Abstract
Greetings colleagues and friends! On behalf of the Society of Professors in Christian Ministry, I am delighted to present a new Volume of the Christian Education Journal, now in its 44th year of publication. It is truly an honor to steward this platform for sharing and promoting the excellent work of such a widely arrayed community of scholars, professors, students, and leaders. The CEJ community is an inter-denominational, inter-national, inter-vocational diaspora, and at the same time we are an intra-Kingdom family: united by the gospel of Christ, by our contention for the “faith that was once for all delivered to the saints” (Jude 3) and in our commitment to pursuing the Great Commission (Matt. 28:18–20) through the ministry of teaching. What joy!
Ruminatio
Teach me your way, O LORD, that I may walk in your truth; unite my heart to fear your name.
∼Psalm 86:11
Throughout this volume of the Christian Education Journal, I will be sharing some ruminations (from Lat. ruminat-, “chewed over”) on philosophy for Christian teaching. I’m characterizing this series as ruminatio, among other reasons that will become clear, to avoid an association with something more standardized and less real. To start there, here is a chewable disclaimer I provide just below the course description in the syllabus of my doctoral seminar, Philosophy for Leadership and Discipleship: “This seminar is concerned with philosophy for leadership and discipleship. It is not concerned with ‘philosophy’ as an end in itself, which, itself, would be a mockery of philosophy.”
From my residence in the land of professional academia, I can sadly report that some of the least philosophical people I know are doctors (διδάσκαλοι) of philosophy with the diploma to prove it. I don’t necessarily hold this against the doctors themselves. We (ahem) are, to quote Gretchen Wilson (2004), “a product of (our) raising.” The self-perpetuating modernist academy creates modernist educational curricula, which compels modernity-immersed students to develop modernist learning sensibilities and competencies. Unless modernity is synonymous with redemptive virtue (it is not), this could be problematic for redemptive learning (it is). The culprit in this is not necessarily modernity or modernism, which is not all bad. Indeed, modernity has produced incredible advances in research and knowledge and has, in many cases, advanced the cause of human flourishing. The culprit is, by in large, the Western academic establishment—let's just go ahead and point three fingers back at ourselves in Christian higher education generally, and theological education in particular—who tend to represent the fish in David Foster Wallace's (2005) parable who exclaims, “What the h*** is water?” (p. 4).
I am not here to lambaste modernity, modernism, or moderns. (My name is John-David, and I am a modern.) I am here to insist that, as moderns, we need what Esther Meek (2011) calls “philosophical therapy” (see pp. 3–34). And we need to be able to administer this therapy. Such may begin with a consideration of what “philosophy” is, and how philosophy connects to the conception and pursuit of what education (whether in formal, organizational, or ecclesial contexts) is-for.
The latter is the essential topic of James K.A. Smith's influential (very Augustinian) book, Desiring the Kingdom (2009), which hinges on the keen observation that, “behind every pedagogy is a philosophical anthropology” (p. 40). The headline statement that elucidates Smith's philosophy for teaching and learning is: “…education is not primarily a heady project concerned with providing information; rather, education is most fundamentally a matter of formation, a task of shaping and creating a certain kind of people. What makes them a distinctive kind of people is what they love or desire—what they envision as “the good life” or the ideal picture of human flourishing” (p. 26; emphasis original).
In the companion volume to Desiring the Kingdom, titled You Are What You Love (2016), Smith asserts in the first two chapter titles: “You are what you love” / “You might not love what you think.” Riffing on these, I might suggest the following: In principle, we all love wisdom, and we all wish to be wise. In reality, we might not love the wisdom we think, and our cerebrally wished-for wisdom may have little or no correspondence to our habitually nurtured wisdom.
My fear is that for many of us—not only in academic, but also ministry contexts—we nurture a wisdom that prioritizes propositions above practices, formal operations above vocational competencies, and (modernist) reason above reality. Kevin Vanhoozer (2005) gives us this to chew on: “Instrumental reason—modernity's preferred mode of thinking about reality—results in the atrophy of the cultural imagination and, ultimately, in the loss of contact with ultimate reality” (p. 80). Christianity is predicated on action rather than abstraction: God created, God delivered, God came, God died and rose again, God will make all things new. So should our philosophy be.
Consolatio: Philosophy as Ministry
Consider the occasion and premise of Boethius's (1999) classic work, Consolatio Philosophiae. Before jumping to the digestible, didactic content and detail of Boethius's philosophical reflections, which had a massive shaping influence on basically all proceeding work by Christians in theology and philosophy (e.g., T. Aquinas), it is crucial to recognize that philosophy for him was a meditative tool—namely as he was unjustly imprisoned, awaiting his execution on death row. The “consolation” of philosophy is not one's facility for thinking deeply and formally articulating those deep reflections. Boethius wasn't consoled by the intellectual content about philosophy. He was consoled by the ministry of philosophy. Philosophy's consolation is primarily in its practice and telos: ruminating (chewing) on the big metaphysical questions that confront real people in real life—theodicy, justice, freedom, providence, fortune, happiness—through a kingdom of God (regnum Dei) imaginary. Of course, this is not in any way to diminish or discount the import or profundity of the philosophical content Boethius produced, but simply to regard that content as a product of the work of philosophy, not philosophy's starting point or its sum total. If philosophy is primarily concerned with the pursuit of wisdom, then it is not fundamentally a body of fixed content to be consulted as one would an encyclopedia or dictionary. It is fundamentally a longing to understand life and live well while clinging to the life-giver.
Recall Charles Wesley's (1744) hymn: “Israel's strength and consolation / hope of all the earth thou art / dear desire of every nation / joy of every longing heart” (emphasis added). If the nature and vocation of philosophy relates directly to consolation doctrinally speaking, then our philosophizing should be ordered and aimed unto consoling, that is, unto the experience and manifestation of joy in our present lives. We should not engage in philosophy foremost or exclusively as a disembodied, abstract subject, but as an embodied, personal ministry. Jesus, the great philosopher (ref. Pennington 2020), was the embodiment of wisdom (1 Cor. 1:30). The church is the body of Jesus (Eph. 1:23). It is profitable and essential, therefore, that we study philosophy by starting with the questions, problems, circumstances, and experiences, inherent to the human condition and the journey of the human life. Emphatically, however, this takes absolutely nothing away from the subject of philosophy as a formal, systematized topic of intellectual and academic inquiry and study. The ministry of philosophy beckons us to the study of philosophy.
“Philosophology” in Pirsig's Lila
In Lila, a work commonly categorized as a “philosophical novel,” Robert Pirsig (1991) presents a distinction between philosophy and “philosophology.” This is a profoundly apt conceptual framing of philosophy, so I am providing an extended excerpt here on the chance some of you don’t have this book at arm's length. This passage is describing Phædrus, Pirsig's alter-ego, introduced in the earlier (philosophical) novel, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance (1974), to which Lila was a follow-up. He liked that word “philosophology.” It was just right. It had a nice dull, cumbersome, superfluous appearance that exactly fitted its subject matter, and he’d been using it for some time now. Philosophology is to philosophy as musicology is to music, or as art history and art appreciation are to art, or as literary criticism is to creative writing. It's a derivative, secondary field, a sometimes parasitic growth that likes to think it controls its host by analyzing and intellectualizing its host's behavior. Literature people are sometimes puzzled by the hatred many creative writers have for them. Art historians can’t understand the venom either. He supposed the same was true with musicologists but he didn’t know enough about them. But philosophologists don’t have this problem at all because the philosophers who would normally condemn them are a null-class. They don’t exist. Philosophologists, calling themselves philosophers, are just about all there are. You can imagine the ridiculousness of an art historian taking his students to museums, having them write a thesis on some historical or technical aspect of what they see there, and after a few years of this giving them degrees that say they are accomplished artists. They’ve never held a brush or a mallet and chisel in their hands. All they know is art history. Yet, ridiculous as it sounds, this is exactly what happens in the philosophology that calls itself philosophy. Students aren’t expected to philosophize. Their instructors would hardly know what to say if they did. They’d probably compare the student's writing to Mill or Kant or somebody like that, find the student's work grossly inferior, and tell him to abandon it. As a student Phædrus had been warned that he would “come a cropper” if he got too attached to any philosophical ideas of his own. Literature, musicology, art history and philosophology thrive in academic institutions because they are easy to teach. You just Xerox something some philosopher has said and make the students discuss it, make them memorize it, and then flunk them at the end of the quarter if they forget it. Actual painting, music composition and creative writing are almost impossible to teach and so barely get in the academic door. True philosophy doesn’t get in at all. Philosophologists often have an interest in creating philosophy but, as philosophologists, they subordinate it, much as a literary scholar might subordinate his own interest in creative writing. Unless they are exceptional they don’t consider the creation of philosophy their real line of work. As an author, Phædrus had been putting off the philosophology, partly because he didn’t like it, and partly to avoid putting a philosophological cart before the philosophical horse. Philosophologists not only start by putting the cart first; they usually forget the horse entirely. They say first you should read what all the great philosophers of history have said and then you should decide what you want to say. The catch here is that by the time you’ve read all what the great philosophers of history have said you’ll be two hundred years old. A second catch is that these great philosophers are very persuasive people and if you read them innocently you may be carried away by what they say and never see what they missed. Phædrus, in contrast, sometimes forgot the cart but was fascinated by the horse. He thought the best way to examine the contents of various philosophological carts is to first figure out what you believe and then to see what great philosophers agree with you. There will always be a few somewhere. These will be much more interesting to read since you can cheer what they say and boo their enemies, and when you see how their enemies attack them you can kibitz a little a take a real interest in whether they were right or wrong. With this technique you can approach someone like William James in a much different way than an ordinary philosophologist would. Since you’ve already done your creative thinking before you read James, you don’t just go along with him. You get all kinds of fresh new ideas by contrasting what he's saying with what you already believe. You’re not limited by any dead-ends of his thought and can often see ways of going around him. (pp. 370–372)
Isolationist Philosophology: Tolstoy's Ivan Ilyich
Although he gave it a new name, the perception of the disintegration Pirsig describes certainly did not originate with him. First published in 1886, Leo Tolstoy's (2008) main character in The Death of Ivan Ilyich tragically personifies the disintegrative ethic of philosophology. The skill of compartmentalizing the official side of things and keeping that apart from his own real life was one that Ivan Ilyich possessed in the highest degree; long practice and natural talent had enabled him to refine it to such a degree that now he could act like a virtuoso performer, occasionally allowing himself to mix human and official relationships by way of a joke. He allowed himself this liberty because he felt strong enough whenever necessary to reinstate the distinction between the official and the human by discarding the latter. This was more than just an easy, pleasant and decent thing for Ivan Ilyich to do—he was acting like a virtuoso performer. (p. 179)
Faced with the reality of his own terminal illness, Ivan was emotionally victimized by his doctor's employment of the philosophy of philosophology. As far as Ivan Ilyich was concerned there was only one question that mattered: Is this condition life-threatening or not? But the doctor treated this question as irrelevant, and ignored it. From the doctor's point of view it was a pointless question not worthy of discussion; the only thing was a balancing of probabilities – floating kidney, chronic colitis, problem with the blind gut. The question of Ivan Ilyich living or dying didn’t arise; there was just this conflict between the floating kidney and the blind gut. And before his very eyes the doctor resolved the conflict at a brilliant stroke in favor of the floating kidney, with the sole proviso that new evidence might emerge from the urine test, and if that happened the case would have to be reviewed. All of it from start to finish was precisely what Ivan Ilyich himself had done to the accused a thousand times and with no less brilliance. (p. 183)
Here the tragic noetic effect of philosophology (in isolation) is laid bare: it cuts a person off from being human, thus from understanding human life, thus living life well. “‘Maybe I didn’t live as I should have done?’ Came the sudden thought. ‘But how can that be when I did everything properly? he wondered, instantly dismissing as a total impossibility the one and only solution to the mystery of life and death” (p. 210).
Finally, on his death bed, he undergoes a conversion: “What was happening to him was like when he had been in a railway carriage and you think you are going forwards but you are really going backwards, and suddenly you know what the right direction is” (p. 216).
Isolationist Aestheticism: Oscar Wilde's Dorian Gray
Let us avoid one misunderstanding, though: The blindness of isolationism is not a proclivity limited to philosophology, that is, analytical or rationalistic philosophy. Aestheticism—the philosophy rooted in the belief that the experience of beauty and pleasure should be pursued as an end in itself and should otherwise claim no further meaning or significance—suffers from precisely the same disease. Oscar Wilde's (1891/2008) provocative novel, The Picture of Dorian Gray, is an apt example.
Oscar Wilde was a champion for philosophical aestheticism. “They are the elect to whom beautiful things mean only Beauty,” he says in his famous Preface to Dorian Gray (p. 3). Also, “No artist has ethical sympathies,” and, “All art is quite useless” (pp. 3–4). You get the picture. Yet, the novel itself (i.e., the philosophical message of the novel, the existence of which Wilde ostensibly wants us to ignore or deny) appears to call blatant attention to the psychological isolationism and degradation inherent in philosophical aestheticism. I won’t ruin it for you if you are not familiar, but the basic plot involves the decision by Dorian, on the provocation of the philosophical hedonist, Lord Henry Wotton, to make a deal with the devil allowing him to keep his (beautiful) youthful appearance while a painting of him ages. Fallout eventually ensues, suffice to say.
When I am reading Dorian, I can’t quite decide whether the articulations of Lord Henry Wotton, more or less the novel's ideological stand-in for Wilde, are meant by the author to be taken seriously or mockingly. I am inclined to the former given my understanding of Wilde's philosophy, but since I’m not a literary critic it is entirely possible that my interpretation lacks nuance or depth. That's really my point, though: on face-value, aestheticism (“art for art's sake”) can only be taken seriously on the presupposition that beauty and rationality are a zero-sum game, that all meaningful meaning and all human flourishing requires rejecting the notion that ideas and -ologies are inherently meaningful. Such can’t seriously be taken seriously given the rational facility required to operate on that notion—not to mention the ideological discipline required.
The ironic subtext in philosophical rationalism and aestheticism alike, therefore, is that they depend on one another. When you successfully attempt to make a philosophy of either one, you end up with a product that is absurd or grotesque or both. The project of rationalism is to examine Handel's (Messiah) lyrics on the pretense that his music is irrelevant. The project of aestheticism is to relish the sensation of Handel's music on the pretense that his lyrics are superficial. Both projects are exercises in disintegration, and ultimately futility.
Of course, we don’t operate in these extremes—but we do operate in these tendencies. Christian academicians and professors intuitively promote theory and -ology. Christian ministry practitioners intuitively promote praxis and technique. Christian artists intuitively promote sensation and experience. Each of these three intuitively pursue specialization in their particular respective areas, thus each tend to focus on their own discipline, thus each harbors a homogeneous community, thus holistic community is often dis-integrated.
Poiema + Logos
C.S. Lewis presents a clarifying distinction that relates directly to the necessary integration of philosophy and “philosophology.” In An Experiment in Criticism (1961), one of his later Cambridge era works, Lewis shares his thoughts about the ethic of reading well from the vantage point of his field of literature and poetry. He distinguishes between a work of literature or art itself, and the rational-philosophical ideas or concepts that readers extract from that work. “To formulate it as a philosophy, even if it were a *rational philosophy, and regard the actual (work) as primarily a vehicle for that philosophy, is an outrage to the thing the (author) has made for us” (p. 82). [*Note that Lewis refers to a “rational” philosophy here.] Lewis goes on to distinguish between the categories of logos [something said] and poiema [something made] (see pp. 82–87). This is crucial. Literature, according to Lewis, is both logos and poiema. We should not read literature merely to extract some lesson, insight, or moral. If or when you do this, you will inevitably find what you are looking for. Also, you will tend to conflate the meaning and significance of the work with your (or someone else's) articulated extraction from it.
With Lewis, we may thus suggest, philosophy : philosophology :: poiema : logos.
Loving wisdom includes and necessarily entails articulating our convictions and understanding about “the love of wisdom.” But those articulations are not the sum total of our pursuit of loving wisdom. Likewise, a thing made can only be described by saying stuff about that thing. But a thing is not fully comprised (or even described) by what may be said about it. The danger is in focusing our energy and attention on the logos we can extract from analyzing something, such that we miss the full reality and beauty of the poiema of something (the actual thing).
Here is a question I invite my students to chew on: How should the identity of the church as the “workmanship (poiema) of God” (Eph. 2) relate-to our educational philosophy for discipleship and leadership? In Teaching the Faith, Forming the Faithful (2009), Parrett and Kang helpfully discuss poiema as the starting place for educational ministry at some length.
Theology and Philosophy
In the introduction to Wilkin and English's You are a Theologian (2023), Jen Wilkin says, “All of us have words about God. We can grow in our ability to make those words accurate and good, edifying for others, glorifying to the One they describe. Not only are we all theologians, but we are so by design. We were created to think and speak words about God that represent him rightly. We are built for theological thought and discourse…” (pp. 11–12). I really appreciate the quick-hit summation statements they provide on the nature and purpose of theology, which have direct implications for the integration of theology and philosophy: What is theology? Words about God. Who does theology? Everybody. What does theology do? It organizes biblical truths. Why does theology matter? Because living well matters. Simply put, theology is a part of a life well lived. Theology helps us live all of life well. (pp. 21–22)
How does the project and outcomes of organizing the study and articulations about God relate to the project and outcomes of loving wisdom in the presence of God (coram Deo)? That's something to chew on.
Analytic and Phenomenalistic Dispositions
In A History of Western Philosophy and Theology (2015), John Frame defines theology as “the application of the Word of God, by persons, to every aspect of human life” (p. 4; see also Frame (1987), pp. 76–85). He defines philosophy as “the disciplined attempt to articulate and defend a worldview” (Frame, 2015, p. 1; emphasis added). I would like to reflect on this a bit in light of the distinction between “philosophology” and philosophy.
I have intentionally selected Frame to engage here because I admire and commend his work, without qualification. His writing and teaching have been deeply influential and shaping for my own, as my students can testify. Moreover, he is a model of careful precision and consistency in defining and utilizing the terms and concepts he employs. What I want to highlight here is a matter of disposition disparity: Frame's disposition is more analytic, while I am seeking to promote one more phenomenalistic. That said, I believe the inherent heft and utility of Frame's “multi-perspectival” hermeneutic (which I heartily endorse as having extraordinary didactic and explanatory power) is that it is so philosophically well-balanced, holistic, and applicable to the experience and practice (the phenomenon!) of Christian education and discipleship.
[NOTE an important nomenclature clarification: My references here to analytic and phenomenalistic dispositions relate broadly and generally to the distinctions between the two historic schools of philosophy thus named, but I am primarily using these as descriptive rather than proper terms. It is not my aim to endorse or commend one philosophical school or tradition (Analytic, Continental, Phenomenological, etc.) in favor of another. So far as that goes, in fact, my aim is to promote reciprocity, a philosophical interdenominationalism if you will, and to challenge our tendency toward beholden-ness to particular schools and systems that can be disintegrative when appropriated in isolation. For an example of a systematic theologian who sets out to promote reciprocity between analytical and phenomenalistic forms of philosophy for his discipline of study, see Erickson's (1998) chapter on “Theology and Philosophy.”]
Frame's (2015) definition of theology is essentially synonymous with the term “Christian philosophy” as he employs it. He acknowledges this straightforwardly: “I am better known as a theologian than a philosopher, though as the book indicates I don't see a very big difference between these two disciplines” (p. xxv). Frame's definition of theology is indeed shot through with philosophy, especially in its appeal to application, which is firmly in the territory of wisdom (sophia + prudentia). I would even say his definition of theology verges on being more philosophical than theological! Then you look at his definition of philosophy, which curiously does not explicitly appeal to wisdom, but to “worldview,” which he presents as “a general conception of the universe” (p. 1). Frame thus presents theology as an “application” while he presents philosophy as a “conception.” In contrast, I would suggest that theology, as an -ology, is a conceptual enterprise (essentially), while philosophy, as an -osophy, is a spiritual and phenomenal enterprise (essentially). Theology consists of “words about God;” philosophy consists of the “love of wisdom.” Frame seems to suggest that philosophy consists of words (logos) about the love of wisdom.
I am not saying Frame is wrong. I am suggesting that his definition of philosophy may be characterized as a definition of “philosophology” (or perhaps a philosophological definition of philosophy). He is referring to philosophy as the study-of philosophy, or as the (analytical) reflection on the topics and concerns of philosophy. Again, I commend this, but I want to back up and see the forest, as it were.
While it necessarily involves and includes analysis and organized study, philosophy is deeper and more expansive than the study of it. Every person has a philosophy and functions philosophically by virtue of being alive and living life (ref. E. Meek's corpus, especially Longing to Know). Not every person intellectually examines or reflects upon the basis or implications or outworking of their philosophy. This accords, I think, with what J.H. Bavinck (Herman's nephew) presents in Personality and Worldview (2023) regarding “worldvision,” which everyone has, distinguished from “worldview,” which people only have if they develop a conceptualized framework for understanding life that they can articulate and defend (to use Frame's language).
“But,” you might say, “a person's philosophy still exists whether or not they know it or can articulate it.” Exactly! Their philosophy exists; their philosophology—in formal terms that they can “articulate and defend”—may not. In a Polanyian philosophical schema (see esp. The Tacit Dimension, [1966/2009]), you always “know more than you can tell.” Which is to say: the truth that you know, and even your reasons and means of knowing it, is not the same set as the truth you are able to articulate and give reasons for. It is a much bigger set.
The dispositional distinction between an analytic and phenomenalistic philosopher is this: the analytic is going to stress the logical and literal content of truth (metaphysics), understanding (epistemology), and value (axiology); the phenomenalist is going to emphasize the embodied and lived experience of truth, understanding, and value. We must be very clear, though: this should be a cordial distinction rather than an oppositional divide. Every one of us, as Christians, intuitively know that logos and life must be reciprocal, not binary (John 1:14).
When I teach philosophy, I let students know they are going to get a heavy dose of the phenomenalist disposition, and that it will be disorienting, at least initially, for some or most. I also clarify this doesn’t mean I am recruiting them away from the analytic camp (safely assuming that's where most reside). It does mean that—particularly for the task of educational philosophy—I am convictionally intent on commending the virtue of learning about loving wisdom from the vantage point of lived experience. I also readily show my literary interlocutor cards, such as Michael Polanyi, Eugene Peterson, Esther Meek, Dallas Willard, Kevin Vanhoozer, James K.A. Smith—and above all, Augustine of Hippo, who Polanyi (1974) dubs the original “post-critical” philosopher (p. 266). From Augustine's maxim, “Unless you believe, you shall not understand” (nisi credideritis non intelligitis), Polanyi extrapolates: “…the process of examining any topic is both an exploration of the topic, and an exegesis of our fundamental beliefs in the light of which we approach it; a dialectical combination of exploration and exegesis” (p. 267). Such is the cordial reciprocity I promote.
Vocatio Philosophiae
In the same way that we distinguish between formal (theoretical) and practical theology, so we may do with philosophy. But, doctrinally and curricularly, there should be no such thing as “formal” theology or philosophy as an end in itself. Nor should the formal and the practical be regarded as siloed enterprises, academically or vocationally. Certainly at all costs, the formal must never displace the practical: “So do and observe whatever they tell you, but not the works they do. For they preach, but do not practice” (Matt. 23:3). Theory without practice is inevitably impotent. Practice without theory is often utilitarian.
This does not mean we don’t need formal theologians and philosophers! Thank God for those who devote their careers to specialized, formal study and discourse in the systematic exploration of theology and philosophy. To use a Polanyian (1974, 1966/2009) reference, understanding and explaining the theoretical physics of riding a bike is a wonderful thing; it's just not the same thing as the practical physics of actually riding. Furthermore, it is safe to assume that a majority of the most excellent cyclists in the world do not possess a terminal-degree-level theoretical understanding of the physics of cycling.
Philosophy helps us consider (or: is the practice of considering) the extent to which we are living and functioning in a fully integrated human way, unto redemptive flourishing. Philosophy also calls us to attend to basic things, i.e., root things: reality, knowing, living. So, if you “philosophize” or “get philosophical” about something, what you should be doing is considering how some thing (some phenomenon, idea, institution, etc.) is rooted in the deep stuff of created life, the meaning of life, and the living of life well unto redemptive flourishing.
Consider the implications of philosophy as a “discipline.” More basically than discipline-of-study, this means that it is fundamentally a vocation. The content of philosophy, the reflection about it, the implications of it, and the practice of it are vocational. Philosophy, philosophically speaking, is not synonymous with the study-of or formal-organization-of philosophy. Philosophy is not comprised of philosophology. The study of philosophy only exists because philosophy exists. (It is likewise with the study of God!) Philosophy would most certainly exist without the formal study or log-ical organization of it. This doesn’t mean “philosophology” is necessarily foolish, but that it is essentially foolish if it is not pursued as a service to the human work of loving wisdom.
Gospel Philosophy
Here's a question to chew on: Is the gospel of Christ fundamentally more philosophical or theological? [Pregnant pause.] Well, the message of gospel is clearly theo-logical in the most basic sense because it consists of the word of (God's) truth we receive and the word of (personal) commitment we confess (Rom. 10:8–9). More specifically, though: is the reality of the gospel related more fundamentally to organizing words or living well? “He made him to be sin who knew no sin, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God” (2 Cor. 5:21). If the gospel is “that truth (we) believe and love” (ref. Anselm's [2008] famous prayer in Proslogion); if it is the truth we “believe with our heart” (Rom. 10:10) at the deepest, pre-cognitive, pre-rational, pre-articulate fount of our identity as adopted children of God according to his eternal plan (Eph. 1:3–14); if it is something believe and confess before we explain and analyze; if the gospel requires us not only to say what we believe but to embody and demonstrate what we believe (James 1–2): then the gospel, even the logos of the gospel, is more so a matter of wisdom-loving than word-making. The gospel is both more basic and more ultimate than what our formal competencies of cognition, rationalization, and organization allow us to articulate about it.
The reality of the gospel is philosophical at its core and in its vision: “You have searched me and known me. … Lead me in the everlasting way” (Psa. 139). The formal organization and tools of theological inquiry and study can help us embrace the philosophy of the gospel more fully and deeply. Devoid of philosophy though, the theology of the gospel—even the recognition and articulation of true statements and realities about God—are merely words. “You believe that God is one; you do well. Even the demons believe—and shudder! … For as the body apart from the spirit is dead, also faith apart from works is dead” (James 2:19, 26). It is not possible for you to develop a confessional evangelical theology without a conversion and commitment to the euangelion—the good news that you embrace with universal intent as the source, meaning, and telos of your life: “‘In him we live and move and have our being’” … “‘For we are indeed his offspring’” (Acts 17:28).
One of my aims in teaching philosophy is to get students to recognize works such as “It is Well with My Soul” (Spafford, 1873) as just-as if not more intrinsically and holistically philosophical than, say, Philosophical Foundations for a Christian Worldview (Moreland & Craig, 2017). A prompt I use for discussion is: What does “It is Well” teach and reflect about metaphysics, epistemology, and axiology?
A Prayer for Loving Life in Learning Community
Regarding the vocation of Christian teaching ministry, I invite students to chew on this question with me: What is the difference, in personal and corporate discipleship contexts, between approaching the Bible primarily as a wisdom (philosophical) book versus primarily a propositional-conceptual (philosophological) book? I will take up this question next time.
For now, I will conclude this ruminatio with a prayer based on the text of Psalm 86 that I composed for my classes and seminars when we engage the topic and task of educational philosophy. I typically invite students to pray the bolded lines audibly in unison with me. Most commonly, we read and meditate on the Psalm and pray this prayer at the beginning of a session; followed by a segment focusing on the definitional, conceptual, and doctrinal aspects of philosophy; followed by a reflection on the text of this prayer as elucidating and manifesting a philosophy for teaching and learning. “A Prayer for Loving Life in Learning Community”
[Based on Psalm 86]
Heavenly Father, we come before you as brothers and sisters who can declare, in common unity: Jesus is the one who was, and who is, and who is to come, and the one before whom every knee will one day bow. We declare our thanks to you today with our whole hearts, and glorify your name, because: you have lifted us out of our bondage to sin,
and we can call on you and know that you hear us. O Lord, incline your ear to us, the poor and needy ones.
Even as we long to be with Christ, to know even as we are known, to have every tear wiped away, to have every sin that so easily ensnares us gone and forgotten: Therefore, this time that you have given us, this overlapping of precious lives, is truly a gift. Help us not to fall into the trap of utilitarianism with this opportunity to learn together. As we share this time, give us a vision and a sense of stewardship and a sense of mutual accountability for how you are calling us to leverage the truth, goodness, and beauty that we get to immerse ourselves in, for the benefit of all those you have called us to serve.
Fill us with joy in living. Help us, for as long as you see fit to preserve us, to count others as more significant than ourselves; to do justice and love kindness and walk humbly with you.
Gladden our souls, O Lord. And as you make our souls glad, fill our minds with the things most worthy to be remembered. Remind us of the hope your grace gives us in this life. We need to know more deeply that this is true. And as you remind us of this, compel us to hold fast to you in the midst of life. Help us to hold fast as a way of living life— not merely in our abstract commitments and ethical convictions. We confess that we are a people of unclean lips. We often take your forgiveness and graciousness for granted. We are prone to live, even to call on you in prayer, without a sense of wonder and awe at your greatness above us, and your nearness to us. We confess that we are being tempted, even now, to trust in our own strength rather than to trust in you in all our ways so that you will make our paths straight.
But we praise you, because on the merits of Christ—we are your sons and daughters and co-heirs with Christ to your eternal Kingdom. So now we pray, Holy Spirit: give us humility and conviction and vision. Teach us your way, O Lord, that we may walk in your truth. Unite our hearts to fear your name. Through your strength, strengthen us as a learning community gathered by your grace. Do this for the sake of your glory and your renown, and for the sake of Christ's bride. You, who live and reign forever and ever: make us more alive, here and now.
