Professor Robert W. Jenson
The following article is a prime reason why I finish books I don’t really enjoy — you never know if some worthwhile nubbins will squeak out by the end. After 180 pages of sub-stellar essays spanning twenty-five years of his output, Professor Robert W. Jenson gave us this not-too-shabby contribution in 1990 concerning three of our favorite topics.
I.
Nearly all American institutions that have in any generous or authentic fashion taught “liberal arts” were founded by the Christian church. Most of these schools are now much secularized. It is a question whether American colleges’ cultivation of the liberal arts can survive this development, except as provision of amenities for the most leisured or alienated among student constituencies. The evidence is not encouraging. The sense in which even the most elite schools can now verify their title as colleges “of” liberal arts is with rare exceptions decidedly attenuated. It seems likely that the liberal character of America’s colleges stands and falls with their ideologically and liturgically Christian character.
The alliance, of course, long antedates America. The liberal arts are the inheritance of Athens’ free polity, of the arts required for public debate of the good and in turn nurtured by the discourse thus constituted; they are, as old classicists like myself never tire of repeating, “the arts proper for a citizen to acquire.”1 The liberal arts, when vital, were not ornamental arts; they were the praxis of public life as different from private, economic life — they seem impractical to us only because we have made a political choice to restrict serious praxis to the private sphere.
So soon as the Christian movement, coming into the Hellenized world of later Mediterranean antiquity, encountered the liberal curricular inheritance, it appropriated these arts as its own. Vice versa, since the final collapse of pagan antiquity, the liberal arts have appealed and could appeal to no other protector or promoter than the church.
The question of my essay is: What can be the basis of this mutual attraction? Indeed, of this mutual dependency? “Athens and Jerusalem” are not in general likely allies. Greek religion is polymorphous; the Lord is a jealous God. Greece’s deity is eternal by immunity to death; Israel’s and the church’s God by suffering and conquering it. The free polis was indeed an unprecedented public space for those admitted, but excluded most of the population; in Christ there is neither slave nor free, male nor female. The Greeks were incurable elitists; Christ has chosen the lowly of this world. Athens seeks wisdom, whereas Jerusalem seeks righteousness; and the gospel slashes this already drastic polarity with the foolishness and offense of the cross.
Athens and the Christian movement had of course to meet and talk. When the mission of the gospel invades new cultural and religious turf there occurs always a mutual new interpretation: interpretation of the gospel claim that Jesus rules in light of the antecedent hopes and fears of the invaded culture, and vice versa, of the culture’s antecedent convictions in light of the gospel. So it went also on that branch of the mission that moved from Jerusalem and Antioch into the centers of Hellenized antiquity — and eventually to us. At the basis of specifically Western Christianity and the once-evangelized Western culture there are an appropriate baptizing of Hellenism and a reciprocal hellenizing of the gospel. By and large, however, the conversation between these partners — unlike, for apparent example, that in black Africa — has been a gloriously productive millennial agony. Why then the one area of peace and harmony?
II.
The enemy of my enemy is my friend. Let me suggest: the gospel and the life of the free polis each perceive an intimate enemy, and it is the same on both cases. When the gospel is heard and not believed, or when freedom is frustrated or merely exploited, the specter of nihilism rises. Against this haunt, one can never have too many allies.
It is of course from the writings of Nietzsche that the word “nihilism” resonates among us, but for the purposes of this essay I will follow a usage less convoluted than his. By nihilism I will simply mean lack of hope. Or, what is the exactly same thing, I will mean inability to find reason for valuing human persons by warrants decisively different from those by which we value galaxies or cows or proteins or whatever. Perhaps I may best display the concept by pointing to its most massive historical exemplification: Hitler’s variety of fascism. Or by pointing to a trivial and momentarily benign case: the animal-rights movement.
The Hellenized world into which the gospel emerged from Judea and Galilee was a world staring into an abyss of anthropological despair and hypnotized by the returning stare. Christianity inherited from Judaism an exploration of the same abyss, wherein “All is vanity, and a striving after wind.” Each could thus share with the other the same fear and a dialectical but nevertheless real hope, that hope as such is not in vain.
Greece had drawn the great anthropological line to the contours of the polity: she had defined human transcendence as freedom in contrast to servility. Accordingly, for all Hellenism the possibility of political freedom was the possibility of specific humanity itself. Thus Greece always had difficulty knowing why the disenfranchised — slaves, the conquered, unwelcomed pre- or early post-partum infants, and in some respects women — should be treated differently than other animals. But what then if the suspicion arises, “Perhaps we are all, really, slaves?”
The possibility of such suspicion was always there in Greek experience. Since the rebirth of Greek civilization from the Dorian devastations, Greece’s energizing terror had been the fear of time’s mischances. That old Chronos eats all his children, that what time brings forth, time — and probably rather sooner than later — again devours, was for Greece a founding horrific experience. There had been a glorious, rich, and pious Greece, the Greece of Mycenae and its heroes; and in a moment it had been swept away. Two passages have always defined my understanding of Greece’s interpretation of reality. The second decrees that we may “call no one happy, until he has reached the end of his life without suffering misery.”2
For reawakening Greece, worth and beauty and truth — all together, “being” — could thus lie only in permanence; applied to personal beings, in “immortality.” It will be seen that, in Greece, love of freedom must therefore always be on the verge of self-refutation; for it is time that is the very horizon of freedom, of making choices than can make a difference, and it was precisely time that Greece feared above all else.
In her search for protection from time, Greece necessarily looked to the one permanence immediately obtrusive on ancient peoples, that of cosmic order. The heavens move, but their very movements exemplify unbending law and guarantee against all surprises. The splendor of the heavens can overwhelm even us, who so rarely attend to attending so, Greece thought she could see what she longed for, the timeless being in which our hastening times may find standing. We inhabit, she believed, a “cosmos”: we, fleeting as we are, may look out from our immediate world, fleeting as it too is, into an encompassing immunity to all time’s chances. We are housed within divine immutability.
But cosmic changelessness can be read two ways. Greece initially invoked it as just described, as footing for humanity daring to be free. But it can equally well appear as enveloping indifference precisely to freedom, as the body of a universal determinism. Within reality invoked as cosmos, we may be enabled to say, “There is no point in ventures, since all paths by iron necessity only return whence they came.” With the disappearance of actual free polities from the Hellenistic world, the latter reading replaced the former.
When Alexander and the Romans were finished, Mediterranean civilization had become “cosmopolitan”; all were citizens of but one great “city” of the great world as such. But can I be free, if I have the cosmos for my only polis? In what forum do I speak to its future? Where do they count the ostrakon I cast against its rulers? If the cosmos is my “city,” am I not then the inhabitant of a collective as indifferent to the choices of mortals as were any of the ancient local tyrannies?
It is into such Hellenism that Paul and the rest carried the gospel. “Greeks” like Origen who believed, and those like his schoolmate Plotinus who did not, were folk convinced that to be specifically human was to be free, and desperately afraid that freedom was a delusion. Those like Origen saw in the gospel new hope and rejoiced; those like Plotinus derided the new Pollyannas.
The religious and “philosophical” cry of declining Mediterranean antiquity was “Is there any way out of cosmos?” “Is freedom possible?” All the religions of the conquerors and the conquered, transmogrified into “mysteries,” answered, “You may indeed breach the iron heavens, by sacramental identification with our cult-figure, who has gone before you.” And all the “wisdom” of the “philosophical” ways answered, “Those in the know can find their way through the walls of necessity, to the freedom of pure spirit. We can teach you the secret.”
There was only one hitch: all these were indeed ways out of the cosmos, and those who followed them thus left behind also that human polis for which freedom was wanted in the first place. The freedom of the cults and of esoteric wisdom was a private freedom very different from a citizen’s freedom; and the cultic and esoteric arts were very different arts from those called “liberal.” If the one goal is to die and go to heaven, inwardly now and outwardly later, who needs politics? Or then its arts?
Americans should be familiar with the syndrome, if only in a secularized and therefore pusillanimous version. It is, we say, “a free country,” and thousands have dedicated their lives and sacred honor to keeping it so. Yet in that country we have come to interpret freedom as the very opposite of dedication to the community, as a commandeered private sphere of “rights” in which the community is not to meddle. By “a free country” we have come to mean a society with no very peremptory public sphere, a society that demands of us as little as possible. It is no accident at all that mystery-cults and esoteric wisdoms flourish in California or Minneapolis as once in old Corinth or Alexandria. Neither is it an accident that the liberal arts languish.
“Can there be freedom?” Also the gospel came with an answer, but one very different from that of the mysteries and wisdoms: “There is freedom, because the world is not in fact a cosmos, but instead a creation.” Inheriting the doctrine of Judaism, the Christians knew the encompassing world as itself again encompassed, in freedom, in the freedom indeed of a person, who can if he will speak to us and attend to our answer. The world, said Jews and Christians, is not a structure of indifferent law but the referent of an encompassing free purpose. The world, they said, is from its deepest reality hospitable to choice that makes a difference, since it is itself nothing but the referent of a great such Choice. Prayer is possible, and therein freedom.
Over against despair of freedom in the world to which it came, ancient Christianity thus made precisely freedom a chief slogan of its promises, of the “gospel.” The freedom believers proclaimed was, moreover, a freedom that could be, if there were a community to receive it, political freedom, the freedom of that community to choose its courses of action and set out to follow them.
Hellenists who persisted in the memory of free citizenship and — even if merely nostalgically — carried on with its arts, could hear the gospel as a message of hope. They could even see, in the community of the church itself, a restored place for the practice of freedom’s arts, for the cultivation of language and public discourse and for the interpretation of texts and of history, as once again communally necessary arts. And that is to say, they could hear the gospel as a promise that specific humanity, just as Athens had evoked it, was not a delusion, and they could see the church as a community in which specific humanity could occur.
Indeed, in the centuries after the final collapse of ancient civilization and the emergence of the new synthesis we have called “Western” civilization, the alliance of the gospel and the liberal arts was to create new free public spaces also outside the church. The great free cities of the medieval empire were democracies far more direct than any we now have in America. Or again, the “holy commonwealths” of Puritan New England provided the very pattern of democratic aspiration throughout the founding periods of this nation’s life.
Vice versa, believers could see in faithful Hellenists — which very soon was for most believers to say, in their own past selves — spiritual comrades in all but the identification of the Savior: as Israel had longed explicitly for Messiah, the “Greeks” had longed for the freedom he would bring. The “preparation for the gospel,” they decided, had been separate but equal in Jerusalem and Athens.
And as the church came to recognize that Christ had not returned so quickly as first expected, that she had to settle down for a longer historical haul, the church needed what all historically continuing communities do, appropriate education. What better curriculum could there be for a community that saw itself as the bearer of God’s own freedom than the arts of freedom?
This line of discussion has one more step. After long centuries of Western history carried by the conversation between Athens and the gospel, the eighteenth-century Enlightenment, or rather its more popularized versions, dissolved the conversation, sending, as they superstitiously identified the parties, “reason” one way and “revelation” another — it is this dissolution that has, a bit later than elsewhere, now undone also American colleges of arts.
Thereby antiquity’s plight was repristinated: the indifferent cosmos was reinvented. The new prison is duller than the old one; in the meantime, Christian skepticism has made it impossible to see any creature as divine, so that the inexorable cosmos now appears merely as a “machine.” But the effect is the same: insofar as we have been taught about “science” by the seventh grade and by Public Television physicists, we again suppose we inhabit an adamant system of predictabilities, alien to freedom, indifferent to our choices and appeals.
III.
To compound our need, the alliance of Athens and the gospel has on the way conjured from the deeps a new nihilism, of its very own sort. It has been labelled “historical relativism.”
According to Judaism and the gospel, we live not in a “cosmos” but in an encompassing history. In this metaphysic, being has temporal sequence itself as its horizon, and consists in choice of what is not yet but is to be. The coherence of things is not, on this interpretation, lawlike regularity, but dramatic coherence of events across time. The sequence of history has plot, so as just thereby to be indeed history and not mere meaningless succession.
Most of Western intellectual and cultural history has consisted in the slow appropriation of this very unhellenic interpretation of reality. We may, for one quick historical instance, think of the Reformation‘s elevation of “faith” to the key position in human being, as faith is “the assurance of things hoped for….”
In this metaphysic, freedom is not problematic; but the point of freedom may become so. Where the gospel is heard but no longer believed, freedom may become absurdity. My life will be a tale told by a poet, signifying much, only insofar as it does in fact have plot, as it has complication, crisis, and resolution.
The problematic of this “insofar” is that it takes at least two to make drama, so that my life can be plotted only in community. And when the reference is made to community, the question of plot is repeated at a new level, for it is again dramatic coherence that makes a group of individuals into a community. But whose story is this common story?
As “Enlightenment” had been the spiritual event of the West’s eighteenth century, so “historicism” was the spiritual event of the nineteenth. Historicism consisted in the exploration, both theoretical and in political and religious practice, of the question just posed. The Enlightenment, then and still not “overcome,” made it seem hard to say boldly as did the Bible, “The common story is the story of God.” A series of philosophers unparalleled since Athens therefore attempted approximate assurance: “The common story is the story of absolute Spirit.” “The common story is the story of universal humanity.” But the slide once underway, someone eventually had to say: “All the common story there is, is the story of our community and its spirit. Other communities have other stories.” Or even, “How can there [be] any common story? Plot out your own life, even if such an undertaking is absurd.” Therewith the demon was out.
“We have our values, you have yours.” Or even, “I have my values, you have yours.” We are accustomed to this historicist sort of nihilism, but it is nihilism none the less. For of course, unshared “values” are no values at all, since “good” and “bad” refer — as we all really know — exactly to what we do with and for one another. A “morality” that I am unwilling to “impose” on anyone else is wholly illusory, and will give no shape to my life either, however privately that life may be conceived and lived. Most who will read this essay entertain in fact “no hope in this world”; or at least so they assure all inquirers, convinced as they claim to be that “values are relative.”
Historicist nihilism manifests itself most democratically as sheer inability to reason ethically. I choose an instance that notably infests the academic, reminiscently “liberal” community. A Minnesota Poll recent as of this writing reported that most Minnesotans believe (1) that abortion is the taking of personal human life and (2) that folk should have “the right” to abort as they freely choose. The evil to which I here call attention is not the number of abortions that Wade vs. Roe has produced, terrifying as this is. The subtler, more demonic evil appears in our ability simultaneously to entertain the two referenced opinions. The nihilism is the escape of “choice” from community. It is freedom that consists in excuse from responsibility for the other and for the storyline of my life so far, freedom that occurs on a horizon of sheer temporal sequentiality with no plot at all.
In the academy, of course, we expect also explicit ideological appearances of whatever is going; and indeed sundry ways of carrying historical relativism to its spooky end are now the chief menu at conventions of all disciplines but the natural sciences. I mention but one, since it is the currently favored way of displacing the liberal arts. It is, we are told, legalistically repressive — indeed “dualistic,” “hierarchical,” even “phallocentric” — to insist that any text can have its own sense, which it is a teacher’s task to defend against mistaken readings. Therefore it is supposed also to be an arbitrary imposition if we set up any particular set of texts as essential in the curriculum; for since any text can have any meaning, any text can serve wisdom as well as any other.
Where freedom is abstract and arbitrary, and needs no community, neither does it need arts. It is again no accident that where historical relativism rules, the liberal arts die.
IV.
There is hope for hope. The gates of nihilism will not prevail against the one holy catholic church — though they may, of course, prevail against particular parts of the church and have sometimes done so — and therefore the will be heard in the world so long as the world lasts, telling of the good for whose coming we may hope. And therefore also there will so long as the world lasts be in the world a community in which hope is practiced.
It is, of course, not guaranteed that Western civilization will last, or that its teaching and practice of liberal arts will last. Even less is it guaranteed that the Western part of the church will endure to the end, or even very long. But just because nothing along such lines is ever guaranteed, neither can we know that these things will not last or even suddenly be reinvigorated. In many ways, both surviving custodians of Athens’ arts and believers in the gospel find themselves thrown back into the situation in which they first made alliance. A mighty tree came from that inconsiderable seed; why may it not happen again?
The first step is simply the recovery, on both sides of the old alliance, of mere clarity about who we are and what we need. God willing, the Western church might yet remember that it is not an all-purpose volunteer religious society for whatever causes society currently defines as good. We can at any moment take instead to proclaiming the gospel. And if the church did that, then in the Western context its message would again as in ancient days be a word of hope for freedom, of hope for hope.
All the masters of the liberal arts have ever needed is a bit of such encouragement. And whenever we dare to cultivate our arts as more than decoration, as life-praxis of whatever little communities we can find for them, the mere practice itself becomes a spring of hope. Folk who labor on great inherited texts as if they matter liberate all around them to confidence that history does have some plot. Those who practice the arts of public discourse open little polities just by doing so, each time they break their silence. Those who discipline themselves to the outcome of experiment and observation, when they do it for the sake of truth, encourage all to faith that there is truth. To pursue beauty is to create it for all to see and hear. When we act as if human deliberation and decision could make a difference, they do make a difference. When we act as if community were real, it just thereby becomes real.
The gospel gives hope for the freedom that the liberal arts serve. The liberal arts give hope that the free person whom the gospel evokes can actually exist. And this circle is not vicious: we can be swept into its whirl catch-as-catch-can. Hope for hope is, after all, itself hope.
End Notes
1 Aristotle, Politika VII:2.
2 Sophocles, Oidipous Tyrannos, 1528-1530.
Bibliography
Jenson, Robert W. “Hope, the Gospel, and the Liberal Arts.” Essays in Theology of Culture. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans. 1995. p.180-189. Originally published in A Humanist’s Legacy: Essays in Honor of John Christian Bale, ed. Dennis M. Jones (Luther’s College, 1990).