Contemporary Theology

What, you might well ask, is contemporary theology and why does it matter? I have been reading

MacGregor, K. R., Contemporary Theology: A Introduction. Classical, Evangelical, Philosophical and Global Perspectives. Grand Rapids: Zondervan. 2020.

According to MacGregor, contemporary theology starts with Schleiermacher, or at least, I suppose, you need to know about Schleiermacher in order to know about modern theology and hence contemporary theology. Schleiermacher is presented as the start of liberal theology, a theology of emotion and experience, against which many other theologians since have reacted. This is possibly a fair assessment, but whether Schleiermacher was trying to do that is of course, moot.

The other root MacGregor identifies is Hegel. Hegel is, of course, mainly a philosopher although it can be rather hard to disentangle philosophy and theology from each other. MacGregor suggests that Hegel is very influential in contemporary theology. I confess to not being quite as convinced by that as by Schleiermacher, although there are modern theologians heavily influenced by Hegel, Rowan Williams for one, I think.

The rest of the book gives brief chapters on lots of different topics. I have already referred to Reformed Epistemology, which gets one of the longer chapters (12 pages), in an earlier post. MacGregor seems, in a way to lay the problems of modern philosophy of religion, theology, and even, possibly society firmly at the feet of Wittgenstein, asserting that whenever someone says ‘That’s true for you, but not for me’ they are arguing on the basis of language games and this sort of relativism is dangerous (p. 157).

Well, maybe, but it does rather depend on what you call a language game, of course. One model which does seem to be around is that language games are separate modes of language use that do not interact. This, it seems to me, is untrue. I can be equally at home in the language game of Christian religion and in that of physics. Further, in my mind, the two interact. Thus I can find dissonance in my thoughts about the creation according to Genesis and that according to modern physics. Finding some way of holding the two beliefs together is important for my ability to function in both language games if I am reasonably attentive to both.

The book is squarely based on North American Christianity, and hence has quite a bit about evangelical theology post World War II, in particular about the growth of serious evangelical scholarship. This then returns in chapters on complementarianism and egalitarianism, which are basically arguments within North American Evangelical constituencies about the role of women in churches and, in particular, church leadership. This chapter follows on from one of Feminist Theology (which gets a slightly shorter chapter). As with so much evangelical argument, it really seems to come down to the discussion of a handful of verses in Scripture, and their interpretation.

Roman Catholic theology gets a couple of chapters, one on Vatican I and neo-thomism and one on Vatican II and its aftermath. It is a bit of a shame that some of the figures in Roman Catholic theology do not get a bit more space; for example, Rahner’s influence is quite significant, but only gets a page or so. Again, the North American perspective is clear, assigning influence to Opus Dei and its publishing house for bringing right-wing Catholic writers (von Balthasar, de Lubac, and Edith Stein) to the American reader. Whether these three can be quite so easily classified I am not sure.

There are some efforts at a global perspective. Liberation theology gets a chapter, as do African Christology and Chinese Eschatology, both of which are quite interesting and do bring a different point of view. Perhaps there could have been more on the effects of colonialism and imperialism on these various theologies. After all, both still suffer from the effects of colonisation and, if there is such a thing as neo-imperialism, from that as well, as does South America.

Still, there is a limit to how much one can squeeze into one book, and there is a lot of it. Each chapter comes with further reading and sources, and each would be helpful to a student grappling with a new subject, or a more experienced theologian seeking basic information on a subject matter which they are less familiar with. What is, perhaps, missing, is an overview of the trajectory of theology over the last two hundred years or so. As presented, while there are links between some of the chapters, I feel a bit left with a babble of voices, although academic theology is a bit like that.

Perhaps the problem is with the academy. Zena Hitz (Lost in Thought) describes her academic career as more about hierarchy and point-scoring among her colleagues than seeking something that was true. Basil Mitchell in How to Play Theological Ping-Pong would agree. The modern academy does not really seem to favour lengthy reflection or solid synthesis. It is, perhaps, a language game of its own, spinning plates for its own amusement and rarely touching real life and real people. This is, perhaps, a problem, particularly in the arts and humanities. The sciences are seen as knowledge-making and money-making, while the arts are regarded as less useful, at least, up front.

That said, of course, those educated at private schools in the UK often undertake arts degrees and land up in Parliament or running big businesses. This leads to something of a dearth of scientifically trained people in these roles, and a continuation of the gulf between science and the arts. Perhaps that is inevitable, but the academy on both sides does little to improve the situation.

In my view, the history of philosophy and theology over the last two hundred years (and more) is made up of responses to the advances of science and technology. These responses have, perhaps, come to be seen as less and less convincing, and thus the subjects have started talking to themselves, even in areas where there is a self-conscious effort to engage with science and technological subjects, such as science and faith. That is to the detriment of both science and theology and philosophy, in my view.

Theological Philosophy and Fun

Now, there are two concepts that do not usually appear in the same sentence. Who on earth could think that something as weighty as philosophical theology (or theological philosophy: I am never sure what the difference is) could be related to fun, joy, excitement, and so on? Well, I have been reading an introduction to contemporary theology (which I have not yet finished; hopefully, there will be a bit more to say about it soon) and it has covered, in a few of its short chapters, both Reformed Epistemology and Analytic Theology. And it reminded me of why I actually liked these topics.

Most people, I think (my experience as a learner was certainly the case) consider courses in philosophy or philosophy of religion and so on with a great deal of trepidation. Indeed, I recall a number of my colleagues declining to submit essays on the topic and auditing the courses anyway, just to try to keep their average marks up. Fair enough. Philosophy of religion is not for everyone, and those who actually like it as a subject are probably even fewer. Yet it does appeal, to me at least.

I think that I like Reformed Epistemology because there is something about it I do not like. This sounds like a standard inconsistency in my mind, but there is a little more to it than that, I hope. After all, I keep encouraging people to read the things they disagree with and try to figure out why they disagree with it. That way we learn; if we only read things we agree with we will never change.

Reformed Epistemology annoys me, slightly, and I am reasonably convinced that there is something wrong with it somewhere. It is not a subject that I have studied much recently, but I did write an essay on the topic once (and it got a good mark) and I have read a little more since (before I was sidelined into Lonergan and Ramsey). The problem here is that, given the assumptions, Reformed Epistemology works, that is, the conclusions it reaches are perfectly acceptable given the premises.

As is well known, part of the assault of Reformed Epistemology on ‘ordinary’ philosophy of religion is upon foundationalism. The argument here starts from the undisputed agreement that there are some things we know in a properly basic manner. Thus, for example, we know that 1+1 equals two. Similarly, I know I had toast for breakfast even though there is no evidence for the fact. I suppose that, by examination of my digestive tract, the washing up water, and so on someone could deduce that I did, indeed, have toast for breakfast this morning, but it might be more difficult to establish my breakfast evidentially for the morning of a week ago. But I know what I had.

The question is, therefore, whether we can know of the existence of God in a properly basic way or not. Post-enlightenment thought would expect such a proposition to be argued for from basic assumptions. Hence we get, in some quarters, a focus on arguments for the existence of God; admittedly, most of them start from Aquinas, but given that Aquinas only gave the arguments one query at the beginning of the Summa Theologica he presumably thought there were more interesting things to discuss.

By denying that we have to argue for the existence of God and can know God directly, in a sunset or a flower, Reformed Epistemology probably captures how people come to faith much more accurately than the Aquinas’ five ways. Few people are, I think, argued into the Kingdom of God. While we like to think that we are entirely rational, reason-following creatures, evidence suggests that while we are often, in fact, our feelings and emotions have more to do with our beliefs and decisions than we might think. Thus I might look at a beautiful vista and decide that it is so wonderful that God must exist. This is not an argument – that might come later if and when I reflect on the scene and my feelings about it.

Of course, not everyone who looks at a beautiful sunset will agree that because of it they know God exists. This runs the risk, I suppose, of making God, or at least belief in God, thoroughly subjective. The Reformed Epistemologists suggest that how we respond to such an experience depends on our presuppositions. If we are open to God, then we may believe that he exists after such an experience. If we are not, then no such experience is going to change our minds (or is unlikely to, anyway). On the other hand arguments for the existence of God are unlikely to make much of a difference either.

It is here that the theological assumptions of Reformed Epistemology kick in. According to this we are all fallen, steeped in sin (that is, after all, Biblical). The sin affects our ability to perceive God: some of us, more open to the grace God offers us, might manage it, but some of us will not. And with a single bound, not only are the divergences of belief in God explained but key theological points of Calvinism are established.

How you might ask, is this fun? Well, I doubt that I am alone in thinking that it is a bit annoying. Reformed Epistemology is not alone in this sort of thing of course. Lonergan, about halfway through Insight does a similar thing by suddenly introducing categories from Thomism into his argument. As a reader, you might feel ambushed (I did). But you cannot deny that as an argument it is intriguing and hard to initially see the flaws. This is where the interest and fun lie, as well as the learning. ‘Why do I not like this argument?’ is the question that must be poised on many lips as Reformed Epistemology is read and pondered.

The fact is that these sorts of questions are the sorts of questions that make us think and enable us to see across our own divides. It took a while for philosophers to recognise that Reformed Epistemology and Aquinas were not far apart, and the Aquinas / Calvin model was formulated. Given the starting assumptions of both, this might be a bit startling. And that, in any intellectual pursuit, is fun.