Forging Ploughshares

David Bohm and G.W.F. Hegel on the Unity of All in All

There is a stream of theology focused on the unity of all things in Christ, beginning with the New Testament and developed by thinkers such as Origen and Nicholas of Cusa, and then rediscovered by Hegel. Through Hegel and Nicholas, this understanding is taken up in interpreting theoretical physics in the work of David Bohm (1917– 1992). In turn, Bohm’s understanding of a unified wholeness serves to illustrate the radical shift involved in the Creator being incarnate.[1]

Christian identity is, in Hegel’s description, the core of an alternative logic in which “knowing God” is participation in the Infinite. Hegel works this out most carefully in his Logic, but it is thematic in his other works, such as his Philosophy of History. There is a unified and unifying spirit which must be “cognized” so as to overcome the antinomies of Kant.[2] According to Hegel, truth is a unifying essence and energy which is not dependent on antinomies or dualisms. “It is its own material which it commits to its own Active Energy to work up; not needing, as finite action does, the conditions of an external material of given means (such as subject/object duality) from which it may obtain its support and the objects of its activity.”[3]

Reason and God are not separate but “Reason is the Sovereign of the World; that the history of the world, therefore, presents us with a rational process.”[4] Reason is grounded in and sustained by God and therefore “it is its own Substance,” its own “Infinite Power,” “its own Infinite Material underlying all the natural and spiritual life which it originates, as also the Infinite Form — that which sets this Material in motion.”[5] The Infinite Energy of the Universe, or the Infinite mind in which thought participates, is not a mere abstraction but the concrete reality enfolding all things. “It is the infinite complex of things, their entire Essence and Truth.”[6] While finite reason is grounded in the dualisms of subject and object (or God and world), infinite reason passes beyond alienated thinking to a unified knowing of God in “true reason.” Hegel explains this reason, particularly in his Logic, which captured Bohm’s life-long interest.

Throughout his life Bohm was reading and rereading Hegel’s Logic, apparently to such an extent that his wife complained. As reported by Maurice Wilkins, “Mrs. Bohm told me that not long before he died, he was sitting in his armchair at home reading Hegel again, and she said to him, ‘David, don’t you know everything about Hegel by now.’”[7] Specifically, Bohm found in Hegel a way in which to develop his focus on wholeness and his concern to overcome fragmentation.[8]

This choice between wholeness and fragmentation are alternative understandings of all of reality (social, scientific, and religious). Bohm recognizes that to overcome fragmentation, philosophy and religion cannot be treated as discrete realms separate from science. He found physics to have an immediate and necessary overlap, such that “his physical insights became essentially inseparable from the philosophical ones.”[9] Mind and matter in Bohm’s thought (as in Hegel’s) are not separate, but interactive realms, so that to understand the one is an insight into the other. As he explains, “I would say that in my scientific and philosophical work, my main concern has been with understanding the nature of reality in general and of consciousness in particular as a coherent whole, which is never static or complete, but which is in an unending process of movement and unfoldment.”[10]

Bohm found this sensibility most fully expressed in Hegel, though he also, at first, associated it with Eastern religion (with which he eventually became disillusioned) but not with religion per se. He may not have appreciated the degree to which Hegel was concerned with recovering Christian orthodoxy and delivering it from the philosophical abstraction into which it had fallen. According to Hegel, “The faith in that would-be philosophical sense is itself nothing but the dry abstractum of immediate knowing, a completely formal determination, not to be confused with or mistaken for the spiritual fullness of the Christian faith, either from the side of the believing heart and the Holy Spirit dwelling within it or from the side of a doctrine abounding in content.”[11] Hegel sets out to displace dry abstraction with an engaged and all-embracing speculative philosophy.

The Hegelian project is not unlike Bohm’s, in that both are seeking to overcome formal distinctions (a separate existence for God and the world or in physics the notion that the world can be divided into distinct parts and discrete causal laws). Both are displacing classical notions of causality (an objective power or force) found in the divided world of Descartes, Kant, and Newton. Ultimate reality, Kant’s “thing-in-itself” was inaccessible, there was a mind/body dualism, and human action and freedom were delimited by the mechanical order. Bohm describes the shift he sought as the displacement of the assumption that “the world can correctly be analyzed into distinct parts each having a separate existence, working together according to exact causal laws to form the whole.” He would replace it with the idea that “the world acts more like a single indivisible unit, in which even the ‘intrinsic’ nature of each part (wave or particle) depends to some degree on its relationship to its surroundings.”[12]

While Hegel is seeking a synthesis of thought in his vision of logos, Bohm’s pursuit is a consequence of the wholeness necessary to account for quantum phenomena. At first he perceives wholeness as an emergent property, but then posits wholeness as fundamental. This “new ‘basic reality’ was no more a manifest reality of discrete objects, and forms – our usual ‘explicate’ or ‘unfolded’ order – but the ‘implicate’ or ‘enfolded’ order that is carried by the ‘holomovement’.”[13] He pictures an unbroken flow from the “implicate” order through the manifest “explicate” (or “unfolded”) order, the whole of which is “holomovement.” He describes it as “the unbroken wholeness of the totality of existence as an undivided flowing movement without borders.”[14] Nature is neither unchangeable nor bounded: “there are neither unchangeable ultimate elements nor fixed ultimate laws describing them, i.e. that nature is ontologically and our science epistemically inexhaustible.”[15]

The world is in process, and as reflected in quantum phenomena “becoming” is built into reality. He compares it to a flowing stream of water: “On this stream, one may see an ever-changing pattern of vortices, ripples, waves, splashes, etc., which evidently have no independent existence as such. Rather, they are abstracted from the flowing movement, arising and vanishing in the total process of the flow.”[16] Space and time may lend itself to division into abstracted moments, like particular ripples or waves, but the splashes of a particular moment are part of the overall flow.

As Bohm explains, “explicate ‘moments’ that unfold have a certain temporal thickness, a certain duration. Moments are temporal segmentations of unfoldment.”[17] Time is typically broken into past and future with the present as an ungraspable point, but the “unfoldings” of time belong together. “[I]t follows . . . that becoming is not merely a relationship of the present to a past that is gone. Rather, it is a relationship of enfoldments that actually are in the present moment. Becoming is an actuality,” that “continues in all succeeding moments,” that is, “the two principles of the being of becoming and the becoming of being must be woven together.”[18] Time is nested in infinite layers as “any given level is unfolding (in principle creatively) from levels that are more comprehensive and more fundamental.”[19]

According to Michael Younker, “as physics has been further advanced, unexpected and nonintuitive layers beneath the atomic level have been discovered, and the subatomic level contains its own behaviors, and, again yet further, beneath the subatomic level, a layer of fields exists which contains its own distinct behaviors. This illustrates, in a manner, how there could theoretically be many deeper implicate or super-implicate orders.”[20] General laws may apply in particular contexts but this context must be viewed as part of a larger order. This means “laws will take the form of generally valid relationships between the nested sets of projections of its past enfolded in one moment and the corresponding set enfolded in another moment. The special creative quality of each moment cannot, however, be predicted in this way.”[21] Within the infinite implicate order there are always other underlying influences so that any particular moment or event cannot be isolated: “all these projections into any given moment will have the past of the entire universe as their potential content, which is thus enfolded into the moment in question.”[22]

The tendency in science to extract and divide is the tendency of society as a whole, with nations, races and religions pitted against one another. “And in turn, each man is fragmented into different and incompatible loyalties, aims, desires, etc.”[23] There is inevitable despair and helplessness in the face of these overwhelming social forces – “going beyond the control and even the comprehension of the human beings who are caught up in it.”[24] So too in science Bohm notes, “there are sharp divisions between applied science and pure science, between theory and experiment, between one specialized field and another, and between different branches of each specialty. The gap between science and other aspects of life is just a further example of such fragmentation.”[25]

He sounds very much like Hegel in describing how human thought divides and separates as part of an alienating utilitarian mode. “However, when this mode of thought is applied more broadly to man’s notion of himself and the whole world in which he lives (i.e. to his self-world view), then man ceases to regard the resulting divisions as merely useful or convenient and begins to see and experience himself and his world as actually constituted of separately existent fragments.”[26] Humankind is confronted “with a worldwide breakdown which is self-evident not only at the political level but also in smaller groups and in the consciousness of the individual. The resort to mindless violence is growing and behind it all is the even more mindless threat of mutual annihilation, which is implicit in our current international situation and which could make everything we are doing quite pointless.”[27]

For Bohm, the cure for fragmentation is wholeness. Health and holiness, he notes, both derive from a root meaning wholeness, and this captures the human drive. “All of this indicates that man has sensed always that wholeness or integrity is an absolute necessity to make life worth living. Yet, over the ages, he has generally lived in fragmentation.”[28] To survive the disintegration, a new form of consciousness must be realized in what he calls a “postmodern science.” “A postmodern science should not separate matter and consciousness and should therefore not separate facts, meaning, and value. Science would then be inseparable from a kind of intrinsic morality, and truth and virtue would not be kept apart as they currently are in science.”[29] He calls for an understanding in which seemingly discrete fields or fractured parts are recognized as “enfolded” in a unified whole, claiming “the whole universe is actively enfolded to some degree in each of the parts. Because the whole is enfolded in each part, so are all the other parts, in some way and to some degree.”[30] The power of the imagination is in realizing synthesis as a participation in the essential wholeness of reality. “You see, like I was explaining with Hegel, the idea is first implicit only in itself and then it unfolds, it spreads out, in the imagination or in some other form like writing or painting. It becomes explicit, unfolded.”[31]

The world is not a big machine but is grounded in the energizing power of God (creation is tied to incarnation). The food and nourishment of the world are from within creation, from within history and nature. The alpha and omega is “its own basis of existence, and absolute final aim, it is also the energizing power realizing this aim; developing it not only in the phenomena of the Natural, but also of the Spiritual Universe — the History of the World.” This “’Idea’ or ‘Reason’ is the True, the Eternal, the absolutely powerful essence” that “reveals itself in the World, and . . . in that World nothing else is revealed but this and its honor and glory.”[32] This is the thesis which Hegel and Bohm share and demonstrate. In Christian terms (which Bohm did not embrace but which his work illustrates),God identifies himself with, in, and through, creation so that the eternal is not an entity apart from creation, but is identifiable in creation, in which Christ is being made all in all (I Cor 15:28).

[1] This peculiar Christo-logic is summed up in Maximus’ formula, “The Word of God, very God, wills that the mystery of his Incarnation be actualized always and in all things.” Maximus, On Difficulties in the Church Fathers: The Ambigua, Edited and Translated by Nicholas Constas (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2014) 7.22.

[2] According to Hegel truth, by definition is a unified understanding realized in thinking God: “God’s being is inseparably bound up with the representation of God in our consciousness.” Science of Logic, 267. Conceptions of God must be immediately related to thinking itself, as this is the “concrete” and unchanging foundation given in faith. There must be a concerted effort to arrive at a consciousness of God, inclusive of self-consciousness and consciousness of the world and others.

[3] Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel, Lectures on the Philosophy of History, transl. J. Sibree (Kitchener, Ontario: Batoche Books, 2001) 23.

[4] Philosophy of History, 23.

[5] Philosophy of History, 23-24.

[6] Philosophy of History, 24.

[7] Interviews of David Bohm by Maurice Wilkins, Niels Bohr Library and Archives, American Institute of Physics. Cited in Boris Kožnjak, “Waterfalls, Societies, and Temperaments – Fragmentation and Wholeness in the Lives and Work of David Bohm and Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel” (SYNTHESIS PHILOSOPHICA 73 (1/2022) p.p. (89–128), 99.

[8] This is the claim of Kožnjak.

[9] Kožnjak, 90.

[10] David Bohm, Wholeness and the Implicate Order (London: Routledge, 1980), p. x.

[11] Goerg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel, Encyclopedia of the Philosophical Sciences in Basic Outline Part I: Science of Logic, Translated and Edited by Klaus Brinkmann and Daniel O. Dahlstrom (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010 [1817]) 113.

[12] David Bohm, Basil Hiley, The Undivided Universe. An Ontological Interpretation of Quantum Theory (London: Routledge, 1993) 144. Cited in Kožnjak, 93.

[13] Kožnjak, 95. Bohm credits Nicholas of Cusa for the particulars of his vocabulary. Thus, for example, when asked about the Hegelian flavor of these concepts, Bohm replied that “well, of course, you can say that Nicholas of Cusa talked about something like this with a implicatio, explicatio, and complicatio”. Interview of David Bohm by Maurice Wilkins on 27 February 1987, American Institute of Physics. Available at www.aip.org/history-programs/niels-bohrlibrary/oral-histories/32977-9 (accessed on 31 July 2022). Cited in Kožnjak, 103.

[14] Wholeness and the Implicate Order, 218.

[15] Kožnjak, 123.

[16] Wholeness and the Implicate Order, 62.

[17]David Bohm, “Time, The Implicate Order, and Pre-Space,” in Physics and the Ultimate Significance of Time: Bohm, Prigogine, and Process Philosophy, ed. David Ray Griffin (Albany, NY: State University of New York Press, 1986), 185. Michael F. Younker, “The Theological Significance of the Relations of Freedom and Time in the Sciences and Humanities: An Evaluation of the Contributions of David Bohm and Pauli Pylkko” (2019). (Dissertations. 1694. https://digitalcommons.andrews.edu/dissertations/1694,) 242

[18] “Time, The Implicate Order, and Pre-Space,” 185. Cited in Younker, 242.

[19] “Time, The Implicate Order, and Pre-Space,” 186. Cited in Younker, 243.

[20] Younker, 243.

[21] “Time, The Implicate Order, and Pre-Space,” 191. Cited in Younker, 245.

[22] “Time, The Implicate Order, and Pre-Space,” 191. Cited in Younker, 245.

[23] David Bohm,” Impact of Science on Society,”(https://unesdoc.unesco.org/ark:/48223/pf0000003864) 160.

[24] Wholeness and the Implicate Order, 3.

[25] David Bohm, “Fragmentation in science and in Society”, The Science Teacher 38 (1971).

[26] Wholeness and the Implicate Order, 3.

[27] David Bohm, “Postmodern Science and a Postmodern World” (https://www.davidbohmsociety.org/library/postmodern/),

[28] Wholeness and the Implicate Order, 4.

[29] Postmodern Science.

[30] Postmodern Science.

[31] Interview of David Bohm by Maurice Wilkins on 6 March 1987. Cited in Kožnjak, 127.

[32] Philosophy of History, 24.

The Living Letter/Logoi of Creation: The Science of David Bohm as Illustration of the Theology of Maximus

In drawing out the connection between Paul’s positive use of “letter” and Maximus’ development of the term logoi (see here), the material world is inseparably bound-up with meaning. Significance in the Logos is incarnate or embodied and in turn what is embodied has significance. Maximus works out this participatory ontology through his identification of the Logos directly with creation (in the logoi). His is not the Neoplatonic notion of emanation, with its distinction between the One (in whom there is no distinction) and divine Intellect (with its logos and distinction) but in the explanation of Mika Törönen, “This is another kind of simultaneous union and distinction where wholes and parts through God’s providence and judgement make up a harmonious manifold.”[1] The structure of reality, according to Maximus, is in its wholeness through which things are united, but this takes place at both the level of the particular (logoi) and the universal (Logos). In Paul’s terms Christians are the particular instantiation of the letter of Christ, and for Maximus, Christ’s stamp is put upon all creation in the logoi: “‘Who … would not recognize that the one Logos is many logoi distinguished in the undivided difference of created things through their unconfused individuality in relation to each other and themselves?”[2] This accounts for the union between the created and the uncreated but also, according to Maximus, the “union of the mind with the senses, and the union of heaven with earth, and the union of sensible things with the intelligible, and the union of nature with the logos.”[3] The one being made “all in all” or incarnate in all things “lends” the meaning of personhood to all of creation and it is through this incarnate reality that meaning is available (the Logos/logoi relation). This is the primary principle, I would argue, behind Maximus’ theory of logoi and it is the driving presumption (“discovery”) reflected in the theoretical physics of David Bohm.

Theologically the choice is between a theology which divides the Logos and incarnation, so that a preexistent Logos is separated from the incarnate Christ (a logos asarkos or disembodied Christ), or incarnation is understood to be an eternal fact about God in Christ being worked out in and through all of creation. In physics the choice is between a matter and mind duality or, as in quantum theory, the recognition that matter is interdependent with mind and meaning. According to quantum theory, elementary particles account for and respond to the observer, so that mind appears on both sides of observation. In the words of biochemist Rupert Sheldrake, commenting on Bohm, “mind is already inherent in every electron, and the processes of human consciousness differ only in degree but not in kind from the processes of choice between quantum states which we call ‘chance’ when they are made by an electron.”[4]

In most contemporary science reality is presumed to be material or physical, and this is foundational. Matter serves as the final reference, so that the brain may produce consciousness, but this is a by-product of the brain’s activity. A purposeless evolution has produced a material based human activity grounded in the set structures of the physical world. As Sheldrake sums up, in contemporary science everything, including people and animals are reduced to the mechanical and matter is unmixed with consciousness; nature is fixed and unchanging as the total amount of matter is the same and the laws of nature are fixed; all life is based on biological structures carried in genetic material such as DNA; minds are inside heads and are the product of brains; memories are material traces in brains; there is no direct activity between mind and matter (such as found in telepathy); and mechanical or material medication alone is authentic.[5]

Even where this neo-evolutionary doctrine may be denied, the Cartesian split between mind and matter, body and soul, thought and physical reality often prevail, and matter is defined as something that exists independently of mind. A privileging of material reality prevails, even where materialism may not be consciously embraced and even where the existence of mind is acknowledged, it is usually given no place in physical reality. This physicalism reigns, though the emergence of life is mostly unaccounted for (statistically it is improbable if not impossible) and even though science now recognizes that 96% of reality in “dark matter” or “dark energy” is still obscure. Better to believe in infinite parallel universes, all with different laws, then allow for the possibility of a creator God. The prevailing doctrine not only excludes the divine mind, but mind itself – consciousness should not really exist as matter is prime reality. Thus, the materialist philosopher Daniel Dennett can write a book, Consciousness Explained, in which he dismisses consciousness as illusory.

Bad theology guided by materialist assumptions, is actually the historical cause preceding materialism. That is, it was dualistic Christians who first separated mind from matter. As Sheldrake explains, “They downgraded matter, making it totally inanimate and mechanical, and at the same time upgraded human minds making them completely different from unconscious matter.”[6] They assumed they were strengthening arguments for the soul (mind), empowering it over the body (as in Descartes), and they sought to show the superiority of humans over animals. Humans, they would argue, are immortal, completely separate from animals (in their possession of mind and soul), and in the process, they created an unbridgeable gulf between body and soul and between humans and “nature.” Most people, Christian or not, presume this dualism, in spite of its deeply unchristian bias and regardless of the fact that modern physics indicates the fallacy of the materialist worldview.

Bohm (1917-1992), a theoretical physicist who studied under Robert Oppenheimer, has boldly set-forth for an alternative understanding. He argues that quantum physics, due to its interactions with the mind of the observer, spelled the end of both materialism and Cartesian dualism. Mind is not localized in the head of the observer but extends into the world, so that thought shows itself in and through material reality. Human minds can reach to the stars because the world resonates with and can be read and touched by thought and at the same time, the world seems to look back.

Bohm’s interpretation overlaps with Maximus’ understanding of logoi, in that the world is penetrated by mind. The materialistic tendency is to separate the physical and mental, or soul (mind, meaning) and body so that the “psychosomatic” is thought to refer to two distinct entities, with “psyche” or mind arising as a result of the material body (soma). Bohm maintains there is a unity between soma (the physical) and significance (the mental) as they are part of “one overall indivisible reality.” [7] The observer is part of the observation, and in turn the observed accounts for and responds to the observation. Like Logos and logoi or creation and incarnation, each “reflects and implies the other (so that the other shows in it) . . . they are both revealing the one unbroken whole of reality, as it were from two sides.”[8]

The letter written in stone or ink does not have its meaning in the medium, and so too in the physical world, DNA or electrical and chemical activity, are not reducible to their medium. A television signal is produced by images from a camera transformed into subtle electrical signals, carried on even more subtle radio waves, but the content is not found in electricity or radio waves per se, but in the images and sound in the television set received by the mind of the viewer. According to Bohm, “Meanings are thus seen to be capable of being organized into ever more subtle and comprehensive overall structures that imply, contain, and enfold each other, in ways that are capable of indefinite extension.”[9] The depth of subtlety and the extent of their manifestation is infinite.

Meaning is not fixed, and as a result there is an openness toward infinite clarification, deeper understanding, ongoing discrepancies, which all point to a depth of structure or an ever-changing understanding and more comprehensive meaning.[10] For example, Newton’s laws indicated Einstein’s insights of a conjoined space/time, which indicate a quantum reality. Bohm explains this involves a paradoxical unfolding: “while the quantum theory contradicts the previously existent classical theory, it does not explain basic concepts of this theory as an approximation or as a simplification of itself. Rather, it has to presuppose the classical concepts at the same time that it has to contradict them.”[11] It is not that quantum theory introduces new basic concepts, but it introduces ambiguity into concepts such as position and momentum, which were previously unambiguous. The ambiguity is not simply in the mind of the observer, but there is an ambiguity (openness) built into basic reality.

Matter is open to mindful interaction, which means the world can act back upon us, positively or negatively. In cancerous cells there is replication and duplication, or in neurosis the compulsion to repeat, a sort of miscommunication which damages the body or mind, creating a closed feed-back loop. Misinformation or disinformation is a disease or neurosis that directly impacts the host. “It is evident that this typical form of a runaway feedback loop between the soma- significant and the signa- somatic is deeply involved in a wide range of neurotic disorders.”[12]

The letter kills, or meaning takes on a deadly form precisely because it is stunted and turns in on itself. A deadly relationship to the law (occurring between meaning and embodiment) may infect one individual, interpersonal relations, or relationships with nature, as all involve soma-significance. There may be either a circular feedback which gets stuck in a deadly loop or soma-significance extended and opened to ever-renewed growth. Relationships with Nature or with the Cosmos are affected, on both sides of the relationship, by a meaning that may be rightly or wrongly construed. That is, just as in human relationships there are two sides interacting and affecting the relationship, so too the world in general reflects this interactive relation. “Indeed, insofar as we know it, are aware of it, and can act in it, the whole of Nature, including our civilization which has evolved from Nature and is still a part of Nature, is one movement that is both soma- significant and signa- somatic.”[13]

There is no flat material world, or in Paul’s language, the letter that kills is deceptive and deadly, not because it is a reality, but because it is presumed to be an end in itself. The law, Scripture, or the letter, which is presumed to be a foundation is on the order of a materialism that assigns the fulness of reality to the material order. It is deadly in its finitude, deceptively hiding the eternal. On the other hand, the living letter has the breath and breadth of personhood and access to participation in or even identification with Christ. The letter is part of a word which is part of a structure of meaning but this meaning always exceeds itself in the manner of personhood, not simply referring back to the material or to other letters but resonating with the eternal – an excess of meaning without a definitive closure. As in Maximus, the many logoi have their union in the Logos, containing both a distinct and unconfused particularity with an integrity in the unifying Logos.

There is the continual encounter with Christ in creation, or the filling out of the Logos in the logoi, which may simply specify the mind in Bohm’s description. The name of the universal in the particular, or the union of body and meaning, is specified in the logoi of the Logos. The extension of the incarnation into all creation, is a reality about creation reflected in quantum physics, which is simultaneously sensible and intelligible. There is a singular unbroken reality, which apart from the specificity of the Logos tends to be divided and delimited (the letter that kills). The isolated letter, law, or material nature cut-off from its extended meaning is reductive but the letter or quantum reality as a living process refers to the personal, mindful, eternal, interpenetrating all things.

[1] Mika Törönen, Union and Distinction in the Thought of St Maximus the Confessor (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007) 8.

[2] Ambig. 7 (PG 91), 1077C. Cited in Törönen, 30.

[3] Qu. Thal. 48: 188–9 (CCSG 7), 341. Cited in Törönen, 30.

[4] Rupert Sheldrake, “Setting Science Free from Materialism,” (Explore 2013; 9:211-218 & 2013 Elsevier Inc) 217.

[5] Sheldrake, 211.

[6] Sheldrake, 213.

[7] David Bohm, “Soma- Significance: A New Notion of the Relationship Between the Physical and the Mental” (https://www.goertzel.org/dynapsyc/1995/bohm.html, 2016) 1.

[8] Soma-Significance, 1.

[9] Soma-significance, 2.

[10] Soma-significance, 3.

[11] Soma-significance, 8.

[12] Soma-significance, 3.

[13] Soma-significance, 4.

The Letter Versus the Logoi

Derrida, Freud, and Lacan make the philosophical and psychological case for Paul’s argument that the letter kills (2 Cor 3:6), while also leaving open the implication that the Spirit gives life. What they demonstrate, and what is implicit in Paul’s point, is not simply that there is a distinction to be made between speech and writing but that speech contains the problems of graphic communication in that it too is reducible to the material, the finite, the repetitive, and that there is an enslaving aspect to language. There is an orientation to language and law, identifying it with access to God or the fulness of reality, in which the material, cultural, and finite form of language shuts off from the freedom and fulness of the Spirit. Paul is not making some Platonic argument, privileging speech over writing, but he is making a broader point about two ways in which language can order reality. The letter or Scripture, or the law engraved on stones, is inherently deadly, not because it falls short of the spoken word (after-all it was spoken by God’s messengers and then written), but because, by its very nature, it obstructs and hides the Spirit. In Paul’s depiction the letter obscures, as it creates duplicity, hiding, and shame, due to its fading reality (2 Cor 3:4-18; Php 3:19) and those put to shame by this circumstance would equate the letter with access to God. The letter made absolute is not simply the Jewish problem, but is universal and attached to the organs of speech and to language (Rom 3:10-20), which gives rise to division and violence, and Freud, Derrida, and Lacan show why this is the case.

Jacques Lacan develops Freuds picture of the working of the unconscious as following the system of signs, claiming “the unconscious is structured like a language.”[1] He argues that the psyche develops along the material or concrete structures of language, necessarily working through difference in sounds and meaning, and always driven to an end it cannot achieve. Just as language naturally divides and gains meaning through different phonemes, letters, or words (over and against others), so too the structure of consciousness (largely in the unconscious) takes on this material function. One meaning is against another, just as one letter and sound gains its meaning over-and-against another, so there is no origin to be found in language, but only an ever-receding meaning.

The parallel argument of Jacques Derrida is that there really is no difference between speech and writing, inasmuch as both share the characteristics of language in marking differentiation.[2] The drive to privilege speech over writing is due to the notion that speech or the phonic sign has no structure of difference (which demonstrates the drive to synthesis); and then the presumption that in this perfect accord there is immediate access to the signified. This desired access is first an access to myself, or my self-presence, as I would have myself in my thought life. The presumption is that I am in or behind the silent speaking, and this inner voice not only provides access to myself but access to the world and to God. The obvious characteristics of writing (its material form, its exterior and conventional nature, its rule based iterability), in this argument, are absent in speech. Writing is presumed to be a parasite on speech, with speech not being completely reducible to marks in stone or ink but is a future possibility or outworking derived from speech.

The linguistic counter-point is that the phonic sign employs the same conventions as the graphic sign, and writing is not imposed upon speech but oral language “already belongs to this writing.”[3] “Original” or “natural” language shows signs of always having been touched and shaped by writing, and the notion that there is a living speech as opposed to a dead letter, misses that breath, the clicking of the tongue, aspiration, etc., are as material as ink and stone. “Living speech,” due to its existence in human interiority may more successfully hide the objective, material, and chain-like necessity, of language made explicit in writing. There is only the continual unfolding of signs which endlessly refer to other signs to gain meaning. Whether the medium is ink or a stream of air, the substance is built upon a chain of differences. No one, however, has thought to examine the chemical content of ink to get at the substance of language, though a certain deceptive magical quality is sometimes assigned to air, but in both, what Derrida calls arche-writing, is at work.[4] Both create meaning through the play of differences, or what Derrida calls “différance,” in that meaning is never fully present. Movement, temporality, and iterability, may give the appearance of some stable substance, a presence or ego, behind the movement producing difference.

The psychological point is that the letter shapes the psyche in its pursuit of presence through this illusive absence. This is evident in Freud’s focus on symbols and signs in dreams, fantasies, and everyday discourse, and it is stated in the title of one of Lacan’s articles “The Insistence of the Letter in the Unconscious.”[5] This is a “literal” or material work which can be traced in the structure of the psyche: “By ‘letter’ we designate that material support which concrete speech borrows from language.”[6] The “unconscious structured like a language” posits the meaning of the conscious and unconscious as following the structure of contrasting binary pairs. The unconscious is not a deep structure obscured from view but is simply the obverse side of the signs of language or the place of the signifiers. Lacan links this directly to what Freud calls the “death instinct” as the pursuit of self, or the insistence to be through language is bent on obtaining being through non-being, or on obtaining presence through absence. In Paul’s explanation, the letter kills because it does not contain life, and yet it is presumed to be the source of life. One who is coming to identity in and through language is subject to the fate of language. There is the dynamic of language in the chain of signifiers, but meaning (the self) is not found in any singular signifier or any moment in time.

In the description of both Paul and Slavoj Žižek, the realization of the impossibility of law or language to produce life, creates a feeling of alienation or of being “out of joint.” According to Žižek, “Modern subjectivity has nothing to do with the notion of man as the highest creature in the ‘great chain of being,’ as the final point of the evolution of the universe: modern subjectivity emerges when the subject perceives himself as ‘out of joint,’ as excluded from the ‘order of the things,’ from the positive order of entities.”[7] Paul describes his realization that all he counted as most important is now so much excrement (Php 3:8). Locating the self in language or the law is a frustrating impossibility which points to a further need and realization. No longer does Paul find comfort in his identity as a Jew, though he at one time had total “confidence in the flesh.” The fleshly sign of circumcision, the national sign of Israel, the genetic sign of being of the tribe of Benjamin, and the legal sign of being a Pharisee, he now counts as loss. But for Paul, this loss is embraced as part of an alternative identity: “But whatever things were gain to me, those things I have counted as loss for the sake of Christ” (Php 3:7).

Paul relinquishes his striving to find identity and life in his Jewishness in his turn to Christ, though he makes it clear that this is not something to be grasped, in the way he grasped after being a Jew. “Not that I have already obtained it or have already become perfect, but I press on so that I may lay hold of that for which also I was laid hold of by Christ Jesus” (Php 3:12). Desire and its attainment, the role of the logos or language, and the understanding of the self, undergo a shift in this new understanding. Paul refers to it as the freedom of the Spirit, which is the alternative to the deadly letter. “Now the Lord is the Spirit, and where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is liberty” (2 Co 3:17). It is not that Paul has lost confidence in speech or language, but he now recognizes the working of the Spirit, which gives him a new confidence in speech (2 Cor 3:12) and in which he can identify Christians as “the letters of Christ” (3:3). This letter is not material, it is not formed in opposition, it is not fading, it is not mortal, it is not finite. This is the sort of letter that provides adequacy.

Maximus the Confessor’s picture of this realization, which ironically gets confused with Platonism (and thus falls back into reification of language), focuses on the absolute difference between God and world, bridged by the Logos. That is, there is no natural speech, natural origin, or human logos that can attain the divine Logos. There is no supposed natural synthesis between sign and signified or of God and the world. The theological and philosophical tendency is to follow the human sickness (identity through difference), by either identifying God with the world (e.g., in various forms of pantheism) or by making God absolutely transcendent and unattainable (e.g., nominalism). The tendency is to erase difference or to accentuate it, or in biblical terms, to keep the law or attempt to be the law. Maximus point is that in Christ, God is both absolutely different from creation while identified with creation as incarnate Word: “The Word of God, very God, wills that the mystery of his Incarnation be actualized always and in all things.”[8] Creation does not account for itself “naturally” but calls for the supernatural as both its logic and end.

The way in which this Christo-logic or the Logos is deployed in the world is through what Maximus calls logoi. In creation as incarnation, the Logos is spread out in the logoi, the particulars of creation which are part of Christ’s becoming “all in all” (Col 3:11; Eph 1:22-23). In Jordan Woods description, Maximus’s logoi are the “One Logos’s hypostatic, kenotic procession into becoming the natural power of every individual creature to be, and that such a procession secures the metaphysical ground of an inevitable, identical, unnecessary creation.”[9] There is simultaneously no confusion between Creator and creation, and yet direct identity in the Logos and logoi. The hypostatic identity of Christ grounds the world in a deeper identity than a Spinoza-line pantheism (which leaves out subjectivity) and a wider difference and logic than the actual non-difference embraced in linguistic and psychological difference. “Only this sort of “both-and” – both similarity-dissimilarity and identity – can claim rights to a truly Christo-logical God-world relation.”[10] According to Maximus, “if we wish to have a complete knowledge of things, it is not enough to enumerate the multitude of characteristics,” that is, “whatever is around the subject,” but it is “absolutely necessary that we also indicate what is the subject of these characteristics, which is the foundation, as it were, upon which they stand.”[11] The foundation or subject which Paul says, “fills all things” (Eph 1:23)

Identity and difference are not naturally resolved, language is not its own end, and according to Maximus no creature simply “coincides in its essence with what is and is called the assemblage of characteristics that are recognized and predicated of it.” The grounding identity of the individual creature “is something different from these characteristics, which holds them all together, but is in no way held together by them” and so “is not derived from” or “identical with them.”[12] This Word found in creation is not structured like the letter, the law, or the order of language. Things do not otherwise hold together, and this psychological, linguistic, and theological reality, is directly addressed in the God/man who is the beginning and end of creation. In the language of Paul, “He is before all things, and in Him all things hold together” (Col 1:17). According to Maximus, from the viewpoint of God taken up by the virtuous person “by conforming to this beginning,” a beginning in which “he received being and participation in what is naturally good,” “he hastens to the end, diligently.”[13] This end is deification of all things: “In this way, the grace that divinizes all things will manifestly appear to have been realized.”[14] There is an overcoming of the law, of the human sickness bound to the letter that kills, through the freedom of Christ’s Spirit, filling all things.

[1] Jacques Lacan, “The Insistence of the Letter in the Unconscious” (Yale French Studies, 1966, No. 36/37, Structuralism (1966), pp. 112-147) 113.

[2] Jacques Derrida, Of Grammatology, Translated by Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak (Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1997) xvi-xvii; 54, 74.

[3] Derrida, 55.

[4] Derrida,60

[5] Lacan, Ibid.

[6] Lacan, 114.

[7] Slavoj Žižek, cogtto and the unconscious, (Durham: Duke University Press, 1998) 4.

[8] Maximos the Confessor, On Difficulties in the Church Fathers: The Ambigua Vol. 1, Edited and Translated by Nicholas Constas (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2014) Ambigua 7:22.

[9] Jordan Wood, “Creation is Incarnation: The Metaphysical Peculiarity of the Logoi in Maximus Confessor” (Modern Theology 00:00 Month 2017 ISSN 0266-7177 (Print) ISSN 1468-0025 (Online) 4.

[10] Ibid, Wood.

[11] Amb 17.5, cited in Wood, 6.

[12] Amb 17.6, cited in Wood, 6.

[13]Amb. 7.21.

[14] QThal. 2.2.

Hegel’s Theology of Knowledge: A Defense of Hegel’s Orthodoxy

What distinguishes humans from other creatures is a capacity for thought, for a self-aware and world-embracing thought. According to G.W.F. Hegel, this is because the core or ground of reality is in thinking or reason, which he equates with God or spirit.[1] Knowing God, or conceptualizing reality is a participation in that reality, as basic reality is thought. Contrary to the usual portrayal, Hegel aims to regain an orthodox Christian philosophy, and to displace the semi-agnostic musings grounded in Enlightenment faith: “The faith in that would-be philosophical sense is itself nothing but the dry abstractum of immediate knowing, a completely formal determination, not to be confused with or mistaken for the spiritual fullness of the Christian faith, either from the side of the believing heart and the Holy Spirit dwelling within it or from the side of a doctrine abounding in content.”[2] He wants to return to the concrete reality of God known in Christ, and trace how this knowing is of a different order of thought. He notes there is a form of thought and philosophizing that denies the substance and authority of the Christian faith: “The content of this faith, however, is so indeterminate in itself that, while it will, to be sure, countenance that content in some way, it encompasses just as much the belief that the Dalai Lama, the bull, the monkey, and so forth, is God, and for its own part it restricts itself to the idea of a God in general, a supreme being.”[3] Dismissal of the primacy and specificity of revelation results in the God of Christianity being traded for an empty abstraction.

Though the world may appear as Other, and the individual in her thought may seem isolated from the world, thought stands behind the world and the bridge between subject and object, self and world, is in thinking (cognizing) God. Hegel argues for training in the faith, baptism, formation in the Church, and far from being an atheist or heterodox he considers himself an orthodox Christian.[4] “When the standpoint of immediate knowing admits that, for religious faith in particular, a development and a Christian or religious education are necessary, then it is mere arbitrariness to want to ignore this again when it comes to talking about believing.”[5]

Reconciliation with God, self, and creation, is not simply conceivable, but it is in the conceiving that reconciliation is accomplished. This overcoming of the gap between self and Other, or the negation of the seeming inherent alienation in the world (the negation of the negation) not only gets at the root of Hegel’s system but of Paul’s. Hegel is borrowing from Paul (deploying Luther’s translation of Paul’s κατήργηται in Romans) so as to describe this suspension of the negative (aufheben or Aufhebung).[6] Hegel was reacting to an Enlightenment understanding, much as Paul was reacting to a common Jewish understanding in which law, the world, or objects, are pictured as mediating God rather than God in thought and spirit as mediating the world. As Hegel puts it, “Now in the same way natural philosophizing, which holds itself to be too good for the concept and which through this deficiency takes itself to be an intuitive and poetical thinking, trades in the arbitrary combinations of an imagination which is quite simply disorganized by its own thoughts. . .”[7]

Hegel finds Kant’s philosophy an improvement (on Spinoza and Descartes) in its focus on the faculty of knowing, but the error is in trying to know about knowing before knowing. “To be sure, the forms of thought should not be employed unexamined, but examining them is already itself a process of knowing. Consequently, the activity of the forms of thought and their critique must be joined in knowing.”[8] There is a relinquishing of the possibility of knowing in Enlightenment thought, and in Hegel’s estimate this is its own kind of unbelief as thought is deemed inadequate. There is a simultaneous passage beyond Kant, which is actually to fall behind Kant into the metaphysics he critiqued.[9]

Hegel’s “concept,” he claims, preserves the Kantian critique while moving beyond it. “The concept in its speculative sense must be distinguished from what is customarily called a ‘concept’. It is only with reference to the latter one-sided sense of the term that it has been asserted again and again a thousand times and been made a prejudice that the infinite cannot be grasped by means of concepts.”[10] In Hegel’s definition, the concept is complete in itself: “The concept is the free [actuality] [das Freie], as the substantial power that is for itself, and it is the totality, since each of the moments is the whole that it is, and each is posited as an undivided unity with it. So, in its identity with itself, it is what is determinate in and for itself.”[11] There is an overcoming of subject and object through the concept (inclusive of a negation of negation), key to Hegel’s thought (derived from Paul).

Hegel’s negation of the negation extends Paul’s “suspension” of the law (Rom 7:2), in which knowing God in Christ is direct, and thus involves a denial of both Enlightenment antinomies and a Jewish understanding of God. This involves, both as Paul and Hegel describe it, a different experience of the self. Paul in Christ (Rom 8) is no long divided against himself as he was in his pre-Christian life (Rom 7:7ff). As Hegel describes (following Kant), the resolution pertains directly to experience of the I: “The I relates the manifold of sensing and intuiting to itself [the I] and unifies it [the manifold] within itself [the I] as one consciousness (pure apperception) and, as a result, this manifold is brought to an identity, into an original combination.”[12] Kant, in Hegel’s estimate has correctly articulated the issue, but Hegel’s point is that “it is not the subjective activity of self-consciousness that introduces absolute unity into the manifoldness. This identity is, rather, the absolute, the true itself.”[13] Kant’s philosophy is a subjective idealism, in that he does not incorporate objective experience into the subject, but Hegel maintains this unification in thought (the subjective) is not only true of the individual but of the world. “Now although the categories (such as, for example, unity, cause, and effect, and so forth) do belong to thinking as such, it does not follow at all from this that they should for that reason be ours alone, and not also determinations of the objects themselves. This, however, is supposed to be the case according to Kant’s outlook.”[14] Kant’s religion, like that of the Enlightenment, “contradicts the explicit command of the Christian religion to know God in spirit and in truth and . . . derives from a humility that is in no way Christian but instead conceited and fanatical.”[15] The ultimate conceit, according to Hegel is to refuse the knowledge of God offered in the Christian faith, while claiming to believe and follow this faith.

In Hegel’s estimate, this sort of thought is stuck in the finite realm: “If a fixed opposition attaches to the thought-determinations, i.e. if they are of a merely finite nature, then they are unfit for the truth that is absolutely in and for itself, and the truth cannot then enter into thinking.”[16] This finite thinking is split between the “subjective” and “objective.” “[D]ue to their limited content generally they persist in opposition to each other and even more so to the absolute.”[17] Science presumes that truth is available for and resides in “immediate consciousness” and so too “philosophical science” must begin with this fundamental acknowledgement, which Hegel calls the “simplest appearance of spirit.”[18]

The science of philosophy begins with the proclamation of a specific capacity for knowing God: “More precisely, the consoling quality of the Christian religion lies in the fact that, because God himself is known [gewußt] here as the absolute subjectivity. . .”[19] God is absolute Subject and it is knowing this reality that “our particularity is also by this means recognized, not merely as something that is to be abstractly denied, but at the same time as something to be preserved.”[20] Knowing God and being persons is not to be conceived as an abstract possibility but a lived reality, which is the very goal set before us in the Christian faith: “the Christian God is the God not merely known [gewußt] but the unqualifiedly self-knowing [sich wissende] God, and not merely imagined but instead an absolutely actual personality.”[21] God’s person encompasses all things and is the ground of human personhood and knowing.

Spirit, the concept, or knowing, in Hegel’s system, refuses traditional metaphysics – “an ontology focused on substances as with Aristotle and Descartes, or on the one substance as the sum total of reality that is both God and nature, as with Spinoza.”[22] Spinoza’s God, according to Hegel, left the human subject contemplating the world as an object. “Although substance could be endowed with thought or reason like Aristotle’s nous or Spinoza’s God, the thinking that contemplated this substance contemplated an object: something other than itself that is not a self for itself and therefore still separated from the contemplating subject.”[23] Hegel supposes that Spinoza’s problem is the Jewish problem, and so ”it must be admitted that the Spinozistic philosophy lagged behind the true concept of God, which forms the content of Christian consciousness.”[24] According to Hegel, Spinoza continues the assumption of Jews and Orientals in general that all finite things are “transient” and “vanishing.” This truth requires the further development of a Christian understanding that personhood or the individual is not subject to this vanishing transience.

He notes that Spinoza did not deserve the accusations of atheism, but terms his belief “acosmism, since according to this philosophy there is actually no world at all in the sense of something positively being [eines positiv Seienden].”[25] It is deeply ironic, that in denying the God of Spinoza and replacing him with the Father of Christ, Hegel is accused of atheism. In Hegel’s description, Spinoza is only guilty of what every Jew, Moslem, and Christian who regards “God merely as the unknowable, supreme, and other-worldly being” is guilty.[26] They are all semi-atheists in-as-much as they do not acknowledge the true Christian God. They are content with difference and antinomy, but according to Hegel this does not attain to Christian truth. They are finite thinkers, who make subject-object opposition the final form of thought, and they deny that God or ultimate reality or “the thing in itself” can be known.

Hegel presumes deism is the natural outcome of Enlightenment religion, and he juxtaposes this faith with Trinitarian orthodoxy: “the definition of God put forward by so-called deism, is the concept of God insofar as it is a mere concept of the understanding, while by contrast the Christian religion, knowing [wissen] God as the triune God, contains the rational concept of God.”[27] True reason is grounded in the orthodox faith passed on through the Church: “Christian faith includes within it the authority of the Church; by contrast, the faith of that philosophizing standpoint has only the authority of one’s own subjective revelation. Furthermore, that Christian faith is an objective content, rich in itself, a system of doctrine and knowledge.”[28] Hegel presumes he is building on a Christian orthodoxy largely abandoned.

Ironically, a post-Enlightenment world, very much like the Jewish world which Paul faced, so equated God with what is not God (the law, objective reality, the Other, or simply feeling and intuition) that knowing God directly in Christ involves denial of an empty category. God as the big Other (the transcendent Other), displaced by Christ, struck the Jews as blasphemy in the same way Hegel’s notion that God is cognizable is a denial of the God of the Enlightenment. The fact that Hegel is mostly read as heterodox or as an atheist points to a failure of thought; the failure to overcome the binaries of the Enlightenment (Kant’s “antinomies of the understanding”) and to embrace the full reality of Christian thought. As Hegel puts it, “God’s being is inseparably bound up with the representation of God in our consciousness.”[29] Conceptions of God must be immediately related to conception and thinking itself, as this is the “concrete” and unchanging foundation given in Christian faith. Knowing God in Christ through the spirit, is not isolated from knowledge in general but opens the world and ourselves to true knowledge.

[1] Goerg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel, Encyclopedia of the Philosophical Sciences in Basic Outline Part I: Science of Logic, Translated and Edited by Klaus Brinkmann and Daniel O. Dahlstrom (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010 [1817]) xi.

[2] Ibid, 113.

[3] Ibid, 113.

[4] Ibid, 117.

[5] Ibid, 117.

[6] G. W. F Hegel, Phenomenology of Spirit, Trans. A.V. Miller (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1977), 68.

[7] Ibid.

[8] Encyclopedia, 84.

[9] Ibid.

[10] Ibid, 37. In Hegel’s description, contemporary philosophy is caught up in trying to describe the instruments of knowing, before it actually begins to know, but to know the instruments of knowing is already to deploy them: “the examination of knowing cannot take place other than by way of knowing” Ibid, 38. He likens it to trying to learn to swim without getting into the water. To want to know before knowing is the conundrum that never allows for a beginning.

[11] Ibid, 233.

[12] Ibid, 85.

[13] Ibid, 87.

[14] Ibid.

[15] Ibid, 206-207.

[16] Ibid, 66.

[17] Ibid.

[18] Ibid.

[19] Ibid, 221.

[2o] Ibid.

[21] Ibid, xiv.

[22] Ibid.

[23] Ibid, xiv.

[24] Ibid, 224.

[25] Ibid.

[26] Ibid.

[27] Ibid, 256.

[28] Ibid, 224.

[29] Ibid, 267. Here he is favoring Anselm (whom he will also fault) over Descartes and Spinoza.

When Means Devour Ends: Three Parallel Collapses

This is a guest blog by M. James Johnson

It was one of those groggy predawn hours, the kind where the world feels like it’s still half-dreamt. My 10:30 pm routine—listening to audiobooks as I drift off—had worked like a charm, lulling me into sleep night after night. But as Hannah Arendt narrated her Between Past and Future, her voice cool and insistent, pierced my sleepy haze around 4 a.m., she started describing how “all ends turn and are degraded into means.” That sentence jolted me awake. I can’t explain why—but it lodged there like a half-remembered dream. Not quite words, more like an echo: “…ends… means… degraded.” It lingered as I rolled out of bed, grabbed my walking gear, and stepped into the icy rain.

After breakfast, with coffee finally cutting through the fog, that half-heard whisper wouldn’t let go. It turned into a quiet itch of curiosity, the kind that scratches at you until you give in. So I did—typing into a Grok search, “What does Hannah Arendt have to say about means and ends, or ends and means?” Grok fired back: “In Between Past and Future, in Chapter 8…” and continued several pages with too much information for 6:30 in the AM. But my “Withdrawn from Junior College District of St. Louis County Library, St. Louis, Missouri” 1961 edition of Between Past and Future, retrieved from the shelf mid-sip, only had 6 sections, not even chapters. The mismatch landed like a splash of cold water… right on the nose. Disorientation, sure—but the fitting kind, the sort that mirrors our whole unraveling moment. I’d caught a glimpse of something about Arendt’s means to an end that was raw and true, even if I couldn’t nail it down yet: a pattern of collapse thrumming just under the skin, more a bone-deep hunch than tidy footnote.

What I sensed was this: innocently installed ‘means’ create diffusion, dilution, and detachment from intended goals. But there’s a fourth stage I didn’t see at first—capture. The means don’t just replace the ends; they imprison us. We become unable to imagine alternatives because we’re trapped inside the logic of the means themselves.

And here’s the tragic irony that compounds the problem: when meaning drains away, we don’t stop and reconsider. We intensify the means. More infrastructure, more force, more optimization. The acceleration itself becomes evidence that we’ve lost the plot entirely.

Three cases prove this isn’t isolated to one domain—it’s a structural pattern in how instrumental reason consumes itself, even capturing those who claim the name of Christ ?

Arendt: When Political Action Becomes Fabrication

Hannah Arendt diagnosed the collapse of genuine political action when we adopt “homo faber’s” ( man the maker/craftsman) logic— treating politics like fabrication, like building things. In The Human Condition, she traces how this destroys what makes politics political: “natality” (the capacity for new beginnings), “plurality” (the irreducible “who” of each person), and the space of appearance where freedom is enacted.

The mechanism is subtle. We begin with a genuine end: freedom, justice, human flourishing in the public realm. We adopt seemingly practical means: laws, institutions, processes. But fabrication’s logic is instrumental—everything becomes a means to an end, which itself becomes a means to another end, endlessly. The original “for the sake of what” dissolves.

– Diffusion: Energy scatters across competing instrumental priorities.

– Dilution: The original vision of freedom becomes vague, rhetorical.

– Detachment : Finally, complete disconnect. We’re building systems to maintain systems, writing policies to manage policies—what Arendt called “curious ultimate meaninglessness.”

The compounding trap: when politics feels meaningless, we install more bureaucracy, more procedures, more technical solutions. This intensification proves we’ve already lost genuine political action, which would have been freedom enacted now, not achieved later through instrumental means.

AI: When Human Flourishing Becomes Synonymous with Computational Power

The pattern repeats in our AI moment with startling precision—and it’s a sobering warning for the church. Once again, evangelicals and others chase technological dominion under the banner of stewardship, echoing the Cold-War logic that framed nuclear superiority as responsible dominion over creation. The stated end remains noble: AI for human flourishing—breakthroughs in health, climate solutions, creativity unlocked. But we adopt the same innocent-sounding means: build ever-larger computer infrastructure, concentrate ever-greater power, all to “stay ahead” of rivals and maintain technological leadership.

By December 2025, the drift is complete. The end (human flourishing) has degraded into a means (technological supremacy), which becomes its own end (not losing to China), which justifies any means whatsoever. Open AI’s Stargate project—a $500 billion juggernaut with partners like Oracle and SoftBank, now under construction at sites in Texas and Michigan—exemplifies this: fortified campuses drawing gigawatts, razor-wired against intrusion, nuclear-adjacent like Amazon’s expanded Talen Energy deal for 1,920 megawatts.

Once again: Diffusion: Resources scatter toward infrastructure arms race rather than applications.

– Dilution: “Human flourishing” becomes a marketing ploy; the real measure is teraflops and training runs.

– Detachment: We’re building data centers to justify building bigger data centers. The U.S. now hosts over 5,000 such centers, consuming about 4% of national electricity. For what? To stay ahead. Of what? Other builders.

The compounding intensifies: when anyone asks “why?”—when the original purpose becomes unclear—we double down. Build bigger. Build faster. Pour copper and rare earths into monuments to means without ends. The question “for the sake of what?” becomes unanswerable, even embarrassing. And in Christian circles, this frenzy echoes the old temptation: dominion through mastery, as if God’s image-bearers are perfected by silicon, not the cross.

Coda: The Pattern Captures Us Now—and the Church with It

This isn’t just theoretical or technological—it is happening across every domain in December 2025, and we are captured by our means. Worse, the backwash of Christian nationalism drags diverse Christian persuasions into the same vortex: ends like “biblical justice” or “kingdom values” diluted into metrics of power and exclusion, all while claiming divine mandate.

Consider the pattern laid bare:

In each case, the same mechanism: original ends that were hard to measure (security, democracy, coherence) get replaced by means that are easy to count (deportations, strikes, exclusions). The metrics replace the meaning. Immigration’s end was border security, national coherence, perhaps even compassion through order. The means—ICE raids, mass deportations, family separations—have become the performance itself, with over 527,000 removals year-to-date. We measure success by numbers removed, not by any coherent vision of what we’re securing for. The deportation machine generates its own necessity. We’re captured—and too many pulpits bless it as “God’s border.”

Military intervention: The end was democracy, stability, stopping drug trafficking. The means—strikes on smuggling boats, escalating control and now threats of incursion into Venezuela—become self-justifying. Intervention creates instability requiring more intervention. The logic is closed. We’re captured, with Christian nationalists framing it as a holy war against “godless regimes.”

Religious exclusion: The end was security, perhaps community coherence. The means—surveillance, denial of services in foster care to LGBTQ+ families, exclusionary policies under new Trump orders echoing Project 2025’s “biblical principles”—become the definition of who “we” are. The exclusion itself captures us, narrows us, makes us unrecognizable to our stated values—yet it’s preached as fidelity to Christ.

When the hollowness becomes unbearable, we don’t stop—we compound: more raids, more strikes, more exclusions. The acceleration itself is the symptom of advanced capture, and the church, in its nationalist streams, leads the charge.

The Kingdom: The Only Way Out

Stanley Hauerwas’s reading of the Gospel offers something more radical than “use better means” or “clarify your ends.” The Kingdom of God, he argues, cannot be made, organized, built, or achieved. It cannot be earned by religious effort, imposed by political struggle, or projected in calculations. “We cannot plan for it, organize it, make it, or build it… It is given. We can only inherit it.”

This isn’t passivity—it’s a complete refusal to play the means-ends game, a direct rebuke to the fabrication that Arendt decried and the compute crusades that now seduce the faithful.

The reason the Kingdom resists instrumentalization is that “scripture refuses to separate the Kingdom from the one who is the proclaimer of the Kingdom. Jesus is Himself the established Kingdom of God.” The Kingdom isn’t a future achievement requiring proper means; it is present in Jesus’s life and cross, requiring only recognition and participation.

This is why, as Rauschenbusch wrote, “Jesus deliberately rejected force and chose truth… Whenever Christianity shows an inclination to use constraint in its own defense or support, it thereby furnishes presumptive evidence that it has become a thing of this world, for it finds the means of this world adapted to its end.”

The cross wasn’t a means to the Kingdom, not even the way to the Kingdom—it is the kingdom come. Because the cross reveals the social character of Jesus’s mission: a new possibility of human relationships based not on power and fear, but on trust made possible by truth.

Peter’s confession at Caesarea Philippi captures the pattern we’ve traced: he names Jesus as Messiah but assumes this means worldly power to restore Israel’s preeminence. Jesus rebukes him: “Get behind me, Satan! For you are not on the side of God, but of men.” Peter had learned the name but not the story that determines its meaning. He had innocently installed the means of empire to achieve the ends of the Kingdom—but those means would have transformed the end into its opposite.

The pattern is everywhere: Arendt’s political action is consumed by fabrication’s logic. AI’s flourishing is devoured by compute supremacy. Contemporary America—and its captured churches—is ensnared by enforcement, intervention, and exclusion. In each case, the remedy seems to be more—more systems, more infrastructure, more force—accelerating the very meaninglessness we’re trying to escape, all while waving crosses at the chaos.

The Kingdom offers the only exit: stop trying to achieve it. It’s already present, requiring a different posture entirely—not building or forcing or optimizing, but participating in a reality already given. A community based not on the fear that generates moats and raids and escalations, but on trust made possible when “our existence is bounded by the truth.”

That truth, as Rauschenbusch saw, “is robed only in love, her weighty limbs unfettered by needless weight, calm-browed, her eyes terrible with beholding God.” It asks no odds. It needs no spears or clubs or data centers to prop it up. It simply is—and invites us, the church adrift in nationalist backwash, to stop running the race we’re already losing, to step out of capture, and to inherit what was never ours to make in the first place.

“God With Us”: The Loss of Presence and its Cure in Emmanuel

In all ages of history, men and women have related memories of moments when they had perceived, with particular intensity, the presence of their gods. The literature of spirituality, be it Jewish, Christian, or Muslim, abounds in stories of divine appearances … For more than a thousand years, the religion of Israel was dominated by the experience, the memory, or the hope of divine presence.[1] Samuel Terrien

A religion which does not affirm that God is hidden is not true. Vere tu es Deus absconditus! Blaise Pascal

Two things are obvious: God is not readily available and present and true religion presumes we can know and encounter God personally. It is this elusive nature of God and pursuit of his presence which is thematic in the Hebrew Scriptures and which culminates in the picture of Emmanuel, or “God with us,” in Matthew. To fully understand this presence, it may be necessary to work out the implication of absence and what his presence resolves (developed below). It is not as if God’s absence and presence are a side note to human concern, but rightly understood this gets at the deep-rooted problem, the definition of the human condition and its resolution taken up in the Bible.

Divine Presence as the Subject of Scripture

As Samuel Terrien claims, “The reality of the presence of God stands at the center of biblical faith.”[2] However, his argument throughout, in dealing with the Old Testament is that this presence is always elusive. As Isaiah states, “Truly, You are a God who hides Himself, O God of Israel, Savior!” (Is 45:15). It is not that God has “absconded” (as Pascal describes) but he “hides himself,” and this hiddenness and pursuit of presence are central to all things human. The presence, or the awareness of the possibility, defines the cult of Israel in its depictions of ancient theophanies, in Moses encounter on Sinai, in the workings of the sacrifices and temple, and in the poetic vision and hope of Psalms and the prophets. It is this presence which defines the Church and which is the continued theme of the New Testament, giving man his purpose in this world. Thus, the name given to Joseph to describe Jesus, is the fulfillment of this central biblical motif and the resolution to the central human concern.

Terrien modestly claims, “A genuinely ‘biblical’ theology may arise from a study of the Hebraic theology of presence.”[3] The tendency to set up a contrast between Old and New Testament, or to focus on law and grace, or to see the Hebrew Scriptures mainly as a repository of prophecy, fails in missing the centrality of focus on divine presence, which precedes the birth of Judaism and its temple cult (all of which Paul describes as intermediate). As expressed by Moses, the primary concern was whether or not God would be present in the Exodus. “If Your presence does not go with us, do not lead us up from here. For how then can it be known that I have found favor in Your sight, I and Your people? Is it not by Your going with us, so that we, I and Your people, may be distinguished from all the other people who are upon the face of the earth?” (Ex 33:15–16). God assures Moses he would be present with them: “My presence shall go with you, and I will give you rest” (Ex 33:14).

Jesus claims to provide the fulfillment of the promised rest in God’s presence, not provided in the tabernacle, temple, or sabbath of Moses.

Emmanuel as Completion of the Temple’s Purpose

To understand Matthew’s use of Emmanuel, it is important to tie it to his picture of Jesus as the recapitulation of the Temple, which was the symbolic locus of divine presence (see here and here). God was manifest in the Garden, but with sin, the first couple hid from his presence (Gen 3:8), then God promised he would once again tabernacle with man: “Let them construct a sanctuary for Me, that I may dwell among them” (Ex 25:8). This dwelling was symbolic or partial, pointing to a future reality. Jesus proclaims himself “Lord of the Sabbath” (Mt 12:8) and explains “that something greater than the temple is here” (Mt 12:6) and that he fulfills the role of the Temple in providing the promised rest (Mt 11:28–29).

The name Emmanuel encapsulates the meaning pictured in John: “And the Word became flesh, and tabernacled among us, and we saw His glory, glory as of the only begotten from the Father, full of grace and truth” (Jn 1:14). Emmanuel, the one who dwells among us, is the true tabernacle of God’s presence. The incarnate Word accomplishes what no mere human word could, just as Emmanuel completes the promise of the temple. Jesus provides a localized presence of God through a relational or personal presence. He is present in the incarnation as a divine-human person, in his healing and teaching ministry, in his shaping of a new realization of the God-human relationship, and then in sealing this relationship in resurrection and the gift of the Holy Spirit. Here is the answer to the characteristic Jewish prayer and blessing, “God be with you,” previously limited by time and circumstance. The elusive presence, perceived as limited, symbolic, discontinuous, yet continually sought, is directly addressed in Jesus as the locus of God’s presence.

Christ as the incarnation of the divine presence, not only renders the temple cult, its sacrifices, and its priesthood obsolete, but he opens the possibility of divine presence to all and sets it on a new foundation. Stephen’s explanation of the significance of Jesus, given right before they stone him, points out the symbolic nature of the temple as compared to the reality of Christ (see Stephen’s quotation of Isaiah in Acts 7:49f). Paul and Peter both explain that Christian believers, having put on Christ are the true temple, the “living stones” of the church/temple (1 Cor 3:16; 6:19; 2 Cor 6:16; I Pet 2:5). The writer of Hebrews pictures the body of Christ as the true temple which is now completely open and accessible (10:19-22).

Matthew’s Gospel declares “God with us” as a continual possibility: “For where two or three have gathered together in My name, I am there in their midst” (Mt 18:20). The relationship between believers, like that with Christ, is not focused on ritual objects but on living persons and relationship, which are bound together in his body. The final words of Matthew contain the promise “lo, I am with you always, even to the end of the age” (Mt 28:18). This is a promise to the disciples but including all nations as potential disciples who can participate in the Trinity through baptism.

The risen Christ bestows his presence both with absolute authority (all authority in heaven and earth) and with universal significance (for all the nations). It is not that the disciples take on this same authority, but their authority depends upon his continued presence. It is no longer simply Jesus’ physical presence, as in his time spent with them prior to the resurrection. The promise is not to continue to pull them from the water when they are drowning, or to provide food when they are hungry, or to find a cure for their ailments, but the point is they have taken on his presence, shown in these signs and opened to all in the resurrection. As David Kupp puts it, “resurrection is not merely demonstrative of God’s authority and a vindication of his Messiah, but empowers Jesus to promise unreservedly his perpetual, efficacious presence with his disciples in their long-unfulfilled commission of Mt 10, now become universal.”[4] No longer are they restricted to going to Jews, and no longer is the commission limited in its geographical, chronological, or spiritual scope.

“The shift of ‘his people’ from Israel’s leadership is a shift In God’s presence, both in terms of its new definition in the risen Jesus, and in terms of its new recipients” – his church is inclusive of all nations.[5] He is present in perpetuity and without any physical boundaries, so that every reader of Matthew has the promise of his presence and is called to spread the good news about Emmanuel. But this call still bears the humility which Jesus demonstrated and taught. This is not an overwhelming or overpowering presence, but looks to the cross, to suffering, and to word of mouth of vessels of clay. It still presumes “the least” will be the bearers of this message and its recipients.

Understanding the Centrality of Presence in its Absence in Derrida

One way of recognizing the significance of the theme of divine presence is in descriptions of the impact of absence. The field where lost presence (absence) has been most widely recognized and explored is not in theology or even in psychology, but in modern (or postmodern) philosophy. Jacques Derrida sums up the human struggle, whether in philosophy, psychology, or religion as the pursuit of presence. This lost presence, as understood by Derrida, puts humanity in pursuit of “self-presence” or the pursuit of being, which in philosophy is the metaphysical project of establishing being in thought. As he introduces his project in Of Grammatology, “desire had wished to wrest from the play of language” due to its “limitlessness” the seemingly proffered “infinite signified which seemed to exceed it.”[6] Language seemed to offer up God through its limitless and presumed infinite capacity, but it turns out we are “brought back to its . . . finitude at the very moment when its limits seem to disappear.”[7] As with René Descartes, in Derrida’s telling, the attempt in philosophy is one long grasping after being (the divine Being) in thinking and knowing. The presumption is that “God is the name and the element of that which makes possible an absolutely pure and absolutely self-present self-knowledge.”[8] Realizing or grasping one’s self-presence, or knowing the self, according to Derrida, is equated with knowing God. “The logos can be infinite and self-present, it can be produced as auto-affection, only through the voice: an order of the signifier by which the subject takes from itself into itself, does not borrow outside of itself the signifier that it emits and that affects it at the same time.”[9] The interior human voice is presumed to contain the essence of presence to self (equated with divine presence).

Meaning arises in the medium of signs through what Derrida calls différance, in that the play of the differences (soul/ body, good/ evil, inside/ outside, memory/ forgetfulness, speech/ writing, etc.) playing off of one another as a point of comparison, is the resource of the dialectics of meaning. That is the signs produce the illusion of substance and presence, when they are merely “the play of signs.” Heidegger may have been correct that we “dwell in the house of language” but Derrida’s point is the house is empty, though it may seem to have endless rooms. He describes the human pursuit as the impetus of desire behind language, in which speech might be reified into presence through its property of repetitiveness or iterability. Speech provides for the compulsion to repeat, which he recognized was Freud’s diagnosis of the core of the human disease. Derrida’s description of the pursuit of presence provides a philosophical parallel to the biblical description in which there is a basic confusion between the word of man and the Word of God and between human interiority and the divine self-presence.

Understanding the Centrality of Presence in its Absence in Scripture

Perhaps we can name and understand the significance of God’s presence most clearly through the experience of its loss, as we are familiar with this condition. At least this is the initial approach of the Hebrew Scriptures. The significance of the presence of God, represented in the Garden with the tree of life, is mainly explained in the result of its absence. The shame of the first couple, the murder of Abel by Cain, the rise of the murderous generation of Noah through Lamech, and then the pursuit of God’s presence through the Tower of Babel, and then the proliferation of idolatry and murderous religion, is a story of the pursuit of lost presence. God’s presence fills in the lack of existence, the feeling of absence and shame, or the experience of not being enough, or of being inadequate. The array of negative human emotions from shame, envy, jealousy, rivalry, and then their outworking in human pride, tribalism, nationalism, war and violence, might all be described as pursuit of a lost presence. The Bible, in its story of lost presence, provides explanation of the psychology of what it feels like to fall apart, and how it is that we become self-antagonistic, or split within ourselves, so that masochism may explain the murderous rage expressed in human sadism.

When we look into recent examples of murder in Australia at Bondi Beach, at Brown University, and in the Reiner family, we can search long and hard for an explanation. There is no logic that can explain the taking of life. Neither is there logical explanation for basic human emotions such as jealousy and shame, but we recognize the condition and can trace it and realize the need for a cure.

Conclusion: Presence and Absence As the Central to Life and the Bible

Derrida’s deeply Hebraic insight serves as one way of summing up the major theme of the Bible, which reaches its climax in the child named Emmanuel, “God with us.” The significance of the truth of the name may escape us if we do not recognize, how it is that lost presence can serve as the definition of the human predicament, and how it is the promise of God’s presence is the major biblical theme fulfilled in Christ. The kenotic love of God poured out in Christ describes the realization of presence, in relationship with self, God, and others. That is the human story can be told as one of lost presence and its pursuit, and then its fulfillment in Emmanuel.

[1] Samuel Terrien, The Elusive Presence: Toward a New Biblical Theology (Religious Perspectives 26. San Francisco: Harper and Row, 1978) 63. As David Kupp points out, “A number of scholars have made the claim that the Judea-Christian biblical record as a whole is more accurately characterized as an account of the presence of God, acting in the midst and on behalf of the people of God, rather than the oft-cited theme of covenant.” David Kupp, Matthew’s Emmanuel Messiah: a paradigm of presence for god’s people (Durham theses, Durham University. Available at Durham E-Theses Online: http://etheses.dur.ac.uk/6174/) 2.

[2] Terrien, xxvii.

[3] Terrien, 5.

[4] Kupp, 113.

[5] Kupp, 114.

[6] Jacques Derrida, Of Grammatology, Translated by Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak (Baltimore: John Hopkins University Press, 1997) 6.

[7] Ibid.

[8] Ibid, 98.

[9] Ibid.

Eucharist as the Nonviolent Reality of the Temple Rite: From Anthony Bartlett to Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel

Jesus’ recapitulation of the Temple is taken up in the Lord’s Supper, in which the Passover and the Day of Atonement are transformed in the meaning of the Eucharistic meal. The synoptics are in agreement in their presentation of this last meal as a celebration of the Passover Seder (Mark 14:12-16; Matt 26:17-19; Luke 22:7-13). The disciples ask Jesus specifically, “Where do You want us to prepare for You to eat the Passover?” (Matt 26:17). Whatever the various changes of meaning, changes in time, and specifics of the rite that are developed in Jesus’ version of the meal, it begins as a Passover meal. Jesus acts with a creative freedom in all of his activity and teaching surrounding Israel and the Temple, but the specific leverage and shift in meaning may be made most concretely obvious in his recapitulation of the Passover meal.

This helps explain John’s alternative account, in which the meal occurred before the Passover (John 19:14: Jesus’ trial and execution are on the day of preparation for the Passover). In the spirit of the liberty of Christ, John has Jesus dying while the Passover lambs are being sacrificed (after which is usually the Passover). Clearly theology and not chronology are the main point, and in each of the Gospels Jesus takes liberties which may make this meal something of a “quasi-Passover.”[1] Matthew is probably following Mark, but he also makes several modifications, adding that the “blood poured out for many” (Mk 14:24) is for “forgiveness of sins” (Matt 26:28). Both are echoing Isaiah 53:12, “he poured out his life unto death” setting the overall pericope in that of the suffering servant. The language of “poured out” is also an allusion to the sacrifices in the Temple (e.g., Lev 4:7, 18, 25, 30, 34)[2] but Matthew in linking the Passover meal specifically to the suffering servant and to the Temple cult, poses a different sort of forgiveness, which in the Temple rite is achieved through an atoning sacrifice.

The elements of the meal are made to bear a depth of meaning, fusing together both the Passover and the day of atonement, connecting both to the reality accomplished in Christ. The bread is part of the Passover meal, but is made representative of Jesus broken body (on the order of the servant of Isaiah), and the wine is representative of his poured out blood. Jesus commands them to drink the wine, now representative of the blood, but consumption of blood is prohibited in the Temple rite and in Judaism in general. The instruction is clear: “He gave it to them, saying, ‘Drink from it, all of you; for this is My blood of the covenant, which is poured out for many for forgiveness of sins’” (Matt 26:27–28). There is no mistaking that the symbol of poured-out blood is to be drunk, a sacrilege for Jews. As Anthony Bartlett points out, “It was impossible that the blood be consumed, for the “life was in the blood” and the life belonged to God alone.”[3] Which may be part of the point; this is no longer a sacrifice, but it is the pouring out and sharing of the life of God.

Jesus is fusing the symbolism so as to make himself the center of what once was exclusive to Temple and Tabernacle. He is now the lamb sacrificed, and the disciples become the receptacles of his life, not simply life-blood spilled in death but taken up in new life. This is not a Jewish sacrifice, as in “the biblical tradition of sacrifice, it was imperative that the blood be separated from the body and spilt on the ground or at the altar” (Gen 9:4; Lev 17:10-14).[4] The Christians understand that there is a new meaning being worked out, which does not directly pertain to blood and sacrifice, as even in the early Christian community the Jerusalem Council would continue to forbid consumption of blood (Acts 15:29). “By telling his disciples to drink a symbol of his blood Jesus was transgressing the central vector of sacrifice as it had been formulated in Jewish practice, and He was going against formal sacrificial practice generally. Indeed, he was turning sacrifice into something other than sacrifice!”[5]

Combined with his action in the Temple, in which he halted the sacrifices, Jesus has permanently overturned the Temple tables, so as to set another table with a completely different meaning and economy. God had always sought mercy rather than sacrifice: “For I desire steadfast love (or mercy) and not sacrifice, the knowledge of God rather than burnt offerings” (Ho 6:6). Jesus sees himself as accomplishing this reality: “But go and learn what this means: ‘I desire mercy, not sacrifice.’ For I have not come to call the righteous, but sinners” (Matt 9:13). This is not an economy of sacrifice or exchange but the fulfillment of mercy and love.

Blood per se is not violent but contains life, so spilling blood means a violent loss of life. “The blood contained absolutely no violence – on the contrary, it contained non-violence, which is positive forgiveness, peace, love. Only in that way would it be possible to drink and not feel the temple universe crashing down on you in outrage.”[6] To drink this blood is to take up the life of the one giving it, enfleshing the body, not through a continued destruction but through a recapitulated sort of body. To drink the blood, in this meaning, is to recover it from being spilled, as it is taken back into life. Jesus in recapitulating the Temple and its meaning is focused on its sacrifices but he is removing the violence of sacrifice and replacing it with new life entailing the end of death (inclusive of violent sacrifice). “Thus, the ritual meaning of blood its elemental sign value – had been turned from the place where the violence of the group is poured away, removed as to become an inner agent that contains no violence and works proactively to transform into nonviolence and love. This is what it means to eat and drink the Eucharist. It is about as non-sacrificial as you can get.”[7]

The Temple recapitulated is clearly those who receive the life offered in Christ: “as living stones, being built up as a spiritual house for a holy priesthood, to offer up spiritual sacrifices acceptable to God through Jesus Christ” (I Pet 2:5). The command to “do this in Remembrance of me” (Luke 22:19) contains the same point, of living out this reality. The focus in Old Testament rites is on God remembering his people, but here Jesus changes the subject; it is his disciples remembering or recapitulating him. Remembering, in Bartlett’s explanation, pertains not to God’s remembering but to the transformation of humankind: “He took God’s act of fidelity – the full story of the Messiah – and held it out in remembrance, not in some heavenly space, but on a human table at the center of human concerns.”[8] Attached to this remembrance is a new sort of imagination, divinely inspired, taking up the body and mind of Christ.

Martin Luther recognizes it is not the elements which are transformed but the human imagination and heart, which certainly involves embodiment. But with the Counter-Reformation, it may no longer be a point of disagreement but of emphasis. In the description of American Catholic theologian William Cavanaugh, the body of Christ cannot be de-politicized, privatized or hidden (in the realm of the soul), but one must perform or do the Eucharist. The point is not simply a silent remembering, hearing, or attending, but a “literal re-membering of Christ’s body, a knitting together of the body of Christ by the participation of many in His sacrifice.”[9] An over-spiritualized emphasis may imagine the event in terms of an inward reception, rather than involving a holistic, embodied performance.

On the other hand, focus on the material elements alone may also miss this embodied holism. As G.W.F. Hegel describes, it was a degraded understanding surrounding the Eucharist that spurred the Reformation. “The Church whose office it is to save souls from perdition, makes this salvation itself a mere external appliance, and is now degraded so far as to perform this office in a merely external fashion.”[10] Hegel recounts the selling of indulgences so as to build St. Peter’s, and he describes Luther as turning away from the mere sensuous and external, to issues of the “Spirit and the Heart” or what he calls “Absolute Ideality.” “Luther’s simple doctrine is that the specific embodiment of Deity — infinite subjectivity, that is true spirituality, Christ — is in no way present and actual in an outward form, but as essentially spiritual is obtained only in being reconciled to God — in faith and spiritual enjoyment.”[11]

Focus is on the individual, who through faith and the Spirit, is filled with the “Divine Spirit” and not the external transformation of material elements. Ending external focus means “there is no longer a distinction between priests and laymen; we no longer find one class in possession of the substance of the Truth.”[12] The heart of every man can come into possession of the Truth, as an “absolute inwardness.” Hegel does not mean that this inwardness or “Subjectivity” is without its objective side, which is realized in an “actualized Christian Freedom.” “Time, since that epoch, has had no other work to do than the formal imbuing of the world with this principle, in bringing the Reconciliation implicit [in Christianity] into objective and explicit realization.”[13]

Faith and spirituality though, are not focused on a “sensuous object” serving as God, “nor even of something merely conceived, and which is not actual and present, but of a Reality that is not sensuous.”[14] There is the full presence of Christ, but as Hegel points out, this is not faith in a material object or even faith in historical events. “In fact it is not a belief in something that is absent, past and gone, but the subjective assurance of the Eternal, of Absolute Truth, the Truth of God.”[15] This is an achievement of the Holy Spirit, who alone brings about this Truth in the individual, constituting “his essential being.”[16]

For Hegel, this is true Catholicism, having taken away the focus on “externality.” But he is careful to point out that neither is this Calvinism, which reduces the Supper to a “mere commemoration, a mere reminiscence.” Luther’s view, according to Hegel, was that there is an “actual presence though only in faith and in Spirit. He maintained that the Spirit of Christ really fills the human heart — that Christ therefore is not to be regarded as merely a historical person, but that man sustains an immediate relation to him in Spirit.”[17] In Bartlett’s parallel description, “The anamnesis (remembrance) is then a work of semiosis,” that is, the mind and heart, in this mindful remembrance take on a depth of transformed meaning. It is “a day-by-day performance of divine meaning for the sake of human transformation.”[18] Bartlett, a former Catholic priest, sounds very much like Hegel’s Luther.

Jesus as Temple, in the Lord’s Supper, brings together the imagery of “death passing over” in multiple senses. No longer is there the necessity of violent sacrifice, whether that of religion or state, so as to avoid death. Death is no longer the impetus of control (over the Egyptians and humanity) and it is no longer the means of escape, as the Passover of Christ brings about a real deliverance from the clutches of death. The disciples find forgiveness, mercy, and love, through living out or being the body of Christ. This is the new non-ritualistic and non-sacrificial or “spiritual sacrifice” practiced in this new Temple of Living Stones (I Pet 2:5). As Bartlett sums it up, “At the end of the walk to Emmaus, and a dense catechesis showing the necessity of the Messiah’s suffering and non-retaliation, something happened; the living reality of this nonviolent Lord found its breakthrough point in the breaking of the bread (Luke 24:35).”[19]

[1] Anthony Bartlett, Signs of Change: The Bible’s Evolution of Nonviolence (Eugene, Oregon: Cascade Books, 2022) 168.

[2] Norman O. Francis, Jesus as the Fulfillment of the Temple and its Cult in the Gospel of Matthew (Edinburgh: Unpublished Doctor of Philosophy Thesis: The University of Edinburgh 2020) 229-230. There are discrepancies between when exactly the Festival of Unleavened Bread and Passover occurred, but the consensus is that by the first century the two festivals may have been fused.

[3] Bartlett, 171.

[4] Ibid, 170-171.

[5] Ibid, 171.

[6] Ibid.

[7] Ibid.

[8] Ibid, 172.

[9] William Cavanaugh, Torture and Eucharist: Theology, Politics, and the Body of Christ (Oxford: Blackwell, 1998) 229.

[10] G.W.F. Hegel, The Philosophy of History (Kitchener, Ontario: Batoche Books, 2001) 432.

[11] Ibid, 433.

[12] Ibid, 434-435.

[13] Ibid, 435.

[14] Ibid, 433.

[15] Ibid, 434.

[16] Ibid.

[17] Ibid.

[18] Barlett, 173,

[19] Ibid.

Jesus as Temple Recapitulation: Gillian Rose and the Transformation of Historical Good Friday into Speculative Good Friday

The Temple was not only the center of Jewish religion but of the society, culture, and of the law of Israel. Jesus as Temple recapitulation (see here), means that Christ in some way fulfills the various roles of the Temple within himself and the extended meaning of who he is (in the church and in his disciples). This is not simply Temple destruction though, but fulfillment and completion in process (thus recapitulation). The Temple is representative, one piece of the larger implication of the incarnation, that redemption is worked through history and society and that truth is not to be had apart from the socio-cultural orders which constitute humanness. The Temple is the concrete point, fulfilled in the incarnation, that Emmanuel (God with us) reveals and makes himself known humanly, socially, in relationship. God in Christ is not known on some other basis, a transcendent or apophatic unknowing. God can be thought, and this cognition of God in Christ has social import, and is first and above all else something of social and personal import. In Hegelian terms taken up by Gillian Rose, “The idea which a man has of God corresponds with that which he has of himself, of his freedom.”[1] Knowing God in Christ pertains to knowledge of self as part of the social order. Not that God decides to intervene historically, socially, and culturally as opposed to some other means, as if this is one arbitrary possibility. Christ intervenes in all things human, such as family, religion, and politics so as to reorder ethics, values, and truth itself. No longer are natural ethical bonds of family (the “natural” polity and public life) determinant of truth and value, as one who would be a disciple of Christ must “let the dead bury the dead” (Lk 9:60). Those worthy of Christ must reprioritize their definition of love, not in addition to knowing Christ, but this is knowing him.

On the other hand, if God is not known on this basis, then knowledge is not available in the human realm. “If ‘God’ is unknowable, we are unknowable, and hence powerless.”[2] But the way in which God is known, is the way in which truth about all things are discerned. The Pauline recommendation to “act as if not” (I Cor 7:29) in regard to marriage, mourning, and business, is of the same order as Christ’s, “let the dead bury the dead.” God cannot be known through the value system of a corrupt society, so money, marriage, and one’s station in the world, are to be treated “as if not” – or detachment, otherwise God is not known. It is “natural” to organize identity around capital, around death, or around race and status. Suspending this realm is on the same order as suspending the punishing effects of the law; the Temple, marriage, death, and law, are not abolished, but their priority is suspended. “Render to Caesar the things that are Caesar’s, and to God the things that are God’s” (Mk 12:17). Caesar, the state, and even the Temple, are not annulled, but their obligations are not definitive. Imperial rule, sacrificial religion, and state security, demand one’s life be invested in a false identity. The question may be what we owe this system and how we negotiate it? According to Rose, building on Hegel, this question cannot be answered apart from taking up the cross (speculative Good Friday) in response to historical Good Friday.

In Rose and her portrayal of Hegel, the distinction between religion and state puts everyone in the place of a “broken middle” from which we cannot be extracted, this side of the eschaton. Christ’s intervention into the social order creates a split, that is always impinging and shaping our grasp of the Truth. Marcus Pound describes this “middle” as a “third space, not a unitary space (e.g. the neutral space of secular liberalism) but a place of anxiety to the extent it is the sheer ‘givenness’ of the political and ethical situation which resists the retreat into sanctified beginnings or utopian ends.”[3] There is no simple unifying of difference through ethics or politics or religion.

God can be known but this knowing is never without the process of Temple-like recapitulation. Knowing Christ is not thinking ourselves out of the world but it is a reordering and an emergent understanding within the world. God can be known but this knowing presents a gap, a struggle, a suspension that is working toward a synthesis always in process. We are surrounded by and inundated with untruth, misrecognition, prejudice, greed, and desire, so that the ordering of our values and arrival at the truth is always in media res, or in the midst of the story. Destroy this Temple and a new one is being built; this death and resurrection are being worked out corporately and individually.

In this sense, Christ as Logos is not a discontinuation of law or the symbolic order, but the law of love takes up where the letter, the scriptures, the Temple leave off. The letter is required for the word, and the word is transformed and filled out by the Logos, and in the same way the social order, the legal order, the religious order, or simply the symbolic order are the medium but not the end. The letter is not ultimately determinative any more than the social order is final, which is not to say the aporia between politics and ethics and the universal and particular, are evaded in some postmodern atheism, or fundamentalist utopianism. The telos is at work in the “broken middle” where we live. Thinking occurs here, and thus there is no evading the symbolic, the law, or the social, by imagining the “expectant city” is already our address. Rose explains, by comparing the choices offered by Mark Taylor and John Milbank, who put us between “ecstasy and eschatology, the promise of touching our own most singularity [Taylor] and the irenic holy city [Milbank], precisely without any disturbing middle.”[4] Pound extends this critique by appealing to Rose’s general critique of French thought as “melancholic” drawing on Freud’s distinction between mourning and melancholia in that “they see life as founded on absence that we’re always illegitimately trying to make present” (inclusive of Jacques Lacan’s and Slavoj Žižek’s philosophy).[5]

Rose claims we live in a time when philosophy has damaged and destroyed itself: “One by one all of the classical preoccupations of philosophy have been discredited and discarded: eternity, reason, truth, representation, justice, freedom, beauty and the Good. The dismissal of ‘metaphysics’ is accompanied by the unabated search for a new ethics.”[6] She sets forth her alternative in Mourning Becomes the Law: “The just city . . . is not built by the abandonment of reason or the proclamation of uncompromised virtue. It is built by faith in the achievements of even ruined reason and in the different chances of politics that are not ashamed of themselves.”[7] She begins with Antigone, illegally mourning her brother Polynices (declared a traitor) outside the city gates: “In these delegitimate acts of tending the dead, these acts of justice, against the current will of the city, women reinvent the political life of the community.”[8]

The death of Christ, the destruction of the Temple, and the resurrection of Christ (the Temple reconstituted), point to this mourning recognition of the injustices of the city. “To acknowledge and to re-experience the justice and the injustice of the partner’s life and death is to accept the law, it is not to transgress it – mourning becomes the law. Mourning draws on transcendent but representable justice, which makes the suffering of immediate experience visible and speakable.”[9] To not acknowledge the injustice of the city is to endorse its violence and injustice. The blood of Able, of Antigone, of Christ, cry out against the violence of the Temple, of the priests, of the Romans, of the city. Mourning acknowledges the injustice and the violence: “When completed, mourning returns the soul to the city, renewed and reinvigorated for participation, ready to take on the difficulties and injustices of the existing city. The mourner returns to negotiate and challenge the changing inner and outer boundaries of the soul and of the city; she returns to their perennial anxiety.”[10]

The disciples do not abandon the Temple, as if it is corrupt and finished after Christ, but they continue meeting in the Temple courts (Acts 2:46). To oppose the ethic of love against the law, is to miss that love incorporates, lifts up, corrects, and completes the inadequacies of the law. “To oppose new ethics to the old city, Jerusalem to Athens, is to succumb to loss, to refuse to mourn, to cover persisting anxiety with the violence of a New Jerusalem masquerading as love.”[11] The violence embedded in the structures of the city (the “principalities and powers”) are exposed by the injustice of the one killed outside the city, and to pass over this, is to let the injustice stand.

Rose sees this as the great failing of the church, as it has aligned itself with the state and as it has ceased to critique the injustices of the city. “The history of the Christian religion is the history of its relation to secular power and to ethical life, and this history is the history of the perversion of the Christian ideal of freedom. Christianity perpetuated the lack of freedom of Roman institutions, and the even greater bondage of feudal property forms and political institutions.”[12] The church became an ethical power by eliding the contradiction between state ethics and Christian ethics. Slavery, the oppression of women, military and judicial violence (the ethics of the state) were allowed to stand: “this cannot be acknowledged by a church which debases the ethical, and Christian doctrine has therefore justified both the evil and the just acts committed in its name.”[13] The possibility of Christian civilization was at the price of a degraded Christian ethic allowing for an oxymoronic “Christian barbarity.”

Rose traces Hegel’s presentation of history, as one in which Christian freedom and ethics are perverted, by Rome, by Germany, by France and then this failure is reified in the philosophy of Kant and Fichte. “It is like the Roman in that it has no vocation to impose itself on the state, for it serves the state. Just as in the time of the Roman empire political life [is] universally devoid of principle.”[14] Hegel describes a Gospel that is no longer salty, in which its very foundations have been removed: “The latter have, it is true, brought life to themselves by means of reflection, have found their satisfaction in finitude, in subjectivity and its virtuosity, and consequently in what is empty and vain, but the substantial kernel of the people cannot find its satisfaction there.”[15] This is the opposite of speculative Good Friday; a betrayal of historical Good Friday.

Rose’s philosophy, embracing “mourning” in the “broken middle,” might be read as a meditation on the how of Hegel’s recommendation to transform the historic Good Friday into the speculative or apprehended Good Friday. “To do this, philosophy must form ‘a sanctuary apart’, ‘an isolated order of priests’. Hegel draws attention to this status of philosophy in order not to impose its concept. The priests are not to act as Christian priests have done; they are to remain isolated.”[16] Her conclusion: “This is how the philosophy of history should be conceived, not as a teleology of reconciliation, not as replacing the exhausted attempt to create a Christian civilization, but as perpetual repetition, as the perpetual completing of the historic Good Friday by the speculative Good Friday. There is no end of religion and no end of history, but a perpetual ‘speculative justification’ to complete the faith which ‘justifies nothing’.”[17]

Temple building begins with “destroy this Temple” and acknowledgement of its death in baptism. Paul pictures the ‘body of sin’ as in process of being reduced to the ‘nothing’ from whence it came (Rom 6:6) through a reversal of the power it exercises. To die with Christ in baptism is to be joined to a form, bringing about an alternative conformity (Rom 6.5; Philippians 3.10-11, 21). He encourages his followers to live out their baptism, to realize the death they have died and to participate ethically (to live out) the reality of resurrection. The work of Temple building is an ongoing engagement in human brokenness achieving this resurrection life.

[1] G.W.F. Hegel, Philosophie der Religion, I, 83, tr. I, 79. Cited in Gillian Rose, Hegel Contra Sociology, (New York: Verso, 2009) 98.

[2] Rose, 2009, 98.

[3] Marcus Pound, “Political Theology and Comedy: Žižek through Rose Tinted Glasses” (https://www.crisiscritique.org/storage/app/media/2015-02-09/pound.pdf) 183.

[4] Gillian Rose, The Broken Middle: Out of our Ancient Society, (Oxford: Blackwell, 1992) 285. Cited in Pound, 184-185.

[5] Pound, 186, citing Rose 1992, pp. 102-104.

[6] Gillian Rose, Mourning Becomes the Law: Philosophy and Representation (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996) 1.

[7] Ibid, from the blurb by Michael Woods.

[8] Ibid, 35.

[9] Ibid, 36.

[10] Ibid.

[11] Ibid.

[12] Rose, 2009, 124.

[13] Ibid.

[14] Hegel, Philosophie der Religion, II, 342–3, tr. III, 150. Cited in Rose, 2009, 126.

[15] Ibid.

[16] Rose, 2009, 127.

[17] Ibid.

Jesus as Temple Recapitulation in Matthew

Nearly every ancient people and culture has its own creation myth, which does not repair what was broken but simply starts again, in a sort of cosmic version of the film Groundhog Day, but the story of Christ as a recapitulation of the history of Israel may be the exception. This history recapitulates and in the process repairs, corrects and completes, what went wrong and is broken. But maybe as in the film version, getting it right is the true event and the failures turn out to have been dead ends which are erased and forgotten. So true creation, true Temple, true Adam, true Israel, in Christ precede the other versions in terms of reality. Irenaeus first recognized, or at least developed this doctrine of recapitulation, which may be most conspicuously on display in the book of Matthew. Matthew is recapitulating creation, the history of Israel, and the formation of the Temple, in his telling of the life of Christ.[1] The concept may be best illustrated in the case of the Temple; Christ is the true Temple replacing the model which served to point to him.

Jesus as New Creation and True Temple

Jesus as new creation and true Temple are the same idea, as creation and the cosmos are symbolized by the Temple, and so Jesus is the source of life, the realization of the presence of God and the perfection of creation. Just as the Temple symbolically pictured God emerging from his dwelling place into the world, so too Christ is filling the earth through his extended family. Most creation stories tell of the origin of the head of the race and then by providing a genealogy of the royal family, explain the formation of the people. Matthew begins his creation story with the genealogy of Jesus, “the book of the generation” of Jesus, the genesis of divine presence in all creation. This one “who is called Christ” (1:16b) will “make disciples of all the nations” (28:19) and will thus fulfill the mandate given to Adam and Eve to “fill the earth” (Gen 1:28). He fills all things, not through procreation but by endowing with his Spirit, made eternally present (Mt 28:20).

The Temple is not the dwelling place of God, and this was supposed to have been understood: “Heaven is my throne, and the earth is my footstool. Where is the house you will build for me? Where will my resting place be?” (Is. 66:1). Neither a physical city, nor a building, nor a host of rituals, produced God’s presence, but in Emmanuel what the Temple only represented is realized. God with us in Christ makes the Temple obsolete, just as it is unnecessary in the heavenly city: “I saw no temple in it, for the Lord God the Almighty and the Lamb are its temple” (Re 21:22). Emmanuel is the reality of the holy of holies, not through ritual but through his relational presence: “Behold, the tabernacle of God is among men, and He will dwell among them, and they shall be His people, and God Himself will be among them” (Re 21:3). This is not a limited, mediated or interrupted access but is unrestricted.

Jesus as Universal Temple: As Demonstrated by the Magi

According to S.L. Black, this new “approach” (προσέρχομαι) to God’s presence is reflected in Matthews distinctive deployment of this unique term: “people ‘approach’ Jesus with reverence rather than merely coming to him.”[2] He is approachable, but the term carries the sense of awe before Christ’s majesty and divine dignity. The term is employed some fifty-two times by Matthew to describe the tempter (4:3), angels (4:11), his disciples (5:1) and a host of others who approach him. For example, “a leper approached Him and bowed down before Him, and said, ‘Lord, if You are willing, you can make me clean’” (Mt 8:2). It is the word used to describe approaching God in prayer (in Mark 11:17; Luke 6:12). In Matthew it is combined with bowing down, as in the above instance, indicating what might be typically done in prayer and worship in the Temple.

It is what the Magi do when they find the baby Jesus, and in fact the entire episode of the Magi reflects activity normally associated with the Temple: “After coming into the house they saw the Child with Mary His mother; and they fell to the ground and worshiped Him. Then, opening their treasures, they presented to Him gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh” (Mt 2:11). Gentiles like the magi or the Ethiopian eunuch would normally come to Israel to worship at the Temple where they would offer up gifts. Elsewhere in Matthew, gifts (dṓron) “is used exclusively … for offerings to God” in the context of the Temple.”[3] Norman Francis argues that the gifts themselves are of the kind associated with the Temple: the inner chambers of the Temple are inlaid with gold (1 Kgs 6:20-21) and frankincense myrrh are offered up in the Temple. Pure frankincense was to be offered in the Tent of Meeting (Ex 30: 34-36) and was burnt with the meal offerings (“lay frankincense on it; it is a grain offering” – (Le 2:15)) and it was part of the weekly Sabbath bread offering (^“And you shall put pure frankincense on each pile, that it may go with the bread as a memorial portion as a food offering to the Lord” – (Le 24:7)). Myrrh was sprinkled in the Holy of holies, including on the Ark of the Covenant: “Take the finest spices: of liquid myrrh 500 shekels . . . And you shall make of these a sacred anointing oil blended as by the perfumer; it shall be a holy anointing oil. With it you shall anoint the tent of meeting and the ark of the testimony” (Ex 30:22–26). So the magi are the beginning of the nations converging on the Temple (Is 2:2-3).

Ezekiel’s Vision of the Temple Fulfilled in Christ

At Jesus baptism there are a series of events echoing Ezekiel’s vision of a heavenly temple: the heavens are opened, God speaks, and the Spirit descends. The Spirit “lights” on Jesus like the Spirit hovering over the waters in Genesis (1:2) marking the new creation and its Temple described in Ezekiel. Both occur during a time of foreign domination at a river (Eze 1:1; Mt 3:13) and both are a direct revelation through the voice of God (Eze 1:3; Mt 3:17). Jesus though, is called the “Son of God,” while Ezekiel is called “Son of man.” The Spirit does not “light” on Ezekiel but lifts him onto his feet and speaks to him alone (Eze 2:2). The Spirit descends and lights on Jesus, like a dove. This “lighting” of the Spirit is unique to Matthew and is specific to God’s presence “lighting on the Temple.” According to N. Perrin, “where the Spirit settles, there one finds the Temple.”[5] The proclamation, “This is My beloved Son, in whom I am well-pleased” (Mt 3:17) gives divine notice that God is now with us.

In Ezekiel’s vision “The Lord is there” (Eze 48:35) is the name given to the city in his vision. This city of God’s presence is a picture of the cosmic Temple, which in each of its dimensions is impossibly squared: “The city (48:15-16), the Temple courtyard (41:13-14), its outer walls (42:15-20), inner court (40:47), holy of holies (41:4), and altar of burnt offerings (43:13-17), etc., are all perfect squares.”[4] The square is representative of perfect holiness, and in Ezekiel God departs from the defiled Temple but returns to the perfectly squared holy Temple (43:13ff): “Son of man, this is the place of My throne and the place of the soles of My feet, where I will dwell among the sons of Israel forever” (Eze 43:7). It is a “coming” eschatological city while at Jesus baptism, God has “come.”

In Ezekiel’s vision, waters of life flow from out of the Temple: “It will come about that every living creature which swarms in every place where the river goes, will live. And there will be very many fish, for these waters go there and the others become fresh; so everything will live where the river goes” (Eze 47:9). Along the river fruit trees sprout up, and they will never fail to provide fruit and their leaves are for healing (Eze 47:12). Jesus healing in the Temple (Matt. 21:12-17) and his healing ministry follow Ezekiel’s Temple signs. According to Francis, “Like the stream originating from Ezekiel’s visionary Temple, Jesus now becomes the source of healing, wholeness and abundance. Moreover, Jesus’ commissioning of his disciples to ‘make disciples of all the nations’ (28:19) is probably intended by Matthew to be read as analogous to the ever-expanding reach of the Temple’s healing stream in Ezekiel’s vision.”[6]

The Recommissioning of Israel in the Twelve

Jesus sends out his disciples, equipped as priests, serving the Temple rather than travelers: “Do not acquire gold, or silver, or copper for your money belts, or a bag for your journey, or even two coats, or sandals, or a staff; for the worker is worthy of his support” (Mt 10:9–10). In Alfred Edersheim’s description this fits preparation for serving in the Temple:

Thus ‘no man might go on the Temple Mount with his staff,’ as if on business or pleasure; nor yet ‘with shoes on his feet’—sandals only being allowed; nor ‘with the dust upon his feet’; nor ‘with his scrip,’ nor ‘with money tied to him in his purse.’ Whatever he might wish to contribute either to the Temple, or for offerings, or for the poor must be carried by each ‘in his hand,’ possibly to indicate that the money about him was exclusively for an immediate sacred purpose. It was probably for similar reasons that Jesus transferred these very ordinances to the disciples when engaged in the service of the real Temple.[7]

The twelve disciples, the recapitulated tribes of Israel, are sent into Galilee and eventually the world to bring God’s kingdom to the world. In their preaching and healing they are carrying out the work of new creation: “Heal the sick, raise the dead, cleanse the lepers, cast out demons. Freely you received, freely give” (Mt 10:8). They are curing the world of fallenness as they radiate out from Jesus, the New Temple, the central presence of God.

Jesus as Lord of the Sabbath is the New Temple

The Temple is the place in which the Sabbath rest for God occurs: “Let us go into His dwelling place; let us worship at His footstool. Arise, O Lord, to Your resting place, you and the ark of your strength” (Ps 132:7–8). It is a symbolic place of rest, promising a true Sabbath. Jesus in proclaiming himself “Lord of the Sabbath” (Mt 12:8) also explains “that something greater than the temple is here” (Mt 12:6). He fulfills the role of the Temple in providing the promised rest: “Come to Me, all who are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give you rest. Take My yoke upon you and learn from Me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and YOU WILL FIND REST FOR YOUR SOULS” (Mt 11:28–29).

Jesus as the Shekinah

After six days, perhaps echoing entry into the seventh day of rest, Jesus is transfigured and shows forth his divine glory: “Six days later Jesus took with Him Peter and James and John his brother, and led them up on a high mountain by themselves. And He was transfigured before them; and His face shone like the sun, and His garments became as white as light” (Mt 17:1–2). Moses and Elijah appear with him, and the scene echoes God’s appearance to Moses: “The glory of the LORD rested on Mount Sinai, and the cloud covered it for six days; and on the seventh day He called to Moses from the midst of the cloud” (Ex 24:16). The shekinah refracts off a cloud for Moses, and then his own face shines as a result, but Jesus is the source of light in the transfiguration. “His face shone like the sun, and His garments became as white as light” (Mt 17:2). He is the enduring shekinah represented in Exodus and associated for a time with the tabernacle and temple, but which was withdrawn. Jesus’ influence spreads throughout Israel and beyond (Mt 4:24-25) growing until he is all in all (I Cor 15:28) filling the world with his glory. As Edersheim concludes, “His feet have trodden the busy streets of Jerusalem, and the shady recesses of the Mount of Olives; His figure has ‘filled with glory’ the Temple and its services; His person has given meaning to the land and the people; and the decease which He accomplished at Jerusalem has been for the life of all nations.”[8]

Conclusion: The Body of Christ, the Church is the Temple

I have only begun to introduce the material in Matthew echoing and fulfilling the Temple, but in conclusion of part 1, it is enough to point to the commissioning of the disciples at the end of Matthew to go into all of the world to complete the Temple project: “Go therefore and make disciples of all the nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and the Son and he Holy Spirit, teaching them to observe all that I commanded you; and lo, I am with you always, even to the end of the age” (Mt 28:18–20). Christ, as the new Temple, seeks to expand God’s presence over the whole earth through the work of his disciples. As Paul describes, the church is the ongoing Temple project “being fitted together” and “growing into a holy temple in the Lord, in whom you also are being built together into a dwelling of God in the Spirit” (Eph 2:21-22).

[1] Joel Kennedy has developed the concept in the first four chapters of Matthew, as he describes: “the summing up of Israel’s history in Jesus’ early life; Jesus as the corporate representative of his people Israel; and Jesus as the embodiment of Israel in his recapitulation.” J. Kennedy, The Recapitulation of Israel: Use of Israel’s History in Matthew 1:1-4:11 (Tübingen, Germany: Mohr Siebeck, 2008), 3-4.

[2] Stephanie L. Black, Sentence Conjunctions in the Gospel of Matthew: Kai, De, Tote, Gar, Oun and Asyndeton in Narrative Discourse (Bloomsbury, 2002) 221. Cited in Norman O. Francis, Jesus as the Fulfillment of the Temple and its Cult in the Gospel of Matthew (Edinburgh: Unpublished Doctor of Philosophy Thesis: The University of Edinburgh 2020) 141.

[3] Robert Horton Gundry, Matthew: A Commentary on His Handbook for a Mixed Church under Persecution (Grand Rapids, MI: Wm. B. Eerdmans Pub., 1994), 32. Cited in Francis, 144.

[4] Francis, 152.

[5] N. Perrin, Jesus the Temple, (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2010) 70. Cited in Francis, 153.

[6] Francis, 153-154.

[7] Alfred Edersheim, The Temple–Its Ministry and Services (Grand Rapids, MI: Christian Classics Ethereal Library) 29

[8] Edersheim, 6.

The Sign Given in the Temple: Sacrificial Violence is Ended

When asked for a sign, Jesus says he will only give the sign of Jonah, but then in the Temple incident, when asked for a sign, he says, “Destroy this temple, and in three days I will raise it up” (Jn 2:19). Both signs refer to his death and resurrection, though in the Temple Jesus uses the active verb “destroy” to indicate the manner by which he would die. Both incidents are surrounded by violence: the violence of the sea, the violence of the Temple sacrifices, the violence of Nineveh, the violence of the Jews and Rome, and it is this violence in both the sign of Jonah and in the Temple incident that accounts for his death. The sign of Jonah entails the anger of Jonah toward his enemies, duplicated in the Pharisaical anger turned on Jesus (see here), the same anger directed at protecting the Temple, which will kill Jesus.

Jesus is like Jeremiah, who predicted the destruction of the Temple and whose life was then threatened: “When Jeremiah finished speaking all that the LORD had commanded him to speak to all the people, the priests and the prophets and all the people seized him, saying, “You must die!” (Je 26:8). In this sign, Jesus ties his death to the threat he poses to the Temple, and all that it represents. His claim of the Temple being a “robber’s den,” is not so much that bad people have corrupted a good system, but as in Jeremiah and Isaiah, the Temple itself is behind the robbery. The English word “robber” may not capture the meaning of léstés, an armed thief who steals by use of threat of violence. Cleaning up this system, is more than getting rid of the money changers. God, in Jeremiah, claims the institution is a den of “robbers” (7:11) and that setting up this system of sacrifices was not his idea: “For I did not speak to your fathers, or command them in the day that I brought them out of the land of Egypt, concerning burnt offerings and sacrifices” (Je 7:22). It is not that the moneychangers are charging unfair rates, but the Temple is incurring a violent debt and making thieves of all involved in its operation. God describes it as a place of institutionalized murder, oppressing “the alien, the orphan, or the widow, and shedding “innocent blood in this place” (7:5). The issue is destruction of the entire system, which Jesus intimates in saying “destroy this Temple,” and in describing its end.

As God says in Isaiah, “I have had enough of burnt offerings of rams and the fat of fed cattle; And I take no pleasure in the blood of bulls, lambs or goats” (Is 1:11). God hates the system: “I hate your new moon festivals and your appointed feasts, they have become a burden to Me; I am weary of bearing them” (Is 1:14). He equates the system with murder: “So when you spread out your hands in prayer, I will hide My eyes from you; Yes, even though you multiply prayers, I will not listen. Your hands are covered with blood” (Is 1:15). We may tend to read these verses as saying they are killers in spite of the Temple, but what is described is a system that is inherently violent, obviously in the slaughter of animals but also in promoting scapegoating sacrifice. “Bring your worthless offerings no longer, incense is an abomination to Me. New moon and sabbath, the calling of assemblies— I cannot endure iniquity and the solemn assembly” (Is 1:13).

Jesus disrupts the sacrifices in the Temple, (echoing Jeremiah that it is a den of violent thieves), as the institution is robbing people of their life. It shelters murder and violence as part of Jewish identity.[1] The driving out of the animals is not simply concerned with money, but is a symbolic ceasing of the sacrificial economy; a momentary saving of the animals from slaughter as a metaphorical end to the murderous system. During his action in the Temple, Mark says “he would not allow anyone to carry anything through the temple” (Mk 11:16). Some translations call this “merchandise” but it is not items for sale but the items necessary for the sacrifices as in Hebrews 9:21: “all the vessels used in worship.” According to Anthony Bartlett, “In short, there is a whole paraphernalia necessary for the conduct of sacrifice – shovels, barrels, buckets, bowls, pans, trays, censers, etc. These would have been used to ferry wood, ashes, oil and grain offerings, grain cakes, and the animal body parts remaining in sin offerings, peace offerings/thanksgiving offerings sacrifices (cf. Leviticus 2-7).”[2] Jesus was disrupting the entire system of the Temple, of which the money changers were one small part. The sellers and consumers, patrons and priests, or all that are involved are interrupted. He symbolically halts the entire system, and in his person he makes it obsolescent. He predicts this will cause his death, but that is part of the point, so as to expose the violence at the heart of the system; the violence that killed him and which he defeated in the cross and the resurrection.

The driving out of the animals puts a direct focus on the sacrifices but all understood the animals are symbolic. The sacrificial victims Jesus is driving out of the Temple represent his sheep, delivered from sacrificial violence. In Matthew Jesus seems to accentuate the point, healing “the blind and the lame” who came to Him in the temple” in the midst of this incident (Mt 21:14). These are oppressed by the Temple system, but Jesus opens a new way for these “sinners” the Temple did not pretend to help. “All who came before Me are thieves and robbers, but the sheep did not hear them. I am the door; if anyone enters through Me, he will be saved, and will go in and out and find pasture. The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy; I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly. I am the good shepherd; the good shepherd lays down His life for the sheep” (Jn 10:8–11). Jesus implicates all who were previously shepherding Israel: “All who came before Me are thieves and robbers.” His is a universal statement, but of course the bandits (those who would “kill and destroy” the sheep), along with all the patrons are saved from the robbery of this death dealing system. By the time John writes, the Temple, along with its sacrifices and priesthood, are long gone, but all understood even in the synoptics, Jesus had provided a door out of the sacrificial economy and entry into an alternative Kingdom. The Sheep Gate into Jerusalem accentuated the purpose of the Temple to sacrifice, and Jesus opens a new sheep gate: “Truly, truly, I say to you, I am the door of the sheep” (Jn 10:7). This shepherd lays down his life for the sheep, driving them from the deadly system to which they were subject.

Halting the sacrifices, also entails an implicit political dimension involving Rome. When Israel decided to cease offering sacrifices in the Temple on behalf of the emperor in 66 AD, according to Josephus: “This action laid the foundation of the war with the Romans.”[3] An army, the size of the Roman Army that eventually destroyed the Temple, would have been necessary to permanently halt the sacrifices, but Jesus symbolically accomplished the same thing. The disruption produces a sacrificial crisis, of the sort which would eventually consume the Temple and Israel. The priests and Pharisees foresaw this possibility, which was behind their decision to kill him: “If we let Him go on like this, all men will believe in Him, and the Romans will come and take away both our place and our nation” (Jn 11:48). Jesus death would not ward off Rome’s eventual sacrifice of Israel in its own sacrificial economy, and Christ is aware he is potentially unleashing unprecedented violence: “The whole of archaic humanity, and one thousand years of intense Jewish religious history culminating in the present crisis of Roman occupation, would have risen up against him.”[4] The Jews momentarily forestalled the all-out violence by collaborating with Rome in Jesus death, but eventually a new round of sacrificial violence would consume the Temple, but Christ had made provision for a new Temple and a new, nonviolent, way of being human.

Combined with the imagery of the triumphal entry, it is clear the violent world of warring kingdoms, attached to Israel and the Temple, is being halted by a new kind of king and kingdom: “Behold, your king is coming to you; He is just and endowed with salvation, humble, and mounted on a donkey, even on a colt, the foal of a donkey” (Zec 9:9). This is not a king prepared for battle, but one equipped to end the sacrifices of war, religion and violence. He is described as (ani) humble, poor or oppressed. Elsewhere such a one is a victim of murder: “The murderer arises at dawn; He kills the poor and the needy, and at night he is as a thief” (Job 24:14). The humble are the victims, not the victimizers; one who must give up his coat as part of a pledge, and likely homeless and without another cloak (Deut 24:12-13). This humble and meek King does not come to sacrifice, but to halt violent sacrifice: “I will cut off the chariot from Ephraim and the horse from Jerusalem; and the bow of war will be cut off. And He will speak peace to the nations; and His dominion will be from sea to sea, and from the River to the ends of the earth” (Zec 9:10). This is the imagery Jesus is purposely echoing in his entrance into Jerusalem and the Temple.

This is also why John the Baptist marks the end of this violent type kingdom: “From the days of John the Baptist until now the kingdom of heaven suffers violence, and violent men take it by force” (Mt 11:11–12). John is the last in the line of those who, like Elijah, possess “the kingdom in a way that is alien to the kingdom itself.”[5] The violence of the kingdom, the sacrificial economy of the Temple, the warring destruction of Israel, was not the kind of kingdom God would establish. This violent sort of kingdom is finished with Jesus: “May no one ever eat fruit from you again!” (Mk 11:14). The fig tree representing the Temple is dead and finished. As he says right after the Temple incident, the Temple Mt. is subject to being cast into the sea, and the disciples can already live out their faith, in its absence (Mk 11:22-26). As Bartlett points out the two incidents are tied together in a mutual explanation: “It is much more intelligible to hear him referring exactly to this event, using the withering of the fig tree as a parable of what will now happen to the Temple and its sacrificial order.”[6] The fig tree will bear no more fruit, the Temple system is finished, and can now be discarded into the sea. “The mountain Jesus is speaking of is the temple Mt., and the movement is entry into a fulness of forgiveness, no longer dependent on the ritual of sacrificial violence.”[7]

Jesus is himself the alternative to the Temple, exposing its continual blood sacrifice and ongoing violence, made evident as that which sacrifices Jesus. He is sacrificed in an effort to preserve the Temple and its deadly economy, and in the process he displaces sacrificial religion. The sign of Jonah and the sign of the Temple, stand against the scapegoating sacrifice of Nineveh and scapegoating Temple sacrifice. Jesus knew that halting the sacrifices, would produce the sign of Jonah in his murder, the destruction of the Temple of his body and his resurrection, defeating this order of violence and sacrifice. Just as Jonah is three days in the earth symbolically delivered from death (sheol), Jesus, the destroyed Temple, is three days in Hades or Hell, cleansing the world of hellish violence and providing resurrection life, free of sacrificial violence in a new Temple order.

[1] Anthony Bartlett, Signs of Change: The Bible’s Evolution of Nonviolence (Eugene, Oregon: Cascade Books, 2022) 167.

[2] Bartlett, 166.

[3] Josephus, Bellum Judaicum II: 408, cited in Bartlett, 142.

[4] Bartlett, 146.

[5] Bartlett, 155.

[6] Bartlett, 163.

[7] Bartlett, 162.