In spite of the fact that it is often ignored, one of the interesting features in the thought of some of the early Church Fathers, was a considerable skill at language and logical analysis. Given the basic liberal disciplines of Greco-Roman education it is not surprising that those Fathers who were fortunate enough to receive formal education were able to utilise the skills of rhetoric and logic as well as other skills of the liberal arts. Also it is ńot surprising that later great thinkers of the church informed by the liberal arts and by the writings of the earlier Fathers should make use of these skills. This is surely the case with Saint Augustine.

Critics of the right wing of twentieth-century Protestant theology, most notably Neo-orthodoxy and more specifically the theology of Karl Barth, tend to be troubled by the central role given to what Barth calls the ‘science of dogmatics’. Their problem is twofold. (1) Dogmatics, at least in the Barthian conception of that science, appears to be exclusivist, accessible only to those who are already among the initiate, obscurantist, arrogant and even irrational. (2) Dogmatics is represented as the sole means of entry into theology: Barth uncompromisingly and aggressively rejects any other avenues. He is disdainful of philosophy, of philosophical theology, and even of ‘natural theology’ (see his treatment of Brunner in the early book, Natural Theology and his critique of Tillich in his very last book, Evangelical Theology).

In this article I shall try to argue that to accept polarities in theology is a discipline imposed by the subject matter itself, and that attempts to break out of the received polarities are likely, if not certain, to end in reductionism. The relation of paradox to polarity demands far more thorough treatment than I have been able to give it here. For example, the question as to whether all polarities are inherently paradoxical is one that I have not discussed. Neither have I made it a part of my case to contend for the paradoxical nature of Christian doctrine. I am inclined to think, however, that once we perceive creation itself to be paradoxical—in that God causes to be that which is not he, which seems to involve a self-limitation or even ‘kenosis’ of deity—we will be predisposed to accept the paradoxes of the Incarnation, justification (simul iustus et peccator), and eschatology (already and not yet). But I have used the word polarity in a broad sense which I hope will become clear as the argument proceeds. I eventually make some critical comments about ‘liberation theology’ and Professor Wiles's The Remaking of Christian Doctrine. But I begin by trying to advance the argument on a broad front.

It has been said that nonsense talked about God is still nonsense. To some, this may seem a simple reminder that it is easy to lapse into nonsense when discussing the sublimities of religion. Of late, however, there has been voiced a suspicion on the part of many philosophers that the situation is worse than this. There are those who claim that it is impossible to avoid incoherence when speaking of God. It would be a mistake to place Michael Durrant, one of Britain's more respected philosophers of religion, in the camp of those convinced that God-talk is necessarily a species of nonsense. For one thing, he identifies himself as one who continues to wrestle with the philosophical problems generated by theistic discourse, from within the Church.1 Nevertheless two recently published books by Durrant2 illustrate nicely the view that God-talk appears, at least, to be riddled with fatal, logical infirmities.

There has been much discussion of the logical propriety of religious language in recent years. The debate has been one in which lines of attack and defence have been fairly strongly drawn, often in an atmosphere of contention in which the humbler task of establishing the nature and context of religious utterance has been comparatively neglected. Without gain-saying the importance of exploring the logical implications of religious language it may yet be contended that those implications will be more clearly perceived when the facts about the subject are better known.

It used to be thought, in western Christendom, at least, that belief in a triune God was a unique feature of Christian theology. The doctrine of the Trinity was thought to distinguish Christianity from the strict ‘monotheism’ of Judaism and Islam (which deny a plurality of ‘persons’ in the Godhead), on the one hand, and from the ‘polytheism’ or ‘pantheism’ of Greek and Indian religions, on the other. Needless to say, this traditional view reflected an unfair bias toward Christianity and a distorted view of the other religions, especially the ‘pagan’ ones of Greece and India. Since the eighteenth century, however, considerable historical and cultural research has been done on non-Christian religions, and, in our own time, the impact of its results is finally beginning to be felt in the church as a whole. Far from being unique, the doctrine of the Trinity now seems to have been influenced by Stoic and neo-Platonic speculation about God and the world and even to have parallels in the ‘theologies’ of Hinduism and Buddhism. All of a sudden, ‘trinities’ are appearing everywhere in the history of religions as if they were the fulfilment of a universal ‘archetype’ or realisations of a ‘perfect number’, reflecting the subconscious of man more than the objective reality of God. It seems that we must either launch out into a sea of pan-trinitarianism, or else retreat to the safer shores of strict ‘monotheism’ (but, then, the idea of strict ‘oneness’ is probably an archetype of some sort, as well!).

Biblical scholars and theologians have sometimes suggested that the concept of story or narration may be used to avoid or even resolve certain long-standing problems in theology. The context of such a suggestion appears to be not only the gradual filtering of ideas from the social sciences into theological awareness but also a much improved understanding of the nature and transmission of the biblical traditions. For instance, literary criticism had tried to tell the story of the making of the Bible as a story of writing and editing. With its analytic interest, form criticism penetrated deeper, concentrating on the crucial role of oral tradition and on the power of communities to shape certain forms. Depending on these prior analytical activities, tradition criticism (or ‘redaction criticism’ in New Testament studies) felt free to seek larger unities in the material before it. That is, whereas form criticism's interest lay in describing separately the variety of ‘;scenes’ that later took their respective places in the story, tradition criticism concentrated on telling the whole story of the making of the Bible.2

The world of the fine arts provides paradigms for explaining the role of the imagination in the development of new theologies and the communication of the Christ-event. Although there is but one definite script for a play or an opera, plays and operas admit of widely diverse representations because the script and its characters are imagined differently. For example: Amanda Wingfield, the mother in The Glass Menagerie, has been represented as a rather high-strung woman in one production, and as a serene and gracious lady in another. The script had remained the same in both productions; however, the spirit of Amanda Wingfield had changed because the directors of these productions had not imagined her in the same way. The written script is static, definite, one; the enacted representations, on the other hand, allow for the dynamics of change, diversity, and imagination.1

The purpose of this article is to explore ways of defending the biblical basis of Paul Tillich's christology, and so to reveal some of the issues concerning the relationship between scripture and theology. ‘Christology’ is selected because it is central to Tillich's theology; ‘Tillich’ is selected because of his recorded words that students should ask ‘the systematic theologian about the biblical foundation of his statements, in the actual biblical texts as they are philologically related’.

This essay is written out of a sense of urgency. Christians have emerged from two centuries of vigorous battles with scientists, philosophers, and historians who attempted to reduce the Bible to their own disciplines. Under these battle conditions, Christians have fashioned the weapon of an unassailable supernaturalism which attested to the divine origins of the Sacred Scriptures and to the divine assistance necessary for infallibly interpreting them. Supernaturalism has been tried in conflict and has not been found wanting. The successes of supernaturalism, however, have so blocked our access to (and distorted our sense of) the natural origins of the Scriptures and the natural skills necessary to interpret them, that the Christian's best weapon is rapidly working for his own self-destruction. In swinging it so mightily, he has lost his balance. And, while he has saved his own life, his unbalanced position is unwittingly calculated to injure his own children—those who were to be the future generation of Christians.

Bultmann characterises Christian ethics as an ethics of ‘obedience’. By this he means to keep in the forefront the existentialist conception of man as an encountering being, one whose authentic, as well as inauthentic life is constituted by his response to the demands (and also the blessings) proffered him in the Now of his concrete situation. Since every concrete Now demands decision concerning his self-understanding, man is always confronted with an absolute either/or: to ‘obey’ or not.

Our present century has seen an increasing opposition to creeds and doctrinal statements of faith. Perhaps the most significant was that of Dr W. R. Matthews, Dean of St. Paul's in his little book The Thirty-Nine Articles (1961). There he summarised his arguments for setting aside the Articles, which he had previously put forward in the columns of The Times, and which had led to much correspondence. Many feared such a proposal could lead to the disruption and disestablishment of the Church of England, and thought it better to let sleeping Articles lie. In America an attempt at a compromise was reached by the publication in 1965 of a booklet containing creeds and confessions of historic worth together with a new confession of faith.

Paul Tillich's philosophical theology is a gift which promises to enrich us if we ride with it for some time before dismounting to look into its mouth. Once we peer down its throat to investigate how loosely the existentialist fillings cover the cavities of the idealistic teeth only the background of that ride prevents us from picking holes that would give too distorted a view of the whole. Meaningful wholes are prevented from becoming mere holes in a hole. Such a background is assumed here, as are the inevitable limitations implied by this assumption. Even with all the fillings removed, Tillich's thought is too vibrant with life to be fitted artificially into a mould cast by any of the idealistic predecessors who significantly influenced him. A balanced picture of some of the major nineteenth-century theological influences on Tillich would have to include, besides the ontological idealism of Hegel, the experiential idealism of Schleiermacher and Herrmann, and the existential idealism of Schelling. Complementing the influence of idealism, both the negative influence of scientific historical research and the kerygmatic–existentialist influence of Kahler and Kierkegaard penetrate to the roots of Tillich's thought. Even so, Tillich's systematic theology reflects decisively the glory and the limitation of Hegel's comprehensive ontological philosophy. By focussing on this we are able to move beyond the many general remarks that have been made by critics concerning the Hegelian influence, or the lack of it, in Tillich's thought to a more detailed analysis and a clearer picture of some of the similarities and differences.

The relation of the Gospel to historical inquiry is one of the most important and difficult problems confronting modern theology—and, indeed, the Christian faith. Both terms need closer definition, and this must now be given.

The traditional account of the history of the doctrine of predestination runs somewhat as follows: After the close of the apostolic era, Christians took little interest in the doctrine for the next three centuries. It was again brought into prominence during the early fifth century by Augustine, who was led, partly in reaction to Pelagianism, to formulate the doctrine in an extreme form. This produced a further reaction from a group of theologians led by Cassian, who regarded themselves as orthodox and as opponents of Pelagius, but who rejected the extreme Augustinian doctrine. It is generally considered that from a strictly logical point of view, there is more to be said for Augustine's doctrine, but that as he stated it it was found repugnant by many Christians. So Cassian and his followers are owed a certain debt for preventing the church from being saddled with the logical excesses of the greatest of the Latin fathers.1 All later statements, however, cannot but be Augustinian, Cassianite, or mediating positions between the two.

At first sight, revolution and quietism are political opposites. This appears to be true even when both terms are taken in optimam partem. Viewed in the most favourable light, revolution is the active overthrow—in the name of freedom and justice (by what means is a question which may initially be left open)—of an oppressive and unjust system. For its part, quietism, benevolently considered, is the temporary acquiescence in an oppressive and unjust state of affairs whose wrongs will, the quietist hopes, eventually disappear.

It is necessary first of all to consider what is meant by the word ‘typology’. There is a world of difference between the use of τ⋯πoς (‘type’) in the Bible and many of the fanciful interpretations which were called ‘types’ in the early Church, or between the use of typology in modern biblical scholarship and in modern church life. Two main conceptions of typology are to be found today. Recently a number of biblical scholars, notably Gerhard von Rad, have used the term to describe the interpretation of history involved in the ‘promise-fulfilment’ approach to the relationship between the Testaments. Alongside this there are those who perpetuate fanciful kinds of biblical interpretation closely related to allegory and symbolism, referring to them as typology. The place of typology in the Christian use of the Old Testament depends entirely therefore on what is meant by the word.

In an earlier paper, I attempted to analyse the primitive apostolic discernment of triunity on the basis of a phenomenological model of religious discernment (Otto, Eliade, Ramsey) and a recent biblical study of the prayer life of Jesus (Jeremias). At the close of that paper, I suggested that Hilary's doctrine of the Trinity might be especially meaningful in the terms of such an analysis, thus providing a possible connexion between the empirical life of Jesus and the high doctrine of the fourth-century fathers. In the present study, I wish to examine Hilary's approach in more detail in order to see how the basic discernment motifs found in the gospels (especially John) unfold into the complex set of propositions that has long since become the hallmark of orthodox trinitarianism.

The earlier theology of Karl Barth (particularly as represented in the second edition of his Commentary on Romans) had as one of its most significant characteristics a great emphasis on the ‘Godness’ of God, on God as ‘Wholly Other’ than man and (following Kierkegaard), on the ‘infinite, qualitative distinction’ between God and man. This was clearly an attempt to interpret the theme of the Bible and was also in strong reaction against the prevailing theology of the nineteenth century, liberal and, to some extent, orthodox as well. Among the many commentators on the early period Barth himself is the best interpreter of the necessity and meaning of this emphasis as well as of its limitations. He writes ‘What began forcibly to press itself upon us about forty years ago was not so much the humanity of God as his deity—a God absolutely unique in his relation to man and his world, over-poweringly lofty and distant, strange, yes even wholly other.’

At that time Michael will stand up, the great prince who mounts guard over your people. There is going to be a time of great distress, unparalleled since the nations first came into existence.