A brief note: I have tried to keep this newsletter and my current thesis research/writing separate, partly out of recognition that, at least at this stage, much of my work is theoretical and abstract, rather than connecting with the mundane and practical, as I hope the writing in this space is. I’m going to transgress that boundary today, and hope that you will find it worthwhile. Thank you, dear reader, for making space in your inbox and in your mental space for these words.
Dear reader,
At the moment, as I try to find my way around what feels like a thesis-wilderness, I’m deep in the writings of Jonathan Edwards. He is, in some ways, the darling of the Reformed circles in which I grew up. But I am finding, as I did with Calvin earlier this year, that meeting the man for myself in his writings is a different experience than meeting him in the characterisation of others.
In particular, I’ve been struck by the way Edwards talks about knowing God. Edwards argues that the knowledge, or ignorance, of a single attribute of God—his beauty—will indicate whether or not we belong to the Lord. He says that those outside of God’s family can know and acknowledge God’s power, his sovereignty, even his truth. Even the demons, James warns, know and recognise God’s identity. Edwards agrees completely.
Edwards’ claim is especially striking given his theological heritage. Within the Reformed tradition in general, God’s character as sovereign dominates our imaginations. In my own particular Reformed denomination, we claim the distinction of insisting that the government ought to acknowledge Christ as king–Christ sovereign over the nations, governments, leaders. Emphasizing God’s sovereignty reinforces reformed doctrines of grace and calls for Christians to live obediently to our king.
Edwards doesn’t jettison doctrines of grace, and his sermons are full of calls to live holy lives in obedience to God’s law.
Yet Edwards insists that it is God’s beauty that holds God’s character together, and that only by knowing God as beautiful do we truly know him. This is because for Edwards, knowing beauty is not a detached, objective judgment or a thin experience of subjective pleasure. Rather, in the perception of beauty, our hearts are irrevocably drawn to the One who is beautiful.
If we do not recognise God as beautiful, our hearts have not been enthralled by him; our desires have not been captivated.
Edwards goes so far to put God’s truth and goodness downstream from God’s beauty. If God were not beautiful, God would not be true or good.
Beauty’s place at the heart of true religious affections, as he calls our experience of God, indicts our pious feelings that have more to do with ourselves than with God. If we feel grief over sin, we do well–but this is not enough. If we feel awe over his power in creation and providence, we do well–but this is not enough. If we feel gratitude for his grace–still, not enough. Because until we respond in desire for God as the one who is Beauty–in his glory and excellency and loveliness, as Edwards describes him–we haven’t actually escaped self-love; we haven’t given our hearts to him fully and completely.
Edwards makes a very clear distinction between a love for God that comes from our own self-interest, and a love for God that thinks only of God’s beauty. Here, I’m not with Edwards completely. In contrast, C.S. Lewis insists that it is not wrong for us to love God because of what we need from him, because our neediness is an intrinsic part of what it means for us to be creatures. We cannot get rid of our neediness, nor has God made us to do so.
Yet Edwards is right in that if we only love God for how he can meet our needs, then something is missing. We will be unable to love him when he appears to not meet any of our needs–when we are shorn, like Job, of our loved ones, our material possessions, our health, and even our sense that God is with and for us. In those moments, a confidence in God’s beauty—a confidence born of desire stirred up by experiencing the loveliness of Christ—testifies to the maturity of faith.
Today I saw an overwhelming number of paintings by early 20th century French artist Pierre Bonnard–overwhelming because of the busyness of his brushstrokes and the amount of vibrant colour, not just on the canvases themselves, but also on the walls and floors of the exhibit. I am amazed to think about the way he must have seen the world in order to paint so much, so dynamically. If all our senses were fully open to the beauty of God’s world, would we be able to do anything in response except sing?
Two quick book notes: First, My Father’s House by Joseph O’Connor was the page-turner kind of novel that I love. Espionage + WWII + a Catholic priest in occupied Italy. Second, The Soul of Desire by Curt Thompson. I’ve read Thompson before, and his writing style makes for a quick read–although the depth of the ideas ought to prompt me to slow down! I appreciated his drawing out of an idea that I’ve been turning over in my mind for a while now: that our longings point the way towards desires that are filled by God.
I will say to my God, my Lord, and my King,
“Oh, how abundant is your goodness, O Lord,
which you have stored up for those who fear you.”
But what are you to those who love you?
What are you to those who serve you with their whole heart?
In this especially you have showed me the sweetness of your love;
that when I was not,
you made me,
when I went far astray from you,
you brought me back again, that I might serve you,
and have commanded me to love you.
I wish that I were able,
at least for one day,
to do some worthy service for you.
Truly, you are my Lord,
and I your servant,bound to serve you with all my might.
This I wish to do, this I desire,
and supply whatever is lacking in me,
I pray.
Thomas a Kempis
On the road with you,
Laura