Einstein and Religion by Max Jammer

Here’s a book review I wrote for the journal Science and Christian Belief some years ago:

Max Jammer, Einstein and Religion: Physics and Theology (Princeton University Press, 1999)

Everyone with an interest in the relationship between physics and theology will welcome the publication of this volume by the distinguished philosopher of physics, Max Jammer. In spite of the general recognition of the importance of Einstein’s thought both for modern physics and its relationship with religion this is, as far as I am aware, the first comprehensive account of Einstein’s own views on the relationship.

Jammer has organised his material into three main sections. The first of these deals with ‘Einstein’s Religiosity and the Role of Religion in His Private Life’. As the title suggests, this chapter deals with Einstein’s personal attitude towards religion from childhood until his death. It is a detailed and roughly chronological account in which Jammer documents Einstein’s apparently self-contradictory attitude towards religion. On the one hand, he had a lifelong aversion to authority that was expressed in a distaste for organised religion (culminating in his request not to be given a Jewish funeral). On the other hand, as a personal response to the cosmos, he experienced what can only be described as profound religious feelings. In short, Einstein’s personal religion is shown to be typically late modern – affirming personal spirituality while disavowing organised religion.

In his second chapter, Jammer turns from Einstein’s personal attitude to what he has written about religion and its role in human society. The chapter is entitled ‘Einstein’s Philosophy of Religion’ and sets out to be a logical justification of the attitudes described in the first chapter. I must confess that I felt rather suspicious of this (re)construction of Einstein’s philosophy of religion. Jammer’s interpretative approach seems to have been to assume that it must always be possible to reconcile apparently contradictory statements. The result is a superhuman degree of consistency. Frankly, I doubt whether even someone of Einstein’s stature could achieve such consistency outside his own field (and, indeed, his vacillations about the implications of relativity theory for the nature of time suggest that he did not always achieve it within his own field). That criticism apart, this chapter offers a valuable summary of Einstein’s articulated views about religion. In particular, it explores his lifelong admiration for Spinoza and sets his well-known determinism, realism, and insistence on the impersonality of God in that context.

The final chapter is devoted to ‘Einstein’s Physics and Theology’. Here Jammer moves on from Einstein’s own views to explore some of the ways in which his contributions to science have been received by theologians and philosophers of religion. These explorations are organised logically (following roughly the order in which the ideas on which they are based appeared within the development of relativity theory) rather than chronologically. Among the issues tackled are the implications of Einstein’s redefinition of simultaneity for our understanding of eternity, determinism, and omniscience; theological uses (and abuses) of time dilation; T.F. Torrance’s use of mass–energy equivalence as an exegesis of Incarnation; and, more generally, Pannenberg’s assignment of theological significance to Einstein’s concept of field. Finally, he explores some of the theological implications of quantum mechanics (on the grounds that Einstein’s criticisms played a major role in shaping its development). Some readers may find this final chapter both confusing and inconclusive. In part, this is due to the fact that Jammer distances both Einstein and himself from the discussions he is reporting. Thus it reflects the current status of theological efforts to appropriate Einstein’s ideas.

Jammer has done an excellent job in bringing together and making accessible the scattered evidence for Einstein’s views about religion. Unfortunately, the work is marred by the extreme length of the chapters (Chapter 3 runs to 110 pages!) and the complete lack of internal divisions. This makes reading the book a more daunting task than is necessary. Nevertheless, this is a valuable contribution to the subject.

Creativity: turning grass into milk

The Polish science fiction author Stanislaw Lem offers an interesting metaphor for the creative process:

A cow produces milk—that is certain—and the milk doesn’t come from nothing. Just as a cow must eat grass in order to produce milk, I have to read large amounts of genuine scientific literature of all kinds—i.e. literature not invented by me—and the final product, my writing, is as unlike the intellectual food as milk is unlike grass. (Microworlds, p. 25)

I like this image. It is a useful reminder that creativity is rarely a matter of plucking ideas from the air. In its light, my compulsive reading and note-taking becomes a matter of grazing: gathering the essential raw materials for the creative process. And the image also highlights the fact that writing of any value is never merely the regurgitation of what you have grazed. It is always about creating a new synthesis of the raw materials (milk rather than partially digested grass).

Kallistos Ware (1934–2022)

Today is the first anniversary of the falling asleep of Metropolitan Kallistos Ware.

I never met him, but like many English-speaking Orthodox, I have been greatly helped over the years by his many books (and recorded talks). His little book The Orthodox Church (Penguin, 1963) was my first introduction to Orthodoxy from an Orthodox perspective. Of course, his chief legacy will be his part in bringing to fruition the publication of the five-volume translation of the Philokalia (Faber, 1979–2023). But, for me, his most influential publication was his 1994 paper ‘Time: Prison or Path to Freedom?’, which introduced me to the work of arguably the most important Orthodox theologian of the twentieth century, Dumitru Stăniloae.

Metropolitan Kallistos may have been a lecturer at Oxford University for more than thirty years, but he was a monk and priest first. So, what better way to mark today than by quoting him on the importance of prayer?

Prayer is more essential to us, more an integral part of ourselves, than the rhythm of our breathing or the beating of our heart. Without prayer there is no life. Prayer is our nature. As human persons we are created for prayer just we are created to speak and to think. The human animal is best defined, not as a logical or tool-making animal or an animal that laughs, but rather as animal that prays, a eucharistic animal, capable of offering the world back to God in thanksgiving and intercession. (From the Foreword to Praying with the Orthodox Tradition, SPCK, 1989)

Grant, O Lord, eternal rest unto Thy departed servant Kallistos and make his memory to be eternal!

Having a COVID non-week

It began last Friday with a slight tickle in my throat. By Saturday, I had a full-blown sore throat and was beginning to develop a slight fever. I took a COVID test, which proved negative. Come Sunday, I decided I was too ill to spend three hours in a cold cathedral, so I stayed in bed instead. Monday – high fever, raging sore throat, no voice, persistent hacking cough, complete loss of taste and smell (and, this time, the COVID test was definitely positive).

Two days further along and I feel deceptively well. The fever, sore throat, and cough have gone and my senses of taste and smell are beginning to come back (though strangely distorted at the moment – I discovered this morning that it is possible for a strawberry to taste bitter!). But the crucial word is ‘deceptively’ – as soon as try to do anything, I find myself rapidly running out of energy (and, at one point, blacking out and keeling over).

This is very frustrating because I had hoped to get on with the research for a paper I’m writing. So, I have officially declared this a COVID non-week.

In praise of fountain pens

I am a fountain pen addict. This was not always the case. Like most people of my generation, I was forced to use a fountain pen at school. And, like most people, I found the experience messy (blots on the paper and stains on my fingers), scratchy, and slow.

At university I graduated from ballpoints to felt-tipped fineliners. After a brief flirtation with the Rotring Rapidograph, I discovered the joys of rollerballs and gel pens.

For years, I was a rollerball fanatic – Pentel, Rotring (the late lamented Tikky), Zebra, Uniball. Eventually I settled on the Pentel G-Tec-C4, which gave me a consistent very fine line in what I then thought of as a wide variety of colours. Then, a couple of decades ago, I began to take an interest in fountain pens again. Initially I came across the Rotring Artpen with an extra-fine nib and was surprised both by the fineness of the line and the smoothness with which it wrote.

Since then, I have gradually shifted away from rollerballs to fountain pens for most purposes. I do keep a set of Pentel G-Tecs for special purposes (copy-editing or proofreading on paper – an increasingly rare event – or when travelling by plane – also an increasingly rare event).

Here are some of the reasons I am a convert to fountain pens:

The writing experience. Using a decently made modern fountain pen on good quality paper is a revelation. The nib glides effortlessly across the page. It is much easier on the wrist than the average ballpoint or even rollerball.

A fountain pen is for life. Fountain pens seem far more expensive than ballpoints. Typically, they range in price from tens to hundreds (or even thousands) of pounds, though you can get a decent basic fountain pen for less than £5 (specifically, the Platinum Preppy). But a well-maintained good-quality fountain pen can reasonably be expected to last you a lifetime (in fact, there is a thriving market in vintage fountain pens), whereas even an expensive ballpoint is no more than a fancy holder for a disposable writing mechanism. To give you an example, I have a sixty-year-old Waterman that is still in working order; an equivalent pen today would cost around £120 (that works out at just £2 per year!) If you want to reduce the environmental impact of your writing habits, think about a fountain pen – the only consumable element is the ink.

A bewildering choice of inks. Most ballpoints or gel pens are available in three or four colours (perhaps a dozen if you use something like a Pilot G-Tec-C4 or a Pentel Slicci). But there are literally hundreds of shades of fountain pen ink to choose from to suit your mood or style. You can even find glittery fountain pen inks and scented fountain pen inks. There are also the slightly scary iron gall inks, which lay down a virtually waterproof and permanent (to archival standards) line. I happen to like dark inks (blue-black, dark greens, dark browns), but that preference is hard to satisfy with ballpoints or gel pens.

A fountain pen gives your handwriting character. If you want a pen that produces a line of unvarying thickness, then a ballpoint or gel pen is ideal. With a fountain pen, the thickness of the line varies slightly with the pressure you apply and the angle that the nib makes to the paper. This is true even of stiff steel nibs (at least, I find it to be true with my Kaweco Sport), but it is more pronounced with gold nibs and specially designed flex nibs. In addition, nibs come in a variety of shapes to create a range of writing effects (fountain pens are still the obvious choice for calligraphy). I favour extra-fine nibs (particularly Japanese ones, which are even finer than their European brethren), which lay down a line similar to that of Hi-Tec rollerballs. But I also have a range of italic and stub nibs for calligraphy. 

How to Blow Up a Pipeline

 

A review of How to Blow Up a Pipeline: Learning to Fight in a World on Fire by Andreas Malm (London: Verso Books, 2021)

Apparently, this little tract from Andreas Malm (an associate professor of human ecology at Lund University) was originally intended to ask why there was so little climate activism. However, in the wake of Greta Thunberg and the rise of Extinction Rebellion it became a critique of the pacifism of the environmental movement. He sets out his case for a more aggressive environmentalism in three brief chapters.

The first chapter, ‘Learning from Past Struggles’, is an overview of environmental activism since the 1990s. Malm is struck by how little has been achieved by green activists in the past thirty years. In looking for a reason, he picks on the pacifism of the movement. Extinction Rebellion, in particular, has made what it calls strategic pacifism a central pillar of its approach. In response, Malm explores the historical models used by Extinction Rebellion to justify their pacifism, specifically the movement for universal suffrage, the movement for Indian independence, and the civil rights movement in the USA. He concludes that in all three cases, members of those movements turned to violence when nonviolence failed.

By creating a violent fringe that the mainstream leaders of the movement could disavow, this forced the powers that be to enter into dialogue with the mainstream of movement.

Having established that violence may succeed where pacifism fails, he moves on in Chapter 2, ‘Breaking the Spell’, to argue that capitalism is too committed to the carbon economy to make the effort required to transition to a green economy. Assuming that politicians and business leaders are unlikely to be moved by the nonviolent antics of Extinction Rebellion, he advocates for the strategic use of sabotage. For practical examples, he turns to the global South and cites cases of activists blowing up pipelines in Nigeria and South Africa. By way of contrast, he remarks on the striking lack of examples in developed economies (apparently forgetting that in the ‘developed’ world, greater regulation and surveillance makes the acquisition of explosives much more difficult). Having commended the blowing up of pipelines, he is careful to disavow any action that affects ordinary workers. But this makes the pipeline a bad example, since loss of fuel would affect the poorest most quickly.

Finally in Chapter 3, ‘Fighting Despair’, he attacks the fatalist critics of climate action, specifically Roy Scranton and Jonathan Franzen. However, he fails to see that he too is a kind of fatalist. He offers no practical alternative to capitalism, merely the hope that by breaking the present system something better will come to pass. He has, in fact, bought in to the myth of redemptive violence that pervades the society he wants to change.

This little tract has the strengths and weaknesses of a book written in the white heat of righteous anger. His passion makes it a compelling read, but it leads him to overlook nuances. This results in a confused and simplistic account of pacifism and a rose-tinted view of the role of violence in political change. Strangely, for someone who advocates for violent environmentalism, the most aggressive action he admits to is letting down the tyres of SUVs. In conclusion, this is a disappointing and hopefully ephemeral work, which I have now deleted from my Kindle.

Where do we go from here?

Usually spoken in a tone of despair, this is an all-too-common question in light of the uncertainties of the world we live in – accelerating climate change, fear of another pandemic, a United Kingdom trying to come to terms with a post-BREXIT existence and looking less and less united, democracy and the rule of law being threatened by growing authoritarianism in country after country.

It reminds me of an anecdote Lesslie Newbigin used to tell about the conference at which the World Council of Churches was established. Here is the story as it appeared in a letter to his wife:

Karl Barth gave us a tremendous oration on the fundamental theme of the conference. It was real prophecy and compelled everyone, I think, to look beyond our plans and self-importance to the living God. Some people were very annoyed by it, but I more and more feel that it was needed. In the evening at the reception Pierre Maury asked me what I thought of it. I said, ‘It was magnificent, but where do we go from there?’ Just at that moment Barth appeared, so Maury repeated my question to him. He said, ‘Into the next room of course’, and went! Which was the right answer; I mean that Barth demolishes all one’s plans with his terrific prophetic words, and one is left wondering what to do next; and his answer always is, Just get on with the next plain duty.(Lesslie Newbigin, Unfinished Agenda, p. 110f.)

In the face of all our anxieties over the future, ‘Just get on with the next plain duty’ seems like very wise advice.

Lesser-known editing symbols

 Here’s a piece of editing humour, which reminds me of my days as a copy-editor. Some of those ‘lesser-known’ marks would have come in handy at times!

The biblical doctrine of creation

 Here is a summary of my take on creation from an article I wrote for the New Dictionary of Biblical Theology (Leicester: IVP, 2000):

Introduction: The biblical doctrine of creation at the end of the twentieth century

In the early centuries of Christianity, theologians such as Irenaeus of Lyons made extensive use of the doctrine of creation to distinguish orthodox Christianity from various forms of gnosticism. Their success justifies Florovsky’s comment that ‘an adequate idea of Creation is the distinctive test of the integrity of Christian mind and faith. An inadequate conception of Creation, on the contrary, is inevitably subversive of the whole fabric of Christian beliefs’ (Eastern Churches Quarterly 8, p. 54). With the doctrine of the Trinity, creation was a fundamental element in the self-identification of Christians in the religiously plural milieu of the Roman Empire.

However the secular success of Christianity following the conversion of Constantine and the eventual emergence of Christendom meant that creation suffered a similar fate to the doctrine of the Trinity. For much of the past two thousand years, western theologians have tended to regard the doctrine of creation as relatively uncontroversial. Natural theology developed in such a way that creation came to be seen not as a distinctively Christian doctrine but as a commonsense belief that Christians share with others.

Now at the end of the twentieth century, creation is once again high on the theological agenda. Several factors are responsible for the new urgency with which it is treated.

Profound cultural changes have transformed the West since the eighteenth century. The universe as portrayed by modern science is far larger, older, and more dynamic than anything that could have been imagined by educated men or women of the sixteenth century. New ways of perceiving the natural world have swept away the older forms of natural theology and have forced theologians to revise their understanding of God’s relationship with the world.

The need for renewed attention to the doctrine of creation has been given far greater urgency by the growing awareness of a global environmental crisis. Various explanations have been offered for this crisis. However, many environmentalists regard the biblical doctrine of creation as the ultimate source of Western environmental irresponsibility. Such accusations demand that we look once again at the way we have interpreted the biblical doctrine of creation.

A third factor is the increasing multiculturalism and religious pluralism of Western societies at the end of the twentieth century. The large-scale migrations of different peoples following the end of the Second World War have led to a rapid increase in the cultural and religious diversity of the West. Western Christians once again find themselves in a pluralistic society akin to that of the Roman Empire. And the renewed need to locate Christianity with respect to these other faiths and worldviews suggests that we turn once again to the doctrine of creation as an element in maintaining the distinctiveness of the Christian faith.

Creation in the Old Testament

Inevitably the early chapters of Genesis dominate the biblical doctrine of creation simply by virtue of their location. However, it is certainly not restricted to these chapters. Belief in creation is implicit in many parts of the Old Testament. It informs the concern for the environment demonstrated in parts of the Pentateuch. It underlies the creation imagery used in the Psalms and, indeed, becomes a major theme in several psalms (notably Pss 8, 19, 104, 139, 148). It is assumed in important prophetic passages. And it appears at several points in the wisdom literature (e.g. Job 38-41).

Creation by Word

At eight points in Genesis 1 God speaks creatively: ‘And God said, “Let . . .”’ (vv. 3, 6, 9, 11, 14, 20, 24, 26). By using speech as a metaphor, the biblical authors are indicating that the divine activity of creation is voluntary, effortless, and rational. This is in marked contrast to the creation myths of neighbouring cultures, which tended to characterize creation as a process of inevitable struggle and conflict.

God commands and it is so. The very effortlessness of the fulfilment is indicative of God’s sovereignty. God is presented as a king issuing broad injunctions rather than as an architect issuing detailed instructions (the favoured image of God as creator in recent centuries). Thus the Genesis account of creation possesses a degree of openness that is missing from the more deterministic readings that have been common in Christian theology.

Creation from Nothing?

It has to be admitted that the Old Testament is less than explicit in its support for the Christian doctrine of creatio ex nihilo. The Hebrew text of Genesis 1:1–2 is much less clear than is suggested by most English translations. There is scope for interpreting these verses as speaking of uncreated raw material from which God moulded the heavens and the earth.

Against this view, it is worth noting that the translators of the LXX avoided the use of demiourgos when referring to God as creator. Further, the majority of contemporary Old Testament scholars interpret verse 1 as a principal sentence prefixed to the chapter as a whole (C. Westermann, Genesis 1–11, pp. 94-97). Thus the first verse of the Bible makes an assertion quite unprecedented in ancient Near Eastern literature: it ascribes the entire work of creation exclusively to the one God. While this does not amount to an explicit statement that God created all things from nothing, it does lend support for the later development of such a doctrine as a means of defending divine sovereignty against Hellenistic insistence on the eternity of matter.

Creation, Time and History

Another striking feature of the Genesis account of creation is the priority given to the category of time. Light and darkness are the first of all God’s creations because from their alternation flows the temporal succession which is the fundamental context of created reality. That time is, indeed, fundamental to creation is demonstrated by the fact that the activity of creation is placed within a clear temporal sequence.

The pervasive temporality of the biblical doctrine of creation clearly distinguishes it from the cosmological myths of the ancient Near East. In contrast to the essentially atemporal (hence mythological) creation accounts of their contemporaries, the Hebrews worked with an account of God creating the world over a period of seven days, which was clearly intended to be related to subsequent history.

This need not imply that the text be taken literally. Since Augustine, commentators have recognized that the pattern of days in Genesis 1 is a literary device. The number seven occurs repeatedly in the passage – e.g. seven days, seven fulfilment formulae, seven approval formulae – drawing upon its symbolic significance to indicate the completeness, the perfection, of God’s creative activity. Nor are the days defined as 24-hour periods.

The effect of this temporal framework is to bind creation and temporality together. God creates time but also creates over a period of time. Creation becomes a process moving towards a goal in time. Thus creation is transferred from the mythological realm of transcendent realities, integrated into history (or, more precisely, pre-history) and the way opened for creation to be seen as continuing in history – justifying the conception of continuing creation that was already an important part of Israelite worship and wisdom.

Creation, Order and Goodness

Again in contrast to the elaborate cosmogonies of the ancient Near East, the Old Testament paints a stark picture of creation as a process of ordering by separation. Creation is thus presented as a differentiated totality (H. Blocher, In The Beginning, p. 71) – its very diversity is part of the process that God declares good. Seven times in the course of Genesis 1, God declares this process of differentiation in response the divine command to be good (vv 4, 10, 12, 18, 21, 25 and 31). This does not mean that creation is good in itself. Rather, it is a divine judgement about creation. The creature is good by virtue of its standing in appropriate relationship to its creator. Thus the divine sight that enables God to make this judgement is not detached contemplation but active engagement. Bonhoeffer rightly relates this divine act of seeing to the preservation of creation: ‘It does not sink back again into the moment of becoming, God sees that it is good and his eye resting upon the work preserves the work in being. . . . The world is preserved not for its own sake but for the sake of the sight of God’ (D. Bonhoeffer, Creation and Fall: A Theological Interpretation of Genesis 1–3 (ET, London, 1959), p. 23).

Belief in this divinely ordained order in creation pervades the Old Testament. While rarely explicit, it was one of the assumptions on which faith in the social order of the Hebrew monarchy was founded. Thus creation imagery is invoked as a guarantee for the social order in Psalms 74, 77 and 89. The prophetic use of creation imagery offers even more striking examples, e.g. in many parts of Isaiah 40—55, the prophetic promise to the exiles is built upon reminders of God’s creative activity – if God can bring this cosmic order to be, God can certainly restore order to Judah. The correspondence between cosmic order and social order is also implicit in the Old Testament concept of shalom.

Two often-overlooked features of this judgement are worth noting. In contrast to the anthropocentrism of much of the Christian tradition, the biblical story of creation unequivocally declares non-human creatures to be good without reference to humankind – they have their own place in God’s good creation and were not created merely for our benefit. Secondly, the temporal framework of creation is part of that which God judges to be very good. The change, decay and death that are integral to temporal finitude are part of God’s good creation and not the consequence of human disobedience. Furthermore, this implies that the divine purpose for creation is worked out in time.

The Pivotal Role of Humankind in the Created Order

Traditional readings of the primeval history stress the special status it appears to confer on humankind. The creation of humankind is seen as the climax of Genesis 1 and this is reinforced by the prior creation of Adam in Genesis 2. God appears to give us a special blessing; we are portrayed as made in the image of God (in contrast to other creatures); and we are given a dominion over the other creatures which is shown to have disastrous implications for them in the Flood story.

The primeval history clearly distinguishes and elevates humankind over the rest of creation. However, several features also stress the intimacy of the relationship between humans and the non-human creation.

First, humankind is created on the same day as the land animals: suggesting a certain kinship. Second, it is simply wrong to regard the creation of humankind as the climax of Genesis 1: that privilege is accorded not to humankind but to the establishment of God’s Sabbath communion with creation as a whole. Third, the very fact that the creation of humankind appears in the same passage as the creation of the non-human contrasts with the ancient Near Eastern tendency to separate accounts of cosmic and human origins. Finally, it is not clear that the divine blessing of verse 28a by itself distinguishes humans from the non-human. God has already pronounced a similar blessing upon sea creatures and birds (v. 22) and it is arguable that the blessing of verse 28a is actually inclusive of the land animals created in verses 24 and 25.

This impression of interdependence is further reinforced by the more detailed account of the creation of humankind in Genesis 2. Adam is placed in the garden in order to maintain it. Elsewhere this role is used to distinguish humankind from the rest of creation. For example, Psalm 104 contrasts God’s direct provision for non-human creatures with our God-given responsibility to provide for our own needs. However, this distinction is placed in the larger context of a common dependence on God’s providential care.

The command to have dominion is closely related to the divine blessing: ‘Be fruitful and increase in number; fill the earth and subdue it. Rule over the fish of the sea and the birds of the air and over every living creature that moves on the ground’ (Gen. 1:28). Many environmentalists see this command as a mandate to trample nature underfoot. However, it is not a carte blanche to exploit the environment. The human race is permitted to subdue the earth, but this is a warrant for agriculture and nothing more. We are given the fruit of the earth to be our food. In Genesis 1, dominion does not even extend to the killing of animals for food (or clothing). The command has the effect of qualifying the divine blessing, transforming it (at least as far as humankind is concerned) into a divine vocation. And that vocation to dominion over nature must be interpreted in terms of the concept of kingship familiar to the ancient Israelites – not absolute monarchy but responsibility for one’s subjects.

Judgement and the Reversal of Creation

Adam’s disobedience in Genesis 3 and its ecological consequences highlight the ambivalence of nature that was experienced by the Hebrews (and which is shared by country people to this day). It is to be received gladly as a gift of God, but it is also a place of thorns and thistles, of stinging insects and predatory animals. Above all, it threatens us with personal extinction through disease and natural disaster. Remarkably, this ambivalence is explained not in terms of the recalcitrance of matter but in terms of human disobedience. The disobedience of Adam consisted in his rejection of the divine boundaries placed upon his dominion of the earth. It was thus a rebellion against the good order of creation established by God in Genesis 1.

The result, expressed in terms of divine judgement, is the disruption of the relationships established by God (specifically between God and humankind, between man and woman, and humankind and other creatures). Adam no longer has a harmonious relationship with God, Eve or nature: he has lost his dominion over the earth. Furthermore, there is no way in which he can regain that dominion for himself: he is barred from Eden by the cherubim.

The environmental implications of human disobedience are further highlighted by the Flood narrative. It portrays a world in which the vocation of humankind to be stewards of creation has been supplanted by the quest for autonomy. This quest is characterized by the spread of human violence. However, the unique status of humankind means that this violence corrupts the whole of creation.

Since humans have denied the good order of creation in their quest for self-deification, the form of judgement is appropriately a temporary suspension of that order. There is a virtual return to the initial ‘waste and void’ brought about by the temporary withdrawal of the active divine care implicit in Genesis 1. Indeed the Flood narrative consciously parallels the creation story of Genesis 1, presenting God’s judgement as the mirror image of his creative activity.

At the same time, the faithful Noah is called to exercise human dominion over creation precisely in the preservation of representative animals from the judgement that is about to overwhelm the world. However, there is no suggestion that God has abdicated responsibility for the earth to humankind. Although Noah cooperates willingly with the divine plan, the initiative remains firmly with God.

Similar imagery is used elsewhere in the Old Testament to portray divine judgement. It is particularly prominent amongst the pre-exilic prophets. God is presented as revoking or suspending the harmonious order of creation as an act of judgement upon a faithless Israel. This usage reflects the Wisdom tradition of a correspondence between the moral and the natural: disharmony in the former is presented as having serious consequences for the latter. A stark example of this is Isaiah 24:1–13. The prophet envisages the judgement of the Lord in terms of an ecological catastrophe. Similarly Hosea presents a picture of desolation as a direct consequence of human sinfulness: ‘Because of this the land mourns, and all who live in it waste away; the beasts of the field and the birds of the air and the fish of the sea are dying’ (Hos. 4:3). The same theme appears in Zephaniah and frequently in Jeremiah.

The Continuation and Renewal of Creation

The Flood narrative concludes with the establishment of an everlasting covenant between God and the inhabitants of the ark: Noah and his descendants and every living creature. Covenants that include the non-human are a recurring theme in the Old Testament, particularly amongst the prophets (e.g. Hos. 2:18; Jer. 33:20–25; Ezek. 34:25). It is symptomatic of the pervasive anthropocentrism of our culture that so many commentators simply overlook this fact.

What is the content of this covenant? Generally speaking, covenants are ceremonies that give binding expression to relationships that already exist between the covenant partners. Here the relationships that receive formal expression are those that endured through the Flood, including Noah’s care for the animals. The wording of the covenant recalls the divine blessing of chapter 1. But, in addition to the blessing, God now gives an unconditional promise to maintain for all time the basic conditions of order which are a precondition for being able to respond to the blessing.

The Noahic covenant institutionalizes humankind’s alienation from nature by granting us permission to eat flesh. However, it does not constitute a charter to exploit the non-human. On the contrary, the divine prohibition on the drinking of blood may be taken as a reminder that humankind has not been given arbitrary power over other living creatures.

Finally, it should be noted that the issues raised in the primeval history are not settled there. The reality of human violence and the ambivalence of nature carry forward into the patriarchal history and, thence, to the present. What the primeval history leaves us with is the promise residing in the covenant with Noah. The covenant has redemptive implications, which concern not only humankind but the whole of God’s creation. It is an everlasting covenant with the non-human as well. The clear implication is that the final consummation of all things concerns the non-human as well as the human.

The covenant with nature instituted at the end of the Flood narrative is echoed elsewhere in the Old Testament. For example, it appears as the positive corollary to prophetic use of the reversal of creation. It reminds the reader that judgement does not result in final destruction. On the contrary, a faithful remnant will be preserved. And, says Yahweh to that remnant, ‘I will make for you a covenant on that day with the beasts of the field, the birds of the air, and the creeping things of the ground’ (Hos. 2:18, RSV). For Jeremiah the certainty of such promises is based upon the reality of God’s prior covenant with the forces of nature (Jer. 33:25). Once again we see how the Israelites interrelated social, moral and ecological orders. The relationships between God and humankind, within humankind, and between humankind and the non-human creation cannot be separated. A failure in any one of these areas implies a breakdown elsewhere.

Perhaps the best-known creation passages in the entire prophetic tradition occur in Isaiah 40—55. There creation imagery is used to express God’s promise of redemption to the captives in Babylon. The less certain is guaranteed by the more certain. The very use of such imagery implies an existing faith in a God who created and sustains the natural world. Without such a faith, Isaiah’s promises of redemption would be incomprehensible.

But the Old Testament indicates a redemption for the non-human creation as well as the faithful remnant. The writers of the Old Testament simply cannot envisage an immaterial eschaton. Thus creation figures clearly in their eschatological vision. The remnant share the eschatological Sabbath with the non-human – and that sharing is prefigured in the respect for the non-human displayed by the sabbatical laws (Exod. 20:8–11, 23:10–13; Lev. 25:8–55; Jub. 2:19–24).

Creation in the New Testament

By and large, the New Testament inherits and reaffirms the view of creation presented by the Old Testament. Thus at several points we are reminded that creation took place by the will and word of God (e.g. Rom. 4:17; Heb. 1:3, 11:3; Rev. 4:11). However, much of the evidence for New Testament perspectives on creation is implicit rather than explicit. Thus, for example, Jesus illustrates his admonition not to worry with reference to the birds of the air and the flowers of the field (Mt. 7:25–34). This is not an assertion of God’s care for creation, but it is built upon the assumption that God cares even for the lowliest sparrow (Lk. 12:6).

Christ and Creation

Like the Old Testament, the New Testament’s view of creation is thoroughly theocentric. But this very theocentricity entails a transformation of the Old Testament doctrine. That Jesus Christ is the centre of history implies that he is also the centre of creation. The biblical texts do not recognize the modern distinction that separates history from nature. His significance for creation is implicit in the creative power demonstrated in many of his miracles. Healing the sick, raising the dead, stilling storms – all these show Jesus restoring order and harmony to human bodies or natural systems that have become disordered.

Christ’s significance for creation becomes explicit in the Prologue to John’s Gospel. It is none other than the word by which God created that has become incarnate as Jesus Christ (Jn 1:14). He is the agent of creation and the source of life (Jn 1:4) and thus involved not only in the original creative act but intimately associated with God’s continuing providential care for creation.

Perhaps the most explicit statement of this Christological transformation of creation is the hymn fragment cited in Colossians 1. It begins by claiming that Jesus Christ ‘is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn of all creation’ (v. 15). Both titles offer us perspectives on the relationship between creation and redemption.

As the image of God, Jesus Christ is the point of contact between the Creator and his creation. He is the one who reveals God to creation and, as such, is naturally associated with the creator rather than the creation. Any suggestion that he is in some respect inferior to the creator (e.g. merely the visible image of God) is ruled out by the synonymous parallelism with ‘firstborn’. The latter term, which expresses the concept of pre-existence, is characteristically Jewish and ascribes to Jesus Christ the role reserved in pre-Christian Judaism for divine wisdom (e.g. Wisd. 9:4,9; Prov. 8:22; Sir. 1:4, 24:9).

Since Jesus Christ is the image of God, the restoration of the image of God in humankind becomes part of the Christian vocation: we are called to be conformed to Christ, the paradigmatic image of God. At the same time the close connection made in the Old Testament between the divine image and humankind’s dominion over the material creation means that the latter concept must undergo a similar transformation – the only dominion open to the Christian is that exercised by Christ, a dominion consisting of humble service. Thus the New Testament radicalizes the servanthood already implicit in the Old Testament notion of dominion.

In expounding ‘firstborn’, the subsequent verses present Christ as the agent of God’s creative activity – all things were created through him. Furthermore, they present Christ as the frame of reference for creation – all things were created in him, i.e. with reference to or in relation to him. In other words, Christ is the context of creation.

The passage goes on to refer not only the origins of the cosmos but also its goal to Christ. All things were created for him, i.e. to be subject to and to glorify him. The cosmos is envisaged as in movement towards its eschatological end, namely, Jesus Christ.

In expanding on the creative agency of Christ, verse 17 adds that ‘in him all things hold together’. The use of the perfect tense here makes it clear that a reference to a continuing activity is meant. Put another way, all things continue and cohere in Christ. He is the sole basis of unity and purpose in the cosmos. Again the hymn has substituted Jesus Christ for divine wisdom: he becomes the personal basis of unity which allowed the Hebrews to discern a real correspondence between the moral and natural orders. He is the foundation upon which God has established the earth. Indeed for Christian theology the very notion of ‘cosmos’ must be Christocentric (i.e. it must be defined with reference to Christ as its basis). By thus making Christ the basis of the order of nature this passage appropriates to Christ the creative activity of ordering the cosmos which we noted in both the primeval history and Psalm 104. In other words his role in creation is by no means limited to creatio ex nihilo but includes the continuing maintenance of the cosmic order. Thus Christ is also presented as the divine agent of the preservation of the cosmos.

The Christocentric nature of the New Testament view of creation has important implications for any contemporary theology of creation. It provides a theological rationale for once again treating creation as a central and distinctively Christian doctrine. Thus it leaves no place for an autonomous natural theology within the framework of Christian dogmatics.

Creation and Renewal

As the centre of history, Christ holds out the promise of a new future. Thus, since he is also the centre of creation, it is natural for New Testament writers to express this a promise of a new creation. Because they associate this new creation closely with the life of the believer, both individually and in community, It is tempting to interpret this New Testament promise in purely anthropocentric terms. However, the cosmic scope of Christ’s renewing activity is further underlined by a well-known passage from Paul’s letter to the Romans – Rom 8:18–25.

Paul’s use of ‘creation’ in this passage has been interpreted in many different ways. However, the involuntary nature of the bondage to which he refers (v. 20) suggests that any interpretation including the angelic and/or human dimensions of creation must be ruled out. We must conclude that ktisis is intended to denote the nonhuman created order.

This interpretation of ktisis leads to the strange image of nature suffering. Even more bizarre, nature itself is looking forward eagerly to an eschaton which will, amongst other things, mark an end to its bondage.

What does Paul mean when he speaks of the subjection of nature to ‘futility’? Mataiotes stands in contrast to telos and means emptiness, futility, meaninglessness, lack of purpose. It is the Septuagint’s translation of hebel or vanity (e.g. Ecc. 1:2). Here, it appears to be synonymous with ‘bondage to decay’ (v. 21). With its reference to ‘groaning and travailing’, the passage clearly points us to Genesis 3 for an explanation of this term. Thus it seems likely that creation’s inability to achieve its telos, to fulfil the purpose of its existence is a direct result of the disorder envisaged in Gen. 3:17.

If this is the case, the one who subjected it in hope must be God. However, the responsibility for this state lies firmly with humankind: our place in the created order is such that our disobedience brings with it ecological consequences. Paul does not teach that nature is in itself fallen, rather its telos is inextricably bound up with the destiny of humankind. Our disobedience prevents the natural order from achieving its goal: creation ‘is cheated of its true fulfilment so long as man, the chief actor in the drama of God’s praise, fails to contribute his rational part’ (C. E. B. Cranfield, ‘Some Observations on Romans 8.19–21’ in R. Banks (ed.), Reconciliation and Hope: The Leon Morris Festschrift (Exeter, 1974), p. 227).

In spite of this assessment of the cosmic repercussions of evil, Paul emphasizes that this divine subjection does not exclude hope from creation. On the contrary, the subhuman creation was subjected ‘in hope’. The present suffering of creation is a ‘groaning and travailing’: it represents the birth pangs that will ultimately give way to joy and fulfilment. Paul sees Christ’s redemptive activity as effecting not just the reconciliation of humanity with God but, through that, also the consummation of the entire created order. The non-human part of creation is not merely a backdrop to the human drama of salvation history but is itself able to share in the ‘glorious liberty’ which Paul envisages for the covenant community. What we have here is a Christological and pneumatological (and, hence Trinitarian) transformation of the Old Testament concept of the dominium terrae.

This hope for the whole of creation is graphically portrayed by the apocalyptic vision of the Book of Revelation. Rather than a spiritual eschaton, John promises a new heaven and a new earth. This typically Jewish idiom clearly indicates that the transformation and renewal of creation as a whole is intended. Even when he changes his imagery to that of a city, the non-human creation is still represented. The heavenly Jerusalem is no work of humankind standing over against an alien wilderness. Rather his portrayal of the city as having a garden at its centre (a renewed Eden once again open to humankind) reveals it is a divine city reconciling the human and the natural.

Bibliography

Anderson, B. (ed.), Creation in the Old Testament (London, 1984)

Blocher, H., In The Beginning: The Opening Chapters of Genesis (Leicester, 1984)

Brueggemann, W., Genesis, Interpretation: A Bible Commentary for Teaching and Preaching (Atlanta, Geo., 1982)

Fergusson, D., The Cosmos and the Creator: An introduction to the theology of creation (London, 1998).

Gunton, C. E. (ed), The Doctrine of Creation: Essays in dogmatics, history and philosophy (Edinburgh, 1997)

Westermann, C., Creation (ET, London, 1974)

Westermann, C., Genesis 1–11: A Commentary (ET, London, 1984)

Collingwood on being a slow thinker

The philosopher R. G. Collingwood makes the following revealing comment about his thought processes:

I know that I have always been a slow and painful thinker, in whom thought in its formative stages will not be hurried by effort, nor clarified by argument, that most dangerous enemy to immature thoughts, but grows obscurely through a long and oppressive period of gestation, and only after birth can be licked by its parent into presentable shape. (Autobiography, p. 107)

I can certainly identify with this description of the struggle to formulate one’s thoughts. And gestation is a very good metaphor for a process that can take months or even years.

Radical Christianity: property is theft

 I imagine most people in (post)modern capitalist Western societies think the phrase ‘property is theft’ is a Marxist sentiment. In fact, the phrase was coined by the nineteenth-century French anarchist Pierre-Joseph Proudhon and Marx was critical of the idea on the grounds that the concept of theft entails a concept of property and therefore ‘property is theft’ is self-refuting.

The phrase may come from a nineteenth-century anarchist, but the underlying sentiment is much older and has been recognized as a core part of Christian social teaching by some of the greatest Christian theologians. Thus, speaking of giving to the poor, St Ambrose of Milan could say:

You are not making a gift of your possessions to the poor person. You are handing over to him what is his. For what has been given in common for the use of all, you have arrogated to yourself. The world is given to all, and not only to the rich. (De Nabuthae, 11)

Drawing on this, Thomas Aquinas argued that anything we possess above and beyond what is necessary to satisfy our reasonable needs ‘is owed, of natural right, to the poor for their sustenance’. Indeed, he goes even further:

It is not theft, properly speaking, to take secretly and use another’s property in a case of extreme need: because that which he takes for the support of his life becomes his own property by reason of that need.(Summa theologiae II-II.q66.a7).

Putting that in twenty-first century terms, it is not theft when someone goes shoplifting to feed their children. Nor (contra agri-businesses like Monsanto) is it theft when a third-world farmer saves and re-plants seeds from a GM crop.

This piece of traditional Christian teaching puts Francis of Assisi in a rather different light. Modern biographies often present his persistent giving away of possessions to the poor as a (possibly eccentric and certainly unusual) virtue. And contemporary works on Christian spirituality often treat such simplicity/self-imposed poverty as something most of us can only aspire to. But, from the perspective of Ambrose and Aquinas and most theologians before the modern (capitalist?) era, Francis was simply doing his duty as a Christian. I don’t know about you, but I find that scary. I call myself a Christian, but perhaps in light of the above that means I need to listen more literally when Jesus says to the rich young man, ‘go, sell your possessions, and give the money to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; then come, follow me’ (Matt. 19:21, NRSV).