimilarity.

Given such a characterization of the analogia entis, Johnson asks, does Barth’s allegation that Przywara’s analogy moves from below to above still apply? Johnson answers in the affirmative. Przywara may ground the analogia entis in “revelation,” but he understands revelation differently from Barth. In this work, as previously, the key difference between Przywara and Barth is that Przywara locates revelation in creation whereas Barth finds it only in Jesus Christ. According to Barth, God’s revelation in Christ points to moral, as well as ontological, dissimilarity between God and human beings that cannot be ignored in an account of the relationship between God and the world. Thus, although Analogia Entis emphasizes the importance of divine revelation to a greater extent than Przywara had previously, this new emphasis does not allay Barth’s concern that Przywara elides the problem of human sin; Przywara fails to acknowledge sufficiently that because of sin, revelation must correct, not simply perfect, human actions, thinking and institutions.

Johnson helps readers to see that precisely this concern about the lack of critical and corrective distance between God and human beings motivated Barth’s explosive rejection of the analogia entis as “the invention of the anti-Christ” in 1932. As in 1914, Barth feared the Church’s entanglement in alliances that would betray its true identity and saw the potential of Przywara’s ideas to encourage them. It was vital, he believed, to name this threat in unmistakable terms.

Barth eventually ceased to express his critiques of the analogia entis, Johnson explains in the second major part of the book, not because he had become convinced that his earlier critiques were mistaken, but because new versions of the analogia entis such as Gottlieb Söhngen’s had adapted to many of his early objections. Barth wished to do nothing to interfere with the flourishing of a Christocentrism like Söhngen’s in Catholic theology. This did not mean, however, that Barth’s mature view coincided with his. Though Söhngen circumscribed the human pole of Przywara’s analogy such that it concerned the human being in faith, his analogy of being remained intrinsic, while Barth’s was extrinsic. Söhngen wanted to see the created human being per se as transformed by grace, while Barth preferred to limit any analogy strictly to the human as she lived outside of herself in Christ. Again Johnson exposes how doctrines of analogy depend on key decisions about other doctrines, in this case justification as establishing either inherent (Söhngen) or alien (Barth) righteousness.

According to Johnson, these more fundamental differences reveal why neither Barth’s analogia fidei nor hisanalogia relationis imply the kind of rapprochement with Catholic versions of the doctrine that Balthasar attributes to them. The mature Barth does come to allow for much more continuity between divine and human action, creation and reconciliation. But for Barth this continuity is first and foremost a function of election. God’s electing grace is the reason for creation and this statement can never be reversed in such a way as to suggest that creation has a coherent reality apart from it. To say merely that Barth’s analogia fideiand analogia relationis presuppose an analogia entis, Johnson insists, is to overlook the heart of Barth’s conception of analogy: God’s electing grace.

Though many critics still see Barth’s theology of God’s gracious election, and particularly his critical stance on analogy, as undercutting the value and significance of human agency, Johnson shows in a masterful turning of the tables that Barth’s extrinsic and Christological conception of authentic human being inherently includes, rather than precludes, a robust understanding of the human vocation and mission of the church. Human beings are called to participate in Christ’s prophetic work of proclamation as covenant partners who “cooperate with God’s work in Christ through the power of the Holy Spirit by sharing in the task of proclaiming the reality of Christ’s work to the world” (224). This vocation to cooperation with Christ’s way of living for the sake of others by proclaiming to them the good news of the gospel is, for Barth, the true meaning of human being in analogy to Christ.

Johnson’s book neither hides behind terminological similarities between Barth and his Catholic interlocutors nor dismisses them. Rather, it probes patiently and painstakingly to discover the distinctive meaning and function of the concepts such as “being” and “revelation” for each thinker, locating these notions in the wider network of doctrinal commitments and presuppositions that define them. But one of the most surprising contributions of Johnson’s book considered as a whole is how—even as it persistently leads the reader beyond superficial disputes to root disagreements about creation, revelation, and justification—it finally offers portraits of Barth and Przywara with a striking similarity. Though their approaches were different, both Przywara and Barth were missional theologians to the core, passionately committed to equipping the church to engage the world beyond her walls. Perhaps this explains why Barth recognized Przywara as a “kindred spirit” with whom, as Johnson observes movingly in the final chapter, he knew he belonged at one table (93). This incisive book comes to us in the vivacious spirit of their fellowship.

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

Mark S. Gignilliat, Karl Barth and the Fifth Gospel: Barth’s Theological Exegesis of Isaiah (Farnham, England: Ashgate, 2009)

Karl Barth and the Fifth Gospel: Barth’s Theological Exegesis of Isaiah

Mark S. Gignilliat, Karl Barth and the Fifth Gospel: Barth’s Theological Exegesis of Isaiah (Farnham, England: Ashgate, 2009) xiv + 165. $79.95

Reviewed by Chad Marshall (November 28, 2011)

That Karl Barth was a biblical theologian of the highest order is everywhere clear, not least in his Church Dogmatics. It is a lamentable, if unsurprising, historical truth that Barth’s prolific biblical exegesis was paid very little attention during his own lifetime. With the publication of Karl Barth and the Fifth Gospel, Mark Gignilliat, Associate Professor of Divinity at Beeson Divinity School, joins other recent scholars seeking to redress this situation. For such scholars, in contrast to previous generations beholden to a historical-critical paradigm, Barth’s theological exegesis is something to be appreciated rather than ignored. Gignilliat aims to fill a lacuna in this larger effort by giving attention to Barth’s Old Testament (OT) exegesis and the hermeneutical instincts involved therein. Specifically, he demonstrates well how Barth’s recourse to Isaiah throughout the Dogmatics is governed by a priori theological commitments regarding the OT as one part of a two-part Christian canon. For Barth, he concludes, the Bible necessitates “a multi-level reading that respects the discrete witness of the Old Testament while at the same time affirms that the central subject matter of Scripture is God’s triune action seen most concretely in the person and work of Jesus” (134).Gignilliat begins by establishing the context for his eventual engagement with Barth’s exegetical work. The opening chapter begins with a brief introduction that situates the discussion within the wider conversation regarding theological exegesis. This chapter’s bulk, however, sets Barth in the context of OT scholarship circa 1920-1940. The essential question in the tumultuous decades of the Dogmatics’ composition is succinctly stated: should dogmatic instincts “order the use of historical-critical tools,” or vice versa (10)? Gignilliat teases out Barth’s position by placing him in conversation with two OT colleagues representing quite different views. Walter Baumgartner is a “fully committed historical critic from the religionsgeschichte Schule” (10), whose Briefwechsel with Barth occurred between 1940-1955. Baumgartner’s nine letters to Barth represent the prevailing attitude towards Barth among his OT contemporaries, namely admiration for his theology coupled with concern over both his OT exegesis and his perceived negativity toward the historical thrust of modern biblical scholarship. Baumgartner’s argument is typical: “the Old Testament is a product of the religious history of the people of Israel” (16), and its meaning is thus found not in the canon, but in the particularity of this people. Barth’s sometimes-coy responses to Baumgartner reveal a contrasting worldview: the theological confession of the OT as “part of a two-testament canon received in the church as Christian Scripture” (16) is “a constitutive aspect of how one will engage in the interpretive process” (24). These comments foreshadow how Barth’s ontology of Scripture will influence his Isaianic exegesis.

Barth’s second interlocutor is Wilhelm Vischer, his friend, colleague and pastor, whose much-maligned work stands in sharp relief to Baumgartner. The affinities between Barth and Vischer are clear. For Vischer, both testaments “share a common subject matter and a unified witness to Jesus Christ” (17). Further, Jesus Christ is the divine logos who “precedes the Old Testament” and, as such, is “the hermeneutical key to all of Scripture” (17). Finally, that the OT texts are “forward-looking or eschatological in nature” (20) argues against so much modern historical-critical exegesis, the “behind-the-text” approach of which violates the material at hand. Far from opposing the historical-critical enterprise, however, Vischer employs its critical methods to support and verify the presence of Jesus in the OT texts. Herein lies a fundamental difference with Barth, one Gignilliat points out but whose gravity he understates. For Barth, Christological interpretation of the OT resists intellectual verification because it derives from a robust theology of revelation and not from historical-critical inquiry.

This understanding of revelation is the subject of Gignilliat’s second chapter. More precisely, his focus is Barth’s treatment of “the time of revelation” in CD I.2 as the dogmatic context for his formal discussion of the OT. Barth here provides theological rationale for why it is a sine qua non of the Christian faith that the OT, no less than the NT, witnesses to Jesus Christ. There exist three categories of time: God’s originally created time, which has been lost because of the Fall; postlapsarian time, or “lost time”; and, existing alongside both of these, “the time of God’s revelation” in Jesus Christ (28). Both testaments witness to this third category from distinct but equally necessary vantage points. The New Testament (NT) perspective is that of the time of fulfillment, whereas the OT is the time of expectation. Thus the OT fathers were in their anticipation “partaking fully in Jesus of Nazareth, the Christ of history” (55). Such partaking is a veiled reality that can only follow confession of Jesus Christ as God’s revelatory Word, however. This confessional understanding of the anticipatory nature of the OT– consistent with both the NT and “representative figures” of the tradition (Irenaeus, Augustine, Calvin and Luther) – will control Barth’s exegesis of Isaiah, although, argues Gignilliat, not in a heavy-handed way. Barth does not find Christ “preexistent in various proof texts” (50). Rather the persons, events, and ideas of the OT must be “understood from two vantage points” – in both their historical particularity and their relation to “their corresponding realities in fulfilled time” (57). Thus Gignilliat finds in Barth what he also finds in his mentor, Brevard Childs: a “multi-level or multi-perspectival” reading with “each level or perspective speaking truthfully, though not exhaustively, about the subject matter” (61).

The third and fourth chapters (Isaiah 1-39 and 40-66, respectively) showcase the theological approach heretofore described by observing Barth’s treatment of a “spattering” (136) of Isaianic texts throughout theDogmatics. Among the more substantial and revealing of these is Isaiah 53. Over the course of twelve pages Gignilliat examines three discrete instances in which Barth utilizes this most-cherished and much-scrutinized text in seemingly different ways. The first occurs in Barth’s reflection on the eternity of God in CD II.1, where Isaiah 53 becomes a witness to Christ’s exalted status precisely as the suffering servant. Gignilliat here finds that Barth, much like Calvin before him, lacks concern for the critical historical or hermeneutical issues involved in making Isaiah 53 to speak directly of Jesus Christ. He notes that Barth feels “no compulsion to justify such a claim” (125). This example is juxtaposed with a second one, namely Barth’s use of Isaiah 53 in his demonstration of the OT’s emphasis on the “centrifugal motion of God’s particular covenant with Israel” (126) in CD IV.1. This time Barth makes no direct correspondence to Jesus. Nor, once again, is he crippled by the critical debate regarding the servant figure’s identity, although Gignilliat is careful to point out that Barth was certainly aware of these debates. Barth “seems to transcend or relativize” this issue by emphasizing not whether the servant is an individual or collective Israel, but instead that the servant is simply “God’s human partner in redemption” (127). Importantly, Gignilliat also notes Barth’s appreciation at this juncture “of the fact that the OT text can both refer to a historical situation (fixity) while at the same time canonically witness to an awaited eschatological moment of fulfillment (potentiality)” (128). Much the same is replicated in CD IV.3.1, though Gignilliat’s aim in this third example is to demonstrate Barth’s still “more robust figural reasoning” (133) in this latter volume of the Dogmatics. Although Barth respects the text’s voice, he is not constrained by it. Here the suffering servant is historical Israel and, precisely as such, prefigures Jesus: “Jesus Christ incarnate is Israel incarnate embodying all of her hopes, frustrations, calling and failures in the faithfulness and obedience to the will of God never consistently found in Israel’s history of failure under the covenant but figurally presented in the form of Isaiah 53’s suffering servant” (131). Barth thus moves easily from the text’s fixity to its potentiality to its actuality, i.e. “in Jesus Christ we see the figuration of the suffering servant fulfilled” (132). Thus Gignilliat confirms in these chapters the Childs-like “multi-layered reading” to which he alluded early on.

Following a brief description of Barth’s propensity to read Isaiah both “removed from Christ” and “not removed from Christ,” Gignilliat devotes the final chapter to bringing his multi-layered reading into direct conversation with Childs’: “It is hoped that Childs’ approach may offer insight into what Barth is actually doing” (139) so that we may “learn from Barth the theological warrant for moving seamlessly between figuration and fulfillment in various contexts dealing with the same text” (140). Two points raised by Childs bear significantly upon the task. The first is the importance of ontology in OT exegesis. For Childs, “the New Testament’s witness does call into question biblical scholars’ squeamishness about ontological readings” (141). Similarly, “the confession about Scripture’s own nature and role in the divine economy” is determinative for Barth; it is Barth’s ontology of Scripture that allows him the freedom to “slide between the literal and figural senses of Scripture” (141). The second point regards the relationship between exegesis and theology that – contra the presumption of modern biblical scholarship – Childs holds to be dialectical and mutually informing rather than linear. For Barth too, treating theology as an optional consideration following prior, more scientific exegetical steps is unacceptable. Gignilliat lastly rehearses the three layers of reading involved in Childs’ approach and draws an analogy between this and Barth’s three-fold method (explicatio,meditatio, and applicatio). For both, only such a multi-layered approach does justice to the true subject of Scripture, which is “God’s triune revelation of himself in Jesus Christ” (150).

Much about this book warrants appreciation – more than can be covered here. Chief among its merits is Gignilliat’s strategy for establishing Barth’s nuanced hermeneutical instincts by putting him in dialogue with Baumgartner and Vischer. This approach is creative, well-executed and very illuminating. Furthermore, Gignilliat’s project is at its best when it demonstrates how Barth’s explicitly theological approach can be more appropriate to a text than atomizing historical-critical methods because it respects the final form’s own historical ambiguities rather than interpreting against the backdrop of a hypothetical historical setting of little concern to the text itself (cf., Isaiah 6, p. 78). Finally, Gignilliat is unquestionably successful in demonstrating his primary claim regarding the multi-leveled nature of Barth’s approach to the OT.

There are places for improvement, however. Most conspicuous is the editorial carelessness. Rarely does one find published material so replete with misspellings, incomplete footnotes, awkward syntax, typos, etc. Indeed, the frequency of errors proves a significant distraction and undermines the overall value of Gignilliat’s project. More substantially, Gignilliat could certainly have engaged more critically with Barth. What infrequent criticism we do encounter is rather insubstantial and is typically followed by an apologetic defense (see, e.g., Isaiah 24, p. 99). Virtuoso though he was, aspects of Barth’s hermeneutical practices certainly warrant more critical scrutiny, even from his apologists. More self-critical awareness among its proponents will likely be needed if the practice of theological exegesis is to make headway against its detractors. Finally, Gignilliat’s comparison of Barth and Childs, while interesting and worthy of further study, is executed rather awkwardly in the present study. Gignilliat intends for his final chapter to illuminate Barth’s approach but it ultimately adds little to the picture of Barth that Gignilliat established previously. One is therefore left with the impression that while interesting, the final chapter especially is either incomplete or superfluous to this particular project.

These and other issues notwithstanding, Gignilliat is to be commended for providing biblical scholars and theologians a useful study, one not to be missed by those concerned with theological exegesis, Barth or the Christian reading of Isaiah (or, more generally, the OT). One hopes this will inspire similar, if perhaps more critical, future studies on both Barth’s OT exegesis and its relation to Brevard Childs’ approach.

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

Collins Winn, Christian T. and John L. Drury eds. Karl Barth and the Future of Evangelical Theology (Eugene, OR: Cascade, 2014)

Karl Barth and the Future of Evangelical Theology

Collins Winn, Christian T. and John L. Drury eds. Karl Barth and the Future of Evangelical Theology (Eugene, OR: Cascade, 2014), xxiv + 289 pp. $37.00 (paperback).

Reviewed by Darren O. Sumner (July 06, 2016)

Numerous volumes in recent years have sought to place Karl Barth’s thought into dialogue with Evangelical theology. These efforts have met with mixed results, and frequently display only the particular entrenchments of the authors and editors. This collection from Christian Collins Winn and John Drury is better than most in that it neither fawns over Barth nor sets him up as an adversary to the true faith. Instead, the editors set out to examine the contours of Evangelical theology as much as those of Barth’s work, setting forth their conviction (which I think is certainly right) that this dialogue has too often been framed improperly ‒ for example by the question of Barth’s orthodoxy (xiv) and, I would add, a misidentification of modern “liberalism” as an existential threat to the Christian churches. Rethinking the identity of Evangelicalism from its many sources and cross-currents will provide an infinitely better starting point. From here Barth’s thought can be engaged beyond the anxiety-inducing loci of Scripture, election, etc. and instead probed with respect to matters such as piety, conversion, and life in the Spirit.Three essays comprise Part 1, “Reframing the Conversation.” Donald Dayton’s 1985 essay on “varieties” of Evangelicalism is reprinted as a very useful framing of the conversations to follow. Dayton identifies three periods or movements identified with the term ‘evangelical’: (1) the Protestant Reformation, with its themes of justification by faith alone and the centrality of Scripture; (2) the Great Awakenings and other revival movements in the Anglophone world, which directed their focus to matters of conversion, regeneration, and sanctification; and finally (3) a “mixed coalition” of forces who, since the fundamentalist-modernity controversy and the Second World War, have found common cause in their opposition to modernism, liberalism, and other cultural and theological trends regarded as erosive of Christian orthodoxy. It is Evangelicalism in this final form that appears most common today, and while its proponents might detect an ally in the Barth who criticizes Neo-Protestant liberalism, they are soon shocked by his willingness to depart from the old doctrinal categories. Barth’s project is a sharp criticism of certain trends in theological modernism, yet one that is performed in a deeply modern way. The result is that one who seems to share Evangelicalism’s fundamental commitments “at the last moment moves off in a new direction that is beyond their comprehension” (15).

Eberhard Busch outlines Barth’s opinion of and interaction with German Pietism in chapter 2, and Kimlyn J. Bender continues to explore this relationship in chapter 3. This is a history marked at first by some appreciable hostility toward an unmoored spiritualism which Barth thought amounted to little more than a different sort of anthropological grounding for theology ‒ that a person’s repentance and consciousness of sin give them some right of claim to God’s grace (25). In later decades, though, Barth came to a more nuanced appreciation for themes such as Christ’s work in the individual through the Holy Spirit (even suggesting in 1967 the need for “a new kind of Pietism”). Busch concludes with a number of insightful questions that Barth’s theology poses to the Pietist, turning over fertile ground for future engagement. Bender, in turn, draws upon the writings of Philipp Jakob Spener to illustrate a number of “family resemblances” between Barth and the Pietists, not the least of which is a forceful correlation of the identity of the church to its mission (59).

Five essays in Part 2 aim at “Reconceiving Christian Experience and Practice,” interacting with Barth on topics such as calling, testimony, and gender and masculinity. Terry L. Cross explores Barth’s openness to Pietism’s inner “heart theology” in Church Dogmatics IV/4, building from the foundation of divine initiative to the individual’s participation in God’s work of salvation as something that (contrary to the ways in which Barth’s critical objectivism is often regarded) is not lacking an inward dimension. James Nelson continues along these lines with a discussion of the divine calling to fellowship with Jesus Christ, which summons the believer to conversion and reconversion. John L. Drury’s concise yet provocative entry is a stand-out here, first outlining the place of testimony within the Wesleyan-Holiness tradition before coordinating this to Barth’s doctrine of Christian vocation. Despite Barth’s own critical stance toward the practice of personal testimony, Drury crisply demonstrates how it can be reconstructed in terms of one’s “participation in the risen Christ’s self-attestation” (112). This only reinforces the external objectivity of the event of redemption, which is necessary to the subsequent task of bearing public witness. On the other hand, Barth’s approach offers a needed corrective to Wesleyans who may regard personal testimony as an independent source of revelation.

In chapter 7 Stina Busman Jost sketches the Evangelical masculinity movement, suggesting as an antidote Barth’s theological interest in the biblical figure of Joseph. Though Barth never gave Joseph extended attention, he did suggest avenues for Catholic thinkers to balance the Church’s teaching on Mary with a “Josephology” which stresses Joseph’s care for the Christ child as care for the church. There are some interesting propositions here for ecclesiology, though the author never quite comes back around to close the circle (or to shut the door) on the masculinity movement. The Josephean principles that would seem most relevant here ‒ those of humility, faithfulness, and obedience ‒ are mentioned but left unexplored.

Finally, in chapter 8 Christian T. Collins Winn and Peter Goodwin Heltzel take the invocation “Thy kingdom come” as key to Barth’s “prophetic ecclesiology,” showing Evangelical communities the importance of prophetic action in the world (for example, in matters of racial justice). In short, the Lord’s Prayer not only reminds the church that God is establishing God’s reign in the world but also that the church herself has been empowered by the Holy Spirit to live in the light of the reality of that kingdom ‒ not awaiting another world in which God reigns, nor seeking to conform this world to a divine order by human works, but “seeking to embody a fundamentally new and better social order” (135) and unveil that which Christ has accomplished for the world.

Part 3’s six essays are collected under the heading “Renewing Christian Doctrine,” including matters of method, election, Scripture, mission, sacrament, and eschatology. Joel D. Lawrence puts prayer at the center of Barth’s theological method, as one must hear the Word of God in order to be able then to proclaim it ‒ even going so far as to suggest (in what seems to me a bit of a conflation) that “theology can only be understood as prayer” (152), since it is (I would say, vitally includes) the practice of listening faithfully to God. And Chris Boesel ably demonstrates how Barth’s doctrine of election cuts against both conservative Evangelical tendencies (i.e. Reformed orthodoxy and fundamentalist biblicism) and also the movement’s Arminian-Pietist strands, “and in each case precisely by resonating with the other at classic points of their mutual disagreement” (166). This makes for a fascinating bit of analysis that far surpasses most Evangelical treatments of Barth’s revision of this central doctrine (the author’s overly decisionist reading of Barth notwithstanding, e.g. 181-82). Boesel makes a significant contribution by showing how certain objections to Barth (for example, his Christocentrism and his universalizing tendencies) are shared by both sides but for very different reasons.

In chapter 11 Frank D. Macchia summarizes Barth’s understanding of Scripture and its relationship to revelation, unraveling the tired canards that opponents have rehearsed now for more than a generation. Kyle A. Roberts surveys the recent history of missiology in the course of his discussion of Barth’s ecclesiology, arguing that this requires that the church be both missional (outward moving and embedded) and eschatological (forward looking and refusing the temptation to identify itself and its efforts with the Kingdom of God). Kurt Anders Richardson summarizes the ubiquity of Barth’s sacramentalism (though, somewhat curiously for this volume, does not engage in any overt dialogue with Evangelical views on sacramental mystery or practices). Finally, Peter Althouse concludes the collection with eschatology, Pentecost, and Spirit baptism, suggesting avenues of engagement between Barth and Pentecostalism.

Rather than outlining a Barth-inspired program for the future of Evangelical theology, this volume thus collects a pastiche of interests ‒ diverse and disparate areas in which Barth’s theology could have much to contribute, should these engagements be worked out at greater length and with greater rigor. As a result, though several of the essays are underdeveloped (particularly in Part 2) the book excels in opening up venues for future conversation. Collins Winn and Drury challenge Evangelical thinkers not only to wrestle with Barth in new ways, but also to return to the question of what has shaped their own traditions most decisively. More must be said here, for it is an indispensable insight that in order for Evangelicalism to appreciate Barth properly it must first better know itself.

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

Sumner, Darren O. Karl Barth and the Incarnation: Christology and the Humility of God (New York: Bloomsbury T & T Clark, 2014)

Karl Barth and the Incarnation: Christology and the Humility of God

Sumner, Darren O. Karl Barth and the Incarnation: Christology and the Humility of God (New York: Bloomsbury T & T Clark, 2014), 256 pp. $112.00 (hardcover).

Reviewed by Rafael Bello (September 09, 2016)

To ask “Who is Jesus Christ?” is probably one of the hardest and simplest questions that one could pose to the dogmatician of Basel. Darren Sumner’s adapted doctoral dissertation travels through the long difficult response. Sumner has a Ph.D. from the University of Aberdeen and is affiliate professor of theology at both Fuller Theological Seminary and The Seattle School of Theology and Psychology. As it is seen throughout the work, Barth had a desire to honor the ecumenical tradition, but was also eager to make changes. Those changes, however, as Sumner argues do not place him outside the bounds of confessional Christianity.

The book is structured into five chapters. The first chapter deals with Sumner’s own uneasiness with some Christological formulations of the patristic and medieval tradition. In what Sumner calls “the identity problem,” he analyzes instrumentalism and the advances that were made on Chalcedonian Christology. For example, in dealing with impassibility, Sumner points out that many regard Cyril’s Christology as “the definitive word on the topic” (58). However, later clarifications such as dyothelitism and communication of operations refine Cyril’s Christology at this point. Another point of concern for Sumner is the strategy of reduplication under the rubric of divine impassibility. Although the Church always affirmed that “Jesus ever acts theandrically: his divine and human natures, including their respective wills . . . are involved in everything Jesus does,” the strategy of reduplication predicates things to Jesus qua God and others qua man (66). Although Sumner never fully discards this strategy, he states that it leaves hard work to be done after the traditional christological grammar is gone.

In chapter 2, “Barth’s Response to Logos Christology,” Sumner identifies Logos Christology with a threefold meaning: first, the orthodoxy from the early pre-Chalcedon period until III Constantinople; second, Christology from above; and third, a comprehension of the two major types of theologies of chapter one: instrumentalist and compositionalist (73). To understand Barth’s response to Logos Christology, Sumner argues for slight to moderate development in Barth’s thought. In his early years (1924-25) Barth still saw the forma servi as a mere “veil of His divine reality,” thus signaling his apparent acceptance of the extra-calvinisticum (76). However, Sumner argues that as early as CD I/2 Barth is not conceiving of the person of Christ as an “isolated theologoumenon” (85). Such a position places Sumner at odds with one of the sides in the debate of Barth’s Christology. Sumner is sensitive to the fact that even though there are plenty of examples of Barth’s commitment to classical Chalcedonian Christology, the Swiss theologian also desired to move beyond Chalcedon in his later volumes. This willingness to transcend Chalcedon, while at the same time remaining faithful to the council is clear in Sumner’s repeated treatment of the extra-calvinisticum throughout his monograph. Barth’s innovation of the status duplex (exaltation and humiliation) as simultaneously existing in the person of the Son gave him the necessary tool to reject not only the Lutheran kenotic model, but also the Reformed doctrine of the double Logos (asarkos and ensarkos).

The third chapter aims to clarify the dialectical relationship of the Son with incarnation in the theology of Barth. In order to elucidate this relationship, Sumner notes four themes that inform Barth’s later Christology: covenant and election; the incarnation in time and eternity; “two essence” Christology and the communication of natures; and the status duplex. While I cannot go into detail on each of these themes, at the heart of Barth’s project is that he was dissatisfied with a static framework in classical descriptions of natures and essences. With that in mind, Barth perceived a division of being and act in the tradition in order to protect the immanent life of God, which he deemed unbiblical. For this reason, he developed an actualistic ontology that was modern (152). If Barth’s actualism is modern Christology, can it be Chalcedonian? This is Sumner’s question in chapter four. Here, he shows that Barth: 1) reformulated “nature,” “substance,” and “person” (clearly Chalcedonian language); 2) described the person of Christ as history and event; 3) asserted that states of exaltation and humiliation are simultaneous; 4) affirmed that divine and human essences are mutually conditioning; 5) denied the classical doctrine of impassibility; 6) structured a christology dependent upon his actualistic methodology and ontology. However, the Swiss theologian was still inside the bounds of orthodoxy. Remaining in the tradition subsists in other six themes affirmed in Barth’s theology: 1) Jesus is fully God; 2) Jesus is fully man; 3) Jesus’ divine and human essences are perfectly united; 4) in Christ the divine and the human are not confused or changed; 5) in Christ the divine and human are not separated or divided; 6) there is a singularity of subject in Christ’s incarnation.

The last chapter is Sumner’s attempt to synthesize the great amount of information from the previous chapters. He proceeds with a discussion of the status duplex and its relationship to the extra-calvinisticum (which Barth does not completely reject). Next, Sumner continues with a discussion of eternity, divine impassibility, and immutability. Finally, he ends with Barth’s objections to kenotic Christology in light of the obedience and humility in the divine life.

Sumner’s shows patience and compassion in his reading of Barth. Those virtues are hoped from anyone who reads the great master from Basel. His command of the material is impressive. Further, his compassion and sharp analytical mind are present in his discussion of the interpretations regarding the continuity between Barth’s Christology in CD I/2 and IV/1 (86-9). Even though he sees some continuity between Barth’s earlier and later works, he does not quickly side with those who see a strong metaphysical theology running throughout Barth’s works. Intrinsic to Sumner’s project is to see a crescendo of actualism in Barth’s Dogmatics.

A small area of concern is when Sumner describes the Status Duplex, specifically related to the Status Exinanitionis. Even though it is understandable that Barth preferred to get rid of the Logos asarkos in order to actualize the two states in eternity and in time, it is debatable whether Sumner clears Barth altogether from the charge of gradation in the Godhead. Barth writes, “There is a below, a posterius, a subordination, that it belongs to the inner life of God” (CD IV/1, 200-1). Sumner aptly describes that assertion as not confined only to the economy. However, when trying to clear Barth from hierarchy in the trinity, Sumner simply repeats the actualistic refrain that Jesus is in eternity what he is in time. In my estimation this is a valid recourse, but not the only one. Is it possible that Barth is really contradicting himself here? In fact, only 20 pages earlier in CD IV/I, Barth confines subordination only to the ad extra (177). I think that admitting an inconsistency might be the way forward here.

Another comment can also be made regarding Sumner’s project itself. For Barth enthusiasts such as myself, this work may be trying to overachieve. The topic itself of Barth and the incarnation could fill entire libraries. And with this regard one can feel lost in the reading, even though Sumner demonstrates mastery of the sources. There is simply too much in this work. However, as said before, for lovers of Barth’s theology, this work promises and delivers in depth and analysis. For those who are interested in learning more about Barth’s actualism, this is a sane and evenhanded work. Much has been written and much is to be commended. However, Sumner shows that to be invested in s Barth’s Christology, one needs to hear Barth himself first.

Rafael Bello, Ph.D. Student, Southern Baptist Theological Seminary

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

Clifford B. Anderson and Bruce L. McCormack, eds., Karl Barth and the Making of Evangelical Theology: A Fifty-Year Perspective (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2015)

Karl Barth and the Making of Evangelical Theology: A Fifty-Year Perspective 

Clifford B. Anderson and Bruce L. McCormack, eds., Karl Barth and the Making of Evangelical Theology: A Fifty-Year Perspective (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2015) v + 237 pp. $34.00 (paperback).

Reviewed by Brandon Watson (April 09, 2019)

As Barth notes in the opening commentary to Evangelical Theology: An Introduction (ET), the added term “evangelical” should not be understood “in a confessional, that is, in a denominational and exclusive sense” (ET, 5). The same clarification is needed for this volume of collected essays edited by Clifford B. Anderson and Bruce L. McCormack. The book is not concerned with Evangelical-ism, but with the celebration of the publication of Karl Barth’s ET. Additionally, the book commemorates the 200-year anniversary of the founding of Princeton Theological Seminary in 1812 and are the proceedings from the 2012 Annual Karl Barth Conference. They offer an intriguing insight into the multi-vacated theme of the conference as well as Barth’s 1962 venture to the U.S. and his fascination, and somewhat complicated relationship, with American ideologies (cf. CD I/1, 73). The essays are organized under four rubrics: Historical Perspectives, Doctrinal and Ethical Perspectives, Dialogue with American Theologians, and Theological Existence in America. These different angles provide a unique perspective on Barth’s historic visit to America as well as how American theology has been shaped over time.

Historical Perspectives

Hans-Anton Drewes, Director Emeritus of the Karl Barth-Archiv, opens the section on Historical Perspectives by analyzing the development of a cluster of doctrinal concerns from Christology to the sacraments in Barth’s thought. Pulling from archival materials, letters, and theological writings, Drewes traces Barth’s train of thought from 1917 to 1967. Taking the form of a hermeneutic of “loyalty,” Drewes shows how Barth remained doctrinally consistent throughout his theological development, while also showing Barth’s own retrospective surprise at his earlier consistency. The fundamental challenge Drewes offers the reader, especially those who wish only to consult the Church Dogmatics for cherry-picked material, is: “Can we understand the teaching of the Church Dogmatics if we do not try to follow its entire course of motion—not in a doctrinal, but in a hermeneutical, loyalty” (28)?

In chapter 2, David W. Congdon, Acquisitions Editor at the University Press of Kansas, places Barth’s ET, as well as some of Barth’s later writings, into their wider, historical and theological context by investigating Barth’s engagement with his career-long existentialist interlocutor, Rudolf Bultmann. The essay highlights the key differences and similarities between Bultmann’s “anthropotheology” and Barth’s “theanthropology,” and seeks to overcome the seeming impasse between the two. After working through the hermeneutical and dogmatic nuances of their positions, Congdon concludes: “Bultmann without Barth lacks the dogmatic basis for mission, but Barth without Bultmann lacks the hermeneutical logic of mission” (62). Interpreting these two theologians alongside one another creates the possibility for a theology that can be both missional-oriented and dogmatically-based, in order to face the concrete challenges of our contemporary situation.

While in the United States, Barth was able to visit three correctional facilities in Chicago, California, and New York. Chapter 3, written by Jessica DeCou, presents an in-depth look into each of the facilities Barth visited. Historically reconstructing Barth’s visits to these facilities, one of which he went on to describe as “Dante’s Inferno on Earth,” DeCou sheds light on the increasing reality of racism and classism in the American prison system since 1962. The forward-looking thesis of the essay uses Barth’s claim that the two criminals being crucified next to Jesus were the first Christian community in order to emphasise God’s grace in stark contrast to human-wrought justice and condemnation.

Doctrinal and Ethical Perspectives

The second section of the book begins with an essay by Kevin Hector, Associate Professor of Theology and Philosophy of Religion at the University of Chicago Divinity School, regarding Schleiermacher and Barth’s respective approaches to theology. Hector explores ways in which scholars (particularly ‘Barthians’!) can practice theology in a Schleiermacherian way, albeit while reworking Barth’s interpretation of Schleiermacher and broadening Barth’s theological method. To accomplish this task, Hector offers a thorough reconstruction of Schleiermacher’s understanding of “piety and his recognition of non-theological norms” as seen most prominently in his construction of Gefühl in an attempt to defend the compatibility of Schleiermacher’s theological method with Barth’s standards for theological norms (101). Hector’s conclusion is a specific challenge to Barthians—and those who practice theology more broadly—to incorporate ethnographic components into theological work and to welcome potential theological compatibilities between Barth and Schleiermacher in order to maintain theology as an academic discipline.

In a chapter on divine and human action in Barth’s ET and later works, Gerald McKenny, Walter Professor of Theology at the University of Notre Dame, takes up a common critique of Barth’s theological ethics: Barth’s account of human agency is linked solely to divine agency which is not useful for ethical “accounts of virtue or growth in holiness” (120). McKenny poses and answers three critical questions regarding Barth’s account of the human moral agent. In his explication of Barth’s later work, primarily CD IV as well as the posthumously published material, The Christian Life, McKenny brings to light Barth’s viable alternative to virtue accounts of ethics or theories of moral growth. The alternative proposed by McKenny expounds Barth’s understanding of freedom as being “freed by God and for God” to focus on the covenantal nature of the encounter between God and humanity.

Continuing in the theological and ethical train of thought, George Hunsinger, McCord Professor of Systematic Theology at Princeton Theological Seminary, “confronts the options” in CD III/2, the locus classicus of Barth’s theological anthropology. After outlining six main features Barth considers to be necessary for a theological anthropology, Hunsinger moves into a critical analysis of the phenomena Barth takes up in CD III/2. Hunsinger outlines these phenomena in four different anthropological types: “naturalism, idealism, existentialism, and neo-orthodoxy” (143-152). After final analysis, Hunsinger notes that Barth deems each of these types lacking, because they grasp the phenomena without “comprehending the reality” (143). Hunsinger closes his essay with three brief “lessons” for Christian scholarship that can be derived from Barth’s methodology in relation to his theological anthropology: that normative criteria be based on scriptural revelation, descriptive criticism is prior to evaluative criticism, and all things are to be understood from a center in Christ.

Barth in Dialogue with American Theologians

In the next section, the volume turns to Barth’s life and work in conversation with American theologians. Daniel L. Migliore, Charles Hodge Professor of Systematic Theology Emeritus at Princeton Theological Seminary, opens this section by placing Barth in conversation with the early Princeton Reformed theologian B.B. Warfield. The particular focus of Migliore’s comparison is Barth’s doctrine of the Holy Spirit, with a special emphasis on how Barth and Warfield articulate a theology of freedom. The comparison is guided by the Spirit’s relation to the science of theology, Scripture, Christ, and the life of the Trinity. Migliore elucidates where the two theologians converge in certain respects, while also noting areas of divergence. Migliore sheds fresh light on the doctrine of the Spirit in Barth and Warfield through his historically grounded dialogical analysis, showing that even the most unlikely dialogue partners can stretch our theological imaginations.

Cambria Kaltwasser, Assistant Professor of Theology at Northwestern College, looks at the “young Scotsman” and former president of Princeton Seminary, John Mackay, and his relationship with Karl Barth. After providing a biographical background, Kaltwasser discusses when Mackay and Barth were able to spend time together in Bonn in 1930, which sparked a mutually encouraging friendship, including Mackay’s assistance with Barth’s conversational English. Kaltwasser moves into an examination of three particular influences Barth had on Mackay in his understanding of Christ, the Church, and the Christian life before closing with a section on Mackay’s theology of the “transforming encounter.” Working from the encounters between Mackay and Barth and toward a theology of the human’s encounter with God and the world, Kaltwasser shows us how Mackay appropriated Barth’s theology with “an openness to an encounter with the same Lord Jesus Christ who captivated Barth” (193).

Peter J. Paris, Elmer G. Homrighausen Professor Emeritus of Christian Social Ethics at Princeton Theological Seminary, writes the closing essay for this section, in which he shares his hope that those familiar with Barth’s theology will recognize some theological continuities between Barth and Martin Luther King Jr. “despite their different theological orientations” (194). By describing King’s continual fight against racism in America through the power of Christian nonviolent resistance, Paris highlights King’s Christian witness to expose the distorted Christianity of slavery and white theologies. Paris uses this historical context to bring King and Barth into constructive conversation. Even though Barth and King’s theologies diverge in specific areas, particularly in terms of God’s transcendence and immanence, Paris argues that they both sought to effect change through resistance and the practice of Christian love.

Theological Existence in America

The final section of the book contains just two short chapters. The first, written by Katherine Sonderegger, William Meade Chair in Systematic Theology at Virginia Theological Seminary, uses Barth’s work to offer a thoughtful and pastoral reflection on a painful reality of the “failure of the pastor” (209). Centered on Barth’s exposition of temptation (Anfechtung), Sonderegger uses Barth to articulate a word of hope in light of God’s chosen silence, which, she argues, is evidence of God’s goodness. She also maintains that God’s silence is not to be confused with God’s absence. Drawing from Barth’s doctrine of God, Sonderegger presents God as one who “acts within our sufferings,” as a good and gracious God (220).

In the final chapter, Adam Neder, Bruner-Welch Professor in Theology at Whitworth University, expresses the “sun behind the clouds,” as he calls it, in Barth’s ET. “The clouds” represent the ominous warnings Barth gives to those who teach Christian theology where it is easy for theologians to “veer off track, waste their lives, and do profound harm” (223). The sun, which shines through from behind the clouds, Neder continues, can be seen in the implications of Barth’s theology for those who teach theology in the academy. Neder outlines three implications for classroom teaching derived from Barth’s understanding of theological work and Christian existence: the presence and activity of the Spirit, the existential disturbance of an encounter with the Subject matter of theology, and finally, good teaching is an act of service and love. Neder challenges those who take up the difficult task of teaching theology to continue to show God’s grace, love, and truth in the classroom.

At times (more often than not, unfortunately), North American Barth reception is abstracted from Barth’s own context, especially when employed to defend or uphold strains of American Evangelicalism, of which the title could be confused. The outstanding feature of the volume under consideration is that it bucks this trend by investigating Barth’s complicated relationship with North America while also bringing together an abundance of different voices to bear on the life and work of Karl Barth. Using an oft-neglected work of Barth, Evangelical Theology, this volume serves as a much-needed study for the continued appropriation and critical engagement with Barth in the United States. Unfortunately, the depth of each author’s contribution to this edited volume and the confines of space in this review prevent me from providing a more in-depth analysis of this theologically-rich volume. It is my hope that the reader will pick up the book and find the numerous areas of insight to be illuminating, engaging, and challenging for those engaged in theological discourse. This book comes recommended and will surely serve as a valued resource for students, pastors, and scholars alike.

Brandon Watson, Ph.D. Candidate, Universität Heidelberg

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

Hitchcock, Nathan. Karl Barth and the Resurrection of the Flesh: The Loss of the Body in Participatory Eschatology (Eugene, OR: Wipf & Stock, 2013)

Karl Barth and the Resurrection of the Flesh: The Loss of the Body in Participatory Eschatology

Hitchcock, Nathan. Karl Barth and the Resurrection of the Flesh: The Loss of the Body in Participatory Eschatology (Eugene, OR: Wipf & Stock, 2013), xviii + 209 pp. $20.00 (paperback)

Reviewed by Sara A. Misgen (September 08, 2014)

Nathan Hitchcock—Assistant Professor at Sioux Falls Seminary—adds to the developing discussion of Barth’s eschatology with his volume Karl Barth and the Resurrection of the Flesh: The Loss of the Body in Participatory Eschatology. Undertaking a full presentation of Barth’s resurrection theology by focusing primarily on the third and fourth volumes of the Church Dogmatics (CD), Hitchcock also presses Barth’s logic to offer a strong critique of Barth’s participatory eschatology: “For all his profound affirmations of physicality, Barth’s construction of the doctrine comes up wanting. In his presentation of the resurrection body, there is a certain changelessness, a certain lightness, and a certain indistinguishability, all of which suggests a fleshless existence” (xv). The volume itself rests on central commitments to enfleshment and the importance of the body, which lead to some of the more striking critiques of Barth near the conclusion.

Chapter one begins with a sketch of two trajectories that the doctrine of the resurrection of the flesh has taken in the history of the church. The first—represented by Jerome, Augustine, and Aquinas—speaks of the resurrection as “collection of the flesh” in which an individual’s “selfsame matter” was collected and assembled in eternity (9). The second trajectory is defined by the participation of human flesh in the divine life and represented by figures such as Origen, Athanasius, and Maximus the Confessor. While these two trajectories are only sparingly referred to in the rest of the book, they serve as a useful orientation to Hitchcock’s later argument, namely that Barth “resonates . . . with the more Eastern, participatory trajectory” (25). In chapter two, Hitchcock explicates resurrection in Barth’s early work by interpreting Barth through three of his major influences: Pietism, Romanticism, and socialism. Arguing that the resurrection of the dead was “the touchstone for Barth’s dialectical approach” (71), Hitchcock notes two equivalences he sees in the young Barth and finds problematic: resurrection as sublation and resurrection as revelation. Worrying that Barth has not provided enough safeguards around human flesh in the eschaton, Hitchcock flags the critique and moves on.

The heart of the book lies in the reading of resurrection in the CD, located in chapters three through five. Chapter three focuses on “the resurrection of the flesh as eternalization,” detailing Barth’s conceptions of time and eternity. Presenting a strong reading of Barth on the relevant points, Hitchcock offers a careful exegesis of relevant passages from CD—focusing especially on volume IV—before concluding that Barth fails to adequately reconstitute time in eternity, and thus fails to protect the “corporeal texture” of a human’s fleshly and earthly history in eternity (107). The chapter also raises questions about Barth’s portrayal of death as the servant of God. Because death is the limit to human nature and the transition point to eternity, it “must be considered necessary and even holy” (107). This, Hitchcock argues, is a problem for any eschatology, and further states that Barth’s position does not match the New Testament witness (108).

Critiques of Barth continue as chapter four moves to the revelatory character of the resurrection. One of Hitchcock’s major concerns is the integrity of Jesus Christ, and he offers a relatively lengthy presentation of Barth’s Christology from CD IV/2 to illustrate the Alexandrian and Lutheran character in Barth’s account of the two natures, despite Barth’s own stated admission to follow to the Reformed tradition (see CD IV/2, 66). While this account is not fully used within the argument of the volume until chapter five, this interpretation of Barth’s Christology does significant work in the final critiques of Barth.

The real weight of chapter four lies in its assertion that Barth makes the resurrection overly noetic and that this results in a strong tendency towards the divinization of the human being in eternity (126). A central key to Barth’s thought on this issue, Hitchcock claims, is the concept of presence. Because the divine and human are present to each other, through the exchange of predicates, humans are glorified by partaking of the divine nature in eternity (141). Following Eberhard Jüngel, George Hunsinger, and Adam Neder, Hitchcock argues that Barth’s account of salvation, for all of its Reformed tendencies, is a form of divinization. This, accordingly, prevents a true resurrection of the flesh: “the dead are raised, but raised not as flesh so much as something flesh-like” (146).

Chapter five is devoted to the resurrection as “incorporation into Jesus Christ through the Holy Spirit” (147). Raising concerns about Christomonism in Barth’s pneumatology, Hitchcock suggests that Barth conflates the resurrection and the Holy Spirit within the later volumes of the CD, threatening the very status of eschatology as a theological locus within Barth’s system (152). The lengthiest—and most central—part of the chapter contains an attempt to press Barth’s logic and develop an account of his incorporative soteriology, anticipating an argument that Barth may have made, or refuted, in CD V. Using the form of the doctrine of election from CD II/2, Hitchcock presents an account in which Jesus goes out into the world, only to draw all people to Himself at the consummation of all things: “Christ’s incorporative resurrection concludes with an eschatological collapse in which everything is collected” (159). This is not totally without warrant in Barth’s corpus, given the preference for the totus Christus in CD IV/2 and IV/3, and leads to some of the sharpest criticisms in the volume. The drawing of all individuals to Christ in the eschaton leads to an “eschatological singularity” in which “Barth seems satisfied to speak of a lingering differentiation within Christ’s body. In contrast, I am insisting upon a plurality of bodies” (165). If these speculations are correct, and one accepts Hitchcock’s assertion that individuated bodies are an essential element of personhood, a “Barthian” account of the eschaton necessarily destroys individuality.

This critique develops into one of the most unique claims of the volume: that Barth’s eschatology closely borders on panentheism. Despite Barth’s ardent insistence that Creator and creature are separate, Hitchcock nevertheless notes that by potentially making Jesus Christ the totalizing end of all things “Barth’s eschatologic makes him cousin to the family of panentheists” (169). The chapter ends with an expansion of the earlier critique: Barth’s eschatology not only leads to the destruction of individuality but also the destruction of the Creator/creature distinction, as in the escahton creation is sublated by “non-creaturely transcendence” in Jesus Christ (175). Though Barth does allow that “our respective bodies will be preserved in Christ’s body,” Hitchcock suggests that this neither captures the true meaning of the redemption of the flesh, nor adheres to the creedal witness of the Church, because it fails to detail the specificity of these bodies in eternity (181). In the end, the individual is nominalized and subsumed into Christ, and thus ceases to exist as such.

Chapter six serves a dual purpose as summary of major critiques and the conclusion to the book. The two trajectories detailed in the first chapter are consulted again with the conclusion that Barth falls along the more Eastern participatory trajectory and, problematically, falls into a spiritualizing trend that ignores the importance of the body. Unwilling to completely condemn Barth, Hitchcock offers his sympathies with the former’s theological project and offers a number of suggestions for the usefulness of Barth’s eschatology. Chief among these suggestions is that Barth’s accounts be applied to the immediate state between death and the general resurrection (191). The penultimate paragraph contains three major correctives for Barth’s theology which, if applied, would allow for speaking of a future in the flesh (perhaps pointing to a second, more constructive, study).

There is much to commend about this volume. Hitchcock is a clear and engaging writer, and he offers detailed and impressive readings of Barth. At times, it would have been nice to see him engage with scholarship that offers alternative readings of Barth’s resurrection theology (e.g., R. Dale Dawson’s The Resurrection in Karl Barth [2007] or John C. McDowell’s Hope In Barth’s Eschatology [2000]) even in his footnotes. Given the recent interest in Barth’s eschatology in the CD, this would have provided some added strength to Hitchcock’s readings. Additionally, because some of Hitchcock’s critiques depend on speculations about CD V, readers should press his logic; though, if he is correct, Hitchcock offers important insights into Barth’s thought.

My deeper concerns, however, come from the nature of the critiques and the eschatological presuppositions which support them. Though the book begins with a poetic description of “the resurrection of the flesh” this crucial concept is never explicitly defined. At times, this leads to confusion about its distinction from “resurrection of the dead,” which seems to be used interchangeably throughout (e.g. 26, 176). As a consequence of this imprecision, Hitchcock’s own understanding of redemption and eternity is masked. He repeatedly criticizes Barth for failing to capture the true meaning of the Apostle’s Creed, yet Hitchcock’s own interpretation is by no means necessitated (or even implied) by the line “I believe in the resurrection of the flesh” (1).

Additionally, it is unclear why the reader should accept the criteria of particularity in the eschaton (161), the specificity of redeemed bodies (181), and a “future both kinetic and sempiternal” (184) as meaningful or useful for evaluating or constructing any eschatology. Infrequent appeals are made to passages from the Bible or even a vague notion of “the biblical imagination,” yet Hitchcock fails to offer any account as to why his interpretations are superior to the countless others that have emerged in Christian history. Furthermore Hitchcock favors—and overuses—the term “selfsame” to refer to the resurrection body, yet this loaded term requires him to begin from the assertion he wishes to prove (see xi, for a particularly pointed example). The book itself, and particularly the pointed critiques of Barth, rest on a presupposed eschatology that lurks in the background, but the presuppositions regarding the body as marker of individuality, the necessity for strong continuity of earthly and resurrected bodies, and the role of time in the eschaton are never argued. The criticisms of Barth depend on this understanding, but this means they are only relevant if the reader shares the author’s perspective. Hitchcock’s critique of Barth is weakened as a result of these significant problems, and he fails to offer a meaningful warning to both Barth’s theological descendants and theologians interested in eschatology in general (as he claims in his preface, see xv).

Despite its problems, Hitchcock’s volume is still an important work for those interested in Barth’s doctrine of the resurrection and the larger issues of eschatology proper in the Church Dogmatics. Read alongside other recent studies on Barth’s eschatology, it provides unique perspectives on Barth’s mature thought and some of its potential problems.

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

Neil MacDonald, Karl Barth and the Strange New World within the Bible: Barth, Wittgenstein and the Metadilemmas of the Enlightenment (Revised Edition; Paternoster, 2002)

Karl Barth and the Strange New World within the Bible: Barth, Wittgenstein and the Metadilemmas of the Enlightenment 

Neil MacDonald, Karl Barth and the Strange New World within the Bible: Barth, Wittgenstein and the Metadilemmas of the Enlightenment (Revised Edition; Paternoster, 2002), xxiv + 403. $39.99 (paperback)

Reviewed by Shane Wilkins (February 27, 2008)

In this volume, Neil MacDonald wants to combat a particular neo-orthodox reading of Barth’s theology as a fideist rejection of the Enlightenment. His provocative thesis is that Barth’s theological epistemology offers “the most cogent” argument in the modern period “on behalf of the rationality of the Christian faith in the face of a loss of belief in the truth of the Bible in the modern age” (xxiv).

MacDonald wants to show that Barth’s theology can accept the Enlightenment challenges to many particular claims of traditional Protestant theology – like historical criticism of the Bible, angelology, the historicity of the resurrection, etc. – without thereby surrendering their theological core. The book’s conceptual core is the theological epistemology upon which Barth’s responses to these challenges depends. While some of this ground has been covered in the literature before, the contribution of MacDonald’s book is to show a startling similarity between Barth’s theological epistemology and Wittgenstein’s private language argument.

The primary point of contact between Barth, Wittgenstein and Kant is their preoccupation with “the metadilemmas of the Enlightenment,” by which MacDonald refers to inquiries about the conditions of the possibility of a subject. Historically, Hume argues that there can be no sensible propositions concerned with things that are neither relations of ideas nor matters of empirical fact. The threat of this disjunction – known in contemporary philosophy as Hume’s Fork – is that it seems to reduce philosophy to either logic and mathematics or the natural sciences. If Hume’s argument is correct, metaphysics and pre-modern theology are both meaningless for they trade in empty concepts that are neither necessary truths, nor matters of empirical fact.

Kant attempted to avoid the prongs of Hume’s Fork in an interesting way. For Kant it is obvious that we do have knowledge of precisely the sort of propositions such as, “Every event has a cause,” which Hume’s Fork disallows. In order to meet Hume’s objection, Kant tries to discover the universal, necessary structures of the human understanding which are the conditions of the possibility of our having legitimate knowledge of such propositions. Kant’s actual account of what those structures are need not concern us here. The important thing is the form of Kant’s argument; arguing from the conditioned thing that we know to the conditions that must be responsible for it. This is the vaunted transcendental turn in Kant’s philosophy, which seems to ‘save’ philosophy from Hume’s Fork by legitimating this sui generis class of synthetic a priori propositions.

On MacDonald’s interpretation, Barth, like Kant, is concerned with a metadilemma. Just as Hume seemed to announce the death of philosophy by reducing its subject matter to non-philosophical disciplines, so Overbeck proclaims the end of Christianity and attempts to decompose theology into non-theological disciplines such as church history and anthropology of religion. The interesting thing is that Barth’s response to Overbeck appears analogous to Kant’s response to Hume: just as Kant tries to save philosophy by appealing to the existence of a class of propositions that escape Hume’s reduction of philosophy, so Barth tries to save theology by appealing to the existence of a class of propositions that escape Overbeck’s reduction of theology. The class of propositions Barth is concerned with here are what MacDonald calls ‘sui generishistorical truth claims’.

The distinction between straightforwardly ‘historical’ and ‘sui generically historical’ claims is that the former are ‘measurable’ and the second have their ‘measure’ only in themselves. MacDonald presumably means that ordinary historical claims can be investigated rationally by the academic discipline of history, but sui generis claims cannot. Why not? MacDonald repeatedly links claims about the epistemological status of sui generis historical events with Barth’s insistence in the Romanscommentary that ‘God is God’, where the italics indicate that God’s transcendence implies that one can properly speak of God only in the paradoxical language of dialectic (cf. 59ff). It is not entirely clear what exactly the relation should be between the claim about the ‘measurability’ of the sui generis and the claim that God can only be spoken of dialectically. Sometimes MacDonald seems to ground the former in the latter, and sometimes the two claims seem to be logically independent of one another.

What is clear, however, is that the mature Barth employs both claims in his understanding of revelation. For Barth, “God’s self-revelation itself . . . creates the very possibility of the means of measuring it” (241). MacDonald notes that here Barth is offering something like a transcendental argument about the condition of the possibility of revelation. This transcendental turn towards sui generis historical truth-claiming is presumably what makes Barth’s theology “the most cogent” argument for the rationality of the Christian faith in MacDonald’s estimation because it allows Barth to hold on to the core affirmations of Christian orthodoxy while simultaneously affirming what is valuable in the Enlightenment critiques of orthodoxy. Thus, for instance, the orthodox theological tradition had asserted the reality of angels, as straightforward historical items within the world. The Enlightenment has shown this belief to be false. Barth’s transcendental turn allows him to accept the Enlightenment’s verdict against the orthodox view of angels while nevertheless asserting their existence in a sui generis sense. Barth thus inherits both traditions, but is not reducible to either – contrary to the neo-orthodox picture of Barth.

Thus, just as Kant attempts to save philosophy from Hume’s Fork with the synthetic a priori, Barth attempts to save theology from Overbeck’s dilemma with sui generis historical theological claims. But it is also clear that Barth’s ‘transcendental argument’ here is not exactly Kantian. Barth’s position actually bears more of a ‘family resemblance’ to Wittgenstein than Kant, MacDonald provocatively suggests.

The central point of confluence MacDonald explores is Wittgenstein’s private language argument. In thePhilosophical Investigations, Wittgenstein argues that the traditional picture of language is desperately confused. On the traditional picture, concepts and sensations are private to the individual. People communicate to one another by translating the sentences of public language back into their own idiosyncratic private concepts. The specter of Cartesian skepticism depends on this picture of language, for the skeptic is asking how private experience can have some objective (i.e., public) validity. If Wittgenstein is right that the concept of a private language is incoherent, then the skeptical problem dissolves because the skeptic must rely upon the very concepts he intends to put into question in order to pose the question itself.

According to MacDonald, the thrust of Wittgenstein’s private language argument is that (Cartesian) skepticism is impossible because the skeptic “attempts to ‘measure’ – criticise – a very distinctive object of measurement, namely: the object of measurement that constitutes the means of measurement itself” (306), which is impossible. This, MacDonald points out, “is precisely the position Barth reached in the Church Dogmatics as regards epistemology” (ibid). In other words, both Barth and Wittgenstein are objecting to the idea that there is a criterion outside the phenomenon of revelation or language by which they could be judged. ‘Language’ for Wittgenstein and ‘revelation’ for Barth both have a sui generis identity that is supported by a sort of non-Kantian transcendental argument.

If MacDonald’s interpretation of Barth and Wittgenstein is correct, the confluence of these two figures is startling. Whether Barth’s theological epistemology is really the ‘most cogent’ way of arguing for the rationality of the Christian faith or not, MacDonald has shown something interesting indeed about the relationship of Barth and Wittgenstein that will hopefully spur further scholarly interest in relating Barth to broader trends in the contemporary intellectual climate. Nevertheless, I must register a few reservations.

First, Wittgenstein’s private language argument is notorious for receiving contentious and conflicting interpretations, to say nothing of whether the argument actually succeeds. So, MacDonald might be opening Barth’s epistemology up to new philosophical criticisms if arguments against Wittgenstein can be appliedmutatis mutandis to Barth as well.

Second, it would seem appropriate to inquire more deeply into the thesis that sui generis events are not capable of historical investigation. This principle is obviously central to Barth’s claims, but it is not immediately clear why an event’s being unique makes it inaccessible to historical investigation. After all, Caesar’s crossing the Rubicon was unique in the sense that it was unrepeatable. The epistemological ‘uniqueness’ of the sui generis historical truth claims Barth is concerned with must derive in some way from their being acts of God. But then the question returns: Why should God’s acting in history make that act inaccessible to historical investigation? In response, MacDonald would probably appeal to ‘God is God’ to ground the claim that God’s acts are inscrutable to historians, but on what would that claim rest? Ultimately it must rest upon the adequacy of Barth’s exegesis, which brings me to my third reservation.

For the Christian theologian, the success of Barth’s theological epistemology must be based in its success as an interpretation of the Bible. On that score, I remain unconvinced on exegetical grounds that the Bible teaches that ‘God is God’ in the epistemological sense Barth and MacDonald want.

But one could have exegetical reservations on more than just this fundamental principle . On each of the separate challenges the Enlightenment poses to traditional theology (angelology, the historicity of the resurrection, etc.), one ought to examine whether Barth’s exegesis of the text really supports the claim that these events are sui generically historical rather than straightforwardly historical in the way the tradition assumed.

Despite these reservations, MacDonald’s book represents an important contribution and should be required reading for anyone interested in seriously engaging Barth and contemporary philosophy.

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

Beintker, Michael, Christian Link, and Michael Trowitzsch (eds.), Karl Barth im europäischen Zeitgeschehen (1935–1950), Widerstand – Bewährung – Orientierung. Beiträge zum Internationalen Symposion vom 1. bis 4. Mai 2008 in der Johannes a Lasco Bibliothek Emden (Zürich: Theologischer Verlag Zürich, 2010)

Karl Barth im europäischen Zeitgeschehen (1935–1950), Widerstand – Bewährung – Orientierung. Beiträge zum Internationalen Symposion vom 1. bis 4. Mai 2008 in der Johannes a Lasco Bibliothek Emden 

Beintker, Michael, Christian Link, and Michael Trowitzsch (eds.), Karl Barth im europäischen Zeitgeschehen (1935–1950), Widerstand – Bewährung – Orientierung. Beiträge zum Internationalen Symposion vom 1. bis 4. Mai 2008 in der Johannes a Lasco Bibliothek Emden (Zürich: Theologischer Verlag Zürich, 2010), 528pp. €54,00

Reviewed by John G. Flett (July 12, 2012)

This nice collection, as the title suggests, constitutes the proceedings of the second “International Symposium on the Work of Karl Barth” held in 2008 (a similar volume—entitled Karl Barth in Deutschland (1921-1935)—was published after the 2003 symposium in Emden). It spans twenty-two essays, two discussions and one sermon, and is divided into four parts: plenary sessions, historical and biographical contexts, exegesis of Barth’s work history, and closing remarks. Though these divisions appear somewhat arbitrary in the printed version, more a legacy of its original conference format than an elucidation of the material, substantial work appears throughout. Apart from an essay from George Hunsinger, titled “Justification and Justice: Toward an Evangelical Social Ethic,” and the participation of Bruce McCormack in the discussion panels, this collection has a decidedly continental feel, with many of the contributors perhaps unknown in a North American context. But this difference in voice and the variety of subject matter adds to the benefit of the work. Indeed, it includes such rich material that it makes writing a review a difficult task: one simply cannot do justice to the whole.

Michael Weinrich leads off the first part, “plenary sessions,” with a introductory essay titled “The Theological Starting Points and Perspectives of Karl Barth’s Church Dogmatics: A Trinitarian Hermeneutic and the Determination of Theology’s Reach.” While it does not necessarily contain anything new, this chapter succeeds in delivering a clear and succinct summary of Barth’s founding questions—especially as they appear in the early volumes of the CD. It would be good to see this type of essay appear in English as a teaching tool. Also included in this section are essays by Jan Štefan on God’s Perfections in CD II/1, Bent Flemming Nielsen on the relationship of law and gospel in CD II/2, §§36–39, and Christian Link on Barth’s doctrine of creation. There is also an interesting piece by Henri Wijnandus de Knijff on Barth’s reception in Holland interpreted according to the contest between the “Gereformeerden” and “Hervormden” churches, where the former understood itself as separate from the wider society and charged with a specific task to that society while the latter understood itself in terms of its co-responsibility with society for socio-cultural questions.

Two highlights in this section are Wolf Krötke on “The Sum of the Gospel: Karl Barth’s Doctrine of Election in the Context of theChurch Dogmatics,” and Eberhard Busch on “Karl Barth in Current Events (Zeitgeschehen): ‘A Swiss Voice’ between 1935 and 1950.” Krötke traverses difficult ground with ease, providing a concise account of the significance and origins of the doctrine of election in Barth’s thinking, before giving seven snapshots of the implications of this position for his wider system, including (in point 7) the significance of being witnesses and heralds to the gospel. Krötke ends with a reflection on the significance of Barth’s doctrine of election for his earlier treatment of the Trinity, while addressing a complaint that Barth’s position permits an abstraction from above and a suggestion from von Balthasar that Barth had now drawn close to the analogia entis. One wishes that Krötke had expended more time on these latter issues, but his task seems to be more one of positive clarification than combative defense.

Eberhard Busch’s contribution differs from the more doctrinal pieces within the section in that it examines Barth’s political protest against Hitler and the reaction of the Swiss government. The data for his treatment comes from the “Schweizer Bundesarchiv” in Bern, and the “Politischen Archiv des Auswärtigen Amtes der Bundesrepublik” in Berlin. It is a remarkable and complex story of censorship and of political pressure at the highest levels, with the Swiss government feeling that its neutrality might possibly be threatened through Barth’s actions. Included here is a consideration of how Barth understood the relationship between East and West toward the end of and after the Second World War, how this was perceived by political and even church authorities, and how it was reported in newspapers. The work is so arresting as to seem improbable if not for the impeccable reference work, and I look forward to seeing how it might inform those evaluating the political significance of Barth’s theological position.

Part two, on “historical and biographical contexts,” deals primarily with Barth’s “discussion partners.” Bonhoeffer (Ernst Feil) and Brunner after 1945 (Peter Zocher) both appear here, but so to does “refugee pastor” Paul Vogt (Henrich Rusterholz), publicist Arthur Frey (Frank Jehle), Dutch theologian Kornelis Heiko Miskotte (Hendrik Johan Adriaanse), and Confessing Church leader Hans Joachim Iwand (Gerard Cornelis den Hertog). In the case of Rusterholz’s treatment of Vogt, by way of example, the historical work is exemplary. Less evident, aside from personal support and encouragement, is how Barth’s work found expression in Vogt’s. Better here is den Hertog’s treatment of Iwand, especially in showing how Iwand himself navigated between the different theological authorities (notably Gogarten) of the period. One gains a more dialogical perspective as Iwand raised questions concerning Barth’s understanding of law and gospel and what he considered to be a too sharp negation of the state, one beyond that contained in the Barmen declaration.

Apart from these biographical snapshots, part two includes treatments of Barth on the guilt of the Germans (Michael Beintker), on the reorganization of the church in Germany after the Second World War (Martin Greshat), and on the East-West conflict (Sàndor Fazakas). To select but one, while the Barth material contained in the Fazakas piece may be familiar, the account of that material’s reception within Hungary and the type of questions it posed to both the local and global political order added a living quality to what can be something of an abstracted discussion between monolithic political systems.

Part three, “Exegesis of Barth’s Work History,” focuses more on doctrinal questions with the exception of one essay by Michael Trowitzsch on Barth’s interpretation of Martin Heidegger. Along with the aforementioned Hunsinger essay, Matthias Wüthrich writes on “nothiningness,” Christiani-Maria Bammel on anthropology, and Georg Plasger on ecumenical unity. Cornelis van der Kooi’s short but helpful piece on “Religion as Unbelief: Remarks on a Battle Cry (Kampfparole)” well sets the discussion within the limits of its context. After noting his impulse to address a heresy that sprung out of the church and found embodiment in the “German Christians,” van der Kooi outlines Barth’s position and the “inherent problematic of religion” as a human attempt at self-liberation and the manner in which local culture becomes determinative for this attempt. With this, for van der Kooi, it becomes clear that Barth is addressing the developments within Germany during the period. This conclusion is confirmed though five largely commonsense observations, the very simplicity of which may help move the discussion along.

Though it sometimes trends toward the hagiographical, this is a fine collection and—perhaps thanks to the framing of the conference—avoids becoming mired in methodological questions. Some of the historical research is outstanding, and the few “summary” type of essays in the volume succeed in presenting complex material in a clear and concise manner. If a complaint might be laid, it would concern the absence of any reference to a wider geographical reception of Barth during the same period. In some respects, the fine archival work functions as a type of historical recovery. That is, it perhaps calls into question some of the dismissive stereotypical slogans one commonly hears. It would have been interesting to address the interpretation of Barth’s thinking as it appeared in the English language world, and the way some of these treatments exert an ongoing influence. One might also have liked to see a treatment of Barth’s reception in Korea and Japan. These, however, are small quibbles that do not detract from this authoritative contribution to the field.

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

John P. Lewis, Karl Barth in North America: The Influence of Karl Barth in the Making of a New North American Evangelicalism (Eugene, OR: Resource Publications, 2009)

Karl Barth in North America: The Influence of Karl Barth in the Making of a New North American Evangelicalism

John P. Lewis, Karl Barth in North America: The Influence of Karl Barth in the Making of a New North American Evangelicalism (Eugene, OR: Resource Publications, 2009), xvii + pp. 226. $27.00 (paperback)

Reviewed by Scott Rice (July 18, 2012)

John Lewis takes up a rather distinct approach to the influence of Karl Barth’s theology on several evangelical theologians in Karl Barth in North America. Engaging scholars like Donald Bloesch and Bernard Ramm, he moves beyond a standard theological assessment by elevating the role of biography. More specifically, Lewis underlines how the early theological settings, family lives, and educational background of these scholars led to an encounter with Barth’s thought that impacted their own theological development and in turn resulted in “the emergence of a new evangelicalism” (xvii).

Lewis’s first two chapters set the course for the remainder of the book through an overview of Barth’s life and work, as well as some responses to Barth’s theology in North America. He touches upon Barth’s key early influences—Herrmann, Ritschl, and their support of Germany in World War I—but focuses on Barth’s dogmatic concerns, particularly the doctrines of revelation, scripture, and election, as well as Barth’s turn to the Reformers. These were the emphases that came to bear on the new evangelicalism.

In terms of North American responses to Barth, Lewis begins with the reception and ultimate rejection of Barth’s theology by the fundamentalist leaders Cornelius Van Til and Fred Klooster. Uncomfortable with some of the more extreme elements of fundamentalism and desiring greater engagement with the culture, a second group of evangelicals emerged after World War II led by the likes of Billy Graham and Carl Henry. This second group appreciated much of Barth’s work but retained certain hesitations, most notably concerning Barth’s doctrine of scripture. For the remainder of his work Lewis turns to a third group, the new evangelicalism. This group’s desire, claims Lewis, for unapologetically Christian “dialogue with modernism” and a scriptural theology that asks what God might proclaim in his Word before trying to prove that the words are God’s made it ripe for an encounter with Karl Barth’s theology (62, 67).

Chapter three deals with the first of the new evangelicals, Bernard Ramm. Ramm, a physics PhD, made a name for himself in fundamentalist scholarship through a series of publications on the relationship of science and scriptural interpretation. However, in his After Fundamentlism, Ramm reflected on the transitional moment when he realized that the scientific methods he adopted for theology led to a faith “captive to rationalism” (72). Seeking a new direction, Ramm encountered Barth’s Church Dogmatics at Baylor University in the late 1950’s. During this period, Ramm came to appreciate Barth’s engagement with scripture as “witnessing, kerygmatic documents” that “summon faith in Jesus Christ” rather than as “scientific historiography” (81). Barth made it possible for Ramm to acknowledge scripture’s humanity and yet still stand under its divine authority as that which points to God’s revelation.

Geoffrey Bromiley, the prominent translator and professor of historical theology at Fuller Theological Seminary, occupies chapter four. Bromiley’s engagement with Barth was a gradual process, taking place after his ordination into the Anglican Communion during the late 1930’s. Lewis emphasizes two of Bromiley’s contributions. First, Bromiley translated immense amounts of Barth’s work and was deeply involved in making Barth’s Kirchliche Dogmatik accessible in English. And second, Bromiley heralded Barth as one who avoided two pitfalls of his period: rigid double predestination that ultimately distorts “the character of God” as deistic rather than involved in history, and the mythological tendencies that failed to let God’s revelation speak for itself (103).

Lewis assesses in chapter five the one-time critic turned proponent of Barth’s theology, James Daane. Daane’s career was marked by a strong distaste for Barth’s dialectics prior to his time as professor of pastoral theology at Fuller Seminary from 1966-79. There is a mystery to God that lies behind the finite mind, and Daane thought that Barth sought after it too-hastily with his dialectical method. But Lewis discusses Daane’s transition to precisely the opposite view, although the details of this transition remained unknown even to Daane’s departmental colleague, Ray Anderson. Daane became a public advocate of Barth’s doctrine of election by the latter part of his career, arguing for its christological basis in the New Testament, its functionality for preaching, and its historical presence in Calvin’s statement that “Christ is the ‘mirror’ of our election” (118).

Chapter six focuses on David Mueller, former professor of theology at Southern Baptist Theological Seminary. Mueller came under Barth’s influence early in life as his father, William Mueller, wrote a dissertation on Barth in the 1930’s. Lewis begins by referring to David Mueller’s publication, Karl Barth, where Mueller unfolds Barth’s position on Jesus Christ as God’s revelation, “the object of election,” and the true pattern of what it means to be human (128, 131). Mueller again expressed his indebtedness to Barth’s incarnational theology at a conference on the inerrancy of scripture in 1987. Sensing a real struggle in his tradition to come to grips with scripture’s humanity, Mueller claimed that the dominant motif of God’s saving action in scripture takes form in “finite, mortal, erring and sinful human beings” (136). He makes this point not to nullify scripture’s authority, but to emphasize the critical role which humanity—including the humanity of scripture—plays in the economy of God.

Next in line for Lewis is the evangelical scholar Donald Bloesch. Chapter seven presents Bloesch as one whose background in an ecumenically open tradition, coupled with a negative seminary experience under a neo-naturalist faculty’s radically progressive theology, led to a willing reception of Barth’s thought. Barth influenced Bloesch most with reference to his understanding of God, salvation, and scripture. It is worth mentioning the first two. In Barth’s doctrine of God, Bloesch expresses appreciation for the Swiss theologian’s keen attention to “the utter transcendence of the living God” as well as the emphasis on God as the “being who enters into relationships” and whose “power is in the service of his love” (156-9). Drawing primarily from Bloesch’s Jesus is Victor and Jesus Christ, Lewis turns to Bloesch’s response to Barth’s soteriology, particularly the function of the Spirit and its subjective role, the wrath which conceals God’s love, and most notably, the priority of God’s objective redemption in Jesus Christ that dares to hope for all even while—in Bloesch’s opinion—not necessitating universalism.

Chapter eight examines Ray Anderson, another former Fuller Seminary professor. First influenced by T. F. Torrance at Edinburgh, he would develop a specifically “incarnational theology” (171) in the wake of Barth’s thought and in dialogue with colleagues Geoffrey Bromiley and Bernard Ramm. Anderson’s theological anthropology works to define “humanity in terms of God’s self-revelation in the humanity of Jesus Christ, particularly his crucifixion and resurrection. In his crucifixion one can see the grave situation that humanity is in and yet in the resurrection one perceives God’s original intention for humanity” (174, quoting Anderson). In The Shape of Practical Theology, Anderson furthers this project by adopting Barth’s notion of Jesus as the “man-for-others” who determines what it means to be human in relationship (“co-humanity”) and, especially, in life lived for the sake of others (179).

Wesleyan theologian, Donald Dayton, is the last of Barth’s evangelical advocates and the subject of chapter nine. Responding to what he saw as gross misrepresentations of Barth, Dayton published a series of essays and a book entitled Karl Barth and Evangelicalism and dealing with Barth’s reception in North America. The heart of the chapter lies in Dayton’s pietistic evaluation of Barth. Lewis notes that while Barth is better known for his more critical attitude towards the pietist tradition, Dayton captures two potential affinities that make Barth a more accessible resource for his fellow Wesleyans. First, Dayton argues that Barth expressed by the fourth volume of the Church Dogmatics not only a “more sympathetic treatment of Zinzendorf than had previously been in evidence,” but also a significant number of references to “Bengel’s Gnomon, the great pietist commentary” (201). Second, Dayton hypothesizes that pietism’s devotional approach to scripture might have played a greater role than previously known in Barth’s dynamic account of scriptural inspiration. Dayton’s hunch might be a stretch, but it nonetheless says something about the similarities in praxis and doctrine that connect Barth and the Wesleyan tradition.

Lewis concludes by considering some similarities and differences among the new evangelicals, distinguishing in sub-sections their “Influences,” “Motifs,” “Agenda(s),” and “Common Agenda” (215-6). He claims that what united their efforts was a shared longing for a theology in dialogue with modernism “yet beyond the accommodation of modernist theologies” (217).

Karl Barth in North America constitutes a profitable resource for introductory research on Barth’s reception in evangelical scholarship. Lewis’s concentration on the distinct context of each theologian provides a fuller understanding of motivations and the specific points of emphasis in each’s work. While on occasion Lewis can make a straw man of the scriptural inerrantist, his detailed engagement with Barth’s view of scripture as the unique and authoritative witness to Jesus Christ overshadows this fault and makes possible an honest evaluation of Barth’s doctrine for evangelicals who have largely remained hesitant and misinformed on this point. One minor drawback to Lewis’s work is the limited attention given to the reception of Barth and the question of universalism. He does address this issue with Bloesch (who points to Barth’s “impossible possibility,” 168) and in a footnote with Dayton (who notes Barth’s primary concern with the believing community, 199). But the relationship of universal and objective redemption to the scriptural images of divisive judgment must be more thoroughly articulated than Lewis has done if evangelicalism is to fruitfully and honestly appropriate Barth as a resource for the theological task (on the question of universalism, cf. Bromiley’s Introduction to Karl Barth and, more recently, Bruce McCormack’s essay in Karl Barth and American Evangelicalism).

All in all, Lewis’s Karl Barth in North America is a clear and insightful work that successfully highlights an important strand of evangelical scholarship that has and continues to appropriate Barth’s theology as a vital resource for the task of elaborating and proclaiming the gospel for today.

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

Cocksworth, Ashley. Karl Barth on Prayer (New York: Bloomsbury T&T Clark, 2015)

Cocksworth, Ashley. Karl Barth on Prayer (New York: Bloomsbury T&T Clark, 2015), viii + 202 pp. $114.00 (hardcover).

Reviewed by Blair D. Bertrand (December 05, 2017)

Perhaps because the academy views Barth as a systematic theologian, the majority of writing about him directly touches on traditional systematic concerns such as Christology, soteriology, and revelation. Lost is a sense that theological concerns more associated with piety and practice are essential to understanding Barth’s work. In Karl Barth on Prayer, Ashley Cocksworth aims to correct this by placing prayer as one of the constitutive elements of Barth’s theology. To think that one book could suddenly make Barth into a spiritual theologian is naïve. However, making a good start opening up and probing an under appreciated element within Barth is certainly doable. Cocksworth does exactly that. He unpacks Barth’s understanding of prayer and situates it within the overall oeuvre, demonstrating that it is a constitutive element of Barth’s overall project.

This dissertation-turned-book fulfills the intent of the T&T Clark Studies in Systematic Theology series by constructively engaging Barth through historical analysis and contemporary restatement. Cocksworth presents his own constructive proposal regarding prayer all the while maintaining a close reading of Barth’s thought.

There are a number of arguments at work here: how Barth’s understanding of prayer changes from petition to invocation, the place of prayer in Barth’s ethics of reconciliation, prayer’s influence on understanding Barth’s pneumatology, and the political implications of this understanding of prayer. On all of these Cocksworth remains rooted in textual analysis, not straying too far from the corpus as received, but also not slavishly repeating exactly what Barth said. There is a creativity here and a fresh reading that opens up new areas of thought. The breadth of engagement effectively demonstrates that prayer was a concern for Barth throughout his work; the depth of analysis reveals that prayer is a constitutive element of Barth’s understanding of many theological concerns.

Perhaps the most novel argument is Cocksworth’s intent to situate Barth’s understanding of prayer within what Mark McIntosh calls mystical theology. This argument takes its cue from McIntosh’s observation that “Barth can be read fairly and indeed profitably in connection with mystical theology, not as himself a mystic, but as one whose theology is truly designed to be transformative, to be truthful in orienting the reader towards the abiding mystery of God’s love” (22). Further, Cocksworth picks up on this comment by Barth, “We need not be fanatically anti-mystical . . . there may be a place for a feeling of enjoyable contemplation of God” and takes up the challenge of removing that “may” (emphasis added 25; see CD IV/I, p. 104).

The first step in the argument is to acknowledge that Barth does not develop his theology in line with the contemplative tradition, at least not as understood by McIntosh and others such as Sarah Coakley, David Ford, and Rowan Williams. Cocksworth relies on this contemporary Anglo-Catholic recovery of theology as a spiritual practice to set the criterion of what constitutes legitimate contemplative prayer. Barth is found wanting: “a weakness should also be apparent: what has happened to the tradition of contemplative prayer in Barth’s theology?” (21). Because of this weakness or silence “some creativity needs to be exercised in order to locate and develop positive space for contemplation in Barth’s theology” (22). This kind of announcement, which essentially amounts to saying, “It isn’t in Barth’s theology as conventionally understood but I’m going to argue it is there unconventionally” can strike fear in the reader if the author does not immediately connect the argument to the actual text.

And connecting is exactly what Cocksworth does. As this is one among many arguments he cannot give a thorough going reading of all Barth says about mysticism, but Cocksworth can address “Barth’s critique of contemplative prayer and point out where he might have gone wrong in his reading” (26). Only after connecting his argument to the text does Cocksworth move onto “investigate what a Barthian form of contemplative prayer might look like by attending to neglected areas of the Church Dogmatics” (26). Cocksworth thus connects historical analysis to contemporary restatement.

In places, Barth allows for and understanding of contemplation similar to the classic understanding of purgation-contemplation-illumination. For instance, Barth opens a space to allow the text to speak when one reads scripture. The historical critical reading is secondary to the living word and, in attempting to hear this living word, the interpreter must sit in openness and receptivity. Within this suppliant posture is a kind of contemplation. Cocksworth is certainly correct here. Active contemplatives such as Ignatius of Loyola dwell in this kind of posture when encountering Scripture. There are differences for sure, highlighted by Cocksworth when he uses phrases like “not incongruent with” or “looks like” but enough similarities to make it convincing that contemplation of Scripture is a common element between the tradition and Barth (47, 57).

Cocksworth also notes significant differences between Barth and the contemplative tradition. Where much of spiritual theology might understand the Christian life as a progression or maturing through stages, it is clear in Barth that “there are no stages to pass through or steps to take so that the ethical agents can be or become more than who they already are in Christ” (31). Cocksworth fairly points out that Barth’s two main critiques of contemplative traditions are that they either have “an overemphasis on inner experience” or “an underemphasis on ethical action” (37). Perhaps unfairly, Cocksworth calls Barth’s engagement with mysticism as “appearing anachronistic, largely unsubstantiated, unrefined and inattentive to the particularities of the tradition” (34).

There are at least two paths of investigation that may have helped Cocksworth’s assessment of Barth. To address the charge of anachronism, Cocksworth could have considered Barth’s understanding of prayer in relation to German pietism. The richest tradition of prayer that Barth directly engaged with was not Orthodox or Roman Catholic theology retrieved by contemporary theologians such as McIntosh and Coakley. Rather, it was a kind of German pietism that he wrote from and against. Cocksworth does not address this tradition in any substantial way. Given that part of Cocksworth’s argument rests on Barth “maturing” from petition to invocation it seems reasonable to give some consideration to Busch’s argument in Karl Barth & the Pietists: The Young Karl Barth’s Critique of Pietism & It’s Response (Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press, 2004).

Another possible avenue of investigation, one that would help in revealing Barth as attentive to at least one part of the tradition, would focus on Barth’s treatment of the unio Christi. As Cocksworth points out, Barth is critical of the imitatio Christi tradition for the very reasons that make the unio Christi tradition so important (133). When Cocksworth develops the full implications of correspondence within invocation and the agency of the Holy Spirit in relation to the individual prayer, a work like Adam Neder’s Participation in Christ: An Entry into Karl Barth’s Dogmatics (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox, 2009) would offer further refinement and insight. Neder’s tracing of the unio Christi throughout each volume of the Church Dogmatics could bring the “clarification of the mechanics of that participation” that Cocksworth wants (79).

These criticisms should not discourage the reader. Cocksworth has a great number of insights that further both our understanding of Barth and of prayer. For instance, Cocksworth moves the field forward in understanding how the divine-human relationship plays out in prayer. The old charge against Barth that he has no place for human agency is laid to rest so that “the more prayer is divine does not mean prayer is any less the work of the ethical agent” (70). Or when Cocksworth situates Barth’s treatment of prayer within the ethics of The Christian Life in Chapter 6, there is a new opening created for Christians to understand how prayer and political action relate. For Barth, “in prayer, the Church is given the freedom to ask God ‘what are we to do?’ and the openness to receive the guidance of the Holy Spirit in each new moment (149). These two examples can be multiplied.

In the Conclusion, Cocksworth reflects on Barth’s treatment of prayer in Evangelical Theology, particularly on its implications for “the prayer-theology relation” (171). Following Anselm, Barth ends up where “implicitly and explicitly, proper theology will have to be . . . prayer” (173 citing ET 165). Given that Cocksworth sees a development in Barth concerning prayer and since Evangelical Theology is one of the last writings we have from Barth, perhaps this was the place to begin a study of Barth and prayer? Barth traces his own understanding of prayer in the line of Anselm not in the current retrieval of spiritual theology. The Anselmian themes of “bold humility,” “openness,” “disruption,” and “transformation” are what Barth draws on in both his theological project and in his understanding of prayer. When Cocksworth traces, contextualizes and works with these themes is when he is strongest; when he attempts to measure Barth against a standard Barth rejected, he is less convincing.

Rev. Dr. Blair D. Bertrand, Lecturer, Zomba Theological College, Zomba, Malawi

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

David Guretzki, Karl Barth on the Filioque, Barth Studies (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2009)

Karl Barth on the Filioque

David Guretzki, Karl Barth on the Filioque, Barth Studies (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2009), xi + 224. $99.95

Reviewed by Sarah Stewart-Kroeker (February 16, 2011)

David Guretzki’s book Karl Barth on the Filioque sets out to clarify “the ‘inner theological rationality’ of Barth’s defense and use of the filioque” (17) from the earliest hints of its presence in the Epistle to the Romans through the Church Dogmatics. Guretzki, an Associate Professor and Dean of the Seminary at Briercrest College and Seminary, has revised for this publication the doctoral dissertation he completed under Douglas Farrow at McGill University. He adopts what he calls a “genetic-intrasystemic” approach, by which he examines both the historical development of the filioque in Barth’s thought and its systematic significance for Barth’s theology. Motivated by a desire to correct various false assumptions about the role of the filioque in Barth’s thought, Guretzki necessarily also examines the filioque controversy itself both past and present. In so doing, he addresses concerns surrounding the place of the filioque in ecumenical dialogue. Guretzki claims that Barth’s use and defense of the filioque is not typical of the Western filioquist tradition and that, therefore, the standard criticisms do not necessarily apply. This is not to say that others do not emerge. Guretzki provides a rich study of Barth’s position on the filioque, tracking both its development over the course of Barth’s writings and its theological functions in and implications for Barth’s theology.

In chapter one, “Karl Barth and the Filioque: History and Literature,” Guretzki calls into question “two fundamental presuppositions that characterize the majority, if not all” (52) studies on the filioque and Barth. The first presupposition is that Barth’s defense of the filioque in the CD stands alone and apart from his earlier works. The second is that Barth presupposes the filioque as a dogmatic a priori that then informs his subsequent trinitarian and pneumatological theology. Guretzki argues that Barth’s adherence to the filioque is a feature of his early dialecticism and results from (rather than determines antecedently) his analysis of the self-revelation of the triune God.

Chapter two, “The Genesis and Development of the Filioque in Barth’s Earlier Theology,” examines the pneumatological framework of Barth’s early theology, focused primarily on the Epistle to the Romans and theGöttingen Dogmatics. Guretzki argues that Barth’s “most mature application of the filioque in CD IV can be understood as a return to, and material expansion upon, the Christocentric and dialectically shaped pneumatology of the second edition of Romans” (59). While Barth does not set forward an explicitly filioquist position in Romans, Guretzki argues that his pneumatology implicitly supports such a position. Guretzki aims to demonstrate the theological affinity between the role of the Spirit in this earlier expression of the divine trinitarian dialectic and its mature articulation in CD IV. The claim is that Barth’s filioquist position is latent in the very structure of his doctrine of the Trinity from the outset not as a presupposition, but as an organic feature of Barth’s thought.

The primary point of interest for Guretzki in the Göttingen Dogmatics is that it shows how Barth “located the filioque primarily within the discussion of his doctrine of Revelation rather than as a speculative problem on the doctrine of the inner Trinitarian relations” (79). This is a crucial distinction from the filioque’s traditional understanding, which was framed as a question about the immanent being of God. For Barth, however, questions about the immanent Trinity cannot be separated from questions about revelation. According to Guretzki, Barth upholds the filioque “on the basis of the possibility of a personal reception or apprehension of the revelation of the God who is both far (the Father) and near (the Son)…for unless the Spirit is the Spirit of the Father and the Spirit of the Son, and proceeds from both, then temporal, contingent reception of the eternal is impossible” (82). A further point Guretzki raises is that in the GD, Barth develops the threefold form of the Word of God (revelation, scripture, preaching) on a structural analogy to the immanent Trinity. In this schema, the Spirit corresponds to preaching which, proceeding from both revelation and scripture, is thus present and ongoing. Barth will modify this analogy however, which shift Guretzki discusses in chapter three, “The Defense of the Filioque in Church Dogmatics I/1.” Here, he argues, Barth tries to address the problems encountered in the more linear trinitarian analogy of the GD with the result that the three forms become much more interdependent or perichoretic. This means, however, that the role of the filioque in the analogy is no longer obvious. While Barth continues to hold to the filioque, he no longer does so according to this structure.

Barth formally defends the doctrine of the filioque in CD I/1. As in the GD, Barth discusses the filioque in terms of the doctrine of revelation. The Spirit brings humanity into communion with the Son who reveals the Father, and this communion “is possible only because the Holy Spirit is antecedently the eternal communion of the Father and the Son” (105). Guretzki claims that the filioque expresses the revealed reality of the communion of the Father and the Son. It also expresses their differentiation, however: the generation of the Son and the procession of the Spirit “are dialectically related in such a way that one relies eternally and continually on the other in order to differentiate itself from the other” (111). For Barth, if the economy reveals the Spirit to have been given by the Son and the Father, then this must also be true in eternity.

Guretzki devotes chapter four, “The Function of the Filioque in the Church Dogmatics,” to pondering the necessary role of the filioque for Barth. First, the filioque is necessary for Barth because it recognizes the distinctive unity and communion between the Father and the Son to which John’s Gospel in particular attests. The relationship of Father to Son “is a unique and dialectically structured relationship which does not exclude the Holy Spirit, but is utterly dependent on the Holy Spirit for its reality” (131). Second, the filioque guarantees the communion between God and humanity – and it does so on the basis of the immanent eternal communion of the Trinity, following the rule of identity between the immanent and economic Trinity. The “unique reciprocal unity of relationship that exists between the Father and the Son in the Spirit” is the ground for the relationship between God and humanity (130).

While Barth never systematically addresses the filioque after CD I/1, Guretzki notes how he applies it at various points throughout the CD. Guretzki claims that “Barth would often relate Father, Son and Holy Spirit in such a way that his commitment to the filioque clearly shines through” (135). The most important and unique role that the filioque plays in Barth’s theology is its positing of an “eternal ground by which it is possible for the Spirit to be the ‘indissolubly real connexion’ between God and the creature, between the Father and his Son, and between the divine and the human in Jesus Christ” (158). The Holy Spirit is the “agent of continuity” (158) both eternally and temporally, in such a way that ontological unity as well as distinction are maintained in the triune relations both ad intra and ad extra. Guretzki explains that it is “precisely because the Spirit proceeds from the common origin of the shared being of the Father and the Son that the Spirit is to be understood as the active divine agent” (160) who unites without dissolving distinction. This is the “dialectical filioquist pneumatology” (162) of the mature Barth, whose roots reach back to the Epistle to the Romans.

Guretzki raises several criticisms of Barth’s filioquist position, the most significant of which hinges on Barth’s positing of structural analogies to the Trinity: the threefold form of the Word of God and the triad of creation, history, and creation history. Guretzki perceives these to be at odds with Barth’s resistance to the analogia entis or vestigium Trinitatis. It strikes this reader, however, that Barth’s opposition to the analogia entis and Barth’s use of analogical concepts are not necessarily contradictory. Barth opposes the analogia entis andvestigium Trinitatis (which ought not to be wholly conflated) as statements of ontological affinity that allow for human knowledge of God apart from revelation. Analogical concepts are not necessarily subject to the same criticism; Barth does not object to the interpretation of revelation, but to side-stepping it altogether. Guretzki argues that the analogy of creation, history, and creation history seems to be an abstraction read into the immanent Trinity, rather than an economic revelation of triune relations concretely located in the biblical narrative. It is not clear, Guretzki posits, that Barth “found a filioquist structure displayed in the relationship of creation and history, but rather that he sought to relate creation and history on the basis of a doctrine of the filioque already presupposed” (162). This second, stronger point also suffers from the imprecision regarding Barth’s position on analogy. If Barth found the triune and filioquist structure to be revealed in the economy, is there necessarily a problem for Barth in using an analogical description of its unveiling in creation, history and creation history? If, as Guretzki claims, Barth’s trinitarian and specifically filioquist positions arise early in his thought from his analysis of revelation, then it seems that the analogy might not be problematic in exactly the same way as a dogmatic a prioriapplied to the economy independently of revelation.

Barth’s distinction between the possible true use the vestigium Trinitatis and its historical use, which he opposes, might be helpful in untangling his position. In his discussion of the vestigium in CD I/1, Barth admits that God’s impartation of a distinct form to creaturely reality such that it becomes a divine instrument might properly be called a vestigium Trinitatis. Thus if creation, history, and creation history (and revelation, scripture, and preaching) can be called creaturely realities made mediums of divine revelation, albeit in a general or abstract way, then it is conceivable that Barth might positively call them vestigia Trinitatis without implying that they create a noetic path to God in creation itself apart from revelation. Indeed, on this reading, it is revelation that makes them vestiges of the Trinity, not an inherent vestigial quality that makes them revelatory. The troubling aspect of these analogies is perhaps not that they are analogical (or rather, vestigial), but that they are formalized systematically in Barth’s thought, as Guretzki rightly points out. The systematic formalization of the analogies lends them the false appearance of being revelatory in themselves, rather than as the imperfect but faithful labor of human speech about the self-unveiling God. Guretzki’s criticism is well-placed, but a more rigorous examination of how analogy functions for Barth is necessary for precise criticism on this point.

Guretzki’s study raises several intriguing questions for further scholarly pursuit, and does so engagingly. He revisits several of the questions posed throughout the book in his conclusion, such as the degree to which Barth’s filioque is Hegelian, whether Barth has an ecumenical contribution to make to the filioque debate, and whether the filioque contributes to a conflation of the economic and immanent Trinity. Guretzki’s work is an excellent introduction to the presence and significance of the filioque in Barth. He covers a broad swath of material which orients the reader to various controversies and potential inconsistencies at stake in Barth’s adherence to the filioque, as well as to its theological richness and complexity. He offers a view of the difficulties as well as the resources to be found in Barth’s filioque both in the context of Barth’s doctrine of the Trinity, as well as in the ecumenical context of Eastern-Western dialogue. Given its tight focus on the particular dogma of the filioque, readers of this book would benefit from theological background in trinitarian doctrines and debates. The work will be an invaluable read for academics interested in Barth’s doctrine of the Trinity or the history of the filioque controversy and its ongoing importance in modern ecumenical efforts.

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

Oakes, Kenneth. Karl Barth on Theology and Philosophy (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012)

Karl Barth on Theology and Philosophy

Oakes, Kenneth. Karl Barth on Theology and Philosophy (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012), 304 pp. $125.00 (hardcover).

Reviewed by Derek Alan Woodard-Lehman (July 01, 2016)

As its title indicates, Kenneth Oakes’ Karl Barth on Theology and Philosophy provides a comprehensive interpretation of Barth’s views on theology, philosophy, and their relationship to one another. Oakes – Assistant Professor of Systematic Theology at the University of Notre Dame – self-consciously follows the now familiar method of Bruce McCormack by providing a “genetic account” of the overall development of Barth’s thought on these matters. Oakes begins with the previous interpretations of Cornelius Van Til, Jörg Salaquarda, Henri Delhougne, and Johann Friedrich Lohmann, but moves well beyond them. Unlike these earlier, more selective interpreters, Oakes’ work spans the entirety of Barth’s career and the variety of his writings. He begins with Barth’s earliest published essays and ends with his latest public remarks transcribed in the Gespräche. The fruit of Oakes’ unparalleled comprehensiveness is an argument for robust continuity between Barth’s early and late theology, both on the issue philosophy and in general. Like Hendrikus Berkhof, Oakes sees Barth as a “Hermannian of a higher order.” And like McCormack, but with a provocative twist, Oakes sees Barth as a “hyper-Hermannian” who is not only “orthodox and modern” but “orthodox and liberal” as well (59, 244, 250).

In the “Introduction,” Oakes contrasts his own genetic approach to those he terms “formalist” and “particularist” (18). Formalist approaches focus on Barth’s explicit programmatic statements about philosophy. They look for those general apologetic and polemical remarks that characterize Barth’s early liberal theology and later dialectical theology. But they tend to reduce Barth’s views to slogans like “theology against philosophy” or “theology subsumes philosophy.’” The well-known works of Cornelius Van Til and Trutz Rendtorrf are “formalist” in this sense. Particularist approaches focus instead on Barth’s direct engagement with individual philosophers. They look for his specific remarks about thinkers like Kant, Hegel, and Natorp. But they tend to reduce the textual evidence examined to a very narrow range. The lesser-known works of Simon Fisher and Walter Lowe are “particularist” in this sense. Oakes finds both approaches deficient, writing, “If the first option results in bare and largely uninformative statements, then the second offers little more than a sophisticated index” (18).

Oakes incorporates the strengths of formalist and particularist approaches while avoiding their weaknesses by looking beyond obvious texts, yet without overlooking them. In chapters two through five, he treats the “usual suspects,” including “Fate and Idea” (1929), “Theology and Philosophy” (1960), and the discussion of “conceptual subordination” in the Dogmatics’ subsection “Freedom Under the Word” (1938). In chapter six, he importantly treats neglected texts in Barth’s moral theology, such as “The Problem of Ethics Today” (1922), “Theological and Philosophical Ethics” (1930), as well as the series of lectures published as Ethics (1928-1930). To these Oakes adds a lengthy exposition of the Kant chapter from Barth’s Protestant Theology in the Nineteenth Century (1926-1933) – regrettably, without paying similar attention to the equally important Hegel chapter. And throughout, Oakes patiently traces Barth’s less programmatic engagements with philosophy throughout the various stages of his development from Romans to Dogmatics.

As a result of this impressive exegetical labor, Oakes reveals that Barth’s use of the term “philosophy” has four distinct senses. First, and most generally, “philosophy” names those basic ideas, beliefs, values, norms, and ideals that form the background of all human doing, saying, and thinking in any sociohistorical context. Second, and more determinately, in Barth’s context “philosophy” sometimes names the canonical Western tradition running from Plato to Kant, as well as the overall intellectual and cultural milieu that tradition creates. Third, “philosophy” sometimes names particular canonical figures or schools with a tradition, such as Kant or Neo-Kantianism. In this, the second and third senses of philosophy name the specific content that performs the general function of philosophy in the first sense. Fourth, and finally, “philosophy” names “systematic” thinking that aspires to “totality.” Barth often glosses this last sense of philosophy as “metaphysics,” whether it is that of transcendental logic or that of natural theology. Western philosophy is emblematic of philosophy in this fourth sense. Idealist philosophy is paradigmatic of it.

With this revelation alone, Oakes far surpasses his formalist and particularist predecessors. Formalists have mistakenly treated “philosophy” flatly, as if it always signified the same thing. Particularists have mistaken the part for the whole, falsely assuming that Barth’s view on a specific philosopher or philosophy was equivalent to his view of philosophy in general. Getting right about how previous accounts have gone wrong is an accomplishment in itself. But Oakes does more. He attempts to set things right. He does so by noting that Barth’s sensibility about “philosophy” varies dramatically according to which sense of philosophy is under discussion. Oakes concludes that, “It is safe to say that Barth tended to be more comfortable with philosophy as a local knowledge [i.e., first sense] or historical pursuit [i.e., second and third senses] than he was with philosophy as a global venture [i.e., fourth sense]” (160). Put differently, the more determinate and determinative “philosophy” becomes, the more determined Barth becomes to maintain theology’s independence.

Oakes turns to Barth’s sense of his own use of philosophy in chapter seven, “Afterthoughts.” By Barth’s own reckoning, he most often uses “philosophy” in the first two senses, sometimes in the second sense, and never in the fourth sense. Insofar as all human doing, saying, and thinking necessarily rely on ideas, beliefs, and values, so too theology relies on philosophy in the first two senses. This is unexceptional, and therefore unexceptionable. And insofar as Barth sees his own use of philosophy in the third sense as “eclectic” and “ad hoc,” he sees it as innocuous. Oakes best captures Barth’s sense of himself by reporting a pithy nautical metaphor from his debate with Emil Brunner. In contrast to Brunner, who Barth describes as having a philosophical “harbor,” Barth describes himself as having many philosophical “ports of call” but no “anchorage” (113-114).

Oakes further exhibits Barth’s self-understanding by reporting two similarly memorable exchanges form his 1962 lecture tour of the United States. The first is from a panel discussion at the University of Chicago. When Schubert Ogden queried Barth if his theology “depended” on philosophy, Barth flatly denied it, remarking, “Take this glass of water, for example. I am not dependent upon it” (238.) To which Jaroslav Pelikan quipped, “But you are dependent on water in general – if not on this particular glass” (ibid). The second exchange is taken from a conversation at Princeton Seminary. When a seminarian asked about his use of Kant and Plato, Barth admits that, “I have a little philosophy somewhere in my head.” Yet he insists that, on the specific point under discussion, “I never thought of any philosophy in this relation.” For Barth, it is licit to have a little philosophy “in your head.” But it is illicit to have any “in mind.” As a “free and happy science,” theology is freed from having to presuppose a philosophical basis for itself. Yet it is free to have whatever philosophical basic presuppositions suit its purposes.

Here, near its conclusion, the great strength of Oakes’ books issues in a small, but significant weakness. Throughout, Oakes has aimed to present his readers with Barth’s own account of theology and philosophy as he himself presents it. Oakes succeeds masterfully on this count. However, Barth’s own account of theology and philosophy does not fully account for the presence and influence of philosophy in his theology. Although far more comprehensive than its formalist and particularist predecessors, Oakes’ account is not exhaustive. And, to be fair, it neither aims to be nor claims to be so. Still, Oakes’ reinterpretation remains selective. He appraises the philosophy theme only in terms of Barth’s explicit thematization of philosophy. He leaves aside the many places where the presence and influence of philosophy can be seen even when it is not named.

To mention but one prominent example, Oakes pays no attention to the fundamentally Kantian account of empirical cognition as the synthesis of intuition and understanding that governs Barth’s theological epistemology throughout the course of his career. Here, as elsewhere, the issue is not so much “Karl Barth on theology and philosophy” as it is “philosophy in Karl Barth’s theology.” It is not a matter of what Barth says about philosophy, or even what he says about what he is doing with philosophy. It rather is a matter of what Barth actually does with philosophy. And what matters most is not whether or not Barth had a little philosophy “in his head” without having any “in mind,” but whether or not there is philosophy on the page.

This criticism, to be sure, is minor. It regards what Oakes has left undone, rather than what he has done. And, in many ways, the desire for Oakes to do more is motivated by the fact that what he has done, he has done so very well. Oakes has given us what he promised: an interpretation of Karl Barth’s account of theology and philosophy in his own words. He has given us a comprehensive orientation to Karl Barth’s own account of theology, philosophy, and their relation to one another. This, in turn, should generate an equally comprehensive reorientation of in subsequent interpretation of the presence and influence of philosophy in Barth’s theology.

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

Bender, Kimlyn. Karl Barth’s Christological Ecclesiology, new ed. (Eugene, OR: Cascade Publishers, 2013)

Karl Barth’s Christological Ecclesiology, new ed

Bender, Kimlyn. Karl Barth’s Christological Ecclesiology, new ed. (Eugene, OR: Cascade Publishers, 2013), xx + 304. $36.00 (paperback)

Reviewed by W. Travis McMaken (February 08, 2015)

Students of Karl Barth will welcome the reissuance in paperback of this volume by Kimlyn Bender, now associate professor of theology at George W. Truett Theological Seminary. Originally published by Ashgate Press in their Barth Studies series, this new edition remains unchanged save for the edition of a short foreword by D. Stephen Long, and an even shorter preface by the author. The volume itself is an exercise in demonstrating that “ecclesiology is a synthetic doctrine,” “dependent upon other theological doctrines and their attendant propositions and principles to provide it with shape and substance.” In the case of Barth’s theology especially, the most important of these determinate loci is christology, “for the identity of the church is intimately connected to that of Christ” (1). Bender’s volume is an exercise in elucidating precisely how Barth’s ecclesiology takes its content and contours from his christology.

Following the introductory first chapter, Bender’s volume proceeds in two parts. The first part is given over to “Barth’s Early Ecclesiology,” which comprises chapters two and three. Starting with Barth’s teacher Wilhelm Hermann, while also occasionally looking back further to Schleiermacher, and continuing through a discussion of reactions to Barth’s ecclesiology as expressed in the Göttingen Dogmatics, this material provides the necessary background for the second part, which discusses Barth’s mature ecclesiology of theChurch Dogmatics period.

In chapter two specifically, Bender examines Barth’s navigation between the poles of Neo-Protestantism and Roman Catholicism. Bender’s discussion highlights how Barth found both of these options problematic for the same reason: “Barth opposed in Catholicism what he opposed in liberalism, namely, the loss of the qualitative difference between God and the world and the absolute distinction between Christ and the church, as well as the confusion of divine and human agency wherein the human claims the Spirit as a permanent possession so that revelation exists not by divine initiative but human prerogative” (56).

Chapter three begins by charting Barth’s shift from ecclesiological writings that are primarily critical in mode to those that are primarily positive or constructive. Bender highlights as well how this shift was supported by Barth’s discovery of traditional christological categories, along with the recognition that the logic of such categories “is also regulative and paradigmatic for understanding all divine and human relations” (65). It is this logic that Barth employs in the ecclesiology of the Göttingen Dogmatics, well laced with actualism. Bender also discusses in this chapter some early criticisms of Barth’s early ecclesiology, and Barth’s response to those criticisms.

Part two comprises chapters four through nine. If part one provided necessary historical or developmental background, chapters four and five provide necessary dogmatic background for Barth’s mature ecclesiology. Chapter four addresses the doctrine of election as “The Foundation of Ecclesiology.” It is so insofar as this doctrine preserves “the theological character of the church” through articulating its reality as “the product of divine will rather than human desire” (128). Chapter five deals with the doctrine of reconciliation as the “Context of Ecclesiology.” Bender’s discussion in this chapter have to do with Barth’s reformulation of traditional christological categories in an actualistic mode, thereby positively integrating Christ’s person and work. The logic of how this ties into ecclesiology comes out clearly: “Jesus Christ . . . lives in correspondence to God, and in an analogical manner, the church lives in correspondence to Christ” (147).

Chapters six through eight deal with the heart of Barth’s ecclesiological material in Church Dogmatics IV, but here we must be brief. Chapter six discusses “The Origin of the Church as the Fellowship of the Spirit.” Bender’s discussion here includes a very interesting examination of the dialectic between church as event and church as institution in Barth’s thought, and this is also the chapter that treats Barth’s discussion of the traditional four marks of the church. Other themes mentioned involve the church’s obedience and growth. Chapter seven examines “The Order of the Church as the Body of Christ.” This is where we hear about the church’s form, and the dynamics of the totus Christus in Barth’s thought. Also treated here is Barth’s oft overlooked material on church law. Chapter eight handles “The Ordination of the Church as the People of God in the World.” Primary here are discussions of the church “in” and “for” the world, but there is also a significant examination of Barth’s thinking about the relation between the church and the state. Chapter nine concludes the volume by providing a summary, but also by discussing more recent criticisms of Barth’s ecclesiology and providing a critical analysis of the strengths and weaknesses of his positions.

It is possible to pick nits in assessing Bender’s volume. For instance, historical study of Barth’s early theology has continued in the decade since the book’s initial publication, and certain aspects of Bender’s treatment might be modified in light of more recent research. Study of Barth’s ecclesiology has also continued, with an emphasis emerging in English language Barth studies on the place of mission in his thought. While this component is certainly not absent from Bender’s treatment (see esp. 244ff), it may be that it deserves more of a programmatic place. More generally, the volume has a very finely balanced and formal approach that gives it something of an encyclopedic feel. There are many positives to such an approach, but it also can also exert a lulling effect upon one who attempts a reading from cover to cover.

These mild criticisms aside, however, Karl Barth’s Christological Ecclesiology deserves a prominent place on any bibliography dealing with the great Basler’s ecclesiology. It should be the first stop for anyone—pastor, student, or professional theologian—who seeks an introduction to Barth’s doctrine of the church. It is thus more than fitting that this valuable title has now been made available in a much more affordable paperback.

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

Allen, R. Michael. Karl Barth’s Church Dogmatics: An Introduction and Reader (New York: T and T Clark, 2012)

Karl Barth’s Church Dogmatics: An Introduction and Reader

Allen, R. Michael. Karl Barth’s Church Dogmatics: An Introduction and Reader (New York: T and T Clark, 2012), x + 241. $39.00 (paperback)

Reviewed by Ben Rhodes (April 29, 2014)

An old friend of mine who teaches analytic philosophy at an Ivy League university recently contacted with an apparently simple request. He was looking for a compact, canonical exposition of what Barth had to say about the Trinity. If no single secondary source could be relied on to provide such a summary, he would settle for a short selection of primary text.

As anyone who has spent time with Barth’s writing will undoubtedly appreciate, this is very nearly an impossible task. Barth wrote so much about the doctrine of the Trinity, in so many places, and with such beautifully spiraling (and occasionally exhaustingly repetitive) dialectical energy that no short summary can hope to capture what Barth had to say on the topic of the Trinity. This observation could easily be extended to almost any doctrine treated by Barth. But it is singularly unhelpful to recommend reading the entirety of the Church Dogmatics, especially to an analytic philosopher who is looking for a short answer. What to do?

The volume under review – R. Michael Allen’s new introduction to and selection of readings from Barth’s Church Dogmatics – is not the answer to my friend’s request. But it does provide the best one-volume collection of substantial highlights from theDogmatics currently available in English, and thereby admirably succeeds in its stated purpose. Allen’s intent is to improve on the 1961 volume of selections from the Dogmatics, edited by Geoffrey Bromiley and introduced by Helmut Gollwizter, which stopped at CD 4.2. In his words, the reader is meant to give “[g]reater guidance for the novice, laying Barth’s statements over against his wider corpus as well as the classical dogmatic tradition and his modern interlocutor” (ix). More precisely, Allen has composed a reader in the best sense of the term: a coherent collection of selections from a massive primary source that serves to introduce its shape and scope, while whetting the individual reader’s appetite for more.

Barth specialists will all have (different) complaints about what is not included or is insufficiently emphasized, and no review can hope to settle those disagreements to anyone’s satisfaction. The principle of selection is perhaps most clearly stated near the end of Allen’s short introduction to Barth’s life and work, after Allen briefly surveys the debates about the relative importance of dialectic and actualism in Barth’s theology (6-9). Allen suggests that both concepts are secondary, being utilized in explanatory service to Barth’s recovery of “key dogmatic concepts drawn from the classical and Reformed theological tradition and deployed to expound the logic of the gospel. Indeed, Barth’s most important contribution is surely his deliberate retrieval of classical Protestant divinity amidst a modern theological culture that had all but forgotten such conceptualities” (8). For a sense of how deeply sympathetic Allen is to this understanding of “retrieval” see his recent Reformed Catholicity: The Promise of Retrieval for Theology and Biblical Interpretation (Baker Academic, 2015) written with Scott Swain. While I tend to read – and almost always teach – Barth in much the same way, it is important to note that there are other ways to characterize Barth’s most important contribution: less loyal to the classical and Reformed tradition and more creatively speculative, perhaps most especially in the area of the significance of Barth’s christological reformulation of the doctrine of election. Those who prefer another principle of selection will find themselves wishing for another kind of reader, as the Barth on display here is most definitely a Reformed dogmatician.

Allen’s organization is clear and consistent throughout. After his introduction, he has 14 chapters that deal with a large dogmatic slice of Barth, straightforwardly entitled as follows: The Word of God in Its Threefold Form, The Trinity, The Word Heard and Testified, The Perfect God, The Election of Jesus Christ, Theological Ethics, Creation and Covenant, Providence, Nothingness: Sin as the Impossible Possibility, Reconciliation in Christ, Justification and Sanctification, The Living Christ and the Promised Spirit, Vocation and Witness, and The Christian Life. Each chapter begins with an arresting quotation from Barth, followed by a one-page summary by Allen of the doctrinal material and the larger context from which the selection is drawn. The short bibliographies appended to each summary serve as a kind of list of recommended readings, providing a topically focused survey of the secondary literature. However, the bulk of the material in each chapter consists of around fifteen pages from Barth’s, typically from one or two uninterrupted blocks of the Church Dogmatics. Ellipses are rare. Allen prefers to let Barth speak for himself. But Barth does not speak alone: Allen provides lucid explanatory footnotes on almost every page.

These footnotes contain some of the more interesting contributions from Allen, and display his calmly comprehensive and judiciously balanced voice to great effect. Many of the footnotes supply helpful quotations from elsewhere in the Dogmatics or Barth’s other works, rounding out the selections in the main text. Allen often clarifies the terms that Barth is using, situating Barth within the theological tradition, occasionally commenting about Barth’s context, and drawing on a wide variety of secondary sources (mostly in English, though Allen is also aware of and gestures towards major German scholarship). It is in the footnotes that we glimpse what Allen must be like in the classroom: widely read, magisterially irenic, and clearly Reformed. Allen’s footnotes succeed admirably well in helping readers situate Barth as a theologian of the historical and ecumenical church, whose arguments have continuing relevance to contemporary dogmatic discussions, but Allen does not shy away from proffering his own judgments on both the usefulness and limits of Barth’s theological insights. Scholars may benefit from Allen’s footnotes, but they are not written for specialists.

Considered as a whole, the book is very well designed for students who are coming to the Dogmatics for the first time, precisely because it provides a one-volume sampler of doctrinal highlights in Barth’s own words. More substantial engagement with Barth will require reading more of Barth himself, but this volume gives a doctrinal distillate of the great riches of the Dogmatics. As I told my philosopher friend, Allen’s book is a great place to begin if one is willing to read more of Barth, but not a very satisfactory solution if one is looking for a summary of what Barth said. There are other, more incisive introductions to Barth as a theologian. But Allen’s Karl Barth’s Dogmatics: An Introduction and Reader deserves to sit on the same shelf as the new edition of the Dogmatics from T&T Clark, which it so accessibly summarizes.

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

Amy Marga, Karl Barth’s Dialogue with Catholicism in Göttingen and Münster: Its Significance for His Doctrine of God, Beiträge zur historischen Theologie (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2010)

 Karl Barth’s Dialogue with Catholicism in Göttingen and Münster: Its Significance for His Doctrine of God, Beiträge zur historischen Theologie

Amy Marga, Karl Barth’s Dialogue with Catholicism in Göttingen and Münster: Its Significance for His Doctrine of God, Beiträge zur historischen Theologie (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2010), viii + 204. € 79.00

Reviewed by W. Travis McMaken (September 19, 2011)

This tidy volume, a revision of the author’s doctoral thesis completed at Princeton Theological seminary, undertakes to chart the complex relationship between the life and work of Karl Barth and Roman Catholic theology. Attending especially to the early years of Barth’s academic career, Amy Marga – assistant professor of systematic theology at Luther Seminary – explores the way in which Barth “sharpened many of the rough edges of his own thought on the Roman tradition’s solid grindstone” (8). Barth was concerned in this period with thinking through God’s concrete objectivity or, in technical German theological vocabulary, God’sGegenständlichkeit. In doing so, Marga argues, he both learned and ultimately diverged from Roman Catholic thought.

Marga’s first chapter is concerned with the interaction between Barth and Roman Catholic theology not only during the period explicated in this volume, but also (and here, briefly indeed) through the end of Barth’s life. Two episodes from this chapter are especially worth noting. The first concerns Barth’s introduction to Thomas Aquinas through the ministrations of Erik Peterson. As Marga highlights, this is a significant moment in German Protestantism because it signaled a break with the way in which liberal Protestantism valued and interpreted history by admitting that theology done prior to the Reformation was useful for contemporary theological endeavor. The ecumenical importance of this move deserves note: “If the entirety of Christian history is legitimate for informing theology, there is no reason why Protestants and Catholics could not study this history in conversation with one another” (29). Second, Marga briefly discusses Barth’s engagement with Erich Przywara. Both theologians were interested in developing a thick articulation of God’s objectivity, and both were working at the cutting edge of their confessional commitments. Each was interested in the other’s tradition and desirous of real collaboration. Again, this was ecumenically significant. Barth’s inviting Przywara to lecture in his Thomas Seminar heralded “the dawn of a new Era in Catholic-Protestant dialogue” insofar as it was “the first meeting of its kind, between theologians on opposite sides of the Protestant-Catholic divide, who were genuinely interested in the theological commitments and concerns of the other” (46).

In her second chapter, Marga begins by charting a broad intellectual desire in the years following World War I to reconnect humanity with its transcendental ground, however conceived. Both Protestant and Roman Catholic theology shared this urge. While Catholics turned to an account of human life within the context of ecclesial community as a ground for objectivity, Protestants were more interested in a shallow ecumenical unity that was nothing but a neo-Protestant reprise insofar as it depended upon the religiosity or spirituality of the individual. Barth never wanted to reconnect humanity with its transcendental ground – God’s objectivity –through subjectivity, whether conceived individually or communally. But how was Barth to do this otherwise? Barth was spurred on here by Przywara, who criticized Barth’s early position on God’s wholly otherness by arguing that it left no room for divine-human interaction and, consequently, no hope for reconciliation. Pryzywara’s own way of holding together God and humanity was the analogia entis. Barth’s response to Przywara was to develop an account of God’s veiled objectivity in Jesus Christ based on an anhypostatic-enhypostatic Christology. He layered on top of this an account of the three-fold Word of God which, based on the Spirit’s continued work, extended God’s objectivity beyond the historical confines of the incarnation. All of this creates a more dynamic account of God’s objectivity than that found in Roman Catholicism: “In contrast to the Gegenständlichkeit of God in the Catholic Sacrament of the altar, which was a Gegenständlichkeit that relied on the innate objectivity of the elements used in the Sacrament, Barth insists that God is objectively and concretely present only through that which God as the Spirit creates, namely, through faith and obedience” (83).

The third chapter continues with a discussion of the incarnation in Barth’s thought and explicates the presuppositions associated with the doctrine in Barth’s mind in the 1920s. This is vitally important material because it explains why Barth was able to employ a version of the analogia entis in his Münster ethics lectures only to so vehemently reject it a few years later, while also shedding light on Von Balthasar’s assessment that Barth’s analogia fidei can be reconciled with an analogia entis. This assessment is possible because Von Balthasar and the Barth of Münster agree on the aforementioned presuppositions. These are: first, that the incarnation presupposes creation, which is to say that reconciliation presupposes creation; second and very closely related, an “original relationship” obtains between God and humanity outside of and presupposed by the incarnation; third and finally, incarnation and reconciliation peacefully coincide with creaturely existence. Marga sets out these presuppositions at the beginning of the chapter (cf. 92), and spends the remainder tracing them through Barth’s texts from that period. The vital insight is that Barth goes on to reject these presuppositions, however.

Przywara’s visit to Barth’s seminar in 1929 represents a crucial moment in Barth’s developing account of God’s objectivity, pushing him away from these shared presuppositions. In his presentation, Przywara reflected on the relationship between faith and church, and on the way in which the church mediates God’s objectivity. It was a highly sophisticated account, but Barth was uncomfortable with it in part because he thought it lacked a proper asymmetry between the two factors. He worried also that such an account located God’s objectivity “within creaturely reality,” where it is “determined by the objectivity of creaturely realities themselves” (128). The point of divergence was the relation between reason and faith, with Barth taking a more Anselmian approach against Przywara’s Thomistic one: for Barth, faith is presupposed by theological reason, rather than faith presupposing reason. Furthermore, “even the presuppositions to faith must be grounded in God’s act alone” (135) given that human reason has no access to God’s self-revelation apart from the work of the Holy Spirit. Barth’s actualistic way of thinking becomes important here insofar as he reconceives the relationship between creation and incarnation / reconciliation by understanding God’s activity in the latter preceisely as an act of creation.

Marga’s task in her fifth and final chapter is to show how Barth’s engagement with Roman Catholic theology on the question of God’s objectivity bore fruit in the doctrine of God he advanced in Church Dogmatics 2.1. She identifies the primary difficulty with Barth’s theology up to this period as difficulty in relating “God’s eternal being to time” (162). This is a variation on the question of how the believer encounters God’s objectivity. Barth’s solution to this problem now in CD 2.1 is to say that God’s objectivity is a reality for God’s own eternal triune life, and only then is it a corresponding reality for us. This is God’s primary and secondary objectivity, the result of which is the affirmation that “God’s correspondence to God’s own being is the basis for human knowledge of God” (166). Given such a position, Barth criticizes the Roman Catholic approach on two points: first, its knowledge of God is not strictly determined by reconciliation; and second, this results in the danger of improper division in knowledge of God as Creator on the one hand, and as Reconciler on the other. Marga does not end on this critical note, however; rather, she concludes with a discussion of Gottlieb Söhngen, who worked to demonstrate the way in which the analogia entis might be articulated from within Barth’s analogia fidei in light of his mature doctrine of election.

Two drawbacks to Marga’s volume deserve attention. First, although providing some discussion, one would like to hear more about developments in Roman Catholic theology during the period in question, and how they might have influenced Przywara, Barth, and their interaction. Second, Marga often quotes at length in German. She provides translations in an appendix, but this is cumbersome. Why not reverse such a procedure for the sake of readability?

None of this detracts from Marga’s accomplishment as a whole, however. This volume would be valuable if only for the archival work that undergirds it, but that archival work is coupled with clear theological analysis. Marga provides a very well composed and carefully researched account of Barth’s early theological development in conversation with Roman Catholicism that deserves consultation from Barth scholars, as well as from any who would sort through the myriad dogmatic issues bound up with thinking about God’s objectivity.

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

Viazovski, ​Yaroslav. Karl Barth’s Doubts about John Calvin’s Assurance: A Study of Two Doctrines of Assurance (Saarbrücken, Germany: VDM Verlag, Dr. Müller Aktiengesellchaft & Co. KG, 2009)

Viazovski, ​Yaroslav. Karl Barth’s Doubts about John Calvin’s Assurance: A Study of Two Doctrines of Assurance (Saarbrücken, Germany: VDM Verlag, Dr. Müller Aktiengesellchaft & Co. KG, 2009), 90 pp. $74.00 (paperback).
Reviewed by Melanie Webb (December 08, 2010)

Yaroslav Viazovski is a Reformed Baptist minister in Minsk, Belarus and is currently a doctoral student at Highland Theological College. Karl Barth’s Doubts about John Calvin’s Assurance was originally written as a thesis in completion of his Master of Arts degree from Reformed Theological Seminary, and has since been prepared for publication. Viazovski seeks to address a lacuna in the Russian Baptist literature. On his analysis, the defining issue between Russian Orthodoxy and evangelicals is the approach each takes to the doctrine of the assurance of salvation (9). He addresses this issue from a pastoral perspective, drawing on two major figures of the Reformed tradition, John Calvin and Karl Barth. The work is divided into two sections, the first on Calvin and the second on Barth.

Viazovski provides a compelling claim regarding Calvin at the outset of the first section: “For Calvin, assurance, which is inseparable from faith, is present in the true believer from the very beginning of his spiritual life and never leaves him in spite of the reality of doubts, fear, and anxiety” (16). He seems to have a difficult time similarly explicating the motivation for his extended engagement with Barth. It seems that his goal is to demonstrate that Barth’s doubts about Calvin’s assurance are dismissible. Consequently, upholding Calvin’s doctrine as developed in the Institutes is most salutary for pastors and their parishioners. In his analysis of both theologians, Viazovski seeks to examine their doctrines of assurance in the full context of their respective theologies.

In his first section, Viazovski notes that Calvin defines faith as assurance and identifies faith as a kind of knowledge (17). Assurance can be lacking when one doubts God’s veracity and when one misunderstands God’s mercy (18). While Viazovski categorizes the problem as primarily noetic, its solution is pneumatological. Assurance only comes from the word of God through which the Spirit works. Certainty in faith, then, requires certainty regarding Scripture. Viazovski finds in Calvin a view of Scripture as the trumping source of theology, taking precedence over tradition, reason, worship, and experience.

Perseverance is lived assurance; “the sealing of the Spirit is nothing else but the gift of perseverance in faith” (23). The subjective experience of faith is a complement to the objective particularity of God’s election of human persons in Christ. Everyone God loves, he loves in Christ such that “faith is not general knowledge about God but is sure and firm knowledge of God’s mercy given to us in Christ” (24). Christ serves as an intermediary mirror between God and humanity; when God looks at humanity, he sees Christ and when we look at Christ, we see our election. Election is the result of the primitive decree of God and serves as a present guarantee of our future salvation. As an objective fact, it must be subjectively internalized by each Christian (30).

But doubt, fear, and anxiety disrupt one’s experience of faith as assurance. Viazovski attributes Calvin’s treatment of such disruption to his pastoral insight into experiential reality (34). Any resistance to or struggle with doubt confirms assurance, which is preserved rather than attained. As a pastor, Viazovski responds warmly to Calvin’s continued inclusion of experiential reality in his theology. He provides a diagram to demonstrate that faith-assurance is at the center of the psychological portrait of the believer while doubts, fears, and anxieties coexist with hope and peace without undermining them or their source (41).

According to Viazovski, Barth believes that a Christological revision of Calvin’s doctrine of assurance is necessary. While Calvin links assurance to faith, Barth links assurance to election. Barth appropriates Calvin’s doctrine of double predestination by identifying Jesus Christ as the object of both election and rejection (50-51; 65). Viazovski refers to Barth’s position as a purified Supralapsarianism that identifies election as “the primal decision of God which determines that there will be a history between God and man and determines everything about this history” (58). While for Calvin the content of the primitive decree is a mystery, for Barth Jesus Christ is its content and the mystery lies in the fact of God’s involvement with humanity at all. In this way, the gospel itself is summed up in election (44). Rather than having Christ as a mediating mirror between God and humanity, Barth posits Christ as both agent and subject of election, i.e. Jesus Christ is the electing God and the elected man. The two natures of Christ become the two subjects of election. Assurance, then, is founded directly upon the election of Jesus Christ rather than one’s faith in him.
Just as Viazovski sought to hold in tension the coexistence of doubt and hope in Calvin’s theology, so here he seeks to hold in tension the co-witness by Christ and the believer to the believer’s election. The believer appropriates her election by faith (67). Before critically engaging with Barth’s position, Viazovski seeks to set his understanding of assurance as a corollary of election in the larger theological context of Barth’s theology. He turns to secondary literature to do so, admitting it is the lesser of two evils—either not addressing Barth in a larger context or doing so through secondary literature (43). Following Berkouwer, Viazovski treats Barth’s theology as framed by the triumph of grace (68), and challenging Barth’s concept of the “ontological impossibility of sin” because “it contradicts biblical language” (70).
While Viazovski highlights areas of particular importance to Eastern Christianity throughout the thesis, his conclusion focuses on the general pastoral import of each theologian rather than suggesting a way forward for the particular theological discussion he identifies in his introduction. After noting areas of admirable overlap between them, Viazovski ultimately concludes that Calvin’s doctrine of assurance is more pastoral than Barth’s because Calvin bases his doctrine on “the sound exegesis of the Bible” while Barth’s “exegesis is so innovative that it destroys the biblical witness” (87). The conclusion is suddenly placid towards Calvin and antagonistic towards Barth. One might infer that he sees the future of Russian Baptist theology benefiting immensely from Calvin while Barth poses the threat of an unbiblical theological trajectory. The inference is that Barth’s doubts regarding Calvin’s grounding of assurance in faith rather than election are based on unbiblical concerns.

Viazovski wrestles through Barth’s theology of election and its subsidiary doctrine of assurance through engagement with Church Dogmatics II/2, but he rejects Barth’s position because of topics that are treated elsewhere, such as the role of Scripture in the life of the church. For Barth, Scripture serves as an aspect of the apostolicity of the Church:

Like the apostles, [the Bible] does not will to rule but to serve. And it is where it is allowed to serve that it really rules; that it is not betrayed to any human control. It is not a prescript for either doctrine or for life. It is a witness, and as such it demands attention, respect and obedience—the obedience of the heart, the free and only genuine obedience. What it wants from the Church, what it impels the Church towards—and it is the Holy Spirit moving in it who does this—is agreement with the direction in which it looks itself. And the direction in which it looks is to the living Jesus Christ (IV/1, §62.2, p. 723).

Given that the witness of Scripture is Viazovski’s central criteria for reliable theology, it is puzzling that in the course of his thesis Viazovski does not wrestle with the extensive theological exegesis of either Calvin or Barth, nor does he provide his own reading of any passage of Scripture that might be germane to a discussion of assurance. If anything, Barth provides a more extensive engagement with Scripture in his Church Dogmatics than does Calvin in his Institutes. One must turn to Calvin’s commentaries and sermons for his read of Scripture, something Viazovski does on rare occasion (20, 25-6, 31).

Additionally, while Viazovski recommends embracing Calvin’s doctrine as Calvin himself explicated it (not as Beza or certain Puritans later represented him), he rejects Barth based on secondary representations of Barth’s doctrines of sin, faith, reconciliation, and eternal life. Further still, he does not reject Barth’s doctrine of assurance outright but instead rejects the entire basis of Barth’s whole theology: “However interesting, fascinating, creative and thought-provoking Barth doctrine may be it cannot become part of Christian theology because the biblical foundation is lacking” [sic] (87). While Viazovski’s reasons for rejecting Barth may be valid, he does not provide sufficient support for them in his thesis. Viazovski’s conclusions make it even more puzzling that he never gives a rationale for his engagement with Barth.

Nonetheless, in his engagement with CD II/2 Viazovski strives to present Barth in as favorable a light as possible. Even on a topic as controversial as universal salvation, he parallels the inconsistencies in Barth with inconsistencies in the Calvinistic doctrine of limited atonement, noting that “the deliberate inconsistency of Barth’s doctrine of election is not without parallel in the history of theology, even orthodox theology” (63). As a pastor committed to traditional Reformed theology, Viazovski provides an uncharacteristically refreshing and careful reading of Barth’s doctrine of election and assurance. He leaves the reader wishing for a more careful or measured critique of Barth’s overall theology, though.

The work includes a selective bibliography of works cited and employs diagrams at key places. The reader is sometimes slowed down, however, by misspellings and the misuse of articles, plurals, and possessives. While Viazovski often quotes extensively from both primary and secondary sources, his own voice remains clear in his synthesis of multiple insights. Although written with pastoral intent, Viazovski’s book will be most accessible to those formally trained in Reformed theology. It is a good resource for all students who are researching and engaging the doctrine of assurance in John Calvin and provides a sympathetic though ultimately dissenting perspective on Karl Barth’s doctrine of election and assurance. Despite a reductionist critique of Barth, Viazovski makes a valuable contribution to traditional Reformed theology by recognizing points of convergence and divergence in Calvin and Barth, and breaks ground for further work on a doctrine of assurance that can address this lacuna in Russian Baptist theology.

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

Hancock, Angela Dienhart. Karl Barth’s Emergency Homilietic: 1932-1933 A Summons to Prophetic Witness (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans Publishing Company, 2012)

Karl Barth’s Emergency Homilietic: 1932-1933 A Summons to Prophetic Witness 

Hancock, Angela Dienhart. Karl Barth’s Emergency Homilietic: 1932-1933 A Summons to Prophetic Witness (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans Publishing Company, 2012), xxvi + 336. $42.00 (paperback)

Reviewed by David B. Ward (April 29, 2015)

Angela Dienhardt Hancock’s work on Karl Barth’s homiletic has the potential to rescue a beleaguered memory of the preacher Karl Barth from a horde of rightfully disgruntled homileticians. How many homileticians have given audible groans, arched eyebrows, or theatrical rolling of the eyes at the mention of Barth’s injunction against the use of introductions or conclusions in sermons? Even Barth’s seemingly allergic reaction to training for and use of standard sermon forms is puzzling enough.

Teachers and students of preaching have wondered at Barth’s uncanny ability to express succinctly our experience of the impossible necessity of preaching while elsewhere debating the most basic rules of the art. Those who love the dialectical thinking of the great theologian simply ignore his Homiletics (Louisville, KY: Westminster/John Knox Press, 1991) as another example of a specialist stepping beyond the limits of his competence. Those who find Barth to be too acontextual, too potentially abused by chauvinists and Eurocentric theologies, see his Homiletics as a case in point. Enter Hancock’s masterful portrayal of the context as well as the multiple texts that gave birth to the singular English–language work, Homiletics.

No reader of Hancock’s book will emerge with the same imagination of Karl Barth with which they entered. The Barthian will find new contextual grist for the appreciation mill. The anti-Barthian will leave tempered in their disavowal—if not awed at his tenacious display of peaceful courage as an alien voice during the violent birth of a totalitarian regime.

The primary thesis of Hancock’s work is that Barth’s lectures on homiletics were attempts to address an emergency situation, a temporary context. This emergency situation was unique in its challenges and required a very careful analysis of the means of protest available to a preacher in an increasingly state-controlled church. There was the very real danger of gaining no hearing whatsoever in any form of theological resistance. The church herself and the majority of her leaders were drunk on the wine of nationalism, ethnocentrism, and revolution for the glory of the German people. Pulpits everywhere preached on themes with politicized introductions and climaxing conclusions heading toward a great “Heil” to the state and eventually Hitler himself as the leader (Führer) of a great German awakening.

Chapter one details the account of Barth’s journey from “theological liberalism to a theology of revelation” (1). The reader is reminded of the history of theological thought in Germany which moved from Ritschl to Troeltsch and left an entire generation surrounding Barth “searching for a way to undermine the epistemological assumptions of historicism itself” (6). The beginnings of major themes for Barth are seen in their seminal form: “self-authenticating” revelation, the “Godness of God,” hidden secularity, the “always miraculous” nature of an understanding of God “breaking in” on human consciousness, the threefold Word of God, and—of course—the dialectical method in relation to the analogia fidei. Even in this brief overview, Hancock begins to lay out her claims that Barth was a theologian of resistance who “began to imagine a theology free enough to call into question every ideology, every hegemony, and every claim to ultimacy that arose from the human sphere, even if it arose from the sphere of the church” (18).

Chapter two outlines Barth’s “theological existence in the Weimar years” (38). Hancock reveals that it was at the end of this period that Barth asked a nationalistic practical theologian-cum-dean, Emmil Pfennigsdorf, to endure Barth’s teaching of a course in Homiletics, Pfennigsdorf’s field. Most of the numerous conflicting parties in the Weimar Republic had this in common: “an unquestioning and unquestioned nationalism” (41). Such nationalism was fueled by a deep embitterment at the Treaty of Versailles, which subjugated the German people to monstrous concessions. The general populace held that this treaty was responsible for their difficult economic circumstances: hyperinflation, 35% unemployment, food scarcity, etc. (50) Hancock outlines the “stab in the back” mythology that pointed to internal traitors—such as communists, Jews, and diverse foreign “others”—as catalysts of Germany’s defeat, humiliation, and subsequent hardship. Hancock clearly outlines how the “Red Pastor of Safenwill,” Swiss citizen, and Social Democrat Barth was able to “keep substantive conversation alive in Bonn” while it denigrated into riots elsewhere (57). He pushed Germans of all persuasions to “dig down into the heart of things, to measure the ever-present claims regarding nation, race, Volk, and church by the one Word that calls them all into question” (90).

In Chapter three, Hancock succeeds in turning some of the most critical views on Barth on their head. She accomplishes this simply by detailing the verbal context in which Barth was teaching: the rhetoric of the Weimar republic. Barth the alleged blind modern spilling out universals becomes Barth at the edge of postmodernity, unsettling universal claims. Barth the Eurocentric becomes Barth the anti-nationalist. In the homiletical realm, Barth’s reputation as a stodgy traditionalist—silent in the face of contemporary evil—emerges as Barth the resourceful voice of resistance. The Barth depicted in these pages is a “relentless critic of nationalism . . . , a member of the Social Democratic Party, someone who was known to reject fascism, anti-Semitism, and militarism, someone who impressed the importance of theological thinking at a time when revolution was in the air” (132). All of Barth’s criticism of relevance or timeliness to the currentzeitgeist came during a time when revolution was not for the minority but against the minority, not for the foreigner but for the oppression of the foreigner, not for a disentangling of state and church but for a hierarchical marriage of the two. Perhaps critical theologians, deconstructionist theologians, feminist theologians, and other postmodern voices can more appreciatively read this Barth.

Chapter four is where homileticians will begin to feel at home. Here Hancock focuses on Protestant proclamation in the academic heritage and cultural settings of the waning Weimar republic. Hancock begins with a brief but clear outline of the Schleirmachian schema for theological education and moves through the development of homiletics post-Schleiermacher. This chapter explores German homiletics through three lenses of competing influences: “Enlightenment rationalism, Lutheran orthodoxy . . . or ‘supernaturalism,’ and pietism” (141). Figures such as Alexander Schweitzer, Theodosius Harnack, Claus Harms, Friedrich August Gottreu Tholuck, Christian Palmer, and even the French Alexandre Vinét are outlined for their contributions and emphases. The chapter concludes by describing how the context of Weimar pressed preachers to believe that German preaching, though in solidarity with “modern man,” was not “close to life” enough (153).

Emil Pfennsigdorf, the homiletician whose territory Barth invades with his lectures on preaching, is portrayed as a culmination of the process of matching German homiletics with the “Germanness” in vogue in 1933. This Volkish, nationalist and triumphalist Hegelianism awoke and saw the light of their new leader (Führer) and cross (the Swastika). Against this backdrop, Hancock introduces us more directly to the Barth who opposed the modern “theme” sermon, who grew uneasy with introductions seeking relevance to the currentzeitgeist, and placed the concern for the hearer in the “widest possible horizon” of “the Godness of God” (181). The strands of Barth’s thoughts that seem to oppose contextual preaching reemerge as clear attempts to resist the use of demographics and contextualization as a means of “persuading the hearer of the nationalist Protestant agenda” (183). What seemed like anti-liberation homiletics, becomes liberationist homiletics in a unique way.

Chapters five and six flow from the careful portrait of Germany chapters one through four established, providing a historically situated way to read Barth’s lectures on preaching. Each week of lectures and discussions is interspersed with the unfolding political, ecclesiastical, and cultural context of the dawn of the Third Reich. Brown shirt Nazi thugs roam the streets meting out violence between lectures. Steel Helmet youth sit in the back of the lecture hall. A political strong-arm battle over who will be the sole bishop emerges. Detractors of Hitler are disappeared. Emmil Pfennigsdorf preaches yet another nationalistic sermon. Heinrich Himmler announces the opening of the first concentration camp for the “protective custody” or people of Communist or Barth’s Social Democratic persuasion (240). Barth was “demoted from his office as senator of the faculty (which designated him as future Dean)” (254). And yet, through all this, the supposedly silent Barth continued his lectures of theological resistance to Germanness and propaganda, ran for ecclesiastical office (a necessarily political move), and began reflecting on with whom he should be arrested and hung if necessary.

In this context, Barth’s table of virtues for homiletics resounds more strongly. Humility becomes important since, in a nationalistic climate, one must guard carefully against assuming the meaning of the text or the meaning of history. Courage emerges as even silence on the issue of Germanness, the Third Reich, or Hitler himself was a dangerous stance to take. Independent honesty arises as resistance to the temptation to falling in with the ranks of marching, saluting, Heil Hitler-proclaiming preachers. This also explains Barth’s allergic reaction to thematic preaching that allowed Nazism to corrupt sermonic content. Even the reading of German newspapers could “poison language from the outside” (310). In all of this, Barth cannot be seen as “politely apolitical,” or as attempting to offer a “universal homiletical blueprint” (327). Hancock argues Barth’s homiletical classroom was a place of peaceful resistance. She has made her case.

Systematic and dogmatic theologians will profit in reading Karl Barth’s Emergency Homiletic as a glimpse into the practical implications of Barth’s theological thought. Postmodern theologians of any stripe will benefit from a more charitable and—ironically in this case—contextual reading of Barth. Practical theologians in general will find a treasure trove of insight into the theological depth of their tasks, a picture of how easily we stray, and reclamation of a much-maligned practical theological text.

Hancock leans too heavily on the original German for even most academic readers. Her insistence on using the German terms to avoid miscommunication is understandable. Yet even more frequent parenthetical uses of her own glosses would have been helpful. The glossary at the back is an aid in this direction, but not terribly convenient for the uninitiated. Also, it is possible that Hancock may have pushed the pendulum too far the direction of Barth-acceptance. Even though Barth was clearly attempting resistance, it does not follow that his particular attempt was without flaws and failures. Some criticism of his homiletical theory is still warranted, even necessary.

These small concerns aside, Hancock has gifted us with one of the most significant works to date on Karl Barth’s thoughts from a practical theological perspective. It is certainly the most substantive engagement with Karl Barth’s lectures on preaching available. The secondary or supporting elements of Hancock’s work focus on various source documents that give us a more rounded picture of Barth’s lecture series: the unavoidable translation issues related to a German text, a pre-World War II context, and the distance from a twenty-first century audience. Though this is her secondary focus, the fruit of the book in this direction is more than worth the price of entry. As a result, every homiletician who is either traveling along Barthian roads, or seeking to resist the corruption of preaching from oppressive cultural forces must take Hancock as a close companion. Like any good companion, the journey will not only be richer for it, but more enjoyable as well.

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

Tseng, Shao Kai. Karl Barth’s Infralapsarian Theology: Origin and Development, 1920–1953 (Downers Grove, IL: IVP Academic, 2016)

Karl Barth’s Infralapsarian Theology: Origin and Development, 1920–1953

Tseng, Shao Kai. Karl Barth’s Infralapsarian Theology: Origin and Development, 1920–1953 (Downers Grove, IL: IVP Academic, 2016), 319 pp. $39.00 (paperback).

Reviewed by Chet Harvey (January 10, 2017)

Shao Kai Tseng’s Karl Barth’s Infralapsarian Theology is an analysis of Karl’s Barth’s theology related to the lapsarian question, which concerns the logical ordering of God’s decrees of fall and incarnation. The received wisdom has been to read Barth as a supralapsarian, both because of his own self-designation as “purified supralapsarian” as well as his formulation of the doctrine of election. Tseng has the lofty goal in this work of renaming Barth’s beliefs as basically infralapsarian. The book’s two-fold thesis is developed over two major sections. Tseng’s first thesis is that Barth’s mature formulation of the doctrine of election involves “a dialectical combination of both lapsarian positions,” including an infralapsarian position on the object of election and the order of the divine decrees (29). His second thesis is that Barth’s struggles with the lapsarian question “are in fact one important factor driving his theological development” (34). Tseng’s major goal in this work is to place Barth’s theology related to the lapsarian question within the broader context of Reformed theology.

The first major section, comprising chapters one and two, offers an assessment of Barth’s lapsarian position. In chapter one, Tseng argues that Barth’s understanding of the seventeenth century lapsarian debate is deficient, and therefore his definitions of the terms, particularly infralapsarianism, are inaccurate. Barth’s most notable error is his description of infralapsarianism as insinuating a chronological, rather than logical, ordering of the decrees. In chapter two, Tseng examines Barth’s fullest treatment of the lapsarian question in CD II/2 to assess his reasons for claiming supralapsarianism and his actual implicit position. According to Tseng, Barth is averse to infralapsarianism for two major reasons. First, he believes it is a result of metaphysical speculation rather than God’s revelation in Christ. Second, he believes that it implies a disruption in God’s original plan for creation. As Tseng emphasizes in chapter one, this is based on Barth’s misunderstanding of the nature of the decrees in the infralapsarian system as chronological rather than logical. In assessing Barth’s actual lapsarian position, Tseng contends that it is best understood dialectically, being basically infralapsarian but also containing supralapsarian elements. Particularly, Barth’s description of the incarnation as response to human fallenness suggests infralapsarianism, but the teleological priority he gives to election suggests supralapsarianism.

The second major section, comprising the remainder of the book, moves chronologically through several of Barth’s major writings to show how his own position develops and the impact that his assessment of the lapsarian question has on other major theological formulations. One of Tseng’s contentions in this section is that Barth’s mature Christology, which is basically infralapsarian in its description of the incarnation as the result of humanity’s fall, comes to undergird his doctrine of election, which early in his career is basically supralapsarian in its ordering of election and the fall. Chapters three, four, and five offer assessments of his doctrines of revelation, election, and Christology during the stage in his career when he hasn’t yet brought them together. Chapter three explores Barth’s Römerbrief II, a work built upon the dialectic of the impossible-possibility of revelation. Tseng argues that in this early period of his career, Barth’s doctrine of election is basically supralapsarian because he describes God’s election on the eternal-eschatological level as determining humanity’s fall into sin on the historical level. However, infralapsarian strands can be seen in his doctrines of revelation and Christology, both predicated on human fallenness.

Chapter four continues with the Göttingen Dogmatics, where Barth’s Christology suggests infralapsarianism in his description of the incarnation as made necessary by humanity’s sin. Tseng points out that during this period of his career, Barth moves toward an actualistic understanding of election, thus eliminating his earlier separation of the eternal and historical levels, and therefore removing a supralapsarian strand from his theology. Specifically, “the incarnation as the objective aspect and election as the subjective aspect of revelation as such are both predicated on humanity’s fallenness” (183).

The groundwork for merging his doctrines of Christology and election begins during Barth’s years at Bonn, which is the subject of chapter five. His doctrine of election in this period contains infralapsarian strands in its description of election as necessary because of human fallenness. However, it could still be considered basically supralapsarian because he grounds each person’s faith or unbelief in God’s eternal decision, suggesting a supralapsarian double-predestination. Tseng proposes a basic contradiction in this period, later remedied, between the methodological conviction that God-talk must be through Christ and his own doctrine of election, grounded in God’s eternal decision apart from Christ.

In chapter six, Tseng contends that Barth’s infralapsarian Christology becomes a chief factor in the reformulation of his doctrine of election in 1936, a time period marked by Bruce McCormack and others as “the beginning of the mature phase of Barth’s theology” (177). There has been some debate concerning the influences on Barth’s reformulation, with Pierre Maury’s lecture on Calvin’s doctrine of predestination considered by many as a major factor. Tseng’s argument is that Barth’s answer to the lapsarian question is a major factor in his new formulation of election adopted in his 1936 work Gottes Gnadenwahl, which reveals a correspondence between the works of Christ and the eternal being of God that removes his earlier contradiction. In this formulation, election becomes “God’s eternal decision to become incarnate,” and thus both predestination and reprobation are viewed in light of Christ (192). As Tseng has already demonstrated, incarnation is a response to human fallenness, and therefore there is an infralapsarian element within his new doctrine of election.

Chapter seven continues the analysis of Barth’s movement towards a full-fledged Christocentric doctrine of election by examining CD II/2, where election becomes for Barth the sum of the Gospel. The central idea of election in CD II/2 is that Jesus Christ is both electing God and elected human, and thus the doctrine of election is known through Jesus Christ. Once again, Barth reveals a dialectical engagement with election in relation to creation. On the supralapsarian side, Barth implies a logical precedence of election over creation in God’s decrees. However, on the infralapsarian side, Barth explains fallenness as the reason for the incarnation. In this work, he claims his lapsarian position as “purified supralapsarianism,” and Tseng explains that in doing so Barth is critiquing the error of separating God’s eternal decrees from God as revealed in Christ in the classic rendition of supralapsarianism. For Barth, Jesus Christ is the object of God’s eternal election, and humanity indirectly becomes the object through participation in Christ.

The eighth chapter concludes Tseng’s analysis of Barth’s work by discussing his theology of sin in CD IV/1. Tseng argues in this chapter that Barth’s christological doctrine of sin is grounded in an infralapsarian understanding of human fallenness. Specifically, God’s Yes in Christ is presupposed by God’s No to the Adamic-history, or history of fallenness, of the world. Tseng enters into the multi-layered current debate surrounding the relationship between Trinity and election in order to show further infralapsarian strands to Barth’s Christology. In particular, Tseng argues that Christ enters into this world-history by taking on human nature as a result of human fallenness. In Tseng’s words, “The incarnation is the history of the electing God’s entrance into the history of God’s fallen covenant partner, in order to sublate the latter’s history of fallenness for the sake of and in the election of all in Christ” (289).

In this work, Tseng presents both a provocative and robust account of Barth’s theology related to the lapsarian question. Both parts of his thesis are sure to draw scholarly engagement for some time. Concerning his first thesis, readers might not be convinced by Tseng’s argument that Barth’s position should be labelled as basically infralapsarian. For Tseng, the deciding factor is Barth’s consistent treatment of humanity as the sinful and lost object of election, which falls squarely on the infralapsarian side of what is considered the basic question of the classic lapsarian debate. However, Tseng’s analysis shows justification for claiming Barth as a purified supralapsarian with infralapsarian strands. Tseng himself demonstrates throughout the work that Barth does not fit neatly within either category, and without dialectic lenses his position can appear either inconsistent or contradictory.

Related to Tseng’s second, larger thesis, it would be difficult to argue against his thorough analysis of Barth’s position and its impact upon his doctrinal formulations. In fact, this is where Tseng’s work shines brightest. He clearly explains complex issues within Barth’s theology, always with an eye to the effect of Barth’s lapsarian conclusions on other doctrinal developments. Most importantly, Tseng demonstrates that the lasparian question can act as a hermeneutical key for discerning the impetus of several major elements of Barth’s theology. However, this work is intricate and at times laborious in its process of ascertaining Barth’s position, and Tseng’s own engagement with current scholarship requires some background knowledge. For readers with this knowledge, this work is highly recommended.

Chet Harvey, Ph.D. Student, Southeastern Baptist Theological Seminary

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

Ensminger, Sven. Karl Barth’s Theology as a Resource for a Christian Theology of Religions (New York: Bloomsbury T&T Clark, 2014)

Karl Barth’s Theology as a Resource for a Christian Theology of Religions 

Ensminger, Sven. Karl Barth’s Theology as a Resource for a Christian Theology of Religions (New York: Bloomsbury T&T Clark, 2014), x + 262 pp. $114.00 (hardcover).

Reviewed by Nicholas Krause (March 05, 2019)

Turning to Karl Barth as a critical resource for a Christian theology of religions, as Sven Ensminger does in this text, seems, on the face of it, quite counterintuitive. Not only is Barth remembered by many as a great critic of religion, he has been generally dismissed by the field of comparative religion as an exclusionist hindrance to the understanding and appreciation of diverse religious traditions. Even among careful readers of Barth, who will no doubt scoff at John Hick’s description of Barth’s position as one of “sublime bigotry,” the subject of religion and non-Christian religions in Barth’s thought is mostly seen in negative terms. A handful of recent works in Barth studies, however, has taken to correct this misreading of Barth. Ensminger’s contribution belongs within this emerging conversation—along with Garrett Green and Gavin D’Costa amongst others—and contains probably the most comprehensive treatment to date of the question of Barth and other religions. Ensminger argues it is precisely those elements in Barth’s thought often seen as least conducive to thinking about other religions and Christian engagement with them—namely, his doctrine of revelation and his devastating critique of religion—that, rightly understood, offer the most promising resources for developing a theology of religions that is both confessional and open to real encounter with other faiths.

Ensminger develops his argument in three main parts. The first four chapters offer close readings of Barth’s writings on relevant topics in both the Church Dogmatics and other more pastoral and ecclesial writings, sermons, and conversations, in order to develop an account of Barth’s position on non-Christian religions within the context of his larger theological vision. The second part of the book further develops this account by placing it in conversation with two other prevalent approaches to mapping religious diversity: “inclusivism,” represented chiefly by the Catholic theologian Karl Rahner, and “pluralism,” championed most popularly by the philosopher of religion John Hick. After comparing and distinguishing Barth’s position from these other approaches, part three concludes the book with a single chapter sketching the contours of a Barthian theology of religions and how such an approach fits within the emerging fields of comparative theology and theology of religions.

In chapter 1, Ensminger takes up Barth’s doctrine of revelation, bringing to the fore two crucial components of Barth’s account: on the one hand, Barth’s relentless insistence on the centrality and universality of the revelation of Jesus Christ, and, on the other hand, his simultaneous contention that such revelation is not limited to the Church alone but may appear in “other words” and “other lights” in the world. The crucial point Ensminger develops in this chapter is that Barth’s openness to other “media” of revelation is grounded not in a natural theology, wherein other religions apprehend truth about God independent of revelation, but rather in the universality of the particular and exhaustive revelation of God in Jesus Christ. For Barth, God’s radical freedom and sovereignty mean that God can “speak to us through Russian Communism, a flute concerto, a blossoming shrub, or a dead dog,” not because knowledge of God is available outside of revelation but precisely because God may choose to reveal Godself through these things (28; CD I/1, 55).

In chapter 2, Ensminger considers the second crucial component of Barth’s thought having to do with the question of other religions: the notion of “religion” itself. Barth addresses the subject of religion most explicitly in CD 1/2 §17, titled “The Revelation of God as Aufhebung of Religion.” Ensminger details the history of poor translation and reception of this piece of the Dogmatics, especially in North America, as well as the recent efforts by Garrett Green, John Webster, and others to set matters straight. In short, whereas previous translations rendered Aufhebung as “abolition” and thus read Barth as naming the relation of revelation to religion in terms of complete negation, recent and more nuanced readings capture the more dialectical relation, wherein revelation “sublimates” religion, both “abrogating” and “affirming” it (51-52). Ensminger’s contribution to this development in readings of §17 is to bring even greater nuance and clarity to the dynamics of the revelation-religion relationship. The ultimate payoff of Ensminger’s work in this key chapter, however, is to center the Christian religion, rather than other religions, as the primary subject of Barth’s critique of religion, thus presenting a compelling argument against readings of §17 that see in it an exclusivist condemnation of other religions as forms of Unglaube or “unbelief,” against which Christianity appears as “true religion.” For Barth, Ensminger shows, the Christian religion is judged like all other religions, and only proven “true” insofar as it faithfully bears witness to God’s revelation.

While chapters 1 and 2 provide the critical material for Barth’s theology of religions, chapters 3 and 4 go on to locate this approach within Barth’s larger theological vision. Attending to Barth’s anthropology and doctrine of sin, and then to his doctrine of election and the question of universalism, Ensminger demonstrates how Barth’s position on non-Christian religions is situated within a commitment to both the human person as covenant partner with God and the universal reconciliation of Jesus Christ. Barth’s great contribution to a Christian theology of religions on this point, Ensminger believes, is the way he locates a radical openness to non-Christian others, not in a general theory of religion but in the particular and unique work of God in Jesus Christ.

In the following two chapters on Rahner and Hick, which constitute the second part of the book, Ensminger demonstrates the difficulty of placing Barth within the usual “exclusivist, inclusivist, pluralist” typology of theology of religions. Barth, Ensminger shows, shares much with Rahner’s inclusivism, including a deep commitment to the universality of the revelation of Christ, a reluctance to consider Christianity in itself a superior form of religious expression, and an openness to the universal salvation of humankind paired with an insistence on the “impossible possibility” of eternal loss. Nevertheless, two basic features mark Barth’s divergence from Rahner: a far less optimistic attitude toward the possibility of natural knowledge of God and a greater reluctance to thematize human action in salvation. In short, Barth’s emphasis on revelation positions him uncomfortably within either an exclusivist or inclusivist framework. Barth shares much less in common with pluralists like Hick, yet Ensminger argues in chapter 6 that Barth provides important resources for addressing some of pluralism’s key criticisms of confessional theology. For instance, Ensminger shows how Barth’s criticism of religion offers an important form of self-criticism absent in both exclusivists and even pluralist thinkers like Hick.

Ensminger’s book offers much in the way of contributions to both Barth studies as a whole and the emerging conversation around Barth, religion, and non-Christian religions, in particular. Ensminger is at his best when offering close, nuanced readings of key passages in Barth’s writing. His careful exposition of §17, as well as its context and unfolding logic, is one of the book’s highlights. Additionally, Ensminger’s discussion of Barth’s “theory of lights” (Lichterlehre) to explain the relation of the one Light of Christ to secular “other lights” and his account of Barth’s various “media of revelation” offers an important analysis to these somewhat neglected parts of Barth’s corpus. Ensminger’s careful work of distinguishing these two concepts in Barth’s thought—that is, “secular parables” and “other lights”—and showing the differing purposes they serve will be of great interest to readers of Barth on the subject of revelation. Finally, one feature of Ensminger’s text that establishes it as unique in the emerging body of scholarship on Barth and religion is Ensminger’s attention to Barth as a decidedly pastoral theologian, thus locating Barth’s thinking about religion amongst pastoral, rather than purely dogmatic, concerns.

One general question this reader of Ensminger’s book is left with concerns the possible difficulties and limits engendered by attempting a theology of religions, and an account of interreligious encounter in particular, alongside an emphatic denial of the possibility of the natural knowledge of God. If the truth which Christians hear in a secular word or the voice of a non-Christian other is always only an echo or repetition of something previously disclosed in the one revelation of Christ, what reasons do Christians have for pursuing genuine encounter with non-Christian others? In other words, what specifically is to be gained by engaging otherness when one can always return to the particular divine disclosure in Jesus Christ and those sources most directly concerned with testimony to it, namely Scripture and Christian proclamation? What is unique to the encounter with the non-Christian other that demands Christian engagement and attentiveness? These questions concern not so much Ensminger’s particular argument in this book, but the adequacy of Barth’s theology for an account of interreligious engagement. I am confident a compelling answer to these questions can be given on Barth’s own terms and suspect it would look something like a Barthian theology of otherness and divine encounter. Such questions merely point to the room available in this emerging area of Barth studies for further constructive work.

Nicholas Krause, Ph.D. Candidate, Department of Religion, Baylor University

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

Joseph L. Mangina, Karl Barth: Theologian of Christian Witness (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 2004)

Karl Barth: Theologian of Christian Witness

Joseph L. Mangina, Karl Barth: Theologian of Christian Witness (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 2004), xiv + 208. $29.95

Reviewed by Jason T. Ingalls (June 19, 2009)

Joseph L. Mangina – an Associate Professor of Systematic Theology at Wycliffe College, University of Toronto – opens a welcome door to the study of Karl Barth’s theology in this volume, which was begun with the aid of Wallace Alston and Robert Jenson at the Center of Theological Inquiry in Princeton, NJ. Mangina’s work includes his previous book Karl Barth on the Christian Life: The Practical Knowledge of God (2001).

The aim of this volume is, very simply, to get a student reading Karl Barth’s theology, specifically the Church Dogmatics, as quickly as possible by providing “orientation to the major themes and topics that dominate Barth’s thought” (xi). Mangina does this in seven chapters, some ordered diachronically (1, 6-7) and some synchronically (2-5). Chapter one describes Barth’s life, biography, and theological development, and then offers an introduction to the Church Dogmatics and a guide to reading them. “While it is possible to read theChurch Dogmatics independently, and profit from it,” Mangina writes, “one’s appreciation is helped if one is able to set it in the context of the author’s fascinating life” (xi). With the aid of classic stories and new insights, Barth walks off the page.

Chapters two through five each takes a volume of theChurch Dogmatics, outlines what Mangina calls its “basic move,” summarizes the volume, and introduces a theologian to engage Barth in constructive dialogue. Chapter two addresses CD I, whose basic move is, according to Mangina, “God speaks” (29). After stating with force Barth’s emphasis upon God’s priority in Revelation, Mangina brings Barth into critical dialogue with George Lindbeck. Mangina addresses CDII in chapter three: “Barth’s basic move in the doctrine of God is thus to affirm God’s utter, sovereign priority over human beings – a sovereignty concretely determined as grace or covenant fellowship” (58). Chapter three brings Barth and Michael Wyschogrod into conversation on the Doctrine of Election. The Doctrine of Creation (CD III) is chapter four’s topic. Here Barth’s basic move is “the dependence of creation on the specific reality of Jesus Christ, who is the Alpha as well as the Omega” (88). In this chapter, Mangina sets the table between Barth and Stanley Hauerwas on suffering. Finally, chapter five is concerned with the Doctrine of Reconciliation (CD IV), whose basic move is “simply [the] equating of reconciliation with the concrete person of Jesus Christ” (119). Mangina introduces Robert Jenson here to discuss Jesus’ Crucifixion and Resurrection with Barth.

Chapters six and seven represent Mangina’s critical engagement with Barth’s work and show most readily the direction of his reading. Chapter six deals “with Barth’s ecclesiology and ethics, key components in his understanding of the Christian life” (xii) and places Barth in dialogue with Henry de Lubac on the church. The final chapter argues that Barth is an “evangelically catholic” theologian (179) and outlines Mangina’s hope that Barth will find a greater voice in ecumenical dialogue.

Mangina thinks Barth is a valuable ecumenical contributor because he was a quintessentially ‘biblical’ theologian. As such, he is someone to whom all Christians should listen, even if they end up disagreeing with his conclusions. Throughout Karl Barth: Theologian of Christian Witness, Mangina highlights Barth’s biblical usage, but he does so in no place more thoroughly than in the chapter on Election. Starting with the notion of “covenant fellowship,” a notion rooted in “the very heart of the Old Testament” (73), Barth exposits the doctrine in a “profoundly communal, temporal, and historical” way (74) which springs “almost instinctively” from “a narrative mode of thinking” grounded in the biblical text (75). Narratively, one can see that “to say ‘God elects me from all eternity in Jesus Christ’ and to say ‘God elects me here and now to a life of witness in this particular congregation’ are not, for Barth, mutually exclusive propositions” (75). Barth maintains this biblical thrust straight through his lengthy exegeses of the OT and Judas, and, in the end, is “so biblical” that Jewish theologian Michael Wyschogrod, the conversation partner in this chapter, maintains that the Jewish people must treat Barth as a member of the family (78).

But to highlight Barth’s biblical character, Mangina seems to downplay the extraordinary systematic accomplishments of II/2. While Mangina ranks the dogmatic excurses of II/2 “among the most brilliant in the entire Church Dogmatics,” he goes on to say that “far more important and compelling are the excursus devoted to biblical themes” (76). Thus, while Barth’s modified supralapsarianism is described (but not named) earlier in the chapter, its systematic importance is left unlauded and undiscussed, relegated to a mention of Calvin’s “double predestination” and “[Barth’s] critical dialogue with earlier Protestant theology” (71, 76). In this instance, Mangina seems to collapse Barth’s dogmatics into his exegesis.

Ultimately, this section would have been stronger if the three-fold nature of the Church’s proclamation, which Barth outlines in the opening chapter of Dogmatics in Outline (New York: Harper Torchbooks, 1959: 11-12), had been maintained. There, Barth says that exegesis continually asks the question “as to the source or provenance of the Word” (12). Exegesis is the ‘whence’ of the Church’s proclamation. Practical theology stands on the other side and asks “how? – that is, the question about the shape and form of the proclamation” (12). Standing squarely in the middle is dogmatics, which again and again asks the question, “what?” – what should the Church proclaim? This movement from whence to what to how is important because the tasks are substantially different and yet are equally necessary in their proper order to support the proclamation of the Church. In this sense, dogmatics takes its stand upon exegesis but cannot be collapsed into it. It would have been possible for Mangina to highlight Barth’s extraordinary biblical character without downplaying his dogmatic contributions.

But this is only a small consideration and will not keep this volume from being a jewel for Barth’s beginning students. Even though it opens the door to a large quantity of material, Mangina is aware of the projects’ limits and clear about its goals. “My goal is to wean the student from the secondary literature as quickly as possible, and to move her along toward an actual engagement with Barth” (xii). Mangina is also clear about his hope: “I will be happy if the pages that follow provide an entrée into the rich world of the Church Dogmatics. I will be more gratified still if they convey some of Barth’s intellectual adventuresomeness, humour, and deep love of God” (xiii). The author should be more than gratified. It is impossible to step away from this small volume without a living sense of three people: Mangina, Barth, and the God who flies across our vision like a bird on the wing.

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

Benjamin Dahlke, Die katholische Rezeption Karl Barths: Theologische Erneuerung im Vorfeld des Zweiten Vatikanischen Konzils, Beiträge zur historischen Theologie 152 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2010)

Die katholische Rezeption Karl Barths: Theologische Erneuerung im Vorfeld des Zweiten Vatikanischen Konzils

Benjamin Dahlke, Die katholische Rezeption Karl Barths: Theologische Erneuerung im Vorfeld des Zweiten Vatikanischen Konzils, Beiträge zur historischen Theologie 152 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2010), 256 pages. € 79.00

Reviewed by Amy Marga (February 21, 2012)

Benjamin Dahlke tracks the Roman Catholic reception of Karl Barth’s theology from its early days in the Romans commentary (1922) into his Church Dogmatics (1958) in this reworking of his dissertation, written for the Catholic faculty at the University of Mainz, Germany. Dahlke’s work is organized into ten brief chapters and it takes the form of a survey that treats a long line of German-speaking Catholic thinkers who found Barth’s theology problematic but impossible to ignore.

As Dahlke demonstrates, Catholic intellectuals of the day generally considered problematic the aspects of Barth’s theology that were more deeply shaped by his dialectical orientation. But they welcomed Barth’s move back to a Protestantism that was not constrained by Liberal Protestant principles. Catholics saw this as a return to a genuine and honest Protestantism that would allow for substantial interconfessional dialogue. Dahlke’s research also illustrates how, once having established an anchor for their criticism of the other, each side may have lost track of the new developments taking place in the works of the other as the decades advanced. From Barth’s side, this anchor was the concept of the analogia entis, which the Swiss thinker took as the sign of a pervasive Catholic natural theology. Likewise, Catholics barely registered the major development of Barth’s theology in his doctrine of election and the reconstructed Christology that followed. They continued to see him as a representative of the dialectical theology that characterized his early years.

Chapters One and Two cover the first Catholic reactions to Barth’s Romans commentary by thinkers like Joseph Wittig, Joseph Engert, Erich Przywara, and Karl Adam, as well as general reactions to the movement of dialectical theology and its philosophical presuppositions. These early reactions centered on what Catholics saw as the unacceptable divide between God and the world posed by the dialectical theologians and their seemingly “antihistorical” theology. These criticisms recognized that dialectical theology was trying to think through the God-world relationship under the conditions of modernity but, instead of moving forward, Catholics believed that the dialectical theologians were only moving back to the thought-world of Kant. To Catholic thinkers such as Michael Gierens and Friedrich Maria Rintelen, dialectical theology drove theology into an impossible situation of subjectivism, agnosticism, and even speechlessness with its insistence on the “infinitely qualitative difference” between God and the human. What such reactions failed to see in Barth’s own theological development, as Dahlke points out, is that Barth’s thought had begun moving on almost as soon as he became the representative of dialectical theology among Catholics.

In Chapters Three through Five, Dahlke shows how the conversation between Barth and his Catholic interlocutors revolved around the common ground that both shared, namely, a continued commitment to the practices that accompany faith, and the reality of the Church. Catholic intellectuals like Bernhard Rosenmoeller, Robert Grosche, and Erich Przywara, all of whom were guests in Barth’s home and in his classes at one time or another, provided serious and honest engagement with the theological and dogmatic differences between the two confessions. The differences between Catholic and Protestant theology continued to come to light through these helpful interactions. Dahlke names the sacramental theology of the Catholic thinker, Damasus Winzen, and the robust Mariology supported by Robert Grosche, as examples of such differences. These conversations provided Barth with perspectives that eventually became significant elements in his Church Dogmatics.

Chapter Six treats the Catholic reaction to how Barth demonizes the analogia entis in the preface to Church Dogmatics I/1, where he calls it the “invention of the Antichrist.” Dahlke provides a survey of the various thinkers who sought to interpret Barth’s outburst and its significance for Barth’s work as a whole. Bernhard Bartmann, for example, argued that a rejection of a concept like the analogia entis and the possibilities it provides for talk of a genuine relationship between God and the world leaves Barth’s concept of revelation in the Church Dogmatics vacuous. Daniel Feuling came to a similar conclusion. Other thinkers like Jakob Fehr analyzed Barth’s attitude towards the analogia entis from a Neothomistic perspective. They too found inconsistencies in his concept of revelation. As Dahlke demonstrates, it was Gottlieb Söhngen who sought a way out of the seeming impasse between what Barth perceived as “natural theology” within Catholicism (represented by the analogia entis) and the Catholic perception of Barth’s doctrine of revelation. Söhngen perceived a new theological turn in Barth’s work, one that would avoid the philosophical abstractions of Neoscholastsicism and find its impulse in the historical concreteness of God’s own revelation within history. On this point, Catholic thought and the commitments of Barth’s own theology converged.

Dahlke dedicates Chapters Seven through Nine to Hans Urs von Balthasar’s the interpretation of Barth’s theology. He treats von Balthasar’s interpretation, and the “turn” to eschatology that characterized aspects of von Balthasar’s dialogue with Barth’s theology, in Chapter Seven. Von Balthasar analyzed through an eschatological lens the God-world relationship that had been the central locus of controversy between Barth and the Catholics. Dahlke helpfully shows that it was only through intense engagement with Barth’s theology that von Balthasar was able to penetratingly analyze Neoscholasticism and produce the kinds of insights into the Catholic commitments to nature and grace, the doctrine of analogy, and the relationship of natural to supernatural that would eventually lead to a renewal in Catholic theology.

The concluding Chapters Ten and Eleven comprise a brief exploration of Barth’s influence on the Nouvelle Théologie that spread through Germany and France. This includes further analysis of von Balthasar’s influence over Catholic theology with the appearance in 1951 of his book, Karl Barth. Darstellung und Deutung seiner Theologie. Dahlke analyzes von Balthasar’s development of Barth’s Christocentrism by means of his own constructive perspective on pneumatology, which deeply influenced both Roman Catholic theology and Anglophone Barth studies.

Overall, Dahlke’s volume contributes solidly to the growing body of research on Barth and Roman Catholicism that shows how important this conversation was for theological development in the twentieth century. The book gives important—if not ground-breaking—insights into the way that Catholics treated Karl Barth as a thinker who revolutionized Protestant theology. This engagement allowed modern Catholic thinkers to more fully and openly explore their own accounts of the God-world relationship. Dahlke’s treatment of von Balthasar as an interpreter of Barth and as a central thinker in the dramatic developments in twentieth century Catholic theology is also of great service to any student of this period. If there is a criticism to be made to this fine piece of work, it would be that the survey-like organization of the material does not always adequately capture the novelty, dynamism, and cutting-edge character of the relationship between Barth and his Catholic interlocutors that jump-started a new way of doing theology.

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

Price, Robert B. Letters of the Divine Word: The Perfections of God in Karl Barth’s Church Dogmatics (New York: Bloomsbury T&T Clark, 2013)

Letters of the Divine Word: The Perfections of God in Karl Barth’s Church Dogmatics

Price, Robert B. Letters of the Divine Word: The Perfections of God in Karl Barth’s Church Dogmatics (New York: Bloomsbury T&T Clark, 2013), ix + 210 pp. $39.96 (paperback)

Reviewed by Jeremy Wynne (September 28, 2017)

Robert B. Price offers Letters of the Divine Word as a companion and guide to Karl Barth’s Church Dogmatics (CD) II/1, where Barth outlines his doctrine of the divine perfections. The book is a lightly revised version of the author’s doctoral thesis. It is elegantly written, demonstrates broad knowledge and sharp analysis of the secondary literature, a keen eye for exegetical detail, and fidelity to “the pastoral warmth and kerygmatic urgency,” which characterizes Barth’s own writing (5). Most compelling, however, is its form: Letters of the Divine Word is an exercise in commentary, “a close reading and analysis of a single text, rather than an endeavor to argue a specific thesis” (1). In this respect, it offers not only instruction in Barth’s thought, but also a compelling model for theological engagement.

Until recently, commentary work was widely considered a gold standard for theological reflection. This was for good reason. Not only is commentary of a particular text “one of the great intellectual opportunities” for original thought (1), but it can also render an overwhelmingly difficult text accessible; mitigate some of an author’s prolixity; and thereby transmit works of enduring importance to subsequent generations. Commentaries required on Lombard’s Sentences in the medieval period might be the example par excellence, though the practice itself is much older. Even though commentary is not unknown today in the realm of dogmatics or philosophy—Thomas Aquinas himself will sometimes receive such attention—still, Letters of the Divine Word is unusual. It’s neither a comparative study, like Claus-Dieter Osthövener’s examination of Barth and Schleiermacher, nor is it focused narrowly on a single aspect of Barth’s doctrine, like Todd Pokrifka’s fine book on Barth’s method. Rather, it provides a careful listening to the whole and in this sense, it has no peer.

However, one might ask, does CD II/1 warrant this kind of attention? Price gives two compelling responses in his exposition. First, Barth himself argued that an account of who God is bears basic significance for theology. It provides the truth common to “all other statements which dogmatics or preaching might wish to make” (13). So, for example, an account of the Lord’s Supper is only as good as the understanding of God’s omnipresence that lies beneath it (121). Many similar examples are readily available. Second, Barth was profoundly creative in his reworking of the divine perfections. In Barth’s work, Price points out, God’s wisdom “cannot be separated from Jesus Christ and reduced, for example, to the establishment and maintenance of some kind of universal moral order” (95). This core judgment—that an exposition of the perfections is bound to the particularities of divine action rather than the generalities of speculative concern—operates across Barth’s Church Dogmatics and distinguishes his approach. In a helpful aside, Price remarks there was a time when this vitality might have been swamped by the “famous neighbors on either side” of this part-volume of the CD, namely “the attack on natural theology before and the doctrine of election after” (6). But that time has passed. Barth’s work—as “one long exercise in trying to indicate the wealth and irreducible particularity of God’s identity” (188)—is receiving renewed attention.

Thus, Price provides an attentive paraphrase of the whole. He is alert to the historical and theological background and so to Barth’s theological development. But Price sets for himself the primary task of a clear and transparent description, a contemplative account of the words and their meaning. He wants to accurately speak for another.

In working through Letters of the Divine Word, this reader was reminded of the following quotation:

In the main . . . I will try to engage in a kind of stocktaking and let the man display himself as though I were under his pulpit or his podium, my interest focused not on his external or internal biography but on the things he has to tell us, and within the sphere of our present study on the one question of what he means by what he has to tell us, desiring only to hear more from him for a better explanation of what he means (Karl Barth, The Theology of Schleiermacher, trans. Geoffrey W. Bromiley, Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1982, xviii).

These are Barth’s own words, though they are taken from another text. By them, he indicated the program that he himself would follow in composing commentary on the work of another great theologian, whose intellectual powers Barth respected and whose fatal flaws he struggled with immensely. I offer the quotation here because the comparison with Price’s approach is striking. What Barth would extend to others, Price has extended to Barth. Letters of the Divine Word not only brims with quotations drawn judiciously from the CD and others of Barth’s letters, sermons and writings, but Price admirably resists the various temptations that would send theological commentary off its rails: temptations to translate terms rather than instruct readers in a new idiom and discourse; to allow pressing contemporary social and political matters to steer and sift one’s attention; to flatten-out doxology in favor of a supposedly more analytic mode of argument; and so on. As a result, Barth’s voice is indeed dominant, and admirably so, such that at points Price’s text is a splendid mirror of Barth’s own “sober exuberance” (192).

Because of the depth and complexity of Barth’s doctrine of God, the text could be approached in several different ways. One might helpfully work backwards from his conclusions, or perhaps identify the judgments that run across the whole of the volume and provide for its unity. In the most straightforward fashion, however, and despite the regular glances forward and backward within Barth’s argument, Price allows the contours of CD II/1 to guide his progress. The first four chapters are keyed to successive paragraphs in Barth’s own doctrine of God. Chapter one traces the thesis that God’s freedom for the creature and his freedom from the creature are actually one and the same (CD §28). Chapter two turns to matters of definition, derivation and arrangement, offering a helpful account of Barth’s rich dialectic (CD §29). In chapters three and four, the exposition lengthens as Price focuses on the content of the perfections themselves, first as God’s love (CD §30) and then as God’s freedom (CD §31). He follows carefully as Barth moves from “grace to glory, and from gratitude to joy” (170), along the way interjecting valuable observations concerning Barth’s chosen architecture and unchosen conversation partners.
What role, finally, does interpretation play in Letters of the Divine Word? All commentary writing struggles under the possibility of opening as many avenues for reading and inquiry as possible. In some cases, the overall effect can be a frustrating indecisiveness or scattershot critique, the comment wandering too far from the original author’s concerns. Conversely, theological judgment at this early stage might exert too heavy a hand, closing down options the author may not have seen and excluding issues of contemporary interest outside the commentator’s own circle. The line is a fine one. In this reader’s opinion, Price admirably intones his own (often strong) judgments without becoming mired in disputation.

It is notable that Barth himself comes in for minimal critique. Price acknowledges a few points of concern, often stressing that these shortcomings are the result of over-compensation on Barth’s part, the “harmful side-effects” of a strong dogmatic defense. For example, Price suggests that Barth should not have been so wary of nominalism as to attribute mercy and so, presumably, the object of mercy to God’s eternal life ad intra. Grace would have been more adequately handled, he corrects, as a readiness or “capacity to overcome opposition” rather than as an active overcoming (58; cf. 71). Neither should the subjectivism of liberal Protestant thought have pressed Barth to avoid “positive exposition” of the Holy Spirit in his account of God’s omnipresence. Surely, Price suggests, there are better ways “to secure the Spirit’s full reality [as distinct from the human spirit] in a theologically hostile context” (125, 127). In all of this, Price generously keeps to the primary goal of the genre—not to argue with the text but to allow it better to speak for itself.
If Barth receives minimal critique, the same cannot be said of his interpreters. Price, in fact, leaves few stones unturned—large or small. What is at stake is not only the material content of these perfections, but, to reiterate, also the way in which they inform other points of doctrine. Perhaps it is this urgency which sharpens some of the more pointed language in these sections. That said, Price’s substantive concerns stand on their own. He argues, for example, that the charge of modalism that many lay at Barth’s feet is undermined through close attention to Barth’s description of eternity, i.e. “the divine proximity and remoteness by which God is present to himself and coexistent in three modes of being at one and the same time” (117). Likewise, interpretations of Barth’s dialectical method have often failed precisely because they do not follow “the intrinsic order of divine revelation” (46). Other points of concern include contemporary ways of relating immutability and election (141), or omnipotence and human agency (154-155). These are all important and often controversial matters, and Price sheds light on the inadequacies of competing interpretations, while offering his own principled arguments in response.

The final chapter indicates one possible course for future evaluation. Price concludes the book by artfully retrieving three “basic theological decisions” that Barth himself lays down in his exposition of the knowledge of God (CD §27), all of which lie back behind “the details of what [Barth] says” and therefore exert a “determinative influence over the whole” (184, 195). These are Barth’s decisions:
(1) to ground everything he says about the perfections exclusively in God himself, (2) to expound the perfections explicitly as those of the very essence of God, and (3) not to abstract these perfections from their implications for the Christian life (186).

As he proceeds, Price sets each decision in contrast to the theology of Wolfhart Pannenberg, whose work runs in quite the opposite direction: from below to above, from the general to the particular. The juxtaposition is startling and provocative, and underscores the sense that much remains to be done in the way of evaluating Barth’s arguments in CD II/1. There is energy, beauty, and economy in this commentary. Letters of the Divine Word has caused this reader to want to pick-up Barth’s doctrine once again and, in light of new insights and vantage points, to read from the beginning, “to marvel with him at the beauty” of God’s glory and live gratefully before the One who “gives pleasure, creates desire, and rewards with enjoyment” (193).

Jeremy Wynne, Assistant Professor of Theology and Director of Graduate Studies in Theology, Whitworth University

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

Busch, Eberhard. Meine Zeit mit Karl Barth: Tagebuch 1965–1968 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2011)

Meine Zeit mit Karl Barth: Tagebuch 1965–1968 

Busch, Eberhard. Meine Zeit mit Karl Barth: Tagebuch 1965–1968 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2011), 760 pp. $43.00 (hardback).

Reviewed by Matthias Grebe (June 13, 2015)

Dr. Eberhard Busch, Professor Emeritus for Systematic Theology and Director of the Karl Barth Research Centre at the Georg-August-Universität in Göttingen, has authored multiple works on Reformed theology, John Calvin, and the German Kirchenkampf (1933–1945). But he is perhaps most famed for his scholarship on the Swiss theologian Karl Barth (1886–1968).

In 1975, Busch published his doctoral thesis under the title Karl Barth: His Life and Letters from Autobiographical Texts, which went on to prove an indispensable resource for Barth scholarship. However, it was not until 2011 that he published the Tagebuch, which documents the experiences and conversations Busch shared with Barth during the years he spent as Barth’s academic assistant and personal helper (1965–1968). Although Barth wanted to do so, he never wrote an autobiography, and felt that the main problem with biographies is the lack of honesty. He therefore actively encouraged Busch’s detailing of his thoughts, interactions and conversations, in the hope that some of these might one day be published (5).

The task of reviewing such a text is a difficult one. How does one write a review of a diary containing entries spanning over a three-year period including some significant gaps in time and substantial variations in content and style? Thus to review a diary (or as Friedrich Wilhelm Graf called it, a “theologiehistorische Quelle von eigenem Rang”) calls not only for consideration of Busch’s lively and descriptive narrative of Barth’s life, but also an analysis of the way in which these anecdotes and exchanges converge to form a composite whole that adequately depicts the richness of the subject’s personality, thought, and work.

Goethe-Mozart: 11-24-1965 (26–28)

It is well known that Barth loved the Austrian composer Mozart. In the diary we find a very interesting entry on how, late in life, Barth viewed the arts and considered the difference between Mozart and the German poet and writer Goethe.

After an entry about Barth’s hospitalization, Busch writes about Barth’s renewed interest in the works of Goethe. On reflection, Barth regards himself as more able to talk about Goethe at this point than in 1933 when he wrote the lectures on Protestant Theology in the Nineteenth Century: Its Background and History. But what interests him most are the comparisons that can be made between Goethe and Mozart. For Barth, Mozart was a Hör-Mensch (a person who listens), whereas Goethe was a Seh-Mensch (a person who sees). What Barth means by this is that Mozart understood everything as centred around Vernehmen (hearing), hearing the cosmos—listening to a Klang (sound) with open ears. But what about Mozart?, Barth asks. How did he hear? And how did Goethe see? According to Barth, whereas Mozart was selbstlos (selfless), Goethe was radically selbstbezogen (self-referred), and saw the world in relation to himself; his education was Selbstbildung (self-education). What Goethe therefore missed, Barth believed, was suffering, sickness, death, and all things transitory (Vergängliches)—hence Goethe’s disgust for crucifixes and his lack in interest of Christian art. Mozart, on the other hand, had a life that was filled with suffering. And therefore, even though Mozart was no Church Father or prophet, and even though as a Freemason he actually protested against the Archbishop of Salzburg, he nevertheless felt able to carry a candle through Vienna at the procession of the Feast of Corpus Christi (27).

What is highlighted here is Barth’s particular interest in the way that Goethe bypassed Christianity, uninvolved (unbeteiligt) and without any polemic, in effect treating it as non-existent. Even Nietsche, Barth holds, had to rail against the scandal of the cross, and Hegel actually integrated it into his knowledge of the Geist. In this way, Barth observes, Mozart, though not a model “Christian,” was still constantly forced to confront the Christian faith, whereas Goethe saw it as a thing of the past, something that was “behind” him (28).

Ratzinger-Session, Flight from the living God: 2-25-1967 (229–235)

The diary also has an extensive theological section in which Busch provides insight into how Barth taught and led seminars and colloquia. This is fascinating information for anyone who is interested in Barth’s theological methodology and his role as a teacher of theology. Barth held numerous theological colloquia (see, for example, the account of the colloquium on Calvin, 309–313), but one particularly notable one was on the constitution De divina revelatione of the Second Vatican Council, which was attended by the Roman Catholic professor Joseph Ratzinger from Tübingen, and which highlights Barth’s strong ecumenical and pneumatological interest in his late years.

Busch writes that he and three other students were tasked with devising questions to pose to Ratzinger. Under Barth’s instruction two central questions were formulated (229). The first was on the relationship between the Gospel and Church tradition. The constitution speaks as if the preservation and actualization of the Gospel depend on its transmission by the Church. Should this not rather be the other way around, that the life and witness of the Church—and thus its transmission of the Gospel—are themselves dependant on the Good News of Jesus Christ itself? The second central question asked whether the transmission of the Gospel and the growing knowledge of the apostolic witness are truly safeguarded by the Church and especially the juridical-historical succession of bishops, and whether they are independent of the work of the Holy Spirit.

Barth confessed afterwards that he was impressed by the eloquent and precise ad hoc replies that Ratzinger gave. However, he also remarked upon the very particular structure Ratzinger applied to his answers, and wondered whether there was a hiatus between Ratzinger’s speech and his thought, because he always seemed to offer two options (“either/or” or “on the one hand/yet on the other hand”, 230). In doing so, Ratzinger’s theological thinking was characterised with a catholic wideness and inclusiveness, and Barth noticed (and at the time whispered to Busch) that the alternatives Ratzinger gave were not really alternatives at all, but both views that Ratzinger himself held.

Barth usually remained quiet in these sessions in order to give space for the guest lecturer and allow the students to ask questions. When Ratzinger spoke, however, Barth chose to follow up with one very stern question. Having listened to Ratzinger’s description of the rich tradition of the Roman Catholic Church, why, Barth wondered, was there no explicit mention of the Holy Spirit? And why should this tradition still play such an important part for the Roman Catholic Church? Barth asked Ratzinger whether there was a certain “fear” of the Holy Spirit, a question that appeared to rattle the theologian (though Busch suggests that he was polite enough not to disagree with Barth). Barth ended the session with an appeal that, though both churches agree on certain points, we should not deceive ourselves in thinking that we are at the endpoint or goal. Instead, he said, we are still waiting for the one, apostolic Church (230–231).

On Baptism: 3-7-1967 (242–246)

Arguably one of the most interesting but also controversial topics in CD IV is Barth’s doctrine of baptism, an on-going issue of scholarly debate. Busch recounts a conversation he had with Barth on this matter, which gives us a rare insight into how the CD was written and the way conversations shaped Barth’s dynamic theology.

After Barth submitted the manuscript of his book on baptism to Busch for proof-reading, Busch asked Barth about the difference between Geistestaufe (baptism by the Spirit) and Wassertaufe (baptism by water). Busch questioned whether Barth was drawing too sharp a distinction between the two, to such an extent that baptism by the Spirit can almost be said not to amount to baptism at all. Barth answered with a typically lively “No, No,” on the basis that baptism by the Spirit is the pivotal moment in the event of baptism—it is only under these conditions that the word sacrament can be used, the pure divine act (Handeln) of God through which a human being becomes a child of God (242–243).

However, Barth insisted that this “objective” (243) act of God is not something that can be safeguarded by a minister’s sprinkling water over an infant. Thus the individual becoming a new member of the congregation should be seen as the answer to that which is executed (vollzieht) by God alone through the baptism by the Spirit. Busch interjected by asking whether this meant ripping the two apart, but once again Barth rebutted with his characteristic “No”—that this was not his intention. Instead, he said, his concern to preserve their unity was clearly shown in his emphasis that these two moments are part of one Ereignis (event). In Barth’s view, Spirit and water baptism correspond in the same way that the divine Word and human response do, and they should therefore not be seen as mingling or one swallowing up the other. The personal human response to the promise of the Word of God is not simply a consequence the human might choose or not choose, but is instead the essential moment of the baptism of water itself.

Would this mean, Busch asked, that all infant baptism is invalid? Barth answered that he did not mean that. While infant baptism could never be all-sufficient, it nevertheless represented a valid human response. According to the Protestant infant baptism rites, Barth added, the human response is in some sense included in the substitutionary “Yes” given by the godparents, who are called to bear witness to the Christian faith. However, here it is helpful to remember that Barth’s particular focus was on adult baptism, where the candidate had to respond to the grace of God, saying “Yes” for herself (244).

Busch ended the conversation by asking Barth about baptism by fire. Barth replied that he had yet to say anything on the topic, and that it probably meant the biblical language for judgement. He told Busch to write down his own ideas on it at the right place in the manuscript so that Barth could add his own thoughts later.

Rösy Münger, the will of the parents is the will of God: 5-23 / 5-25-1968 (572–581)

The diary also gives very personal insights into Barth’s life and struggles. One reoccurring topic is that of his somewhat thwarted relationship with Rösy Münger, his first love.

In a moment of self-reflection after sharing a bottle of Tokaji with Busch, Barth opens the conversation with a description of their tragic love story. Rosy did not come from a family of theologians, and Barth’s parents did not approve of the Münger family. They belonged to the liberal Christian Church in Bern while the Barth family belonged to the conservative wing. Partly because of his parents’ pressure and partly for his own reasons, Barth broke off the relationship with Rösy, but he was later haunted with doubts over the decision, questioning whether the advice of his parents really aligned with the will of God on the matter. The only answer Barth received was that “Elternwille ist Gottes Wille” (576)the will of the parents is the will of God. Two nights later—without wine or the usual Mozart this time, but with a bottle of Schnapps hidden behind his books—Barth again showed his vulnerability and shared with Busch some stories about his student years in the fraternity Zofingia, and about Barth and Rösy’s first kiss at a ball. To that day, Busch writes, Barth remained unsure about why he allowed his parents’ will to overrule his own desires.

The importance of the Lord’s Supper: 11-22-1966 (131–135)

As a theologian of the Church, Barth was very much interested in liturgy and its various pitfalls. Even though the section in CD IV/4 on the Lord’s Supper was sadly never written, the diary highlights an insight into Barth’s thought on this matter.

Barth points out the key lacuna of the Reformed Ein-Mann-Betrieb (one-man-operation, 132), and how it can only be filled with the celebration of the Lord’s Supper. Something is missing, he believed, if a church service only includes a sermon and no Eucharist! It is this celebration that highlights that something actually happens (geschieht) in the church service—namely, after God’s Einbruch (in-breaking) to our world there needs to follow a corresponding human communal Aufbrechen (out-breaking). For Barth, this obviously had to be the Lord’s Supper as understood in a Protestant sense, not the Roman mass. Busch points out that this view (i.e., that a service is incomplete without this meal) did not represent a new thought for Barth; for many years he had held that Protestant teaching on the topic was lacking.

Leuenberg with church leaders: 2-28-1968 (533–534)

Barth was very much a theologian of and in conversation with the people. We see this engagement throughout his life, which did not stop even in old age. After a period spent in the Swiss hospital, Barth asked Busch to join him at a meeting of Reformed, Catholic, and Christ-Catholic church leaders in Switzerland (524).

It was a day of reflection, and Barth and von Balthasar were asked to give talks. On arrival Barth showed signs of weakness, and Busch arranged a chair in the lobby (as pictured on the front cover of the volume). Here he was greeted by various church dignitaries as he sat and smoked his beloved pipe. Without a proper manuscript, Barth gave a lively talk on a theme that was close to his heart in his last years: the renewal of the Church. His thesis was that the Church can overcome internal discord if different denominations choose to live in reformational renewal, not in order to adjust to modern society but as a constant act of return to the God witnessed in the Holy Scriptures. It is God, said Barth, who renews through his Word and his Spirit, and in response the Church should live in renewal in order to serve God and our fellow human beings. Busch tells how on the journey home Barth said that, having given his talk, he felt like a “deer being brought to fresh waters” (534).

The Visit to Rome and Pope Paul VI.: 9-20-1966 (82) and 10-5-1966 (83–94)

Barth’s interest in his later years in the Second Vatican Council and the renewal of the Roman Catholic Church cannot be overestimated, as seen in Busch’s entry two days before Barth’s visit to Rome in 1966. Before his departure Barth prepared a number of questions and organised for copies of his works as gifts for Pope Paul VI, which he signed in Latin. He received a warm reception in Rome, and Busch describes with some mirth how much Barth enjoyed the various privileges laid on by the Vatican, including a chauffeur-driven Mercedes. Barth said he was treated like a cardinal (84).

In Rome he had the chance to ask his prepared questions in seminar-style sessions, which sometimes lasted over three and a half hours with six to twelve people present. Barth also met with with Jesuits including Karl Rahner and Professor Dhanis (the director of the Gregoriana), cardinals such as Alfredo Ottaviani, and archbishops including Pietro Parente. Barth conversed with the Pope in French, and, although he remarked that his private audience with Paul VI was the highlight of the trip, the Pope nevertheless did not strike him as strongly theologically versed! The Pope had clearly heard about all the seminar-style conversations Barth had with the Vatican theologians and chose to lead their discussion in such a way that Barth was barely able to make any sustained comment. One mishap detailed is the meeting with Cardinal Augustin Bea. Barth had read Bea’s decree on religious freedom the night before in his hotel room and considered it a fairly lousy piece. He evidently communicated this in their discussion the next day, and the two were unable to find much common theological ground when discussing the topic of freedom (87–88).

Concluding Remarks

As with all of Busch’s works on Barth, Meine Zeit mit Karl Barth is not only invaluable for those working on Barth, but achieves that rare combination of detached insight and genuine intimacy with his subject, successfully depicting the Geist of his friend and mentor. Moreover, his memoirs of those final years with Barth are full of humorous anecdotes (such as Barth’s allowing Busch to use his cigars, tobacco and gramophone but not the wine!, 52–53), personal exchanges and startling—even profane—entries, alongside theological deliberation. The work is comprehensive in its view on Barth’s specific theological, political and artistic concerns, his interactions in the academy and Church, and his friendships and family. It is so extensive that its index lists over 700 separate names (though sadly no theological subject index! Perhaps this could be added in the English translation), and yet it still remains a uniquely composite—and not fragmented—piece.

But does it offer us an encounter with “ein anderer Karl Barth” (5, see also 131–135), markedly different to the one we already know from his works? Such is the breadth of Barth’s whole output that we already have an extremely comprehensive idea of who he is, his theological bugbears and obsessions, proclivities and whims. Nevertheless, the richness of Busch’s description introduces the reader to another side of the multi-faceted theologian: one who, facing death in his old age, witnesses at the end of his life that he truly trusts in the message which he had taught and preached to generations, and that the life, death, and resurrection of Christ continues to transform lives and give comfort and hope. Forthright in his views and unbending in his theological stances, Barth shaped theology in Europe and beyond from the twentieth century to the present day. His vast theological oeuvre can only be complemented by this beautiful depiction of the complexities and vulnerabilities of the man himself and of his relationships with his friends, his colleagues, and his God.

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

de Liagre Böhl, Herman. Miskotte. Theoloog in de branding, 1894‐1976 (Amsterdam: Prometheus, 2016)

Miskotte. Theoloog in de branding, 1894‐1976 

de Liagre Böhl, Herman. Miskotte. Theoloog in de branding, 1894‐1976 (Amsterdam: Prometheus, 2016), 352 pp. €35,00 (hardcover).

Reviewed by Eleonora Hof (November 13, 2018)

Although the work and life of K.H. Miskotte is not yet widely read in the United States, the Dutch theologian, cultural critic, socialist and life-long friend of Karl Barth deserves attention for his existential, literary and creative theological adaptation of Barthian thought. Miskotte introduced, expanded and reworked Barth’s thought for a Dutch context.

The commencing of Barth’s and Miskotte’s story can be traced back to February 1, 1923, the exact day when Miskotte read Barth’s Römerbrief. Miskotte was clearly not impressed. In his diary, he audaciously accused Barth of Marcionism, a startling claim which could not be sustained. Yet, his claim reveals how Miskotte initially perceived Barth to be distinguishing between the God of the Old and the New Testament, due to Barth feeling threatened by the apparent severance of the bond between Christ and Christianity.

Consequently, Miskotte considered it his duty to write Barth a letter, insisting that Barth should pay greater attention to the theology of Hermann Friedrich Kohlbrugge. Barth, upon receiving this letter, was clearly not pleased with this intrepid and unsolicited advice, since he was already engaging the work of Kohlbrugge and acknowledging his influence on his own theology.

In 1937, Miskotte heard that Barth had begun the project of writing a systematic theology. Miskotte wrote Barth a letter in which he criticized this endeavor opining that Barth was forsaking his calling as a prophet. According to Miskotte, Christians should instead live in protest against the grounding structures of the current world, mirroring Ivan Karamazov in Dostoevsky’s novel. Naturally, Barth disproved of Miskotte’s critique. To Barth, Ivan Karamazov’s protest on its own was futile: its meaning is directly derived from the fact that his rebellion is embedded in the life of Christ who rightfully authorizes this protest.

Miskotte’s reference to The Brothers Karamazov reveals how his reading of literary works informed his theology. Miskotte was deeply impressed by the beauty he found within literature and nature. He was also drawn to mysticism, because he was enticed by the lure of nature in his early life and Miskotte remained a sensitive soul overwrought with the impressions of beauty throughout his life. Miskotte’s predisposition to romanticism and mysticism meant that he was not enticed by the dialectics of Barthian theology, hence his initial resistance to Barth’s thought. We still do not have a satisfactory account of what ultimately led Miskotte to embrace Barth’s theology, but when he did, it was decisive, and Miskotte remained a lifelong admirer and proponent of Barth. Miskotte saw in Barth’s dialectics the discovery of the very structure of the biblical testimony itself. This uncovering of a new way to read the Bible led to an intense concentration on exegesis and hermeneutics. Miskotte’s own hermeneutic approach shows his fervent desire to take the foundational structure of the Biblical testimony seriously. He emphasized time and again in his Biblical ABCs that we do not yet know through reason or philosophy who God is – God reveals himself not in philosophical categories such as omnipotence or omniscience, but principally through his actions. Reading the Bible becomes thus an exercise in encountering the actions of God, which teach us the relational and personal character of God.

In the ensuing friendship between Miskotte and Barth, Miskotte’s own character and expertise “surplus” of Miskotte remained visible, namely his artistic sensibilities, his knowledge about literature and his sensitivity for nature’s wonders. Whenever they met, Barth would receive a “crash course” in recent literary developments. Nevertheless, they would never be complete equals in their friendship. Miskotte remained a pupil of Barth, even though Miskotte was a creative theologian in his own right, and Barth refused to seriously engage with Miskotte’s pressing concern regarding Barth’s rejection of infant baptism.

When the chair of systematic theology in Utrecht became vacant, efforts were undertaken to appoint Barth to fill this chair, since he was recently forced out of his chair in Bonn. Barth was eventually found to be too leftist—whatever that might have meant exactly in that context, we do not know—and Barth was asked instead to deliver a series of lectures at Utrecht. These lectures consisted of a treatment of the Apostles’ Creed, and they were translated and annotated by Miskotte. The publication of these lectures was the very first Dutch translation of Barth’s work and they made him accessible beyond the theological guild. Barth’s lectures at Utrecht were published in English in 1962 as Credo.

In his wartime writing, Biblical ABCs, Miskotte paired his zeal for the foundational words of the biblical testimony with an exposition of the nature of pagan religion. The result was an accessible booklet aimed at congregants and pastors in Amsterdam, helping them to formulate a better resistance against the deadly Nazi-occupation in the Netherlands. A better resistance is a resistance grounded in a theological understanding of the pagan roots of national-socialism The Biblical ABCs is currently being translated into English by Dr. Collin Cornell and myself, and is under contract with Lexington – Fortress Academic and will be in print in late 2019. .

As I wrote my dissertation on postcolonial missiology, naturally I read the section in the biography that discusses Miskotte’s Indonesian travels with great interest. Miskotte was invited in 1937 to give a lecture series in present-day Indonesia, which was under Dutch colonial rule until 1949. The diary entries and letters written to his wife during this trip are preserved, and a selection is published in K. H. Miskotte. een keuze uit zijn dagboeken en andere teksten (Baarn: Uitgeverij de Prom, 1994). Miskotte himself spoke in private about the paradigmatic influence that this Indonesian trip had on his thought, but this influence never materialized in his work apart from three lectures he delivered in Haarlem on the topic of the church in the colony. De Liagre Böhl spoke matter-of-factly about the Indonesian trip and he praises Miskotte for his timely critique on the colonial church in Indonesia. However, when reading the diary entries of Miskotte himself, another image emerges, namely, of someone who was not exempt from the pernicious sexualization of indigenous women. Miskotte wrote at astonishing length and detail about the bare breasts of the women he encountered, barely concealing his own arousal. In one telling quote, which is included in De Liagre Böhls’s biography, Miskotte fixes his gaze upon a pregnant woman, whom he considers to be “bursting with life”. This sexualization of these indigenous women was an integral part of the colonial logic since celebration of the fertility of colonized women went hand in hand with the exploitation of their fertile and perceived virginal land. As such, Miskotte’s private remarks are far from innocent, since they lay bare how even well-meaning theologians were not exempt from the poisonous air of colonial rhetoric. The biographer would, therefore, have done well to devote more attention to this troubled dimension of Miskotte’s engagement with colonialism, which would have resulted in a more nuanced treatment. Given Miskotte’s complex personality, he was able to both denounce the colonial church, and still also embody a colonial male gaze at the same time.

For Barth scholars, this biography has much to offer, despite the fact that the book is only available in the Dutch language. The book offers a model for how to write a theological biography due to its accessibility, the seamless merging of the personal and the theological, and its avoidance of hagiography. Perhaps it is a sign of the times that it has become possible to discuss mental ailments and instability openly, and how these mental health issues impacted the work of highly-respected theologians. Miskotte is no different. His life was characterized by profound melancholic periods, interspersed with periods of almost maniacal productivity. Miskotte wrote his dissertation in only half a year. This feat is not simply a manifestation of genius, but it also signals a warning sign about his mental health. With sensitivity and empathy, De Liagre Böhl writes about the great tragedy that struck the Miskotte household in 1946. During this year, the Miskotte family attended a wedding ceremony and ate some contaminated fish. With the exception of Miskotte, everyone in the family fell seriously ill, which resulted in the death of Miskotte’s wife and daughter from a typhus infection. An intense personal and spiritual crisis ensued where Miskotte blamed himself for what happened, citing his occasional egocentric behavior in their marriage as the cause of the tragedy.

De Liagre Böhl’s biography is a helpful resource for both theologians and non-theologians. As the great-grandson of Kohlbrugge, De Liagre Böhl is not a theologian by trade, but rather a historian who has written well-regarded biographies of Dutch literary figures. De Liagre Böhl’s skill as a historian has enabled him to make theological concepts accessible for non-theologians without sacrificing quality.

Hopefully this biography might contribute to a more thorough reflection of the Barth-reception in the Netherlands, not just within historical studies, but also within the field of systematic theology as well. This biography could therefore be read alongside Susanne Hennecke’s monograph Karl Barth in den Niederlanden Teil. Theologische, kulturelle und politische Rezeption (1919-1960). As the reviewer of this study, E.G. Meijering asserts that the waning influence of Barth in the 1960s in the Netherlands could have been related to the growing interest in the work of Martin Buber, of whose work Miskotte was, to put it in contemporary language, an “early adopter.” It remains the case, regretfully, that Barth called Buber disparagingly a “Neuphärisäer.” Since the interest in Jewish-Christian dialogue flourished during that time period, Barth’s unwillingness to engage Buber might have hampered his further reception in the Netherlands. Miskotte’s early dialogue with thinkers such as Buber, Rosenzweig, Ernst Bloch and Max Brod inoculated him against this pernicious sentiment, and this engagement functioned as a trailblazer for Christian-Jewish dialogue in the Netherlands.

Eleonora Hof (BA 2008, cum laude, ETF Leuven; MA 2010 Vrije Universiteit Amsterdam, cum laude; PhD 2016 Protestant Theological University Amsterdam) is a board member of the Miskotte Foundation and minister-in-training in the United Protestant Church in Belgium

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

Moseley, Carys. Nations and Nationalism in the Theology of Karl Barth (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013)

Nations and Nationalism in the Theology of Karl Barth 

Moseley, Carys. Nations and Nationalism in the Theology of Karl Barth (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), x + 219 pp. $110.00 (hardcover).

Reviewed by Clifford B. Anderson (August 25, 2016)

A great deal of contemporary Barth scholarship follows well-worn paths, exploring dogmatic themes with reference primarily to the Church Dogmatics. Refreshingly, Carys Moseley’s Nations and Nationalism in the Theology of Karl Barth charts new territory in the field of Barth studies. Moseley, an independent scholar with a Ph.D. from the University of Edinburgh, traces Barth’s theological perspective on nations from his earliest theology to his Church Dogmatics, drawing on relevant Anglo-American and continental scholarship to articulate her perspective. Her study demonstrates the significance of the neglected concept of nation in Barth’s theology.

Moseley builds on a significant secular body of literature on nations and nationalism. While she introduces key concepts from this literature, readers may find themselves wishing she had provided greater context for some distinctions she draws. In particular, understanding her argument requires distinguishing between “nations” and “states.” As Barth remarked in his Ethics, “Nation and state are not coextensive.” The former is a socio-cultural entity whereas the latter is a political configuration. There are numerous examples of stateless nations-that is, nations without sovereign governments–ranging from the Scots in Great Britain to the Uighur in Asia to the Kurds in the Middle East to the Cherokees in the United States. What is the theological significance of nations? Should every nation have its own state, as nationalists contend? Did God divide the world into nations in Creation? Do nations serve providential purposes or even promote soteriological ends?

Moseley constructs her argument chronologically. From his earliest days, Barth was always hostile toward nationalism. His hostility arose in part due to his Swiss citizenship. As a citizen of a state founded on a treaty between four national groups, Barth inherently rejected the nationalist dogma that every nation must have its own state. His socialism also inclined him toward internationalism. Indeed, Barth’s bitter disappointment at socialist collusion with nationalism at the beginning of the Great War propelled him into his search for new theological foundations. By the conclusion of the war, Barth had developed a trinitarian reading of Scripture that countermanded the tendency to identify the Holy Spirit with national enthusiasms. His firm distinction between the spirit of the nation and the Holy Spirit informed his resistance to National Socialism during the Second World War. However, it also leaves open questions. If nationalism constitutes a form of idolatry, does that mean that national differences also lack theological significance? Barth returned repeatedly to this question throughout his career. In the section on “Near and Distant Neighbors” in Church Dogmatics III/4, he acknowledged nations as historical constructs within which Christians are called to respond to God’s providential decrees. While not rooted in creation, national bear historical significance.

Zionism influenced Barth’s views significantly. The Jewish people were the theological exemplar of a stateless nation, at least prior to 1948. Moseley’s attention to Judaism is crucial for her study. Barth’s support for the establishment of Israel seems to contradict his anti-nationalism. Why should the Jewish nation require its own state when lots of other stateless nations do not? Of course, the fate of the Jews during the Shoah provided abundant historical rationale. But Barth also provided a theological rationale–Israel is not fundamentally a nation in the secular sense, but called to be a nation by divine providence. As Moseley describes Barth’s views, “Israel is a people or nation only due to God’s election” (178). As I understand the argument, the existence of Israel as a nation is not the consequence of the Created order or historical providence, but a judgment against the aseism of other nations and against their consequent nationalisms.

Barth’s understanding of the place of Israel among the nations also likely reflected his reading of the Pentecost narrative. Moseley skillfully intertwines a history of the exegesis of the second chapter of Acts. The Pentecost narrative is relevant for the study because it addresses the relation between the spirit and the national identity. Barth did not subscribe to the dominant opinion among New Testament scholars of the period questioning the reliability of narrative in Acts. Moseley shows that the skeptical reading stemming from F. C. Baur supported theological efforts to disassociate the early church from its Jewish origins. As she notes, such readings of Acts lead others to substitute their nations for Israel. Barth’s acceptance of the (miraculous) historicity of the Pentecost narrative in Acts, which bolstered his defense of the filioque clause in the Nicene Creed, provided him with the theological resources necessary to safeguard the identity of the Spirit against any nationalist appropriation.

Barth’s alternative to nationalism was likely the formation of large multinational states. Moseley notes that Barth’s dislike of nationalism made him “oddly nostalgic for the Holy Roman Empire as a superstate which kept nationalism in its place” (17). Barth backed away from this nostalgia after the Second World War–probably because, Moseley speculates, he wished to avoid conflation of his position with Hitler’s imperialism. Barth would undoubtedly have been a strong supporter of the European Union, however.

We might also wonder what his perspective would have been toward multinational corporations. In our era, corporations are effacing national boundaries and have acquired powers formerly associated with sovereign states. Moseley does not explore this question, which obviously is speculative rather than historical. On the one hand, Barth classified “nationalism, imperialism, and capitalism” together as pernicious forces. On the other, corporations have arguably become social-cultural entities that transcend the boundaries of nations and states, relativizing national cultures and languages. Would Barth’s hostility toward capitalism have predisposed him against finding any positive role for multinational corporations? Or might he have regarded them as unlikely allies in his fight against nationalism?

Nations and Nationalism in the Theology of Karl Barth will appeal broadly beyond the field of Barth studies to ethicists and to scholars working on political theology from a variety of viewpoints. Her attention to the exegesis of Acts makes her study of interest to New Testament scholars as well. Given the wide appeal of her subject matter, I wish that Moseley had confined disagreements with fellow scholars of Karl Barth to the footnotes. The presence of these asides scattered throughout her text likely arises from the book’s origins as an academic dissertation, but detracts from the readability of her narrative.

Despite the occasional forays into intramural disputations, Moseley’s work deserves wide reading from theological and political scholars. In the era of the renewal of political theology, which is closely associated with Carl Schmitt’s claim that politics is always about the distinction between friends and enemies, Barth demonstrated a peaceable alternative that both preserves differences between nations while relativizing their final significance in light of God’s providential designs for the reconciliation and redemption of his peoples.

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

Petershans, Sören. Offenbarung des Namens und versöhntes Leben: Eine Untersuchung zur Gotteslehre bei Kornelis Heiko Miskotte. Arbeiten zur Systematischen Theologie 11 (Leipzig: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt,2016)

Offenbarung des Namens und versöhntes Leben: Eine Untersuchung zur Gotteslehre bei Kornelis Heiko Miskotte. Arbeiten zur Systematischen Theologie 11

Petershans, Sören. Offenbarung des Namens und versöhntes Leben: Eine Untersuchung zur Gotteslehre bei Kornelis Heiko Miskotte. Arbeiten zur Systematischen Theologie 11 (Leipzig: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt,2016), 320 pp. $85.00 (hardcover).

Reviewed by Collin Cornell (December 05, 2017)

The back cover of Sören Petershans’s book indicates that the thinker in question—Dutch theologian Kornelis Heiko Miskotte—remains largely unknown to German-language theology. Germans may dimly recall Miskotte as a mid-century interpreter of Karl Barth and a pioneer of Jewish-Christian dialogue. But beyond that, nichts! If such obscurity obtains in German-speaking lands, it runs much deeper in the Anglophone realm.

Petershans thus faces a relatively uncongested theological arena upon which to stage his thesis: that far from being merely a Barth epigone, Miskotte developed his own distinctive theology, and that its individuality is nowhere more evident than its doctrine of God. Hence the title of Petershans’s book, which in English reads, Revelation of the Name and Reconciled Life: A Study on the Doctrine of God according to Kornelis Heiko Miskotte.

Christian Link and Ulrich Körtner supervised the 2014 University of Vienna dissertation which Offenbarung des Namens und versöhntes Leben, in revised form, represents. The first 96 pages of Petershans’s study provide a bird’s-eye view of Miskotte’s theology and an examination of his three greatest theological influences. These remarks prepare for the longer, more focused, and more innovative second part of Petershans’s book.

Kornelis Heiko Miskotte (1894-1976) was born in Utrecht and studied theology at Utrecht University. After graduating, he pastored for twenty years in both rural and urban settings, completing a dissertation at the University of Groningen while serving as a full-time pastor. His first theological mentor was Johannes Hermanus Gunning, Jr., a founder of the Dutch “Ethical Theology.” The central concept of this theological school was encounter with God. Divine revelation imparted a way of life and not doctrinal content; truth was a matter of ethics and not objective and rational. Miskotte would later call this approach “ethical mysticism.” Above all it sought a synthesis of faith and culture. Although Miskotte would later dissent sharply from this synthesis, his mature doctrine of God nonetheless inherits much from this theological school. Miskotte’s emphasis on experience, even experience of God, and his sense of apostolic solidarity with culture and the world alike trace back to Gunning’s influence.

In 1923, while serving in his first pastoral call, Miskotte read Karl Barth’s Römerbrief. His initial journal entry on it deems Barth’s style expressionist and his thought Marcionite. However, Barth won him over after only a few days. Miskotte began a correspondence with Barth—and a theological friendship—that would last until Barth’s death in 1968. Barth would in 1956 address Miskotte as “the seer and poet among my friends.” Miskotte considered himself a disciple. He wrote several books on Barth, including two on the Church Dogmatics alone, and he became the best-known proponent of Barth’s theology to the Netherlands. Barth’s influence saturates Miskotte’s theology; Miskotte’s understanding of divine revelation is deeply indebted to it. Like Barth and other dialectical theologians, Miskotte renounced any synthesis of God and culture. Instead he upheld the particularity and event-character of God’s self-disclosure. Miskotte also shared Barth’s Christological concentration (as it has been called) and his attentiveness to the theological locus of predestination. For him as for Barth, Jesus Christ is the singular and exclusive Word of God, and God’s initiative towards humanity in Christ coincides with God’s own self-determination from eternity.

The last of Miskotte’s three major influences is the Jewish philosopher, Franz Rosenzweig, whose Star of Redemption Miskotte read in 1928, and about whom he wrote much of his Groningen dissertation. In common with many Christian dialectical theologians, Rosenzweig’s work centers on divine revelation as an event. In distinction from other dialectical theologians, Rosenzweig envisions the proper name of God—the Tetragrammaton—as the event of revelation. Miskotte wholly absorbed this conviction. Rosenzweig also taught Miskotte to prize the Old Testament as a self-standing theological witness. Indeed, for Miskotte the Old Testament already contains “all truth,” and it preaches God’s becoming-flesh (Gottes Fleischwerdung). The unique property of the New Testament is only to name this becoming-flesh as Jesus Christ—and so to foreground divine love. Rosenzweig also confirmed for Miskotte the experiential nature of encounter with God.

The second part of Petershans’s book divides into three sections. The first draws on analytic philosophy of language to streamline and sophisticate Miskotte’s view of the divine name. Here Petershans differentiates between proper names and appellatives (Benennungsnamen). God appointed one proper name to the divine self—YHWH. As a proper name, YHWH refers fixedly to one unsubstitutable individual, even as that individual’s other attributes and forms of address vary. In this way, Petershans layers a more technical vocabulary onto Miskotte’s own comments that the divine name is “a nameless name”—truly empty of content and solely referential—while attracting other names and qualities.

The second and third sections present the heart of Petershans’s book. Petershans engages in close exegesis of Miskotte’s writings, primarily his 1956 book, When the Gods are Silent (English translation, Harper 1967) and his primer in Bible reading, Biblical ABCs, written under Nazi occupation in 1941 and still untranslated into English. These sections also demonstrate Petershans’s thesis that Miskotte’s doctrine of God is distinct relative to Barth. The second section, entitled “Revelation as Revelation of the Name according to Miskotte,” accesses Miskotte’s concept of revelation through his teaching about predestination. Petershans organizes much of his discussion on the basis of a schema he derives from section headings in Miskotte’s Biblical ABCs:

Name = Revelation
Name = YHWH
Name = Jesus Christ

Miskotte identifies the divine name YHWH as the event of divine self-revelation. But he also understands revelation most basically as sanctification (Heiligung), that is, as effecting Lebensänderung—“life change.” For Miskotte, divine revelation as such transforms the participating human subject. This is seen in Miskotte’s treatment of the paradigmatic burning bush narrative (Exodus 3), where God’s communication of a name is at the same time a divine self-determination (Selbstbestimmung) to liberate Israel from Egypt—a Lebensänderung of some magnitude. Miskotte calls this event an Urtat—a primordial act of divine self-demarcation; Petershans glosses it as “predestination.” In the schema above and throughout his writings, Miskotte also equates this event with the Bible’s other proper name: Jesus Christ. Miskotte thus speaks of “one covenant,” “one salvation,” and “oneness of the times,” in that both testaments of the Christian Bible by a “double reference” witness to a single divine self-determination to save. Together but distinctly they testify to a single divine predestination of the divine self for assumptio carnis—“assumption of flesh.” In this way, Miskotte makes revelation of the name and reconciled life to coincide, as in Petershans’s main title.

Miskotte views the two testaments as united in their witness to God’s becoming-flesh, but he also differentiates them, and that difference silhouettes his individuality relative to Barth. The difference—or “surplus,” as Miskotte calls it—of the New Testament vis-à-vis the Old is its clarity in presenting this “one salvation” as justification. The surplus of the Old is its clarity in presenting salvation in its aspect as sanctification. The Old Testament, in other words, articulates the revelation of the divine name within a rich and concrete variety of human experiences—erotic and political, economic and ethical—while the New Testament does not. Because he prioritizes the Old Testament, the human and participatory “side” of revelation is thereby given prominence in Miskotte’s theology. In just this regard, Petershans argues, Miskotte distinguishes his doctrine of God from Barth’s. Barth focuses on revelation as justification, and so seals his theological system off from human experience; Miskotte focuses on revelation as sanctification, maintaining a greater openness to human experience and culture. To be sure, as Petershans observes at length, the two theologians differ in their Trinitarian doctrine: Miskotte hardly speaks of the Trinity while Barth is famous for recovering it. But Petershans locates the more fundamental divide in Miskotte’s view of divine self-revelation as sanctification.

Offenbarung des Namens und versöhntes Leben brings welcome attention to an interesting and underappreciated theologian in the dialectical trajectory. For that alone Petershans’s book renders a valuable service to the theological academy. Petershans also deserves thanks for giving a relatively clear overview of a theologian whose thick prose and meandering presentation one early reviewer described as “stygian” (James Brown, Scottish Journal of Theology, 1969). Also valuable is Petershans’s engagement with other authors who have written about Miskotte, particularly since most of them write in Dutch. Petershans’s frequent translations from Dutch to German in footnotes, for example, are helpful. However, not all the sections of his book are equally successful. Petershans is at his best when he exposits Miskotte—and not when he makes long summaries of secondary literature on analytic philosophy or theologies of revelation. His book will be of interest to Barth scholarship as an example of free-thinking and constructive Barthianism.

My thanks to Dr. Eleonora Hof for her helpful comments on a draft of this review.
Collin Cornell, Ph.D. Candidate, Hebrew Bible/Old Testament, Emory University
The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

Currie, Thomas. The Only Sacrament Left to Us: The Threefold Word of God in the Theology and Ecclesiology of Karl Barth

The Only Sacrament Left to Us: The Threefold Word of God in the Theology and Ecclesiology of Karl Barth 

Currie, Thomas. The Only Sacrament Left to Us: The Threefold Word of God in the Theology and Ecclesiology of Karl Barth (Eugene: Wipf and Stock Publishers, 2015), 196 pp. $23.00 (paperback).

Reviewed by Catherine C. Tobey (February 15, 2016)

Mega churches in urban centers and small suburban and rural congregations suffer alike from priestly mentalities and cults of personality. In The Only Sacrament Left to Us, Thomas Christian Currie poises the insight of an unsatisfied and passionate theologian who calls us back to Christ as our center, our life, our everything, and commissions us all to an Advent state of mind.

The key, for Currie, is the threefold Word of God, which is not only intimately tied to Karl Barth’s concept of the church, but also to his whole venture. Currie takes a step forward in Barth studies by presenting a case for Barth’s development of the threefold Word of God as it relates to Barth’s gospel-centric actualistic ecclesiology. Here, he beckons readers to consider once and for all their notion of how God works in the church.

Currie begins his study with a thorough overview of Barth’s earliest efforts regarding the threefold Word of God, which were inspired by Reformation theologians such as Martin Luther and Heinrich Bullinger. Throughout his time in Göttingen and Münster, Barth grappled with this concept, concerned with affirming God’s dynamic freedom, denying the divinization of Scripture, and prioritizing God’s Self-revelation; his conclusions were published in Church Dogmatics I/1 and I/2. Currie closes the first chapter after tracing Barth’s conception of Christian preaching, exposing how proclamation becomes the Word of God and what this means for humanity.

Though, unsurprisingly, “Barth’s concept of the threefold Word of God has a christological emphasis,” it also has “a pneumatological dimension” (30). In the second chapter, Currie turns to the vital role of the Holy Spirit who “is the source of unity between the one Word of God and its secondary forms” (41). Currie calls attention to the idea that the Spirit makes Christ’s presence manifest as the church engages Scripture and proclaims the gospel. Throughout this event, humanity remains humanity, never gaining control of the Word of God but necessarily relying on the Holy Spirit to carry out its purpose.

In the third chapter, Currie puts the church at the forefront of the discussion, digging into Barth’s early theological writings and the first three volumes of the Church Dogmatics. His reflections on the integral relationship Barth envisions between the threefold Word of God and the church’s life are thought provoking, to be sure, but they leave the reader feeling scattered. Though situated as a crux, it is difficult to connect with Currie in this section, which is perhaps due to either the lack of clear structure or the esoteric nature of his discussion. The latter of which is surprising, due to his role as both pastor and theologian.

In the next chapter though, Currie comprehensively considers contemporary scholarship regarding Barth’s use and revision of the threefold Word of God, seamlessly intertwining quotations and explaining a wide diversity of complex perspectives. He also takes the time to grapple with the content of Church Dogmatics IV/3, where Barth’s engagement with the threefold Word of God culminates as he revisits and amends it. Currie points to Barth’s renewed interest in solidifying and distinguishing Christ as the only Word of God, who “alone introduces Himself, presents Himself, and declares the good news of the gospel” (92).

One example of this shift is Barth’s expanded description of where Christ can manifest himself and create witnesses, namely, outside of the scope of Scripture and proclamation. In addition, rather than speaking chiefly of proclamation like before, Barth emphasizes the role of prayer. Here, Currie clarifies that Barth does not seem to dismiss his earlier thoughts regarding the threefold Word of God, but simply seeks to ensure the church knows their place in this relationship with Christ. Indeed it is as if Barth wants to warn the church, and particularly the clergy, against acting as if they had a corner of God.

In the final chapter, Currie demonstrates the current relevance of Barth’s conception of the threefold Word of God to the Church, ecclesiology, and Barth studies, focusing on the reasons behind Barth’s revision. Faced with the rise and expansion of the church, Barth sought to remind it of its humanity, rejecting any “attempts to clutch, possess, or lay claim to the contemporary presence of Christ” (146). Currie insists, on behalf of Barth, “The church is not a crutch, it possesses no inside track nor does it exist as a sphere of superiority in relation to others” (146).

By tracing the development of the threefold Word of God in Barth’s work, Currie demonstrates a deep appreciation for Barth and achieves a great depth; this is nearly paralleled in his excellent engagement with other scholars, including those who were highly critical of Barth. Currie stays close to Bruce McCormack’s unparalleled insight throughout this volume, drawing in other modern sources of wisdom, like Kimlyn Bender and Eberhart Jüngel, as appropriate.

The volume is dense, packed with richness applicable to both the academy and the church today. Readers can’t help but walk away with a heavy heart for the church, hopeful that as it faces the demise of Christendom, it will turn away from its entitled, self-sufficiency, open its eyes to its Lord, and be freed from itself so that it may truly be the church.

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

David B. Hunsicker. The Making of Stanley Hauerwas: Bridging Barth and Postliberalism, New Explorations in Theology (Downers Grove, IL: IVP Academic, 2019)

The Making of Stanley Hauerwas: Bridging Barth and Postliberalism

David B. Hunsicker. The Making of Stanley Hauerwas: Bridging Barth and Postliberalism, New Explorations in Theology (Downers Grove, IL: IVP Academic, 2019), xvi +234 pp. $40.00 (paperback).

Reviewed by Luke Zerra (May 28, 2020)

The thesis of The Making of Stanley Hauerwas is easily stated: Hauerwas is a Barthian and a postliberal; the one informs the other so that Hauerwas is postliberal insofar as he is Barthian and vice versa. This raises the question of what the terms “Barthian” and “postliberal” mean, as well as what it means for Hauerwas to take them up. Hunsicker argues Hauerwas is a Barthian in a direct but low-flying sense. He does not follow Barth point by point, but “understands the basic impulse that set Barth’s theology in motion: the rejection of Protestant liberalism” (6). Hauerwas learns from Barth how to diagnose and go beyond the problems of liberal theology. Hunsicker’s deployment of “postliberal” follows from this. Hauerwas is postliberal insofar as he articulates a theology and ethics after liberal Protestantism. Key here is Hauerwas’s highlighting of the relationship between “Christian convictions and Christian practices” (10). Where protestant liberalism is said to unhitch doctrine and ethics, Hauerwas strives to “describe human agency as it relates to the God who is presupposed in the basic narratives of the Christian faith” (10). Hauerwas’s postliberalism is sustained by what he learned from Barth, and his Barthianism is identified with his desire for a theological imagination that is genuinely post-liberal.

Hunsicker makes this argument that Hauerwas is a Barthian and a postliberal in response to what he calls the “Schleiermacher thesis” and the “Ritschl thesis.” The Schleiermacher thesis, exemplified by Nicholas Healy’s Hauerwas: a (Very) Critical Introduction (Eerdmans, 2014), holds that Hauerwas’s ecclesial focus risks substituting the church for God as theology’s subject matter. As the charges go, Hauerwas is closer to Schleiermacher than to Barth theologically, because he places more focus on the Church’s communal experience than God’s revelation in Christ. The Ritschl thesis, advanced by John Webster and Nigel Biggar, claims that Hauerwas’s Christology is one of moral exemplarity and that his view of scripture emphasizes its ecclesial importance at the expense of its revelatory nature. On both counts, Hauerwas stands accused of repeating the habits of Protestant liberalism and thus being un-Barthian. Hunsicker seeks to defend Hauerwas against these claims.

Hunsicker’s case comes in three parts. Part one rehearses key moments in Hauerwas’s biography and identifies major influences that shape him as a Barthian. Key here is Hauerwas’s diagnosis that Protestant liberalism falsely divorced doctrine from ethics. This separation occurred, first, through the Kantian claim that if God is a subject beyond empirical knowledge then theology ought to be about morality and, secondly, through the claim that morality could be established without reference to particular religious convictions. If the first narrative allows human action to replace God as the subject of theology, then the second allows America to replace the church as the site of moral formation among Christian ethicists on Hauerwas and Hunsicker’s telling. Barth, by insisting that practical reason flows from a theological description of the world, gives Hauerwas the resources to resist the Kantian narrative that separated doctrine from ethics. Hauerwas learns to resist the second narrative from several thinkers, including H. Richard Niebuhr and Paul Ramsey, but Hunsicker identifies John Howard Yoder as the key influential voice in Hauerwas’s theological development. What Yoder gives Hauerwas is an insistence on the church, not the state, as the context for Christian ethics. Although Barth seems to be absent here, Hunsicker argues that Hauerwas understands the projects of Barth and Yoder “to be largely commensurate with each other” (43). Commensurability is perhaps too strong an identification, but the important point is Yoder’s role in mediating Barth to Hauerwas through texts like Karl Barth and the Problem of War (Abingdon, 1970) and in personal conversation. Hauerwas thus learns from Yoder to read Barth in a manner that rejects an ethic which implicitly privileges the interests of the state. Barth, Hunsicker shows in part one, is central for Hauerwas’s diagnosis and prescription for the problems of Protestant liberalism.

Parts two and three take on, respectively, the twin challenges of the Schleiermacher and Ritschl theses. In response to the Schleiermacher thesis, Hunsicker argues that Hauerwas’s ecclesiocentrism is a development of insights learned from Barth’s Christocentrism. These are materially different central focuses, but Hunsicker argues Hauerwas’s ecclesial focus is on the church as a site where Christ constitutes a people as members of his body. The Schleiermacher thesis is overcome because Hauerwas’s ecclesiocentrism, on Hunsicker’s view, privileges divine rather than human activity. In considering the Ritschl thesis, Hunsicker agrees with the claim that Hauerwas emphasizes scripture’s ecclesial mediation in a way Barth never would but argues that this does not make Hauerwas a Protestant liberal. This is because Hauerwas’s aim in prioritizing communal reading of scripture is to resist prioritizing the individual’s interpretation of scripture, which Hauerwas thinks is a liberal move present in American churches across political divides.

I see two issues in Hunsicker’s work related to the central terms of “Barthian” and “postliberal.” First, though Hunsicker makes an excellent case for the influence of Barth on the formal shape of Hauerwas’s thought, key divergences seemingly remain on the level of moral theory. Hunsicker is attentive to some of these, showing how some differences—such as Hauerwas’s and Barth’s respective ecclesial and Christological focuses—can be read as places were Hauerwas develops insights from Barth. Yet, I worry more fundamental differences remain. Hauerwas’s ethics, for instance, is oriented around the notions of character and virtue while Barth’s is centered on the idea of divine command (cf. CD II/2 §§36-39). While some readings of Barth put him in conversation with virtue ethics, such as Kirk Nolan’s Reformed Virtue After Barth (WJK, 2014), Barth and Hauerwas’s central categories for moral reasoning ultimately differ in some important ways. It is one thing to say that Hauerwas takes from Barth important insights about the narrative shape of Christian life or for diagnosing issues in liberal Protestant social ethics, but it is quite another to suggest that how Hauerwas thinks about human action and reasoning is Barthian. Can one have Barth’s focus on divine command and the focus on character and virtue that Hauerwas takes from Alasdair MacIntyre or Thomas Aquinas? Hunsicker is wise to not reduce Hauerwas to Barth, noting differences such as Hauerwas’s embrace of casuistry, which Barth rejects (chapters 3 and 8). However, it is still worth interrogating how Barthian Hauerwas is if he is a moral theologian whose moral theology turns out to be quite different than Barth’s at key points. Here’s an example. Hauerwas is a pacifist, arguing that nonviolence is sustained by the virtues and bears witness to Christ’s Lordship. Barth resists what he takes to be the moral absolutism of pacifism, instead leaving open the possibility of “borderline cases” wherein God’s command must be discerned (CD III/4 §55). This is not just a difference in judgment about war’s moral status, but a difference in moral reflection. Hauerwas is committed to nonviolence and its constitutive virtues as essential to Christian witness while Barth is committed to God’s freedom to command violence in exceptional cases. Both seek to bear witness to Christ’s Lordship and to promote peace within particular contexts, yet important differences seem to remain. These are complex issues, yet I trust Hunsicker’s deft analysis of Barth’s formal influence on Hauerwas’s moral theology will inspire many to take them up.

The second point relates to the terms “liberal” and “postliberal.” As mentioned, Hunsicker coordinates Hauerwas’s Barthianism to postliberalism, with the understanding that Hauerwas learned from Barth how to do theology after liberalism. This raises the question of the relation between the German and American liberalisms to which Barth and Hauerwas are respectively responding. Barth’s work came as a bombshell on the playground of the theologians tutored by liberal theologians such as Schleiermacher, Troeltsch, or Ritschl while Hauerwas’s work threw a similar bombshell at liberal Protestant ethicists following Rauschenbusch or the Niebuhr brothers. How similar, however, are these two liberalisms? For instance, the Niebuhr brothers, James Gustafson, and Paul Lehmann each bear the imprint of Barth’s influence yet remain more or less tethered—on Hauerwas’s telling—to liberal habits of thought (see Hauerwas, “Christian Ethics in America [and the JRE],” in Journal of Religious Ethics 25.3 [1997]: 57-76). I agree with Hunsicker that there are formal similarities and family resemblances between the liberalisms to which Barth and Hauerwas were each responding. I also agree that reading Barth gave Hauerwas a critical purchase on social ethics in the Protestant liberal vein. Yet I worry that running the two traditions together risks casting “liberalism” as too neatly defined, thus obscuring the particularities of what Barth and Hauerwas each responded to. I also worry that if someone like H. Richard Niebuhr can have dispositions influenced by both Barth and liberalism then why not Hauerwas? This worry is amplified if one follows readers of Barth—such as Bruce McCormack or Christoph Chalamet—who claim Barth himself never fully shed his liberalism. Since much of the book is defending the claim that Hauerwas is not a liberal because he is a Barthian, then these points need to be dealt with carefully and with precision. For Hauerwas to be postliberal we must be clear on what liberalism is and this may mean admitting the categories are fluid and at overlapping at points.

These questions come not from a place of skepticism towards Hunsicker’s thesis that Hauerwas is a Barthian and postliberal, but rather because of how generative this book was for my thinking as an ethicist variously invested in Barth’s theology as a resource for moral reflection. One particularly generative claim Hunsicker makes is that Hauerwas can, in important ways, be thought of as a pragmatist of sorts (9). As Hunsicker notes, pragmatic themes in George Lindbeck and other postliberal theologians have been recognized; yet in my judgment pragmatism is not adequately recognized as a feature of Hauerwas or Barth’s thought. Hauerwas’s pragmatism arises in the importance of performance and witness to his work. Hauerwas is convinced that Christian claims are intelligible by being enacted in the church’s life. The doctrinal commitment that Christ is Lord—to give a Hauerwasian example—is performed through the church’s witness of nonviolence. Hauerwas, Hunsicker suggests, take up this variety of pragmatism from what he has learned from Barth about keeping doctrine and ethics together. That Hauerwas learns this from Barth shows Barth is more of a pragmatist than often acknowledged and shows that Hauerwas’s pragmatic moments come not only from his reading of Wittgenstein but from Barth’s influence. I hope Hunsicker’s insight bears fruit for fuller treatments comparing Hauerwas’s moral reasoning with that of pragmatist thinkers, something Hauerwas himself has done in conversation with Jeffrey Stout and Romand Coles. I also hope Hunsicker’s insights regarding pragmatism will help to further readings of Barth’s thought, such as those offered by Derek Woodard-Lehman or Peter Ochs, as pragmatic in important ways. Identifying pragmatic strands in Hauerwas, and by extension Barth, is an important suggestion on Hunsicker’s part, and one with which more readers of Hauerwas and Barth ought to wrestle.

Given how prolific and occasional Hauerwas’s writing is, Hunsicker does a great service to ethicists and Barth scholars by drawing together Hauerwas’s various engagements with Barth into a synoptic vision. For budding theologians and ethicists, The Making of Stanley Hauerwas stands as a helpful example of how to hold theological and moral claims together. In my judgment, Hunsicker makes a convincing case that Hauerwas’s theological vision is formally “Barthian” in a low-flying, but meaningful sense. This is to say that Hauerwas neither claims to be a Barth scholar nor to follow all of Barth’s theological decisions. Nonetheless, Hauerwas can be said to be a “Barthian” in the sense that his critique of Protestant liberalism, wedding of doctrine and ethics, and focus on the narrative of God’s work in Christ as central for moral reasoning are all taken from meaningful engagement with Barth. There is much to learn from Hunsicker’s work, and I trust it will be a central guide for those navigating the thought of either Hauerwas or Barth.

Luke Zerra, Ph.D. Candidate, Princeton Theological Seminary

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

Bruce L. McCormack, Orthodox and Modern: Studies in the Theology of Karl Barth (Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2008)

Orthodox and Modern: Studies in the Theology of Karl Barth 

Bruce L. McCormack, Orthodox and Modern: Studies in the Theology of Karl Barth (Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2008), 320. $35.00 (paperback)

Reviewed by Matthias Gockel (October 23, 2009)

This collection of essays comes from one of the leading interpreters of Karl Barth and shows how his thinking has developed in the last decade. When one reads the book as a whole, it becomes clear that Bruce McCormack regards Barth not as an icon but as an exemplary companion in the quest “to understand what it means to be orthodox under the conditions of modernity” (17).

The first part of the book analyzes Karl Barth’s relationship to nineteenth-century theology. McCormack is convinced that the time has come to compare systematically “the relative merits of the two most impressive constructive theologians … in the modern period – those of Friedrich Schleiermacher and Karl Barth” (41).

Chapter 1 focusses on theological epistemology. After Kant’s limitation of theoretical knowledge to the realm of intuitable phenomena, knowledge of God has become “deeply problematic to modern theologians” (24). According to McCormack, Barth’s commentary on Romans attempts to establish the independence of revelation and, in doing so, belongs to a tradition that begins with Schleiermacher’s effort to make religion independent of metaphysics and ethics. Barth relocates the problem in the realm of theological epistemology and thereby attempts “to transcend Kant’s restrictions” (27). For Barth, revelation occurs “within the realm of theoretical knowing” (28), yet it is a distinct kind of knowing, because its source is an act of God in which the human knowing apparatus is “grasped by God from without and made to conform to God as its object”. Revelation as a Christian dogmatic concept must be God’s self-revelation. Moreover, if the unintuitable God is truly to be known, God must make Himself intuitable in such a way that His unintuitability is not set aside. Whereas the commentary on Romans imagines such an event by means of expressive metaphors and an “appeal” to divine power, Barth soon discovers Christology, especially the doctrine of the incarnation, as the dogmatic topic with which he could explain his discovery: “The life of Jesus of Nazareth is God’s life; his intuitability is God’s intuitability” (32).

The essay concludes with “programmatic suggestions” regarding the proper categorization of Barth. Philosophically, Barth is a foundationalist of the Kantian sort. Theologically, however, Barth cannot be called a foundationalist, since his philosophical convictions do not provide the “ultimate ground” for his theological truth-claims. McCormack suggests the term “transfoundationalism”, in which the prefix ‘trans-’ refers to the possibility of transcending foundations without negating them. Such an act of transcendence must not be understood as human self-transcendence, since its basis is a “realistically conceived divine act” (35, my emphasis).

Chapter 2 compares the doctrine of election in the theologies of Alexander Schweizer and Karl Barth. Both men agree that “what God does in time must be grounded in His eternal being” (a quote from Schweizer) and point out that the classical Reformed doctrine of predestination emphasizes the unconditionality of God’s grace. For Schweizer, God’s grace belongs to God’s eternally and omnipresently active love, insofar as this love is confronted by sinful human beings. Grace belongs to the divine attribute of love, insofar as this love is confronted by human sin. It is not dependent on a person’s faith or unbelief. Still, Schweizer follows the classical Augustinian model of election, which focusses on the question of why some believe and others not. He insists that God’s grace, like God’s love, is universal in its scope. Here, the concept of “applicative grace” comes into play. Applicative grace is not irresistible or compulsive but must be received willingly. God’s grace is universal in nature but particular in effect. Schweizer eventually treats election as “a subcategory of providence” (55). Herein, he is indebted to Schleiermacher.

Barth locates election in the doctrine of God, whereby God is not only the subject but also the primary object of election. The starting-point of Barth’s dogmatic reflection is the concept of God’s self-revelation in the history of Jesus Christ. On this basis, he asks: What must God be like to do what he has done? According to Barth, God reveals himself “in taking to himself a fully human life as his very own (in all of its limitations up to and including death)” (58). This act of God has its ground not in some hidden divine decree or decision but in the eternal being of God. The history of Jesus Christ is truly God’s self-revelation. But Barth goes even one step further, at once modifying and deepening the classical doctrine’s emphasis on God’s unconditional grace. Jesus Christ is not only God’s self-revelation but also God’s self-determination. God’s being is determined once and for all in a primal decision (Urentscheidung), in which God elects Himself for us in Jesus Christ. “There is no will of God that would be different from the will of Jesus Christ.”[1]

McCormack concludes: “The promise contained in the Schweizerian principle that what God does in time must be grounded in the eternal divine being could not be realized by Schweizer himself because he was unable to secure it against doubts that God might not be in himself what God appears to us to be through his works.” In contrast, Barth’s understanding of God’s self-revelation a posteriori in Jesus Christ makes clear “how the works of God are grounded in the eternal divine being as it really is in and for itself.” (61)

Chapter 3 is devoted to continuities in the theologies of Barth and Schleiermacher and the question why Barth reacted so strongly against Schleiermacher. McCormack argues that when Barth turned against Schleiermacher, he turned against a “form of Schleiermacherianism” (64) represented especially by Ernst Troeltsch.

For Troeltsch, the development of the religious consciousness takes place in accordance with “general laws and tendencies” (Troeltsch). McCormack doubts whether such an approach stands in the tradition of Schleiermacher, who does not think of religion in general terms and knows no religion or God-consciousness ‘as such’. The ‘feeling of absolute dependence’ does not exist in a pure form, since the ‘feeling’, or immediate self-consciousness, is always connected with the sensible self-consciousness. It cannot “be controlled, mastered and brought into play at the whim of any individual in whom it is found” (73). Schleiermacher’s theology is a critical one, and herein lies a basic continuity between Schleiermacher and Barth. The “infinite qualitative difference between God and humanity” is a trade-mark of Schleiermacher as much as of Barth. “Absolute dependence is indeed absolute; one can, under the impact of divine causality, surrender oneself to its power, but one cannot cause it to be effective.” (74) Moreover, Schleiermacher’s theology thematizes the contents of the Christian (not an abstract) pious self-consciousness determined by a community with particular religious beliefs and dogmatic propositions. In the process, the feeling of absolute dependence remains “beyond the conceptual grasp of the dogmatician” (77).

The difference is also visible in Troeltsch’s Heidelberg lectures on the subject of Glaubenslehre in 1912 and 1913. Here, McCormack argues, two central features of Schleiermacher’s “critical theology of consciousness” (69) are missing. First, the feeling of absolute depedence is replaced by a ‘Christian principle’ and an anti-naturalistic ‘religion of personality’. Second, Schleiermacher’s strict distinction between God and the world is abandoned in favor of an “interpenetration” of divine spirit and human spirit. Troeltsch himself was aware of the differences but thought he was “carrying out Schleiermacher’s program” (80). For McCormack, this is the main reason why Barth thought he was rejecting Schleiermacher when, in fact, he was rejecting Troeltsch.

So, which Barth shall we use for a comparison with Schleiermacher? McCormack chooses not the later Barth, “who seems in the eyes of many to have mellowed in his attitude towards Schleiermacher” (64), but Barth’s earlier theology (especially the lectures on systematic theology in Göttingen and Münster, 1924-26), which he calls a “‘Church Dogmatics’ in the Schleiermacherian tradition” (81). For McCormack both men think of revelation as a “giving”, not a “given”. Both use a critical and heuristic tool for their respective expositions of dogmatic topics: while Schleiermacher employs the notion of absolute dependence, Barth speaks of God’s veiling and unveiling in revelation. The intention is the same: to point to the limits of dogmatic propositions and to ensure that dogmatic reflection is not speculative or starting from principles a priori, but hermeneutical, “assimilating the witness of Holy Scripture to particular doctrinal themes and the witness of tradition to that witness” (85).

Chapter 4 discusses Barth’s theological exegesis of Philippians in the context of hermeneutical debates during the 1920s. It reminds us that Barth became famous not as a dogmatic theologian but as a “highly innovative exegete” (89), who shared the historical-critical concern for what the text says but was not willing to adopt positivist standards as a precondition of “scientific” exegesis.

Part two of the book (Chapters 5 and 6) contains a critical discussion of postliberal (or nonfoundationalist) and postmodern Barth interpreters in the English-speaking world, written especially for the German-speaking scene, which argues that these interpretations rest on “misreadings” (153) of Barth’s understanding of revelation. In order to flesh out his critique, McCormack offers a sophisticated exegesis of Church DogmaticsII/1, § 27 (“The Limits of the Knowledge of God”), which sheds new light on Barth’s critique and appreciation (!) of the analogia entis (cf. 310).

Part three turns to ontological issues and includes the essay that has elicited such a lively, sometimes heated debate (Chapter 7), due to propositions like the following: “God’s essence…is knowable because it is constituted by the act of turning towards us. God in himself is God ‘for us’” (190).

For McCormack (and not only for him), Barth’s greatest theological contribution is the doctrine of election inChurch Dogmatics II/2 (especially §§ 32-33), because here “the historicizing tendencies of well over a century of theology prior to him found…both their relative justification and their proper limit” (183). Here it becomes clear that God is not the hidden God of the ‘absolute decree’. “At the beginning of all the ways of God with the world stood … the God-human, Jesus Christ” (184). The Logos, or the ‘eternal Son’, never existed “in and for himself”, in “a mode of state of being above and prior to the eternal decision to be incarnate in time” (186). Barth arrives at this conclusion through an exegesis of the prologue to the Gospel of John. “In the beginning with God was this One, Jesus Christ. And precisely that is the predestination.”[2] Certainly, the Logos was a-sarkos (not enfleshed) prior to the incarnation. Still, McCormack emphasizes that even before the incarnation the Logos was incarnandus (to be incarnate). “The Second Person of the Trinity has a name and his name is Jesus Christ.” Hence, the immanent and the economic trinity are “identical in content” (191).

The content of God’s election is the covenant of grace. In this covenant, God neither undergoes an essential change nor engages in “mere role-play” but remains true to Himself. This is so, because the eternal decision to establish the covenant of grace is also a decision about God’s self. God has freely decided to be defined in all eternity by the history of Jesus Christ, especially his death on the cross, “as a being-for this event” (189). Hence, Barth’s theological ontology is actualistic and covenantal. God’s being “is actualized in the decision for activity in time” and “constituted … in a most concrete, particular relation” (190). The incarnation is a historical event. Nevertheless, “God is already in pretemporal eternity – by way of anticipation – that which God would become in time”. God’s being in eternity is “a being which looks forward” (191).

At this point, McCormack calls for a critical correction of interpretations that subordinate the doctrine of election to the doctrine of the trinity. He admonishes us that Barth’s theological development should be taken more seriously. “The day when Church Dogmatics could be read as though it had been written in the space of a single afternoon, as though every part were fully consistent with all the others, is over” (17-18). Barth’s doctrine of election in CD II/2 deals with a question that was already adressed in the doctrine of the trinity in CD I/1: Who is the God who reveals Himself? The answer in each volume is fundamentally the same: God is the God of His self-revelation in Jesus Christ. Yet, differences in the details exist, due to Barth’s christocentric revision of the doctrine of election. McCormack is not the first to notice them, as he himself acknowledges.

Logically, Barth’s doctrine of election in CD II/2 would require the retraction of certain claims (not every claim!)[3] in the earlier volumes, which suggest that God is triune ‘in and for himself’, independently from God’s self-determination in the election of Jesus Christ and the covenant of grace.[4] McCormack therefore regards “the triunity of God, logically, as a function of divine election”. God’s trinitarian self-differentiation as Father, Son, and Holy Spirit “is given in the eternal act in which God elects himself for the human race. Thedecision for the covenant of grace is the ground of God’s triunity” (194). We are not dealing with a temporal sequence; the point is to emphasize the unity of the eternal act of God’s self-determination.

The issue is revisited in Chapter 10, where McCormack insists that the idea of Jesus Christ as the subject of election must be understood in light of the “basic paradigm” of Barth’s doctrine of the trinity, that is, “in terms of a single divine subject in three modes of being” (270). He argues that “if God is the same subject as ‘Father’ and as ‘Son’, then the subject who makes the decision to be Jesus Christ is the same subject who ‘becomes’ Jesus Christ as a consequence of this decision” (270-71, with reference to CD IV/1). He concludes that “in the strictest sense, it is the ‘Father’ who is the subject of election – and because this is so ‘Jesus Christ’ can be the subject of election only because the subject that the ‘Father’ is, is the same subject that ‘Jesus Christ’ is” (272). “Because God’s being is a being in the act of electing, the identity of the one divine subject as ‘Father’ is something He gives to Himself precisely in this decision – and therefore in the one eternal event in which the Son is begotten and the Holy Spirit is spirated.” (266)

Moreover, the separation between ‘internal’ and ‘external’ acts of God, or between God’s nature and God’s will, is put aside. Instead, there is one eternal act or event. “What is ‘natural and necessary’ in God is itself the consequence of the one eternal act of self-determination”. Divine freedom is not simply a freedom from ‘internal’ or ‘external’ need or deficiency, so that God somehow must be able to exist ‘in and for himself’. Such a concept of God is too narrow and limited by metaphysical assumptions about the self-sufficiency of divine being. It easily leads to a concept of God “as impassible, as removed from suffering, and so forth” (273). The consideration that existence is a necessary predicate of God should never be “abstracted from the decision in which God gives to himself his own being” (266). McCormack points to a passage Church Dogmatics II/1, § 28, where Barth explains that God is not only actus purus (Thomas Aquinas and other Scholastics) but actus purus et singularis, “concretely, in the singularity of the event of God’s self-revelation in time” (272). We will encounter the ‘essence’ of God “either at the place where God deals with us as Lord and Saviour or not at all.”[5]

Although these passages in CD II/1 do not refer to election as God’s self-determination, the theological ontology is the same, as Barth’s understanding of the divine decree makes strikingly clear. The key here is the idea of God’s constancy, faithfulness, and reliability, “the absoluteness and finality of the free love, in which God, at the beginning of all things, has chosen and decided.” God’s freedom is the concrete decree, that is, God’s free decision to determine His own being as God in the covenant of grace. Predestination “without doubt is also a bond and an obligation, which God for Himself has taken upon Himself and which he has decided to keep in complete freedom (a freedom that is but the freedom of His love).”[6]

Chapter 8 discusses Barth’s historicized christology. Although he was opposed to “metaphysical speculation” from early on, there was a time when his thought was not without it and indebted to “the abstract metaphysical ontology which underwrote the Christology of the Chalcedonian Council” (207). With his doctrine of election, however, Barth moves beyond such an ontology. The key is the insight that Jesus Christ is the subject of election, so that election is “a free act in which God assigned to Himself the being God would have for all eternity” (216). God’s decision to be God-for-us is also the event in which God differentiates himself into the three modes of being – Father, Son and Spirit.[7] As a result, Barth is able “to bid farewell to the distinction between the eternal Word and the incarnate Word” (217): the second mode of being in God isJesus Christ.

This insight leads McCormack to support Bertold Klappert’s “striking claim that ‘Barth does not think incarnationally in the neoorthodox sense’” (221).[8] The doctrine of reconciliation in CD IV/1 does not any longer include a ‘special christology’, that is, a doctrine of the person of Christ in terms of the two-natures-doctrine. Instead, the two-natures-doctrine is an implication of the doctrine of reconciliation. “The being of Jesus Christ is a being in a history” – the history of the gracious God and the reconciled human being in their unity. “And exactly that which takes place in this history, and therefore in the being of Jesus Christ as such, is reconciliation.” According to McCormack, the root of this understanding of christology is to be found in Barth’s doctrine of election. For Barth, there is no metaphysical subject that unites itself to a human ‘nature’. Instead, in the divine election humankind is taken up “into the event of God’s being”, in which both God and humankind receive their “most essential determinations” (223). This does not mean that the asymmetry in their relation is set aside. God participates directly in the being and life of a human being, whereas the human being Jesus of Nazareth “participates in the being and existence of God indirectly by freely willing to live in correspondence to the history of God inaugurated in the covenant of grace” (228). Still, the two modes of participation are two aspects of a single history. They find their unity in the primal decision (Urentscheidung) of God’s gracious election.

The topic of participation is discussed extensively in Chapter 9, in the context of the recently revived debates on ‘deification’. McCormack brings Barth into conversation with Eberhard Jüngel and shows that their position is very similar: “Participation in God, Yes; Deification, No” (235).

The fourth part of the book contains five shorter writings that add flavour to the collection by highlighting the relevance of Barth’s theology for contemporary culture and, specifically, our life in the church and in society. McCormack interprets Barth not as a pre-modern or postmodern but as a modern theologian. Yet, what does he mean by ‘modernity’? The introduction mentions two main characteristics – the rise of historical consciousness and the acceptance of critical methods in Biblical studies; the demise of classical Greek metaphysics and the corresponding cosmological paradigm – and asks how Barth reacted to them. According to McCormack, Barth accepted the Kantian critique of metaphysics and found inspiration in the thinking of the Marburg neo-Kantians, especially their actualistic ontology, which he applied to the concept of God: to be is to act. He also accepted the historical-critical approach to the Bible and followed Schleiermacher (and others) in the rejection of natural theology. But the truly novel aspect of his theology is visible, according to McCormack, in the attempt to develop a historicized Christian doctrine of God. God’s eternal election “to be ‘God for us’ in Jesus Christ is an act in which God constitutes his being as a being for historical existence (i.e., the incarnate life, death, and resurrection of Jesus of Nazareth)” (13).

On the one hand, McCormack’s thesis that Barth’s alleged turn from ‘dialectical’ to ‘analogical’ thinking between 1921 and 1931 – proclaimed by both critics (Tillich) and friends (von Balthasar, T. F. Torrance) – is a chimera, has been largely accepted. On the other hand, it is still possible to project such a turn simply onto a later stage in Barth’s thinking and thereby neglect the decisive development in Barth’s theology: the shift from a pneumatocentric to a christocentric dialectic. McCormack points us to the epistemological impact of God’s veiling and unveiling in revelation: “where God is truly known in his hiddeness, it is the whole of God which is known and not ‘part’ of God” (110). Initially, the Realdialektik focuses on the actualistic relation of God to individual human beings, which shapes the prolegomena to the Church Dogmatics (CD I/1 and I/2). From CD II/2 onwards, it is transformed into an ontological Realdialektik of the covenant, which focusses on the actualistic relation of God to God’s self and thus to human beings.

Despite many discussions of McCormack’s monograph from 1995, I wonder if Protestant theologians in general and Barth scholars in particular have absorbed its insights. These days, it is alleged that McCormack interprets Barth through Schleiermacher or through Hegel, who were, by the way, devoted Christian thinkers. Others find fault with his thesis that the ecumenical creeds are only “relatively binding as definitions of what constitutes ‘orthodoxy’”, since a perfect conformity of Christian teaching to the Word of God as attested in Holy Scripture “is not attainable in this world” (15). But what really matters are other considerations, for example, the thesis that “the death of Jesus Christ in God-abandonment, precisely as a human experience, is…an event in God’s own life” (189).[9]

According to Karl Barth, the doctrine of God’s gracious choice is the ‘sum of the gospel’. Are we ready for the good news that the history of Jesus Christ is the history of God and we as human beings are an integral part of it?

[1] Karl Barth, Kirchliche Dogmatik, vol. II/2, 124. ET Church Dogmatics, vol. II/2, 115.

[2] Barth, Kirchliche Dogmatik, vol. II/2, 157. ET Church Dogmatics, vol. II/2, 146.

[3] Cf. the following quote that anticipates the central theme of CD II/2: “the reality of God which encounters us in His revelation is His reality in all the depths of eternity” (Church Dogmatics I/1, 479).

[4] Indeed, the quote McCormack offers from CD IV/1 (193n14, cf. also 220-21) is startling, and all the more so, since a few lines down in the same passage Barth admonishes us that we shall not “dream of a ‘Logos in himself’”, that “we have to reckon behind [God’s free, gracious will] with no Son of God in himself, particularly with no logos asarkos, with none other than the incarnate word of God” (see Karl Barth,Kirchliche Dogmatik, vol. IV/1, 54-55. ET Church Dogmatics IV/1, 52-53).

[5] Karl Barth, Kirchliche Dogmatik, vol. II/1, 293. ET Church Dogmatics II/1, 261.

[6] Karl Barth, Kirchliche Dogmatik, vol. II/2, 200. ET Church Dogmatics II/2, 183. Therefore, it makes little sense to ‘guard’ God’s freedom by referring to the immanent trinity.

[7] McCormack speaks of a “certain logical priority” of election over the triunity of God (218). Kevin Hector has argued that, for Barth, “triunity is logically prior to election,” but he agrees with McCormack that “God’s triune being coincides eternally with God’s decision to be God-for-us” (Kevin W. Hector, “God’s Triunity and Self-Determination: A Conversation with Karl Barth, Bruce McCormack and Paul Molnar,” International Journal of Systematic Theology 7 [2005]: 258).

[8] Similary, albeit with a different focus, Ingolf Dalferth points out that incarnation christology is an interpretation of the confession that Jesus Christ is risen and not “the christological theme”. Ingolf U. Dalferth, Der auferweckte Gekreuzigte. Zur Grammatik der Christologie (Tübingen 1994), 31.

[9] Again, Dalferth is an important conversation partner. He also understands the death of Jesus Christ as an event in God’s own life, although he conceptualizes it in terms of an existential-theological hermeneutics, instead of a christological ontology, with a focus on the “eschatological significance [of the cross] for God, and through God for us.” Dalferth, Der auferweckte Gekreuzigte, 44.

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

Adam Neder, Participation in Christ: An Entry in Karl Barth’s Church Dogmatics, Columbia Series in Reformed Theology (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 2009)

Participation in Christ: An Entry in Karl Barth’s Church Dogmatics

Adam Neder, Participation in Christ: An Entry in Karl Barth’s Church Dogmatics, Columbia Series in Reformed Theology (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), xv + 135. $24.95

Reviewed by Cambria Janae Kaltwasser (December 14, 2009)

In this book, Adam Neder, associate professor at Whitworth University, traces what he identifies as the “taproot of Barth’s theology: the confession that God’s gracious action toward the world is concentrated ‘in Christ,’ who is both the savior of the world and its salvation, the giver of grace and grace itself” (xi). While the nature of humanity’s being ‘in Christ’ is arguably the bedrock of the Church Dogmatics, bridging the doctrines of revelation, election, creation, and reconciliation, it is a motif that rarely receives the attention of a full-length study. With this volume, Neder aims to bring Barth’s theology of participation in Christ to the fore by unpacking it from within the four volumes of the Church Dogmatics, thereby providing – as the title suggests – an introduction to this monumental work. Neder approaches the theme of participation in Christ from the widest possible scope in summary sections at the beginning of each chapter (a feat achieved by the author’s familiarity with the entirety of the Church Dogmatics), and then zooms in to examine in rigorous detail key paragraphs and sections from each volume. The result is a fast-paced survey of all the major loci of the Church Dogmatics as seen through the lens of humanity’s being in Christ.

Chapter One treats Barth’s doctrine of the Word of God, highlighting its emphasis on revelation as an eventin which the human being comes under the lordship of God. For Barth, revelation implies union because “to know God is to be joined to him in faith and obedience” (1). Neder divides this discussion between examinations of paragraphs 5 and 6 of CD I/1, respectively “The Nature if the Word of God” and “The Knowability of the Word of God.” He highlights Barth’s stress on the irreducible distinction between God and the human being in the event of revelation. The indirect event nature of revelation safeguards the meaning of grace by ensuring that faith is never construed as a human possession. Therefore, “rather than denying divine-human communion, Barth intends to highlight its intimacy and reality by describing it within a framework adequate to its participants—the utterly free and gracious Lord of the covenant and his correspondingly free and grateful servants and friends” (7). In treating paragraph 6, Neder illumines Barth’s stress upon the concrete form of this union: grace manifests itself as a determination of the human being for God. Therefore, far from banishing faith to an intellectual realm, “Barth existentializes knowledge of God” by equating knowledge with obedience (10). In the event of revelation, God’s free determination for the human being enables a correspondingly free determination of the human being for God.

In Chapter Two Neder explicates Barth’s doctrine of election through sustained focus on paragraph 32 of CD II/2. Here Barth portrays election as both God’s self-determination to be God for us and his determination for humanity in the one human being Jesus Christ. This determination by God forms the focal point of Neder’s study. In Barth’s doctrine of election, participation in Christ is disclosed in its twofold form. In election’s objective form, all of humanity is included in the history of the covenant by virtue of Jesus Christ’s life, death, and resurrection, accomplished on our behalf. Yet, rather than replacing the obedience of individual human beings, Jesus’ history, “establishes a trajectory for humanity, defining humanity by governing it as a telos” (18). Therefore the subjective side of participation in Christ, the free obedience of human subjects, is included in and ensured by the objective side. Thus, for Neder, the theme of participation allows Barth’s treatment of election to blend seamlessly into his ethics, the imperative aspect of objective participation in Christ: “The command of God is God himself in action drawing human beings into active fellowship” (25).

Chapter Three highlights the anthropological implications of Barth’s doctrine of creation by examining CD III/2’s paragraph 44.3, “The Real Man.” Neder claims that the theological anthropology of volume three arises directly from decisions made in II/2, where Barth argued that “there exists no independent relationship between God and creation apart from Jesus Christ” (30). Jesus himself establishes and enacts human nature. To be human is nothing other than to be summoned by God. One of the richest components of the chapter is Neder’s explanation of the importance of the historical-covenantal category in Barth’s thought. According to Neder, Barth juxtaposes the concept of static, independent human being with that of being as history. Without Jesus Christ, human being is static, in accordance with its own limits. Within Jesus Christ that being gains a history both as it is transcended by God from without and as it is enabled to transcend itself through active obedience.

Barth’s ontology of grace is addressed in Chapter Four through explicating paragraphs 57.1 and 58.1-2 in CDIV.1. Calling paragraph fifty-seven “an extended ontological preface to the entire doctrine of reconciliation”(43), Neder here clarifies his interpretation of Barth’s actualistic account of participation: since God’s being is in act, participation is a union of actions rather than a melding substances. God shares himself with humanity by including them in covenant history; human beings participate in that history by responding in free obedience.

Within the treatment of paragraph 58.1, Neder’s section on simul iustus et peccator is particularly illuminating for current debates on justification. He explains that – in Barth’s hands – the doctrine “is not first of all a statement about the sin and righteousness of the Christian. It is rather an affirmation that the source of that righteousness (Jesus Christ) lies outside (aliena) the believer. The simul iustus et peccatorguarantees that Jesus Christ is not merely a step along the way, but the content of salvation itself” (48-9). Neder’s explanation suggests that the simul ought not to be construed as obscuring the two-sided nature of the covenant, but in such a way that Jesus’ enactment of our humanity includes and has as its telos the subjective participation of individuals, which is always a matter of utter dependence on Jesus Christ. Barth does not deny individual inner transformation but takes critical aim at a certain “ontology of grace,” which asserts that grace is something “detachable” from Jesus, given to the believer in the event of transformation (49). God’s grace is rather his action in Jesus Christ, which “draws forth human response, but it does not create effects that linger in the pious soul apart from God’s action” (49). Neder writes, “Human ‘being’ is not the possession of self-contained individuals free to accept or reject God’s grace. Rather, human being isenacted in response to God’s grace. In this act, the individual whom Jesus Christ has established as a freely active subject in him embraces this identity and becomes in herself who she is in him” (51). In his engagement with paragraph 58.2 Neder goes on to cover three aspects of the one grace of Jesus Christ—justification, sanctification, and vocation—and their corresponding subjective manifestations in the Christian life—faith, love, and hope.

An historical-covenantal Christology grounds Barth’s actualistic account of union with Christ, and this Christology occupies Chapter Five. The focus rests on CD IV/2’s paragraph 64.2, highlighting Barth’s re-interpretation of the hypostatic union “as an event of lordship and obedience, the perfect coordination of two distinct sets of actions, divine and human, which are never confused with each other” (62). Barth reappropriates the Reformed teaching on the indirectness of the union of natures in the person of the Son. He rejects deification not only for its leaning towards docetism and synergism, but because of its tendency to focus on the “ effect of the direct penetration of Jesus’ flesh by the divine nature,” which looks away from the living and active history of Jesus Christ. Instead, the incarnation is a confrontation between God and human being in which the human being is “exalted to true humanity” by being freed for active obedience to God. Short analyses of paragraphs 66.2 and 71.3, respectively “The Holy One and the Saints” and “The Goal of Vocation,” are included here as well. Neder concludes his study with excursuses on the implications of Barth’s theology of participation for sacramentology, human virtue, and ecumenical dialogue on theosis.

With this compact volume Neder skillfully weaves together the central lines of Barth’s thought on ontology, Christology, and anthropology, ably unpacking dense material from across the Church Dogmatics and never losing sight of his central aim of illuminating humanity’s being in Christ. Consequently, this volume helps Christians think through the meaning of participation in Christ without falling prey to quasi-substantialist portrayals of grace, which Barth so adamantly rejects not merely because they erode the Creator/creature distinction, but because they abstract away from the event of God’s self-revelation in and the activity of the living Christ. Neder aids us in seeing how Barth’s insistence on maintaining union in distinction and on emphasizing participation as a ordered fellowship, is aimed at magnifying the intimacy of participation in God by maintaining the centrality of the living Jesus Christ.

This reader’s only criticism of the book lies not in its content but its structure, which unfolds as a series of summaries rather than as the elucidation of a single thesis through contact with various materials. One wonders if the work might have been better served if Neder had begun with an interpretation of his findings rather than providing merely formal scaffolding for the uninitiated reader. From the first, the reader is made to ask after the heart of how Barth understands participation in Christ and its significance to present-day discussions. Rather than unifying his study with a few interpretive assertions upfront, Neder leaves these essentials for the reader to unravel chapter by chapter as the work unfolds.

Yet, this volume is a challenge altogether worth the reader’s efforts both for yielded insights into the thought of Barth and for connections between multiple areas of Christian faith and practice. Neder’s offering is a truly systematic work, in that it enables Christians to think together the doctrines of God, Christ, humanity, sin, and salvation. It is a truly evangelical work, in that it calls the church to reflect upon its proclamation of the living Christ and its summons by God to live into our true being in him. It is, thus, a truly welcome work.

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

DeCou, Jessica D. Playful, Glad, and Free: Karl Barth and a Theology of Popular Culture (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2014)

Playful, Glad, and Free: Karl Barth and a Theology of Popular Culture 

DeCou, Jessica D. Playful, Glad, and Free: Karl Barth and a Theology of Popular Culture (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2014), ix + 254pp. $39.00 (paperback)

Reviewed by Paul L. Metzger (April 29, 2014)

Jessica DeCou claims that this volume is the consequence of “a lifetime of theological interest in popular entertainment and a lifetime of ‘researching’ television” (x). Some might wonder why the author would focus attention on Karl Barth’s towering theology as the basis for developing a theology of popular culture, especially television. The answer lies in DeCou’s assessment that Barth did not make an idol of high culture, or popular culture for that matter. Barth is no respecter of this or that cultural enterprise, vocation, or trade (see Barth’s Ethics, 218). However, he did not discount secular pursuits either. For DeCou, the artistic domain of culture has provisional status in Barth’s theology with his concepts of play and release, as it bears witness to the Spirit’s eschatological kingdom promise of universal redemption for humanity.

The goal of DeCou’s study (a revised version of her Ph.D. dissertation) is to bring Barth together with present-day research “on popular culture and with cultural producers in order to develop theological definitions and criteria that resonate more deeply with popular entertainment’s secular self-understanding” (4). The result will be the development of more appropriate and astute analyses that account for the various complexities that pertain to popular entertainment’s production and distribution.

DeCou divides the volume into two major sections. The first major section aims at providing an overarching “theoretical framework” (6). DeCou focuses attention on pneumatology, eschatology, and hermeneutics. The first chapter attends to Barth’s famous statements against culture and modern treatments of pneumatology. The second chapter argues against what the author calls Barth’s “true words approach” bound up with treatments of Church Dogmatics (CD) IV/3 paragraph 69, which she takes to be simply “an extension of his doctrine of the Word—virtually the same in both content and context as his remarks against theology of culture in CD I/1.” DeCou maintains that “this material should therefore be abandoned in favor of a model guided by Barth’s writings on culture and the Spirit in the context of his eschatology, which better harmonize with his own analyses of particular cultural forms” (7; see also 55, 83). Chapter three involves rebuilding Barth’s theology of culture based on his treatment of the doctrine of redemption, which features constructive treatments of the doctrine of the Spirit and culture. In this context, “Art . . . is presented . . . as a worthy achievement in its own right, contributing to human flourishing by ‘playing with reality’ and thereby inspiring hope as a reminder that the present is not the final word. Moreover, the very possibility of human recreation derives from humanity’s re-creation by the eschatological Spirit, remaking humanity into playful children of God” (7). The fourth chapter develops what she takes to be Barth’s “hermeneutic of culture” based on his use of art and literature. Barth is able to engage art constructively in a mutually beneficial manner that upholds the distinctive traits and contours of theology and culture/art respectively. In this chapter, DeCou extends Barth’s treatment of the Spirit as the subjective possibility of revelation to be “the subjective possibility of theology of culture, revealing it to be playful, glad, and free” (8).

The second major section of the volume focuses on the development of a Barthian theology of popular culture. The fifth chapter seeks to demonstrate that there is room in Barth’s thought (which often highlights high art and culture) for the affirmation of popular culture or entertainment. DeCou, who argues that “work and culture are virtually synonymous” in Barth’s theology (148), draws from his analysis of human work and applies those categories to her study of popular culture. These categories are objectivity, value, humanity, reflectivity, and limitation (8, 148-155). For DeCou, “the specific task of popular entertainment is to contribute to play, fellowship, and relaxation, augmenting the task of culture by fostering individual and communal wholeness and augmenting the task of art by pointing to the universality of the promise of the Spirit” (8). She then moves from theory to practice in chapters six and seven (9). In chapter six, DeCou applies Barth’s five categories of work to the theologian of culture: “What makes theological analyses of popular culture objective, valuable, human, reflective, and properly limited” (9)? In the final chapter, the author applies these same five criteria to the domain of “the production, distribution, and reception of television programming” (10). DeCou speaks of popular culture in interchangeable terms with popular entertainment, referencing “television, movies, popular music, celebrity, advertising, and so on” (21). In the final chapters, she focuses attention exclusively on television. Some readers may puzzle over DeCou’s consideration of television given that the only two instances where Barth wrote about television were criticisms; however, his criticisms centered more on the advertising industry’s influence than on the content of the programs (9, 168). For Barth, television bound up with entertainment could become a lordless power, whereby we become enslaved to pleasure; fixation with pleasure makes it impossible for us to enjoy anything (163, 166).

DeCou demonstrates sensitivity to the task of dogmatic theology, on the one hand, and the secular calling of popular culture, on the other hand—most particularly entertainment and television (5). She couples Barth’s principles of objectivity, value, humanity, reflectivity and limitation with his pneumatological eschatology to produce a work of great promise for theology of culture (243). Theologians should not demand that entertainment be anything other than entertainment; in other words, they should not demand that entertainment fulfill its own theological task (193). Theological approaches to popular culture should also guard against wild speculation or “dilettantism,” approaching popular culture and entertainment with a deep awareness of the various contours and dimensions involved and the necessary tools for exploration (180). Elsewhere, the author cautions that television should not produce work that makes politics and ideology the focal point. In short, the aim of television is to provide quality entertainment (242).

In addition to DeCou’s keen sensitivity to the respective domains of theology and popular culture, the author also shows how playful Barth’s theology is, contrary to many casual readings. It is argued that “art is the specific action that exemplifies play”, and “humor” is “the general attitude that is commanded in light of the promise of redemption” (155). We should never take the present too seriously; thus, relaxation and entertainment have their place in view of the eschatological promise. DeCou distinguishes artistic culture from popular culture or entertainment. While entertainment is a form of art, it has a special, distinctive calling in caring for human well-being: its “accessibility” speaks to the “universality” of the Spirit’s promise of redemption (155-156).

I will not take this opportunity to engage the criticisms of what DeCou calls the “true words approach” that she associates with Robert J. Palma’s Karl Barth’s Theology of Culture (Pickwick, 1983) and this reviewer’s work (The Word of Christ and the World of Culture [Eerdmans, 2003]). Let it suffice to say that my approach accounts for CD IV/3, paragraph 69 as one among many important selections of Barth’s various writings that reflect his overarching christological framework. I chronicle the development of his christological concentration for the construction of a theology of culture that addresses the sacred and secular domains. The “true words” paragraph and theme do not have privileged status in my volume in relation to other christological emphases, although they are and should be accounted for in the development of a theology of culture that seeks to address the theological import of Barth’s entire corpus. Moreover, while DeCou’s work is a welcome addition to the research on Barth and theology of culture, it does not account sufficiently for Barth’s core themes and mature movements bound up with his christocentric concentration. While accounting for the relation of pneumatology to christology for a Barthian theology of culture would certainly have merit, the development of a Barthian approach from his fragmentary and incomplete doctrine of redemption (albeit in conjunction with what he writes elsewhere on relevant subjects as in his doctrine of creation) is premature and lacks sufficient warrant. Would it not be more advantageous to position a study pertaining to pneumatological features in complementary terms to those studies that have focused on Barth’s christological concentration in his various works? Moreover, would it not also be beneficial to demonstrate how the pneumatological emphases enhance the christological in ways that go beyond prior studies toward the development of a theology of culture along Barthian lines? I readily admit that more work needs to be done in this direction.

Concerns and questions aside, DeCou’s work is to be celebrated in that it provides fresh insight into an often ignored area of Barth research. As already noted, DeCou highlights the need to account for pneumatological considerations in the development of a theology of culture of play and related themes pertaining to such cultural domains as the arts and entertainment. Moreover, DeCou provides a prophetic caution to academic theologians and other scholars who might otherwise dismiss popular entertainment such as television as not worth their while. All too often, class and gender stereotypes abound pertaining to television and other forms of popular entertainment. Related stereotypes go back to ancient times (161). While one should guard against the fixation with popular entertainment as a lordless power, one should not dismiss it or the general populace. Rightful consideration of them arise from a theology of freedom, playfulness, and glad tidings bound up with the universal hope for humanity centered in Christ and the eschatological Spirit of hope. Regarding Christ and the gospel message, DeCou powerfully writes, “One could argue that Christian theology should have an advantage, to some degree, in overcoming elitists attitudes toward television as a legitimate scholarly and/or theological domain of inquiry because of the more popular nature of its founding documents and the ‘low class’ entourage of its founder (elitist is certainly not the word that springs to mind when reflecting on the life and death of Jesus)” (161). Barth’s commandeering of a line from Shakespeare’s Midsummer Night’s Dream (popular entertainment in Shakespeare day) for the import of his Römerbrief for theology and culture in his day applies here: “Well-roared, lion!” (CD II/1, p. 635)

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

Stroud, Dean G. ed. Preaching in Hitler’s Shadow: Sermons of Resistance in the Third Reich (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2013)

Preaching in Hitler’s Shadow: Sermons of Resistance in the Third Reich 

Stroud, Dean G. ed. Preaching in Hitler’s Shadow: Sermons of Resistance in the Third Reich (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2013), 215 pp. $20.00 (paperback).

Reviewed by David Stark (January 04, 2017)

Preaching in Hitler’s Shadow presents a collection of twelve sermons set within historical context. Dean Stroud, a former Presbyterian pastor and professor emeritus of German Studies at the University of Wisconsin, LaCrosse, seeks to give readers access to some primary sources from a significant few who resisted the Third Reich in their preaching. The sermons are drawn from 1933 to 1944 and arranged chronologically. These sermons take several forms: topical, occasional, expositional, single-verse meditation, and multi-text theological refection. Four of the twelve sermons are based on Old Testament texts. Well-known figures like Karl Barth, Dietrich Bonhoeffer, and Martin Niemöller are included, but many lesser known preachers like Gerhard Ebeling and Julius Van Jan offer homilies to which Stroud rightly draws attention.

The sermons are presented so that readers can “draw their own conclusions about Christian opposition to Hitler” (x). As such, this work is not meant as an apologia for the church. “Without a doubt,” Stroud acknowledges, “the church as a social and political institution failed the test of confronting Nazism” (4). Most pastors did not offer significant resistance—a point Stroud underscores by including an appendix with the German Christian sermon supporting the loyalty oath to Hitler.

Stroud sets this collection of sermons in historical context by offering brief introductions to each sermon and by providing a 45 page overview of Nazi Germany (following Paul von Hindenburg’s appointment of Hitler as Chancellor). Obviously, with such limited space, Stroud can only offer a basic primer. Still, this section manages to provide enough guidance that those who have not studied this period in history will be able to appreciate many of the nuances and subtleties within the sermons. Particularly helpful is Stroud’s attention to the political, rhetorical, and theological aspects of the rise of the Third Reich. Politically, Stroud highlights Point 24 of the Nazi platform of the 1920s, discusses the impact of the Nuremberg Laws, traces the horrors of the Kristallnacht pogrom, and emphasizes the misuse and manipulation of “blood,” “state,” and “Volk.” Theologically, Stroud discusses the development of an Aryan Jesus, the Nazi refusal to admit sin, the elevation of Hitler as an object of faith, and the rise of the nationalistic and anti-semitic German Christian movement. He also highlights significant responses from Karl Barth, Dietrich Bonhoeffer, and Martin Niemöller through the Barmen Declaration, the underground seminary at Finkenwalde, the Pastor’s Emergency League, and the Confessing Church. Rhetorically, Stroud discusses the impact of Nazi rhetoric. This includes the use of euphemisms and the manipulation of language as noted above. It also includes an analysis of superlatives used by Nazis to describe themselves (i.e. “smartest,” bravest”) and their political threats (i.e. “worst,” most dangerous”) (43). Furthermore, as Stroud notes, Hitler and Goebbels consistently used pejorative adjectives when referring to targets like the Jews (15).

Stroud believes that these rhetorical and theological observations become especially important for understanding the ways that preachers sought to counter Nazism. He is surely right, but it should be noted that the book does not develop this argument. Rather, Stroud simply highlights seven themes of opposition: “the authority of Jesus Christ; the sovereignty of God; both the Old and New Testaments as Holy Scripture; the purity of the church; the certainty of God’s judgment on Germany for immorality and for the failure to love the neighbor, especially the Jewish brother and sister; the relevance of the gospel after the European Enlightenment and in spite of Nazi pseudoscience and paganism; and the gospel’s insistence that Christians must risk even their lives for the truth of Christianity” (48). Any conclusions about the use of these themes in sermons or their effectiveness as a response to the Nazi agenda are left to the reader’s discernment.

While some readers will appreciate this interpretative freedom, others will wish that Stroud had offered more of a scholarly presence. This longing extends to other areas of the book as well. For instance, Stroud makes extensive use of Wikipedia as a source for contextual details, and he does not always define concepts with enough nuance. This latter point is especially felt in his reflections on politics and preaching. Here the study would have benefitted from distinguishing between apolitical interpretation (e.g. of the zweite Reiche) and political application in Nazi Germany. So too Stroud struggles to distinguish political intention from practical effect. He observes, on the one hand, that the Barmen Declaration “declared that Jesus Christ alone had claim to a Christian’s entire existence and thus rejected the notion that there were other ‘areas’ of life in which Christians had ‘other lords’” (41). Yet, on the other hand, Stroud asserts that the Declaration “was a statement of Christian faith and not a political agenda” (41).

In his treatment of Karl Barth, Stroud offers a mixed witness. At times his treatment approaches hagiography: “The influence of Barth, and others who agreed with him on his approach to homiletics, would be hard to overemphasize” (35). At other times Stroud offers a more rational assessment of some of Barth’s important works. He notes that Barth’s commentary on Romans, “challenged readers to hear the epistle as God’s word directly addressing the present moment” and held that a human kingdom is “without exception, never the kingdom of God” (31). Barth’s lectures on Homiletics, Stroud asserts, call for the text to control the sermon and point to Jesus Christ as the word of God in holy scripture (33). Stroud observes that Barth wrote the first draft of the Barmen Declaration with the intention of combating German Christian claims that someone other than Jesus could be lord (40).

Beyond the introductory section, however, Stroud offers surprisingly little detail about Barth’s preaching or influence. Stroud includes only one of Barth’s sermons. By comparison, both Paul Schneider and Helmut Gollwitzer have two sermons each in this collection. And, while Barth’s sermon on Jesus as a Jew is equally profound in its Christology and troubling in its implications for modern Jews, Stroud offers little more reflection than a few footnotes. Stroud might have asked: Why does Barth say Jesus “was” (rather than “is”) a Jew? How does Barth understand the on-going presence of Jews to affect Christian existential reflection?

Perhaps these kinds of questions are the ones that Stroud wants to elicit in the reader rather than answer himself. Perhaps Stroud intends simply to pass along important primary sources that lead the reader to an experience of resistance preaching:

“Worse than the rising cost of food for a people is the rising cost of God’s word…But it is always the nation and its people who are to blame when such an expensive time hearing God’s word comes. Certainly we too have brought this period of the church’s crisis in Germany upon ourselves” (Paul Schneider 101-2).

“Here we see the price we are paying for the great falling away from God…houses of God that were sacred to others have been burned to the ground, property belonging to the foreigner plundered or destroyed, men who faithfully served our nation and who fulfilled their duty in good conscience have been thrown into concentration camps simply because they belong to another race, and all this without anyone being held accountable!” (Julius von Jan, 112).

“The unwillingness to repent destroys the bridge leading to your neighbor. Repentance rebuilds this bridge” (Helmut Gollwitzer, 124).

Indeed, the strength of this work is that it presents sermons from the 1930’s and 1940’s as words that are “as ‘preachable’ today as they were then” (x). Perhaps they are a little more preachable in 2017 than one would like, but such an observation only underscores the important contribution Dean Stroud has offered to scholars and preachers today.

David Stark, Th.D. Candidate, Duke Divinity School

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

​Lindsay, Mark R. Reading Auschwitz with Barth: The Holocaust as Problem and Promise for Barthian Theology (Eugene, OR: Pickwick, 2014)

Reading Auschwitz with Barth: The Holocaust as Problem and Promise for Barthian Theology 

Lindsay, Mark R. Reading Auschwitz with Barth: The Holocaust as Problem and Promise for Barthian Theology (Eugene, OR: Pickwick, 2014), 204 pp. $24.00 (paperback).

Reviewed by Amanda MacInnis-Hackney (July 11, 2016)

In his book, Reading Auschwitz with Barth: The Holocaust as Problem and Promise for Barthian Theology, Mark Lindsay asks the question: how is the Holocaust “a determinative event of witness”? (65). Following on the work done in his preceding two volumes, Covenanted Solidarity (2001) and Barth, Israel and Jesus (2007), Lindsay picks up the issue of natural theology and aims to move Christian theology beyond a mere acknowledgement of the event of the Holocaust, by offering instead “a totalizing hermeneutic by which the whole of Christian doctrine and praxis are critiqued and, where necessary, re-stated” (65). Lindsay argues that the Holocaust is not solely an anthropological revelation: that is, it does not just reveal human depravity. Therefore, the key questions for Lindsay include: how can the Holocaust be fit into an understanding of God’s self-revelation? Is the Holocaust in any way revelatory? What about God is revealed in the event of the Holocaust? Lindsay’s thesis is two-fold. First, the Holocaust is an event or “moment of witness” of divine revelation. Second, Lindsay also wants to hold this in tension with Barth’s rejection of natural theology since Barth makes a distinction between events which bear witness to revelation and revelatory events. Therefore, the Holocaust, Lindsay argues, “should be understood – not as an event of revelation as such, but as a testifying event that bears witness to the reality and nature of the revelation and more importantly, to the God to whom that revelation refers” (66).

After surveying modern Jewish and Christian theological responses to the Holocaust in chapters one and two, Lindsay turns to Barth’s “no” to natural theology in chapter three. He argues that Barth’s opposition to natural theology both helped him oppose Nazism, and hindered his ability to understand the theological significance of the Holocaust (67). Lindsay traces the development of Barth’s rejection of natural theology, surveying Barth’s Theologische Existenz heute, Lutherfeir, Für dies Freheit des Evangeliums, and the opening volumes of the Church Dogmatics. He argues that Barth’s methodology is to “do theology as though nothing has happened” which leads to Barth’s insistence on revelation resting solely in God’s self-revelation rather than any type of tradition or event, be it political or religious (78).

In chapter four, Lindsay starts by looking at Barth’s treatment of radical evil in CD III/3, which had been written in the years immediately following the conclusion of WWII, and notes that Barth does not specifically mention the Holocaust in this text even though it was written against the backdrop of the atrocities of the Holocaust. Indeed, as Lindsay notes, “nowhere does Barth make explicit any link between the atrocity of the Shoah and the reality of das Nichtige” (93). Lindsay briefly considers the possibility that Barth’s silence is in keeping with the general silence immediately after the Holocaust, but concludes that the focus needs to be on Barth’s theological methodology, the same methodology which resulted in his adamant “no” to natural theology. Therefore, Lindsay’s argument in this chapter is that “it was Barth’s refusal to countenance the legitimacy of natural theology that rendered him simply unable to posit the Holocaust as an event that demanded to be taken with theological seriousness. The undeniable contextual brilliance of Barth’s theology was, at the same time, its most profound deficiency” (94-95). If Barth does not include the Holocaust in his discussion of radical evil, is there another place in his dogmatic project where the Holocaust could appear? Lindsay turns from CD III/3 to Barth’s discussion in IV/3.1 on the possibility of “other lights” in the secular sphere that can testify or witness to the revelation of Jesus Christ. To test this, Lindsay looks at four criteria: the goodness of the parabolic word, the orientation of the parabolic word to the Word of Life, the fruitfulness of the parabolic word, and the parabolic word and the claim of repentance. Lindsay argues that the Holocaust meets the second and fourth criterion but not the first and third, meaning it does not meet Barth’s definition of a secular parable (114).

In chapter five, Lindsay seeks out another locus for the Holocaust in Barth’s theology, a “theological loophole” as it were (115). By placing Barth in dialogue with Jewish theologian Eliezer Berkovits, Lindsay sees a point of contact, specifically in the dialectical tension of a God who both self-manifests and remains hidden. For Berkovits, this tension is found in the Hester Panim (hiding face) of God. For Barth, this tension is found in his doctrine of revelation, where God both veils and unveils himself. Thus, Lindsay argues, “God within world historical occurrence is, for both Barth and Berkovits, simultaneously ‘hiddenly present’ and ‘presently hidden’” (129). The divergence comes in terms of the specific mention of the Holocaust: Berkovits makes the connection between the hiddenness of God and the Holocaust explicitly, while Barth does not (129). The solution, just like in chapter four, is to turn to Barth’s Christology. Lindsay looks at the theme of the concealment of God in Barth’s commentary on the Apostles’ Creed and in CD IV/1, arguing that in the crucifixion of Christ, “torture, execution, and God’s silent turning away of his face coincide[s] with the most profound moment of his Self-revelation” (134). God is both concealed and revealed in the crucifixion because it “the singular place of God’s absence and presence, of God’s silence and of the Deus Dixit” (135).

In chapter six, Lindsay continues exploring the christocentric foundation of self-revelation in the event of the crucifixion by considering the question of divine suffering. After surveying the historical tradition concerning divine passibility, and briefly referencing the ongoing debate concerning Barth’s doctrine of election and the nature of the Trinity, Lindsay traces Barth’s position on divine passibility from his lectures in the 1920s through to his doctrine of reconciliation. For Barth, Christ’s suffering is not limited to his humanity, but is instead experienced in both his humanity and his divinity. As such, God is passible because Christ’s suffering “is taken into the very heart of the Godhead” (157). Importantly, this suffering cannot be understood apart from the reality of Jesus’ taking on not just human flesh, but specifically Jewish human flesh. It is Barth’s acceptance of the doctrine of passibility and his attentive treatment of theological significance of Christ’s suffering which then “facilitates dialogue with the idea of God’s solidarity in suffering with the Jewish victims of the death camps” (163). Thus, looking at the Holocaust from a Barthian framework, God was indeed present in the suffering and death. This is because in becoming the Word became flesh, the crucified Lord stands in solidarity with humanity, and more specifically with the Jewish people. Therefore, the Christian tradition can understand the Holocaust “as a theologically significant event of witness, to which the church must attend,” without embracing natural theology, because we can, using Barth’s theological framework, “locate within it an event that testifies to what has already been revealed by God about himself” (167).

Lindsay’s latest volume on Barth and Judaism is both an important contribution to existing Barth scholarship and an excellent piece of constructive theology, demonstrating yet another example of the multifaceted flexibility of Barth’s Chalcedonian Christology as a theological framework. While acknowledging the difficulties, omissions and insensitive remarks made by Barth about the Jewish people, Lindsay is right to note that it is not just that the Holocaust challenges Barth’s theology, but at the same time “Barth’s theology itself poses challenges to post-Shoah theology” (164). Therefore, Reading Auschwitz with Barth is an important resource, not just for Barth scholars, but for Christian and Jewish theologians working on issues of post-Holocaust theology, supersessionism, and interreligious cooperation and dialogue.

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

David Gibson, Reading the Decree: Exegesis, Election and Christology in Calvin and Barth, T&T Clark Studies in Systematic Theology (London: T&T Clark, 2009)

Reading the Decree: Exegesis, Election and Christology in Calvin and Barth

David Gibson, Reading the Decree: Exegesis, Election and Christology in Calvin and Barth, T&T Clark Studies in Systematic Theology (London: T&T Clark, 2009), xiii + 221. $130.00

Reviewed by Sung-Sup Kim (July 23, 2010)

David Gibson is currently Assistant Minister at High Church, Hilton, in Aberdeen, Scotland. This book is a lightly revised version of his dissertation written under the supervision of Francis Watson at the University of Aberdeen. Its thesis is fairly straightforward: John Calvin and Karl Barth exhibit contrasting sets of theological relationships between Christology and election, and the root of this contrast lies in how the two theologians read Scripture. This book adds to the recently growing subfield of studying these two theological giants in tandem; furthermore, it contributes to the growing awareness of the inseparable relationship between exegesis and doctrine.

Chapter 1 (“Calvin, Barth and Christocentrism”) is an introduction to the whole project, laying out the thesis and discussing methodological issues. Gibson argues that both Calvin and Barth develop “christocentric” doctrines of election. The point of contention, of course, is what is meant by christocentrism. The author follows Richard Muller’s argument that Calvin (along with the Reformed orthodox) follows “soteriological christocentrism” and Barth “principial christocentrism” (6). The former places Christ at the historical and soteriological center of God’s work of redemption, and its christological interests are driven by the question of salvation and Christ’s economic function. The latter, on the other hand, sets Christology as the methodological rule of all theological thinking. Gibson comes up with a correlative distinction to describe the two theologians’ approaches to Scripture: christologically extensive (Calvin) and christologically intensive (Barth). He uses these concepts to show the similarities and differences in how Calvin and Barth read Scripture and develop their respective doctrines of Christology and election.

In Chapter 2 (“Christology and Election”), Gibson focuses on Calvin’s commentary on John’s Gospel and Barth’s fine-print exegetical section on the prologue to the Gospel in Church Dogmatics II/2. Barth famously criticized Calvin’s doctrine of election for picturing Christ only as a means of executing a hidden absolute decree, but Gibson faults Barth for not mentioning Calvin’s commentary at all—especially on verses such as John 13:18 and 15:16, where Calvin does understand Christ as the subject of election in his role of appointing apostles. The crucial difference, however, is that while Calvin maintains a conceptual distance between Christ ensarkos and asarkos in the so-called extra Calvinisticum, Barth removes it with his direct identification of Jesus with the Word. Furthermore, while Barth sees Christ as the true object of election in whom we also are elected, Calvin pays more attention to the soteriological significance of Christ as the object of our faith. In short, Calvin’s main interest is in showing “what God does” and wills for our salvation, and Barth’s is in “who God is” (42).

The election of Israel and the church occupies Chapter 3 (“Community and Election”), and Gibson here follows Calvin and Barth’s exegesis of Romans 9-11. It is a meticulously close discussion of where the two theologians diverge while reading the same text. For Calvin, the eternal choosing of one people to belong to Christ comes to fruition in the form of two different economic dispensations: Israel in the Old Testament, and the church in the New. There is a linear movement from Israel to the church so that “Israel is typological of the church,” but for Barth “both Israel and the church are typological of Christ” (153). The two form one community of God with different vocations. The difference again lies in the two different kinds of christocentrism. For Barth, the inseparable unity of judgment and mercy in the one person of Jesus Christ leads to the unity of Israel and the church. Calvin, on the other hand, focuses not on God’s being but on his will in the temporal history of salvation to choose some and to reject others. The disjunction between the elect and the reprobate is more emphasized.

In Chapter 4 (“Hermeneutics and Election”), Gibson further develops his argument that Calvin’s exegesis is christologically extensive and Barth’s is christologically intensive. He shifts his attention to the Institutes and the dogmatic parts of Church Dogmatics in order to explicate their contrasting hermeneutics. Calvin does not identify Christ exclusively with the Word. He famously disliked speculation, and as an antidote he resorted not to a christological ground but a textual ground—the written Word, giving “a form of methodological priority to the written rather than the incarnate Word” (175). Barth, on the other hand, exclusively identifies Christ with the Word, and Scripture, the written Word, is a witness to this one living Word. Jesus Christ himself is the content of biblical witness. Consequently, Barth’s christocentrism in his exegesis is intensive. On the other hand, Calvin places Christ at the center of covenant history and hence at the center of Scripture, but in his reading each part of Scripture has a relatively independent standing.

This book offers a carefully constructed comparison of Calvin and Barth with a close reading of their exegetical works. Too often these theologians’ dogmatic characteristics have been attributed to everything from their philosophical mindset to their quirky personalities, but not enough to differences in how they read the Bible. Gibson draws attention in the right direction. Furthermore, the distinction between soteriological and principial christocentrism (and the corresponding distinction between extensive and intensive christocentrism) that he places in the center of his thesis has the power of simplicity to carry the whole argument to the end with coherence.

Gibson claims that this book does not provide an evaluation of either theologian’s exegesis or his doctrine of election. Nor does it examine Barth’s relationship to Calvin—such as whether his criticism is right or to what extent Barth is indebted to Calvin. Rather it is a descriptive analysis and comparison of the two theologians put side by side. But it is difficult not to ask whether such an attempt may risk taking them out of their respective contexts. As Cornelis van der Kooi shows in As in a Mirror: John Calvin and Karl Barth on Knowing God, the great ditch named Kant lies between the two so widely that a direct comparison would seem somewhat forced. Furthermore, it is sometimes doubtful whether Gibson really takes a merely descriptive stance between Calvin and Barth. His central thesis of soteriological and principial christocentrism comes from Muller, whose anti-Barthian sentiments are well known. Of course, Gibson may use Muller’s concepts without subscribing to his sentiments, but the line sometimes seems blurry. An example is his discussion of the relationship between the Trinity and election in Chapter 2. Touching on the controversial topic in recent Barth scholarship, Gibson sides with the interpretation of Edwin Chr. Van Driel et al (against Bruce McCormack et al) that God’s eternal decision of election is a self-determining decision but not a self-constituting one. But Gibson’s argument leaves an impression that he wants to bring Barth as close as possible to Calvin in their trinitarian understandings. Has his indebtedness to Muller perhaps motivated him to defend Barth and harmonize him with Calvin in some way?

Nevertheless, this book does well what it sets out to do: to lay “the necessary foundation for such evaluations” (27). And “such evaluations” should ask the really interesting questions that this book anticipates: What is the theological relationship between Calvin and Barth? Did Barth read Calvin correctly? Whose doctrine of election is more faithful to the biblical witness? Whose reading of Scripture makes more sense? Those who work on such questions will find a great resource in this book. In fact, these are some of the questions that we cannot avoid asking in our struggles to find the proper identity of Reformed theology in our time.

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

Hans Vium Mikkelsen, Reconciled Humanity: Karl Barth in Dialogue (Grand Rapids: William B. Eerdmans, 2010),

Reconciled Humanity: Karl Barth in Dialogue

Hans Vium Mikkelsen, Reconciled Humanity: Karl Barth in Dialogue (Grand Rapids: William B. Eerdmans, 2010), xiv + 280. $30.00 / £19.99 (paperback)

Reviewed by Darren O. Sumner (January 30, 2012)

Hans Vium Mikkelsen (Center for Theology and Religious Education, Løgumkloster, Denmark) offers a reading of Karl Barth’s theology that engages a most important question: Does the incarnation of God the Son affect God’s own, inner life? If God is being-in-act, does the event of Jesus Christ’s life, death, and resurrection in some sense constitute God’s own existence? Or does God exist in eternal repose apart from this event? Mikkelsen commends Barth as a vital dialogue partner for contemporary theology, and his approach here is threefold: [1] to describe Barth’s doctrines of revelation, anthropology, sin, and atonement or reconciliation; [2] to place Barth in conversation with contrasting thinkers, including René Girard, Martin Buber, Regin Prenter and Wolfhart Pannenberg; and [3] to develop his own criticism of Barth’s theology as failing to reach his aim of making the incarnation determinative for God’s being.

In this review I will first offer a summary of the important chapters and Mikkelsen’s major moves with a minimum of evaluative commentary, and then move to criticize his reading of Barth – particularly on this central question of the relation of Christology to the being of God. I conclude with more general comments on the book and its usefulness.

I

Reconciled Humanity is divided into three parts. Part I attends to Barth’s doctrine of revelation. Chapters 2 and 3 present Barth’s views on revelation and Scripture. Because human persons cannot attain knowledge of God by any other means, God must be both the subject and the object of revelation. This takes place according to the history of Jesus Christ narrated in Scripture – God has entered into time rather than eternally transcending it – and this is a free (non-necessary) act. For Barth, the text of the Bible is secondary insofar as it bears witness to Jesus, though it is primary in the sense that Scripture is the locus of one’s “first and foremost encounter [with] God’s self-revelation” (29-30). Chapter 3 concludes with a more constructive test of Barth’s hermeneutical method, which Barth passes by offering a “two-way reading of Scripture” that attends not only to what the text has to say to the reader, but also to what the reader brings to the text in the act of interpretation. Through this act the reader is “able to enlighten the Bible” (40) even as she is enlightened by it. An approach like fundamentalism would read Scripture in only one of these directions, presuming that the text is the fixed locus of self-authenticating divine truth not also shaped in the act of reading.

This builds to the much longer fourth chapter, where Mikkelsen gives an attentive reading of Church Dogmatics (CD) I/1. He considers revelation’s objectivity in light of its divine origin; the individual’s experience of revelation in its ambiguity; the necessity of “acknowledgment”; and our participation in revelation as a transforming act. The subjectivity of revelation consists in the human person’s experience of the presence of God, which gives men and women understanding of self viz. their relation to the Word of God (58-64). This is their “participation” in revelation, not as mere static hearers but as doers, those who are shaped by their encounter with the reality of God’s disclosing presence. All of this is properly framed within a non-experiential approach to theology, however, in order to properly qualify Christian experience and maintain theocentrism. God is the agent, and the human person does not possess that which is given.

Part II concerns the question of creaturely life – as being-in-encounter (Chapter 5) and as subject to sin and nothingness (Chapter 6). Mikkelsen describes Barth’s use of Buber and the I-Thou encounter in CD III/2, as well as the unpublished lectures of 1943/44 (in which Barth engages Buber more directly) that formed the basis of this part-volume. Failure to live in encounter with other creatures is judged to be a refusal of God’s will, “the horizontal correlate to what Barth elsewhere describes as the impossible possibility: the human being’s wish to live without God” (119). This material is generally satisfying, though there is a moment when Barth’s anthropology is overshadowed by the author’s affinity for Buber. In the following chapter, Mikkelsen provides a thorough summary of Barth’s doctrine of sin as nothingness. Das Nichtige is the negative correlate to the divine election of grace, not created but rather “given existence through God’s rejection” (135). It has no ontological substance since it lacks a God-given telos (131). Yet there is no eternal dialectic between election and rejection: as opposition to grace, sin is defeated and overcome (139-40). This approach is in contrast to Emil Brunner’s anthropology, which Barth believed granted sin real ontological force by allowing free will to play an essential role in what constitutes humanity.

The sum of all this is a theological anthropology with both vertical and horizontal dimensions. On the one hand, the phenomenon of human being is subject to and rightly interpreted by the “true human,” Jesus Christ, as creaturely being redeemed out of the sinful morass by its Creator. On the other hand, human being consists very basically in the mutual and self-sacrificing encounter with the other. Any other attempt at anthropology, such as a description founded in the human being’s sinful character, is inadequate and misleading (93).

Mikkelsen’s greatest interest lies in Christology and the atonement, the subject matter of Part III (seven chapters, nearly half of the book’s page count). This is where the author is more constructive, more willing to venture disagreement with Barth, and more prone to flaws in his interpretation. Mikkelsen is right to note a certain “Chalcedonian pattern” in Barth’s Christology. Barth overcomes the limitations of a more classically construed doctrine of the incarnation, however, by combining the two natures doctrine and the status duplex, so that Christology may be seen as both “from above” (the humiliation of God) and “from below” (the exaltation of the human) (147). Here Mikkelsen treats the important topics of anhypostasis/enhypostasis and the relationship of the Logos asarkos and the Logos ensarkos, although neither treatment goes very deep or seizes upon Barth’s more provocative insights. The explanation of enhypostasis is somewhat muddled (the author suggests that the human nature of Christ had its own hypostasis which is incorporated into that of the Logos: 149), and the author introduces the troubling term “absorption” when speaking of the humanity of Christ in relation to his deity: (“The human nature of Christ is absorbed into the being of God”; 151).

In a short chapter on the covenant, Mikkelsen explains Barth’s criticism of federal theology. Positively, federal theology tried to understand the work of God as an event and not as a system of interdependent doctrines (173). However, it also introduced a split between the divine persons, and between God’s essence and will, by conceiving of the covenant of redemption as a mutual pact between the Father and the Son (175-7). This footnote in doctrinal history will be important for understanding Barth’s own thought. Mikkelsen takes up in Chapter 9 the place of judgment and sacrifice in the atonement, comparing Barth’s doctrine with René Girard’s theory of mimesis. For Barth, God is both the subject and the object of judgment, and so the human desire to judge others is exposed and contradicted. For Girard, it is basic to human nature to imitate what another has, and so the only possibility for unity is when the community unites against a common enemy (a scapegoat) and therein justifies the violence inherent in its religious practices. Mikkelsen’s best conclusion is that the two are only formally similar in this way, that is, as they both expose from without the a priori of the human condition (the inclination to judge others, or to imitate others; 192). Otherwise, Barth’s use of Anselmian notions of judgment and punishment for sin are quite foreign to Girard’s theory – though Barth does score points in downplaying the sacrificial model. Materially speaking, Mikkelsen is right to observe that Barth’s theology requires that the death of Jesus on the cross is willed and accomplished by God – something inimical to Girard’s view (cf. 190, 193).

The author rehearses the “double outcome” of the traditional doctrine of predestination, and Barth’s well-known criticism of it, in a brief chapter on election. Mikkelsen’s judgment is that Barth is an unqualified universalist, a verdict he offers without nuance or argument despite a two-page excursus wherein he seeks to justify the claim but finally offers no substantive engagement (212-13). This is followed by an important chapter on punishment and divine wrath. Barth eschews any doctrine of atonement that posits an inner conflict between God’s justice and God’s mercy, emphasizing instead that it is God who is at work on the cross. The Father does not punish the Son but, together, the Father and Son work self-sacrificially to do away with sin and restore the broken relationship with creatures. Mikkelsen stresses well that this fissure is on the human side: we are turned from God, but God is not turned away from us (as many forms of penal substitution theory would have it). Mikkelsen therefore describes the punishment endured by Jesus in terms of “God-absence” (215, 228-9). The Father did not pour out holy wrath upon the Son, but permitted the Son to take up the human being’s status as separated from God. This is not only true of the cross, says Mikkelsen, but also of the whole of the incarnation since the Son takes on fallen human nature, humanity turned away from its Creator (pp. 237-8).

Mikkelsen argues in the penultimate chapter against the old thesis that the humanity of Jesus Christ plays no important role in Barth’s Christology. Then in the provocative final chapter, he argues for the importance of Christology “from below”: “Jesus can only be understood as Christ in and through the resurrection and ascension” (250). As Barth had it, proper Christology is methodologically neither strictly “from above” nor “from below” but a dialectic of both. The subject of the Christ event is seen to be the very Son of God, and “it is only through the story of Jesus that the Christology from above gains its content” (ibid).

II

Mikkelsen’s descriptive work in Parts I and II is generally reliable, and so the following critical evaluation is mostly limited to Part III. With respect to Christology and atonement (his preferred translation ofVersöhnung, rendered “reconciliation” in the CD; cf. 145n1), Mikkelsen’s reading of Barth is solid on the larger picture, but deficient when explicating the details that make Barth’s theology look the way that it does. He is right, for example, to point to Barth’s actualist understanding of the being of God (cf. 158-60). But to speak of this being as “constituted by the acts of God” on the one hand, and of “the essence of God in and for himself prior to history” as the precondition for those acts on the other (158-9), seems to indicate that Mikkelsen’s grasp of the matter lacks precision. Revelation may have a dialectical quality, for Barth, but actualism is not a dialectic.

Further, it is confusing that the author would stress the character of punishment as God-absence so vigorously only to then state that God the Father was not really absent from the suffering Jesus, but that Jesus only felt abandoned – a feeling that “God himself absorbs” and eliminates (229). Jesus’ death in God-abandonment is important to Barth’s understanding of the atonement as a judgment on sin, but it does raise difficult questions, particularly with respect to the triune relations and the unity of God. Mikkelsen’s relegation of God-abandonment to “feeling” signals a last-minute failure of resolve in the face of these challenges. Instead of depicting the death of the Son as God’s firm and final rejection of sin, Mikkelsen risks psychologizing the event of the cross, trading the intra-divine conflict for a fictive “punishment.” He does not deal with Christ being made sin, or the need for sin (not the Son) to be destroyed by divine wrath, or the trinitarian problem inherent in all talk of “God-absence.” On this latter point, Mikkelsen claims early on that Barth’s doctrine of the triune persons as “one absolute subject’s three modes of being” will need to be replaced with “three subjects of the Trinity” to make his thesis work (158; cf. also 176). This phrase should give the reader pause, as well as the author’s failure to explain or defend it elsewhere in the text.

The author’s stress on divine mutability strongly suggests the influence of process theology on his thought. “If God is really taking a risk, this must also … involve at least a potential change in the being of God” (226). God must be able to learn from His experience (262n27). God puts Himself at risk, risks Jesus deserting his task, risks losing Himself to the other. This simply presses Barth’s rhetoric too far, failing to attend to the counterbalancing statement that in giving Himself to creatures God “does not give Himself away” (230; cf. also 232, where Mikkelsen cites this statement). God’s commitment to being God for creatures is real and significant for God’s own life; but, as Mikkelsen observes, Barth is unwilling to hedge on divine freedom, and certainly does not believe that he needs to do so in order to secure this point. Mikkelsen further confuses actualism with process theology, asking, “[i]f it is the acts that constitute the being of God, must God’s being then not be a being in ongoing development (at least potentially)” (259)? But Barth argues that God’s being is not constituted by “acts” of His relation to creatures in general, but by the et singularis act of God’s revelation and reconciliation in Jesus Christ (cf. CD II/2, 264). Mikkelsen’s version of actualism is not rooted in an eternal, divine decision but in the more Hegelian commitment to history that he seems – ironically – to eschew but of which he believes Barth is somewhat guilty (26-7; cf. also 160-4, 256-7). Mikkelsen is driven by the concept of Deus pro nobis, and has concluded that if God is in relation to creatures then God must be vulnerable to creatures: “To be in relation means to be able to relate, which again means to be able to interact mutually” (261). For Barth, however, “God is who He is in His works,” yet “they are bound to Him, but He is not bound to them” (CD II/1, 260).

The author’s central claim is that Barth thus failed to integrate the incarnation and the being of God because he upheld the doctrine of immutability (cf. 211n15). In Mikkelsen’s judgment, Barth’s actualist understanding of God therefore seems “not to make any major difference at all, as the intention of the incarnation can be traced back to God’s original essence (whether it be in the form of an original being or an original will). Nothing new then has really happened to God in the incarnation” (260). Mikkelsen finally wants to argue against such a hidden God that God’s inner being is “dynamic,” i.e. capable of change, and therefore capable of absorbing Jesus’ experience of death on the cross (157n23). When the Son suffers, “God really suffers in his own inner being; there is no God beyond the God who suffers” (257). This he takes to be contradictory to Barth’s own Christology, despite Barth’s best intentions to allow the life of Jesus to be determinative for God.

It is unfortunate that Mikkelsen successfully identifies the actualist character of Barth’s theological ontology but later fails to apprehend the ways in which this impacts his thought – in areas such as intra-trinitarian relations and God’s relationship to history, for example. Barth insists that the Word’s becoming flesh means that God really has taken humanity into God’s own life, with all the ontological implications that entails. This is a point that Mikkelsen stresses well. But because he has lost sight of the fact that Barth grounds the incarnation in God’s eternal election, the author can only conclude that “one consequence of God’s absorbing of human finitude must be that God not only is able to change, but also that God actually did change during the incarnation” (224). He acknowledges that this thesis contradicts Barth, but he fails to see why Barth could (and, indeed, had to) maintain divine immutability: God’s inclusion of humanity in the divine life viz. the Son is eternal and not merely punctiliar. And so the incarnation, while not excluding God’s being, does not signal a change in God but rather the actualization in history of that which God, by virtue of divine decision, has always been (cf. 224-5, 257). Mikkelsen’s thesis falls apart not so much because he gets Barth wrong as because he has not paid sufficient attention to getting Barth entirely right.

In addition to overlooking the role of Barth’s revised ontology here, and much to the detriment of his own argument, Mikkelsen relies on Pannenberg’s misreading of Barth and the arguments of process theology. Barth ends up sounding too much like Cyril of Alexandria in the very ontological differentiation between the immanent and the economic Trinity, and divine freedom is regarded as in competition with God’s self-commitment to creatures (258). Barth’s authentic Christology, in fact, secures all that Mikkelsen seems to want, but without sacrificing divine immutability. Rather than subjecting God to history, actualism protects against God’s mutability and historical contingency on the one hand, and God’s failure to fully enter into the human condition and exist as Deus pro nobis on the other. Barth does this by locating the ontologically decisive “moment” in eternity.

III

There is much in Mikkelsen’s work to admire. Reconciled Humanity is clearly written and approachable. Mikkelsen is a capable describer of the larger contours of Barth’s thought when he allows Barth to speak for himself. The book evinces the author’s clear grasp of Barth’s theology with respect to the deeply important matters of revelation, humanity and sin, as well as his ability to communicate the relevant concepts. But those in search of an introductory text will likely find the book alternately illuminating and frustrating. The study begins slowly with a basic description of Barth’s theology, but gains complexity as the author proceeds to increasingly critical analysis. For example, the issue of the analogia entis arises in Chapter 2 in more accessible (if perhaps confused) terms of Paul Tillich’s method of correlation (22). On the other hand, Mikkelsen introduces the influence of Hegelian and Kantian thought forms without explaining them sufficiently (cf. 26-7), and a similarly unexplained comment refers to a Danish debate over Barth interpretation (110). All this results in an uneven discussion: too simple at times for Barth scholars, and too over-reaching for the layperson.

In areas where Mikkelsen seeks to engage Barth in dialogue – the incarnation and atonement, and the doctrine of God – he quickly loses the grounding provided by his descriptive skills, alternating between formal errors in his strategy of argumentation and material errors in ascribing to Barth either positions he did not hold (e.g. speculative theology and “the fear of an unknown God,” retaining the fear of reprobation inherent in the older doctrine of predestination; 234-5), or problems that Barth did, in fact, overcome (e.g. a competitive account of divine freedom and God’s self-commitment to the world; 257-8). The text also betrays the author’s idiosyncrasies, such as dense repetition of the same point throughout a single paragraph, and the footnotes’ compulsive badgering of the English translation of the Kirchliche Dogmatik as not adequately capturing what Barth really means (ten times by my count, seven of which are in Part I alone).

The book is heavy on interpretive claims and, at key moments, light on supporting evidence. Mikkelsen’s desire is to commend Karl Barth as a dialogue partner for contemporary theology, which is a worthy undertaking. But one suspects that those likely to agree with Mikkelsen’s material conclusions on divine mutability will not find reasons to engage Barth as a dialogue partner here, instead finding reasons to pigeonhole him as yet another representative of a tradition that describes the divine economy as merely “an outpouring of the original will of God,” and that views the world as “nothing more than the stage on which God can perform his act” (260). This is unfortunate, since Barth has much to say here. On the other hand, more conservative interpreters of Barth will be just as unlikely to enter the dialogue, albeit for opposite reasons: Mikkelsen’s agenda is beyond the pale for classical theism, rendering his actualist reading of Barth suspect.

Even if the work does not entirely succeed in its later analytical moves, Mikkelsen identifies all the right questions with respect to Barth’s views of the triune God, the incarnation, and the atonement, and his descriptive powers are significant. Reconciled Humanity is a fascinating study and a welcome attempt to place Barth in conversation with other twentieth century figures and concerns.

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

Stephen J. Grabill, Rediscovering the Natural Law in Reformed Theological Ethics (Emory University Studies in Law and Religion; Grand Rapids, MI: William B. Eerdmans Publishing Company, 2006)

Rediscovering the Natural Law in Reformed Theological Ethics

Stephen J. Grabill, Rediscovering the Natural Law in Reformed Theological Ethics (Emory University Studies in Law and Religion; Grand Rapids, MI: William B. Eerdmans Publishing Company, 2006), x + 310. $38.00 (paperback)

Reviewed by W. Travis McMaken (August 01, 2007)

Stephen J. Grabill, a theological research scholar at the Acton Institute for the Study of Religion and Liberty and editor of the “Journal for Markets and Morality,” provides an excellent introduction to the Reformed natural law tradition in his recent volume Rediscovering the Natural Law in Reformed Theological Ethics. This volume, the product of Grabill’s dissertation at Calvin Theological Seminary, hopes to “rediscover and rehabilitate natural law and related doctrinal concepts” (2), aspects of the Reformed tradition largely ignored in the wake of, among other things, Karl Barth’s critique of natural theology. Grabill believes that fear of “tacit acceptance of Roman Catholic theological and philosophical presuppositions” (9) and latent anti-scholasticism (cf. 4) have also been involved in this eclipse.
Grabill’s volume champions the richness of the Reformed natural law tradition by means of three interwoven movements. First, the Barth – Brunner debate over natural theology is identified as the impetus for the 20th century eclipse of natural law in the Reformed tradition. Second, the role of natural law and related concepts is explored in the thought of Reformed theologians from various stages in the development of Reformed scholasticism in order to overcome fears concerning covert Roman Catholicism. And third, resulting familiarity with the thought of these figures helps to overcome latent anti-scholasticism. The attention given to these Reformed authors is also important because Grabill strives to overturn the notion, which he laments as a result of the Barth – Brunner debate, that John Calvin is the measure of all Reformed theology.

Medieval scholastic antecedents to the Reformed natural law tradition are explored in Chapter two (Grabill’s treatment of Barth in the first chapter will be addressed later), where Grabill sketches the basic contours of realist, realist mediating and nominalist understandings of natural law. All these positions ground natural law in God’s will: “what makes something ultimately obligatory is that God commands it” (58). Differences between them pertain to divergent understandings of how God’s will, natural law and eternal law relate. Indeed, Grabill argues that the nominalist position does not entail relativism. It simply affirms that God could have chosen another moral system than that which God did in fact choose, although “[h]aving chosen this one…it is binding” (66). This chapter concludes with a brief look at Calvin on “the potentia absoluta / ordinata distinction” (68), setting the stage for the following chapter.

Chapter three addresses John Calvin (d. 1564). Grabill’s argument is that “Calvin, at least in principle, leaves open the formal possibility of developing a systematic doctrine of natural law founded upon the natural knowledge of God the Creator” (71). Much of this material deals with the duplex cognitio Dei in Peirre Viret and in Calvin. The result of this analysis is Grabill’s conclusion that on the one hand Calvin repeatedly affirms that humans can know God salvifically only through Jesus Christ as found in Scripture, while on the other he repeatedly denies the claim that without Christ there is no valid knowledge of God whatsoever. (81)

Always eager for an opportunity to distinguish between Barth and Calvin, Grabill notes that the former “argues Christ alone as revelation, whereas Calvin…maintains both special revelation apart from Christ and general revelation” (85). In the final analysis, Grabill understands Calvin as broadly realist in orientation, and concludes that – if nothing else – Calvin’s treatment of the conscience leaves open the possibility of developing doctrine of natural theology and natural law that satisfies Reformed scruples about “the human fall into sin, with all its attendant epistemological frustrations and ambivalences” (96).

Peter Martyr Vermigli (d. 1562), a former Augustinian monk who was later closely associated with Thomas Cramner and Martin Bucer, is the subject of Chapter four. Thanks to Vermigli’s “formal training in the via antiqua and the medieval Augustinian traditions” he was able “to develop a more internally consistent and sophisticated understanding of [the doctrines associated with natural law] than was possible for Calvin” (121). Vermigli’s sophisticated use of the distinction between contemplative and practical knowledge reinforces this notion. He affirmed that a certain basic knowledge of God “is apparent both from the handiwork of creation and being engrafted in the human mind” (117). This latter notion refers to God creative activity with reference to the soul, which is the seat of the conscience for Vermigli (112). With reference specifically to morality and the natural law, Vermigli believed that the post-lapsarian human will is capable of partial knowledge of and obedience to God, although this lacks salvific capacity.

Chapter five is devoted primarily to Reformed political theorist Johannes Althusius (d. 1638), although considerable time is spent investigating the theologian Jerome Zanchi (d. 1590). This chapter tends to focus on the relation between various types of law:

Proper law, or positive law developed by humanity, is the application of natural law to particular circumstances. One interesting point found in this chapter is the notion, advocated by Zanchi, that natural law is not a ‘relic’ of the imago Dei or something associated with essential human nature, but moral knowledge restored by God in post-lapsarian humanity (cf. 139).

Like Zanchi…Althusius holds that the moral precepts of the Decalogue are derivative from the logically prior lex naturalis, that is, the universal knowledge of morality God implanted in the human mind at creation. (132)

Francis Turretin (d. 1687) is the subject of the sixth and final chapter. Turretin’s “theological system is self-consciously scholastic…and self-consciously Reformed” (152). In Turretin, the themes developed thus far are brought together into a higher synthesis than previously achieved. Grabill summarizes his position well: “Although God provides true knowledge of himself in the works of creation and providence, natural revelation is a nonsalvific but morally culpable source of information about God” (158). The moral force of natural law arises both from God’s nature and from the nature of humanity as rational beings in this created order. Those precepts that derive from the former are immutably necessary, while those deriving from the latter are contingently necessary (cf. 170-173). This formulation is a critical affirmation of the realist natural law tradition, and as a repudiation of nominalism.

A sketch of the Protestant natural law tradition’s development into the modern period, with the suggestion that these thinkers tended toward Remonstrant and Socinian positions opposed by Turretin (cf. 176), is offered in conclusion. Barth is once again addressed in much the same way as in the first chapter, where Grabill attends to Barth’s rejection of natural theology and natural knowledge of God in his debate with Brunner. Although this treatment leaves something to be desired, it does identify the crux of Barth’s concern. Grabill writes that, for Barth, “knowledge moves in only one direction, from above to below” and notes that Barth intends to “eliminate the possibility of moving from man to God” (33). After a brief consideration of divine command ethics, Grabill concludes by considering Jacques Ellul, Henry Stob, John Hare and Richard Mouw on the question of natural law.
Grabill’s treatment of Barth is the Achilles heel in an otherwise very well researched and executed volume. Although Grabill casts his project as a rediscovery of the Reformed natural law tradition after Barth, he does not offer arguments as to why Barth was incorrect in assessing natural law. In the place of arguments, Grabill prefers to describe Barth negatively as ‘Christocentric’ or ‘actualist’ without explaining why these things should be rejected. Grabill does strongly critique Barth’s interpretation of Calvin on natural law and natural theology. But it is not the same thing to establish that Barth was incorrect in his interpretation of Calvin and to establish that Barth was incorrect to reject even Reformed versions of the natural law and natural theology traditions. More is expected from someone who recognizes, as Grabill does, that it was “Barth’s desire to go further than the Reformers” specifically by “repudiating the Augustinian deposit in prolegomena” (188). Furthermore, there is no evidence that Grabill has given any attention to Barth’s treatment of the knowledge of God in the opening paragraphs of Church Dogmatics II/1. This is especially unfortunate since Barth here provides an illuminating treatment of the biblical text, interpreting Psalm 8, Romans 1 and other key passages (cf. CD II/1, 100-128).

This avoidance of Barth’s arguments calls into question the success of Grabill’s project to “rediscover and rehabilitate natural law and related doctrinal concepts” (2). Rather than addressing Barth’s arguments, Grabill merely sets him to one side. If the Reformed natural law tradition is to be rediscovered and rehabilitated after Barth, it will have to be done in deep conversation with Barth. This sort of rapprochement between Barth and the greater Reformed tradition on these questions might be pursued through a consideration of Thomas F. Torrance’s epistemological realism. Indeed, Torrance appears to move in this direction in his short work entitled Juridical Law and Physical Law (Scottish Academic Press, 1982).

These difficulties aside, Grabill has provided a valuable resource on and introduction to the Reformed natural law tradition. Though the endnote format is frustrating, Grabill’s notes are often illuminating. A 34-page bibliography provides a helpful guide for further study. Grabill’s chapters on the various Reformed thinkers from Calvin through Turretin provide excellent introductions to their understandings of natural law and related doctrines, and throughout these chapters he achieves fine balance between engagement with secondary literature and with primary texts. For these reasons, Rediscovering the Natural Law in Reformed Theological Ethics, though weak in its treatment of Barth, certainly has a place in Reformed theological studies.

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

Nolan, Kirk J. Reformed Virtue After Barth: Developing Moral Virtue Ethics in the Reformed Tradition (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox, 2014)

Reformed Virtue After Barth: Developing Moral Virtue Ethics in the Reformed

Nolan, Kirk J. Reformed Virtue After Barth: Developing Moral Virtue Ethics in the Reformed Tradition (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox, 2014), 208 pp. $30.00 (hardcover).

Reviewed by Michael J. Leyden (June 27, 2017)

For those of us concerned with the discipline of Christian moral reasoning, one of the great delights of the past twenty-five years has been the introduction of Karl Barth’s voice into ethical discourse. Attitudes have changed towards his moral theology during that time, and scholars have been increasingly open to his distinctive and sometimes contrary understanding of ethics. Broadly speaking there are two approaches in the secondary literature. The first seeks to make sense of Barth’s project and give a coherent account of what he was doing and why (scholars such as Paul Matheny, John Webster, and Paul Nimmo are good examples of this). The second seeks to bring Barth into an existing conversation about particular issues either to clarify, critique, or extend the discussion. The present work by Kirk Nolan, Assistant Professor of Religion at Presbyterian College, adopts the second approach. This is not a book on Barth’s ethics per se, neither is it making the case that he was a virtue theorist (though, in places, it does more than suggest the compatibility of virtue theory and Barth’s theology with varying degrees of success). Rather, the book explores the constructive possibility of a Reformed virtue theory if Barth’s theological concerns are heard and received. As such, this volume primarily addresses an ethical debate in the Reformed tradition, which Nolan thinks will benefit from Barth’s insight that ethics is “grounded in and shaped by a covenant based in God’s free election of humankind” (5). For exclusivist Barthians this may be frustrating, as there is clearly space for a more comprehensive and thorough reading of the ethics of the Church Dogmatics. Yet, it is an interesting and provocative proposal.

Following the introduction, the volume is divided into five chapters: three descriptive chapters and two constructive chapters. Chapter 1 outlines the history of virtue ethics in the Reformed tradition and begins by noting the “the current lack of attention to virtue in the tradition” despite a historic legacy in Calvin’s Institutes, The Westminster Confession, and Jonathan Edwards’ The Nature of True Virtue. Drawing on these three, Nolan explores the contours of Reformed virtue theory, and in particular the natural metaphors used to describe God’s engagement with the world. He concludes by outlining how “Barth’s theology has the potential to make powerful contributions to Reformed moral virtue ethics” by redirecting, re-describing, and reorientating the project “as to the proper source of morality” in God (35). Barth’s emphatic Christological method challenges the natural theology which Calvin and Edwards employ, and replaces it with a more thoroughgoing (and arguably quite particular) Chalcedonianism.

Chapters 2 and 3 take serious note of Barth’s critique of the virtue tradition, whilst also suggesting one possible way in which Barth may be a critical friend of virtue ethics. Barth’s Christocentrism is the basis of the critique, particularly as read from the human-side of the Chalcedonian formula, since, for Barth, “the defining features of our relationship with God through Jesus Christ are also the determinative characteristics of what makes us human beings” (38). Ethically speaking, these relational features determine the shape and content of human agency and the course of ethical deliberation. Furthermore, Nolan observes that Barth’s emphasis on incarnation and revelation undergird his objection to the analogia entis and habitual grace, both of which feature in traditional Reformed virtue theories, and is the basis of his claim that what it means to be human is something we learn only from God who reveals it to us in Christ. Barth has not convinced critics such as Sheila Davaney here: “she argues that . . . Barth’s account of divine and human interaction fails to provide a place for human responsibility and integrity” (39). Davaney’s is an oft-rehearsed retort, initially championed by John Cullberg and Robert Willis; Barth’s emphasis on God is said to overwhelm human capacity and ability, providing no room for the human being to act (and without a proper place for human agency there is little work for the Christian ethicist to do!). However, building on John Webster’s work, Nolan rebuts Davaney’s account of both divine and human agency in Barth for its overemphasis on divine sovereignty at the expense of divine condescension. The latter enables meaningful human action, because the full human Jesus Christ was an ethical agent. His point is that only when sovereignty and condescension are held in balance (and some degree of tension!) can a genuine picture of human agency be offered. It is the humanity of Christ, assumed in the incarnation, which enables us to speak about our own genuine humanity because it holds before us the image of what full humanity is. Here is a crucial part of Nolan’s developing argument: the humanity of Christ is indicative of the kind of moral life other human beings are to cultivate in words and deeds, something to move towards in our decisions and actions. This is not simply by being an example to us of the moral life, but more provocatively by being the directly embodied address and command of God to us. Our humanity is therefore found in response to his humanity. With this in mind, Chapter 3 attends to William Werpehowski’s assessment of Barth’s ethics as a type of narratival virtue ethics — i.e. because Barth thinks each of us has a moral history, in which we are encountered and commanded by God “moment by moment”, all of our decisions in the present also draw upon our decisions of the past — and delineates a series of convergences and divergences between Werpehowski’s reading of Barth and Barth’s objections to virtue theory. While Werpehowski’s insight that Barth can offer something useful to virtue ethics is affirmed, the divergences in detail mean that Nolan must find an alternative way to do Barthian virtue: ”Reformed virtue ethics on Barthian lines will have to part ways with Werpehowski’s reading of Barth” (71). Thus, the task of the final chapters is to outline Nolan’s constructive proposal.

Chapter 4 begins with five (Barthian) theological commitments around which Nolan structures his Reformed virtue ethics: 1) God is the God who has chosen unequivocally to be God for us; 2) our identity in Christ is marked by the struggle between old and new, simul justice et peccator; 3) the relationship between God and us is unidirectional, such that God’s grace is given to us in revelation, not through our own natural capacities; 4) the relationship between God and us is Chalcedonian in character; 5) grace is not separable from the God made known in Jesus Christ but is in fact identified with that person. With these in mind, he offers his critical reading of three of Thomas’ virtues: temperance, prudence, and charity. Attention to specific virtues allows Nolan to show what this ethics would look like in reality. In each case, Nolan argues that Barth’s approach sees the enactment of these virtues as human response to divine command. This places the theological emphasis on God and not human capacity. However, just as Thomas thought practicing virtues makes us more virtuous, so Nolan argues obedience to God’s commands in Christ affects the respondent: “our response to God’s initiating activity strengthens the virtue” (91). Significantly, Nolan argues that the need to cultivate these virtues in obedience is absolutely necessary because of the “marked struggle” mentioned above; since we are justified sinners, our response to the divine command is a struggle for us, in which we must choose obedience not disobedience. As we do, we grow more able to respond rightly in the future. This movement, framed theologically by the covenant of grace and practically by the community of faith, is our personal and corporate history, and the cultivation of virtuous responses to God’s command is our formation as Christian disciples. The final chapter explores what this has looked like in concrete terms in the recent history of the Presbyterian Church (USA), and suggests ways forward.

Nolan’s argument is interesting, and it is worthy of attention. As a constructive work, drawing on Barthian insights to re-envision Christian virtue ethics, it is exciting and provocative. As an account of what Barth is doing constructively with his moral theology, I am much less convinced. The eventful character of divine address in Barth’s ethics in the Church Dogmatics is much more dynamic and surprising than I think Nolan allows. Nonetheless there is much to inspire here too — his emphasis on human responsibility before God is a strand of Barth’s moral theology which is often overlooked. Readers will be tested and stimulated by this book, both ethicists and Barth scholars alike, and will be forced to re-examine and sharpen their own ideas. For this reason they should read it.

Michael J. Leyden, Tutor and Lecturer in Systematic Theology, St Mellitus College

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

Norwood, Donald W. Reforming Rome: Karl Barth and Vatican II (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2015)

Reforming Rome: Karl Barth and Vatican II 

Norwood, Donald W. Reforming Rome: Karl Barth and Vatican II (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2015) xxi+263. $35.00 (paperback).

Reviewed by Marjorie Corbman (February 02, 2016)

In Reforming Rome, Norwood offers a valuable contribution to existing research on the relationship between Barthian theology and movements for reform within the Catholic Church in the twentieth century, exemplified best by the Second Vatican Council (1962-1965). While other recent works on this theme have focused on the nuances of the theological conversations (and divergences) between Barth and Catholic figures, most notably Benjamin Dahlke in Karl Barth, Catholic Renewal and Vatican II (2012) and the contributors to Bruce L. McCormack’s and Thomas Joseph White, OP’s Thomas Aquinas and Karl Barth (2013), Norwood gives special attention to the context of the ecumenical movement as a framework for interpreting Barth’s responses to the documents of the Second Vatican Council. Norwood, as a minister of the United Reformed Church who has himself been involved in ecumenical efforts, makes a compelling case for the enduring significance of the conversation between Barth and his Catholic contemporaries for the pursuit of church unity.

The book contains seven chapters: 1) “Why Rome? Why Reform? Why Barth?”, an argument for the continued importance of these three loci of the book for ecumenical dialogue; 2) “Reforming Rome: Continuing the Reformation,” a description of the necessity for continued “reform” in achieving church unity; 3) “Responding to Vatican II, Part 1,” an examination of Barth’s responses to two integral documents produced by the Second Vatican Council, Dei Verbum (Dogmatic Constitution on Divine Revelation) and Lumen Gentium (Dogmatic Constitution on the Church); 4) “Responding to Vatican II, Part 2,” a discussion of Barth’s understanding of Church authority, papal power, and the meaning and mission of the Christian community; 5) “Reforming or Converting Karl Barth: Roman Catholic Critics,” an overview of the varied Catholic critiques of Barth and Barthian approaches; 6) “Differences That Still Divide?”, a look towards the remaining points of division between church communities in light of the conversations of Barth and his Catholic colleagues; and 7) “The Rediscovery of Unity,” a call for Christians today to enact the act of solidarity, unity, respectful challenge, and “exchange of gifts” found in the event of interdenominational gathering in Vatican II.

Norwood describes himself as approaching the task of writing the book as a Protestant minister who had “fallen in love with the Council” through studying its documents, reading the reports of those who were present, and meeting those who attended its sessions (200). Norwood seems struck especially by the spontaneity and openness of the Council, springing evidently from Pope Saint John XXIII’s experience of prayer that allowed the Catholic Church to welcome so forthrightly the voices of its Protestant critics to its own process of discernment. One of the loudest of these voices, Norwood persuasively demonstrates, was Barth’s, though he was unable to attend the Council in person.

In examining Barth’s own responses to the Council, the influence Barthian theology likely had on some of the Council documents (especially on Dei Verbum), and correspondence between Barth and Catholic thinkers, Norwood establishes the importance of viewing Barth as a crucial conversation partner for the Catholic Church in the periods before, during, and following the Council. Norwood’s work is most convincing and gripping when illustrating the importance of Barth’s relationships with individual Catholic scholars, particularly in his descriptions of his friendship with both Hans Urs von Balthasar and Hans Küng, but also with most of the major figures of Catholic thought in the twentieth century, including Yves Congar, Karl Rahner, and Joseph Ratzinger (later Benedict XVI).

Cataloging with detail Barth’s dialogues with these Catholic scholars, all of whom apart from von Balthasar were present at the Vatican II sessions as periti (theological experts), Norwood depicts the middle of the twentieth century as a watershed moment in ecumenical dialogue and efforts due in part to the clear sense that emerged of the need for the Church to respond in a unified way to the unique moral challenges of the time. While in the centuries between the Reformation and the twentieth century (as Norwood cites Barth stating), Catholics and Protestants no longer spoke to but only about each other, the Second World War brought many Catholics and Protestants together into bonds of “common resistance to Hitler” (51).

In portraying the source of ecumenical progress as shared prayer, action, and “friendship” (50), Norwood gives texture to a more theoretical discussion of the common points and diverging positions of Reformed and Catholic theology. More importantly for Norwood’s purposes, the model of communal sharing and respect seen in the Council and the period in which it occurred serves as a necessary example for anyone concerned with church unity today. Before theological differences can be resolved, participants in dialogue must be willing to engage in what he, referencing the Catholic theologian Margaret O’Gara, terms “ecumenical gift exchange”—a practice of generosity and respect acknowledging that unfamiliar traditions have gifts to offer to one’s own (213-4).

It is this framework of “gift exchange” that guides Norwood’s most interesting argument, going beyond historical examination of Barth’s engagement with Vatican II to posit that the Second Vatican Council itself bore out Barth’s vision of the Church as an “event,” a gathering-together, even though this ecclesiological image was not emphasized in the Council documents themselves. While Vatican II largely presented the Church as an already-given entity (though its images of what that entity is, of course, radically departed from the previous near-total identification of the Church with its hierarchical institutional structure), the Council, Norwood says, was a Spirit-inspired event, an image of a “New Pentecost” that in itself complemented more static understandings of Christian community (74-5).

One of Barth’s “gifts” to the pursuit of church unity, Norwood shows, was an uncompromising commitment to the importance of the “ministry of the community,” not separated into categories of hierarchy and laity, but rather that of all called by Christ to the same tasks of praise, proclamation, healing, and prophetic action (109-111). Norwood relies on Timothy J. Gorringe’s Karl Barth: Against Hegemony (1999) to interpret Barth’s “rejection of all patterns of domination in the church” as connected with Barth’s larger project of opposing any unjust power (103-4). At the same time, Norwood demonstrates that Barth was willing to learn from Catholic examples (both contemporaneously and historically) about the power of the unified voice and action that comes with the more centralized authority of the Catholic Church. Barth’s Reformed skepticism of hierarchical power is not necessarily incompatible with respect for the Church as a unified body, but, rather, that both theological emphases have much to offer the other.

One of the repeated strands of Norwood’s book is a disappointed reflection on the lack of progress both ecumenically and within the Catholic Church since the Second Vatican Council. A major aspect of this lack of progress highlighted by Norwood is the lack of resolution between claims of “papal primacy and episcopal collegiality” (218-219). It is a shame that this book was completed just as such significant change was beginning to occur on the Catholic front; it would have been fascinating to read Norwood’s application of Barth’s thought to Pope Francis’ recent movements towards decentralization and collegiality within the Catholic Church. Francis’ call in 2014 to those participating in the Extraordinary General Assembly of the Synod of Bishops to “speak with parrhesia [boldness] and listen with humility,” especially, seems to resonate with the same spirit of challenge and friendship Norwood values in Barth and his Catholic conversation partners.

Reforming Rome will be of interest to both Protestants and Catholics concerned with the pursuit of church unity. Written in an accessible (even pastoral) style, it will be helpful both for theologians and for interested general readership. The main weakness of the volume is a tendency for the author to repeat himself, circling around to many of the same points and citations, which can be distracting at times to the reader. However, on the whole this is a comprehensive, well-researched, and lovingly-written contribution to Barth studies as well as (more importantly) to reconciliation and understanding between Protestant and Catholic communities.

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

Rashkover, Randi. Revelation and Theopolitics: Barth, Rosenzweig and the Politics of Praise (New York: T&T Clark, 2005)

Rashkover, Randi. Revelation and Theopolitics: Barth, Rosenzweig and the Politics of Praise (New York: T&T Clark, 2005), 215 pp. $80.95 (paperback).

Reviewed by Zacharie Klassen (February 21, 2017)

Published in 2005, Randi Rashkover’s Revelation and Theopolitics no doubt occupies an important place in the increasing Jewish engagement with the works of Karl Barth. Indeed, Rashkover’s more recent Freedom and the Law: A Jewish-Christian Apologetics (Fordham, 2011) extends some of her engagement with Barth in Revelation and Theopolitics to a treatment of Barth on the law. As the full title of the book here being reviewed suggests, however, this book is not principally about Karl Barth. Rather, the book offers a comparative reading of the Jewish theologian Franz Rosenzweig and the Christian theologian Karl Barth as presenting what Rashkover calls a “theology of testimony” that could support “a philosophically justified theopolitics” for Jewish and Christian communities in an age where the question of the role of religion in the public square continues to vex many (3).

According to Rashkover, a theology of testimony is built on the assumption that “knowledge of God is possible only in the context of the ethical labor of the elect individual who seeks through her moral endeavor to testify to the loving act of the transcendent God” (3). Rashkover is fully aware of how the language of knowing God through “ethical labor” may be interpreted as repeating certain Kantian ideas about God as being the rationally necessary “postulate” for ethics (22), as well as his affirmation of the moral autonomy of the individual. To show that there is a concrete relation to Kant in her analysis, but also to show that Kant’s ideas are not the foundation for a theology of testimony, Rashkover spends the first chapter analyzing the neo-Kantian Hermann Cohen, noting Rosenzweig and Barth’s “shared inheritance” of his thought (9). While this chapter includes some of the most challenging material of the book, a close reading is rewarding and important for understanding how Rashkover reads Rosenzweig and Barth to both inherit and improve upon Cohen’s thought. Rashkover notes that Cohen took Kant’s categories of critical idealism and did what Kant was never willing to do, namely, to apply the categories to religion or revelation and specifically to the sources of Judaism (14). By doing this, Rashkover claims that Cohen improved upon Kant in two ways.

First, Cohen was willing to develop assertions regarding God that went beyond Kant’s appeal to God as mere cause of the created order. This led him to conceive of the concept of “correlation,” which Rashkover interprets as the relation, begun in God’s act of revelation, “between God as the origin of reason and a human’s response to this revelation by means of her employment of that reason” (18). Developing the concept of correlation in relation to the biblical language of God’s holiness, Cohen then claimed that God was not only the postulate that made ethical action rational, but also the pre-condition and model of human morality (22-23). Called to be holy, human beings must “emulate” God through moral action and in doing so show themselves to know God only through “acknowledgement” of and devotion to God (24). Second and following from the above, Rashkover notes that Cohen’s principle example of correlation is divine forgiveness and grace, topics that Kant refused to give weight due to their potential for undermining the freedom and autonomy of the rational individual to act (30). While these two moves beyond Kant are promising in Rashkover’s view, in that they turn with seriousness towards religious sources, she finally claims that Cohen’s advance is only partial, since he still requires that Jewish sources fit the idealistic constrains of ‘ethics’ and ‘reason’ rather than letting the sources determine what counts for ethics and reason.

Turning to an analysis of Rosenzweig and Barth in the subsequent four chapters, Rashkover demonstrates how these two figures prioritize religion or revelation in their accounts of ethics. In the second chapter, Rashkover points out that, contrary to Cohen, Rosenzweig’s account of revelation in The Star of Redemption “does not have any conceptual referent” (59). Revelation, for Rosenzweig, is always the “act” of the transcendent God and as such it is consistently out of the grasp of idealistic possession. Reading The Song of Songs, Rosenzweig argues that God’s revelation is the revelation of God’s “unconditional and commanding” act of love for the beloved, which is also the election of the beloved (60). Being so elected by the transcendent God, the beloved simultaneously finds herself called to acknowledge this love while having no possession of it such that she could simply re-present it through reason. Furthermore, finding herself loved, she acknowledges a time without that love – the time of sin (62). Experiencing this love but also recognizing sin, the beloved is now called to testify to the God she desires and who is absent. Here Rashkover sees the significant improvement on Kant (as well as Cohen) being Rosenzweig’s appeal to “theological desire” as the basis for epistemology and ethics rather than the “postulate of God” as “rational need” (66).

The appeal to “theological desire” here may sound like a return to Schleiermacher, but in the third chapter Rashkover shows how this is not the case by treating what she calls Rosenzweig’s “philosophically plausible theology of the Word of God” (77). There she argues that, for Rosenzweig, desire for the transcendent God can be testified to in human language without reducing revelation to the subjective experience of the religious individual since a philosophical analysis of language shows that language “suggests transcendence without objectifying it” (80). In other words, rather than just testifying to a subjective experience, Rosenzweig understands language to be expressive of reality. The Word of God does not consist of particular words or propositions then, but must be understood as supplying a language for “the experience of divine revelation and command” and “the human response to this experience…” (90). The human experience and response to the divine revelation and command demonstrate, however, the dialectical character of the Word of God in that language itself expresses “language’s inability to describe…the Other” (92). This does not mean that the human response has only a negative function, for the positive function of human response is also displayed when theological desire translates into love of neighbor (99).

In chapters 4 and 5, Rashkover turns to an analysis of Barth’s Epistle to the Romans and selections from the Church Dogmatics (hereafter ER and CD respectively), arguing that Barth’s account of “theological knowledge . . . is structurally the same” as Rosenzweig’s (120). In fact, Rashkover argues that the account of revelation given by Cohen, Rosenzweig and Barth are similar in that all affirm revelation as the means by which human beings come to knowledge of God. For the Barth of ER, however, this knowledge is possible “only by an act of God’s grace through which God lovingly displays his righteousness and commands us to obedience . . . ” through the cross and resurrection (124). By way of this “love-command” structure, Rashkover rightly understands Barth to be articulating a theology of “divine election.” The elect individual, however, can only experience the revelation of God’s love and command as a judgment of the reality of sin and so the negation of the present world. Pointing out a difference between Rosenzweig and Barth here, Rashkover notes that, for Barth, in ER “the redemption afforded in revelation does not pertain to or have any positive effect on our current world” but must find expression only in “the new world” (128). As a result, the only way a believer testifies ethically to God is through repentance (130). In order to draw out any kind of “positive praise of God” from Barth’s writings, Rashkover claims that one needs to turn to his account of revelation in the CD where she claims Barth provides an alternate picture of “the form of the divine act of revelation” even as he remains committed to a dialectical account of that revelation (138). According to her, the Christology in CD II/2 provides an account of positive testimony in that there Barth declares Jesus Christ, the Word of God, as not only the basis for knowledge of God, but also as the visible “basis for ethical life” (152). The incarnation is “the site of positive testimony to God” whereby human beings are able to see “a portrait of the elected human being who positively loves and participates in the glory of God” (155). While human beings cannot realize the perfect testimony to God’s love that Jesus embodied, they can nonetheless “enact obedience and practical testimony to God in this world” through love of neighbor (159).

In the final chapter, Rashkover develops what she calls a “politics of praise” whereby covenantal communities like Judaism and Christianity can testify to God’s love through “the prophetic call of proclamation and critique, and the cry for justice” in the political sphere (171). Both of these elements, as Rashkover sees it, have been sorely hampered by “Constantinianism” on the one hand and modernity’s “church-state divide” on the other (172-173). Due to the dialectical character of their respective theologies of testimony, both Rosenzweig and Barth see testimony as a prophetic critique of human political realities (including those of religious communities) that attempt to secure the needs of a people at any cost (174). For Rosenzweig this came to expression in his critiques of certain strands of liberal Jewish tradition that too closely allied Judaism and the state and in Barth through his involvement in the Confessing Church. These examples show, for Rashkover, that a theology of testimony does not preclude religious communities from involvement in any form of ethical or even legal expression in the pursuit of justice, but it does mean that the form of expression will always be held in tension with the recognition of its own dialectical character as testimony and never as stable norm or dogma.

There is much to commend in this book. Beyond helpfully demonstrating the shared relationship between the thought of Hermann Cohen, Rosenzweig, and Barth, Rashkover has developed a framework for thinking about Jewish and Christian political engagement that should enrich ongoing work in this area. For readers unfamiliar with the Jewish authors and concepts being explored, this work will provide a helpful (although challenging!) introduction. In such a short review, much was left out that readers would also benefit from attending to, such as Rashkover’s take on the debate over Barth’s so-called turn to analogy the CD, as well as a surprising and helpful engagement with philosopher Gillian Rose in the last chapter.

Zacharie Klassen, Ph.D. Candidate, McMaster University

The views expressed here are strictly those of the author; they do not necessarily represent the views of the Center for Barth Studies or Princeton Theological Seminary.

Spencer, Archie J. The Analogy of Faith: The Quest for God’s Speakability. Strategic Initiatives in Evangelical Theology (Downers Grove, IL: IVP Academic, 2015)

The Analogy of Faith: The Quest for God’s Speakability. Strategic Initiatives in Evangelical Theology

Spencer, Archie J. The Analogy of Faith: The Quest for God’s Speakability. Strategic Initiatives in Evangelical Theology (Downers Grove, IL: IVP Academic, 2015), 441 pp. $40.00 (paperback).

Reviewed by Kathryn Bradford Heidelberger (February 13, 2017)

How can a human being speak meaningfully of God? Given that language is a human construction, and given that the Divine life is a transcendent reality that stands outside of finite experience, using language to meaningfully speak of God may seem like an impossible or fleeting task. Archie J. Spencer, in his book, The Analogy of Faith: The Quest for God’s Speakability, sets out to find a way where one can make true and meaningful statements about God which neither collapse God into human experience nor distance God so far from human experience that God becomes entirely unknown. In order to accomplish this goal, Spencer takes up two differing thought systems that are used to solve the conundrum of making speech about God intelligible. The first, analogia entis, or analogy of being, affirms that there is some kind of resemblance or analogy between God and human beings that is the impetus for language about God (16). The second, analogia fidei, or analogy of faith, is a kind of shorthand for the gospel as it is written in Scripture, and affirms that the relationship between Creator and created is solely dependent on the Incarnation as the Word of God. Only on the basis of the revealed Word of God can language hope to make true statements about God (17). Using careful research and masterful analysis, Spencer argues for a Christologically grounded account of analogia fidei that clarifies just how the term ‘analogy’ can be used properly in reference to God and human beings. A very rough sketch of Spencer’s argument is presented in brief below in order to highlight his movement from analogia entis toward analogia fidei.