The Substance of Faith

May 5, 2017, at Baylor ISR . The speaker also mentions previously meeting Eleonore Stump at Liberty University in Lynchburg, Virginia, and later at Virginia Tech (3:16) in 1990, and the University of Missouri, Columbia during his undergraduate studies, before she moved to St. Louis University

Here we go, with the subject of atonement. 

At the outset, let’s note that the doctrine that Christ has saved human beings from their sins—with all the implications of salvation—stands as the distinctive doctrine of Christianity. In this book, I want to consider this theological doctrine with philosophical care, within the context of a vast history of interpretation. So, this is an exercise in philosophical theology. 

This doctrine has the power to move people, whether to heart-melting love or to serious repudiation and rejection. To evaluate those different attitudes, one must understand the doctrine. What actually is this doctrine that is so distinctive of Christianity? Understanding it is not an easy matter. 

Looking over the history of Christianity, you’ll see that each era had its own questions to consider. The early periods wrestled with the Incarnation, the Trinity, and so on. In the age of high scholasticism, other issues emerged, especially as Islam, Judaism, and Christianity interacted. Yet, until recently, the question of what the atonement actually is never became a burning issue in the prevailing culture. But in our time, it has become precisely that. For some, this doctrine is the primary reason to reject Christianity, so it is time for us to turn our attention to it. 

For many, the word “atonement” conjures up the idea of placating an offended God through bloody sacrifice. That is not how I intend to use the word. But we do need a word to describe the nature and effects of Christ’s passion, death, and resurrection—or more broadly, Christ’s life, passion, death, and resurrection. “Atonement,” despite its baggage, seems to carry the least theological baggage of all possible terms. So although many contemporary people think it refers narrowly to Christ’s crucifixion making things right with God, I want the word to be more neutral and broad. This is worth remembering as we proceed. 

The doctrine of atonement differs from other major Christian doctrines—like the doctrine of the Incarnation—in that it has no formula specifying its interpretation. For the Incarnation, there’s the Chalcedonian formula: Christ is one person with two natures, fully human and fully divine. No analogous formula exists for the atonement. There are creedal or conciliar statements that rule out certain interpretations—like docetism, which says Christ didn’t really suffer—but no statement that precisely specifies how we are to understand the atonement. That’s important because it allows for highly divergent interpretations, all of which can count as orthodox. 

In this book, I’ve tried to learn from the history of interpretations of the doctrine. There are many, but I haven’t adopted any one of them wholesale. Instead, I’ve started by considering the problem: clearly, the atonement is a solution to a problem. There’s little controversy over that in the tradition. But what is the problem? 

The word “atonement” itself was coined to express the idea of making one—atonement—between God and human beings, who were not previously at one. The problem atonement is meant to solve is the absence of unity between God and humanity, which, as the tradition sees it, stems from the human proneness to wrongdoing—what I will use interchangeably with “sin.” From Augustine onward, the tradition sees the absence of unity as rooted in the human will, which is inclined toward sin. 

If you think about the problem that way, it becomes clear that the solution must address multiple components. Human beings tend to prefer their own power or pleasure over greater goods. They’re not doomed to do so, but are inclined that way. Inevitably, in the life of any person, this tendency is actualized. Every human being will at some point act on this proneness to sin. That’s the forward-looking aspect of the problem: we know the future will bring such actualizations. There’s also a backward-looking aspect: except for Christ (and, in Catholicism, Mary), every person past the age of reason has committed morally wrong acts in the past. Thus, every person can look back on actions contrary to the will of God—there is guilt for what is past and the knowledge of future wrongdoing. 

And then, on top of guilt, there is shame. One can feel shame for one’s own wrongdoing, but also for things done to them, for defects of nature, or for being part of a group. For example, the children of high-ranking Nazis, innocent of their parents’ crimes, have felt shame just for belonging to that family. There is shame simply in being a member of the human species, given the moral horrors, cruelty, and destruction humans have perpetrated. If you imagine a morally perfect species, facing them as one of us would be unbearable. 

If atonement is to be a full solution to the problem of human sinfulness, it must address all varieties of shame as well. Atonement is meant to undo what went wrong in the Fall, and all these things—guilt, shame, moral wrongdoing—are consequences of that. 

So, the components of the problem that atonement is meant to solve can be outlined as follows: 

1. Current disposition to moral wrongdoing—the inclination to prefer lesser goods, which brings the liability to future sinful acts. 

2. Guilt—the fact of having actually committed morally wrong acts in the past. 

3. Impairments in the psyche of the wrongdoer—the damage wrongdoing causes within the self. 

4. Ill effects of wrongdoing in the world—the harm caused to others and to the broader order. 

5. Shame—arising not only from one’s own acts, but also from the actions of others, natural defects, or belonging to a group. 

To see these elements clearly, consider a notable moral monster—Eichmann, for instance. Before his execution in Jerusalem, a Lutheran chaplain asked Eichmann if he would like to confess. Eichmann replied, “Why would I confess? I’ve never done anything wrong.” This illustrates the ill effects of wrongdoing on the wrongdoer’s psyche: the will and intellect are corrupted to the point that self-understanding is lost. The harm done to the world—Eichmann was responsible for millions of deaths—is clear. Yet, guilt and shame are universal; not only “monsters” have to deal with them, but all of us. 

So, these aspects—proneness to wrongdoing, guilt, impairment, external harm, and shame—create a distance between God (perfectly good) and humanity, a distance atonement is supposed to remedy. 

Interpretations of Atonement 

In the history of doctrine, there are three major types of interpretation: 

1. Patristic (early church fathers) 

2. Anselmian 

3. Thomistic (Aquinas) 

Let me try to be concise. The patristic interpretation focuses on a cosmic drama involving Satan. Anselm, however, regarded this as a misguided or “stupid” interpretation. Many today have tried to rehabilitate the patristic view, but I still find it difficult to understand and so, with reluctance, set it aside—not because I think the church fathers were stupid, but because, at present, I don’t know how to make sense of their view, and neither, it seems, does anyone else. So, I bracket the patristic approach, though I am sure I lose something by doing so. 

That leaves us with the Anselmian and Thomistic kinds. Each of these is really a family of theories. Broadly, all interpretations can be divided based on what they see as the obstacle to reconciliation between God and humanity. The Anselmian type locates the obstacle in something about God—God’s honor, justice, or goodness. The Thomistic type sees the obstacle as lying in something about human beings. 

Now, some might assume that the Anselmian kind is “Protestant” and the Thomistic is “Catholic,” but this isn’t accurate. There are Catholic versions of Anselmian theories and potentially Protestant versions of Thomistic theories. The distinction is not strictly denominational. 

My point is this: although there is much to learn from both the Anselmian and Thomistic kinds, neither is wholly satisfactory. At best, each is missing something; at worst, each is fundamentally misguided. So, I have tried to rethink the doctrine, with respect for the tradition, but seeking a more coherent, morally acceptable interpretation—one that is consistent with biblical texts and other theological doctrines. I argue that such an interpretation is possible. 

The Heart of the Account: Love 

The core of my account centers on the nature of love. I use Aquinas’s account, which, in my view, is the best philosophical account of love available. It explains cases that other theories cannot. In a nutshell, love consists of two interrelated desires: a desire for the good of the beloved, and a desire for union with the beloved. The “good” is what is truly good for the beloved, not merely what they want. And “union” is not just companionship, but being truly “at one” with the beloved—even, sometimes, in ways that look like separation. 

To illustrate, imagine a two-year-old at the dinner table. His mother says, “If you throw your pizza on the floor again, dinner is over.” He does it; she sends him to his room. Both are denied what they want (he wants pizza and companionship, she wants a peaceful meal). Yet, she still loves him, desiring his good and union with him—her actions flow from love, even if union looks like separation at that moment. 

So, an acceptable interpretation of atonement must show how it solves the problems of guilt and shame, and love is central to this. In terms of Aquinas’s account, guilt is connected to the anticipation that others will desire what is not your good (because of your wrong), and shame to the anticipation that others will reject you. The guilty person focuses on the good, the ashamed person on union. 

Critique of the Anselmian Interpretation 

Where most people get stuck in my manuscript is at my rejection of the Anselmian kind of interpretation. For nearly everyone, this type of interpretation is the one we have been steeped in—whether as critics or believers. So, for many, my argument that the Anselmian interpretation fails sounds like a repudiation of Christianity itself. But that is not my intention. My goal is to defend the doctrine of atonement by showing a better interpretation. 

My central objection to the Anselmian view is this: it is incompatible with the doctrine that God is loving. And that incompatibility, in my judgment, cannot be repaired. The bottom line is this: the point of Christ’s incarnation, life, passion, death, and resurrection is not to win clemency or pardon from God. All the many versions of the Anselmian theory share the idea that Christ’s work removes some obstacle on God’s side, thus making union between God and humanity possible. 

I argue that this is mistaken. The better way to understand the atonement is as addressing the obstacle within human beings, not within God. 

Rethinking the Doctrine 

So, what does Christ do in the atonement? My project centers on the idea that Christ brings about two metaphysical alterations: one in his own human nature, and one in the psyches of all human beings of faith. These alterations make mutual indwelling possible. 

I take seriously Christ’s prayer in the Gospel of John: “Father, let them be one as we are one—I in them and you in me.” Mutual indwelling is what union between God and human beings is supposed to be. 

When two humans are united, it is their thoughts, feelings, or histories that are joined, given their metaphysical smallness. But when God is one of the relata, what can be united is whole persons. The union is deeper, more comprehensive—mutual indwelling, not merely shared life. 

I examine the “cry of dereliction” on the cross—Christ’s words, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”—and try to make sense of it in a way that fits with other doctrines. When the biblical texts say Christ “became sin for us” or “bore our sins,” I take this to mean that on the cross, Christ opens himself to receive the psyches of all sinful human beings. His human psyche is flooded by their presence—not as an invasion, but as a welcome. 

If you know stories from popular culture (like science fiction, where aliens invade and take over a human), you know the horror of a psyche being overtaken by something foreign. But here, Christ voluntarily and lovingly welcomes into his psyche the full weight of sinful humanity, with all its shame, guilt, and revulsion. It is something like the “mind-meld” scenes in Tolkien, where the experience is overwhelming. This is what happens as human beings, in their brokenness, are received into Christ’s perfectly holy psyche. 

That’s one half of mutual indwelling—humanity dwelling in Christ. The other half is the Holy Spirit indwelling human beings of faith. The moment someone comes to faith, there is agreement across Christian doctrine: the Holy Spirit comes to dwell within that person. 

But if the indwelling of the Spirit is not to be like an alien invasion—if it is to be union rather than takeover—there must also be welcome on the part of the human. And that is hard to achieve. Every human being desires to love and be loved, but there is resistance, closure, failure to commit—hence the entire counseling profession. 

You go to a counselor knowing you have problems with love, with commitment. And yet, even when you want to be healed, you also resist it. If God simply zapped integration into you, it would be God’s will, not yours, and there would be no true union—because union requires two wills, not just one. 

So, what can be done? When a person ceases resisting God’s love, when they surrender, then the Holy Spirit can come in. God’s grace can produce the act of faith that welcomes the Spirit, and the union begun by Christ on the cross is now completed. 

The Human Struggle to Surrender 

But why is it so hard for human beings to surrender to God’s love, even when we want to love and be loved? Partly, it is because true union threatens our autonomy and self-image. If you commit yourself to another, that person’s desires and judgments matter for your life. You see yourself through their eyes, and you may not like what you see. There is a risk of rejection—of being found wanting and abandoned. 

There is also, in some, a tendency to self-assertion and rebellion. John Stuart Mill said, in effect, “If there is a God who can send me to hell for not worshipping him, then to hell I will go.” This stance—defiance as tragic hero—may seem noble. But what does it mean to defy a God who comes not as a conqueror but as one who is naked, tortured, and dying, humiliated on a cross? How threatening, really, is such a God? What does it mean to rebel against one who invites you with utter vulnerability? 

If there is any way to persuade human beings that it is safe to surrender—to let go, and accept God’s love—it is the story of Christ on the cross: God in love, suffering and dying in humiliation. What cannot be achieved by divine fiat, and what humans are too broken to do on their own, God prepares for, encourages, and makes possible through Christ’s atonement. 

When that surrender finally comes, the Holy Spirit enters in, and now we have mutual indwelling: as the Father is in the Son and the Son in the Father, so human beings are in Christ, and Christ’s Spirit is within them. This is the beginning of union—not the end, but the start of a new reality. 

Concluding Summary 

In the remainder of my presentation (which I’m leaving aside for now), I would discuss what happens after this beginning of union. But this is enough to show how I am thinking of the atonement in a non-Anselmian way. 

To summarize: 

• The atonement does not remove an obstacle in God, but addresses the obstacle in human beings. 

• Love, as Aquinas describes it—the desire for the good of the beloved and for union with the beloved—is central. 

• Christ, on the cross, opens himself to all our sin and shame, welcoming us in our brokenness. 

• Human beings, in turn, are enabled (not coerced) to surrender, so that the Holy Spirit can dwell within them. 

• Mutual indwelling, the deep union of wills, is begun—God in us, and we in God. 

This, I believe, offers a more coherent and morally satisfying interpretation of the Christian doctrine of atonement—one that does justice to the biblical texts, the tradition, and the reality of human need.