Streetwise: Blondel on knowledge of God

Nineteenth Century French philosopher Maurice Blondel wrote of knowing God:

"As soon as we regard him from without as a mere object of knowledge, or a mere occasion for speculative study, without freshness of heart and the unrest of love, then all is over, and we have in our hands nothing but a phantom and an idol."

from L'Action, 1893

What is theology? Some thoughts on another post.

I found Michael Westmoreland-White's post on 'What is Theology?' through Ben Myer's blog Faith and Theology. I began commenting on Michael's post, then realised I was writing more than he envisioned in the comments, and so I moved most of the comment here.

In order for my post to make any sense (hope I'm not being too optimistic here!), I have copied Ben's summary of Michael's post to provide some context. Michael's original post gives much more detail, so you really ought to go read it, too. But for now, here are the main points:

Theology is:

1) pluralistic (as a struggle for truth rooted in the conflict between different contexts and traditions)
2) narrative-based (using scripture to construe the community’s lived experience)
3) rational (as an intellectual practice rooted in communal practices)
4) self-involving (as a practice that takes place within the convictional community)

My thoughts:
Perhaps I am channeling the Barthgeist, but I am wondering if Christian theology can be more specifically Christian? In other words, can we start with the richness and mystery of the Lord, and only down the road arrive at the formal characteristics you mention? This would be a way of talking about theology as a human practice, but also as something deeper than this, that is more-than-human. (I imagine, say, a Jewish theologian could make an analogous description of her work.)

Maybe another way of getting at my concern is to say that even if theology is a human practice, it is something done in God and towards God. There isn't a 'distance' from our 'object' within which we can then 'reflect' on a previous 'encounter' that can then be systematised. This ties into your excellent point about theology not just being for 'theologians', but for all the baptised: theology is not just reflection 'on' church practices, but prayer, reflection, meditation, action(?), etc., 'within' such practices.

Perhaps this would then allow us to see theology as being about the depths of God - and through that, as being about the depths of humanity, life, and creation.

Interesting that the summary point 'theology is rational' ends up becoming something altogether different. It strikes me in light of that that perhaps points iii and iv might be usefully combined by saying that theology is a profession (in the older sense that you link with law and medicine, say). What I mean by this is that theology necessarily involves the self being ingrafted into a larger conversation - a tradition in MacIntyre's sense - which is extended through time and embodied in a people who have both shared politics and shared arguments. And so being 'overwhelmed' by the public identity given by a profession necessarily involves the self being connected with a community. (I think theology is also self-involving in the sense that it is transformative, to the extent that it is truly reflection on God, and through God, creation. But that is another point altogether!) But perhaps also - like 'science' or 'rational' - the term 'professional' might be lost for having too broad a range of meaning.

Questions

I was brought up short by the following comment by Steve Chalke in an interview with the Wittenburg Door:

Recently, I asked a friend of mine, who was a church leader, why he'd left the
church. And he replied, "I've left the church because I'd rather live with
questions I can't answer than live with questions I can't ask."

Is this really common, discomfort with questions? I have the sense that it is. If this is right, then it seems a pathology which manifests itself in three related ways:

On the one hand, there is the 'inner' hindrance which pulls us back from asking questions: don't ask. I suppose we learn this in all sorts of ways: being told directly, other people's discomfort with questions, our own fears and doubts.

On the other hand, there is also an 'outer' discourse and practice which seeks to provide answers to everything - generally fairly pat, even shallow answers that don't entirely do justice to the depth of the question, and also signal that such questions probably shouldn't even be asked int he first place. I see much of certain sorts of theology intended to do just this.

Either way, the message is clear: don't ask questions - and, perhaps, be suspicious of those who do.

The other side of this coin is the person who cannot commit in faith to God or the church without having everything sorted out, all questions answered, all doubts parried.

The effect of each of these is to close down wonder and imagination, cramping and constricting our relation with God, perhaps even - ultimately - blinding us to God and his kingdom at work in the world.

I have found myself on either one of the three (!) horns of the above dilemma at various times in the past, with the predicted results.

But I have slowly learned to dwell in perplexity.

What I mean by this is to freely and openly entertain questions without needing answers - at least not right now. Questions can open us to new vistas of the Lord, his work, and his glory. They can also, significantly, raise problems. I can't for the life of me offer any kind of explanation for the Shoah or for the Boxing Day Tsunami in Southeast Asia (there are in fact a number of explanations which I reject). In fact, there may be a sense in which offering anything like an 'explanation' might trivialise the suffering involved; it's also true that allowing these to be 'ultimate' in any way makes wickedness (in one case) and tragedy (in another) to be revelatory, which they simply aren't. So what do I do? I dwell in perplexity, holding these before the Lord in prayer. I have some basic convictions about this, which I've just expressed, but I don't have anything like an explanation or understanding. But I do trust that God is larger than it all, that the Lord is ultimate - anything else is only penultimate (at most). And I do have a keen sense that if my unanswered questions stand in the way of my living and responding in Christian love to those around me then they have become much much more than my answering an existential question for myself: they have become a means of evading God, and opting out of the Kingdom.

Or to put it another way, they put me at the centre of it all - which is not a position I should occupy comfortably.

So, as a theologian I have become quite interested in the question of how we build in the capacity for perplexity (on the one hand) and wonder (on the other) to our theologies? Maybe one way to put the question is, how do we do a Job-an theology, rather than a theology of Job's friends?

And what other ways can our churches engender and encourage a profound faith that can also entertain the deep questions of life, and do so for the sake of God?