On Original Mortality

The following is my more considered reflection on some issues raised by my friend Bosco at his Liturgy blog.

One of the things that divides Eastern from Western Christian theology concerns how they regard the concept of Original Sin. The Western concept, largely developed by Saint Augustine of Hippo, is that the Fall led to a kind of contamination of human nature and humanity, robbing humans of the immortality they possessed by nature (as made in the image of God) and so rendering them subject to death, and stained with an inheritance of guilt that is passed along to each person born, a stain of guilt that has to be washed away in Baptism.

The Eastern church never adopted this view. It accepts that the Fall brought sin into the world, and that the effect of the sin is death; but it regards this as a consequence of the Fall without any inherited actual guilt. So the East doesn't think of it as transmission of something (like some kind of fluid passed along), but as an event with the logical after-effect of becoming subject to death

Both East and West (the West more explicitly) appear to accept that the original humans were immortal, and lost that quality with the Fall. It is doubtful whether this stands up to a close reading of the Scriptural text, nor is it necessary in order to preserve a doctrine of Original Sin, Western or Eastern, and the equally Pauline testimony that through that sin death entered the world, and that, in Adam, all die.

Looking at the mythological portrayal in the text of the creation accounts, Adam and Eve are denied access to the Tree of Life, and so lose immortality. Immortality, then, is not portrayed as something they had by nature, but because they had access to the Tree of Life. Every other human since, who never had access to the Tree, shares in the consequence of Adam's Fall. Nothing is portrayed as being "transmitted" because this is not about passing something along but about losing something.

In spite of the Scripture's mythological portrayal, the Western church (at a council in Carthage in 418 — with Augustine present, pressing his theology of original sin, a distinctly Western view later reaffirmed and codified by the Council of Trent) anathematized the notion I presented above, instead alleging an original inherent or natural human immortality that was lost due to the Fall, as the removal of, or alteration in, some aspect of human nature. I prefer the Scriptural view that the only entity immortal by nature is God, and that human immortality was (and will be again) a gift from God, a gift that could be lost, as indeed it was (in Adam) but which can also be restored (in Christ). This also makes good typological sense of immortality restored in Christ through the “tree of the cross.”

One way of looking at this involves thinking about the nature of God as the uniquely self-subsistent entity, the only One totally independent of all other entities. Immortality is an aspect of this independence, as the East sings in the Kontakion of the Departed, "only thou art immortal, the creator and maker of mankind." The Fall consisted in large part of Adam and Eve seeking that same independence — in their case, independence from God — in order, as the text says, to "become like God." The true human theosis cannot be achieved in such a bold, aggressive move, but rather involves — in the course of salvation history — the eventual jointure of our human nature with the divine. This union is a work already completed in Christ, who through the kenotic abandonment of what was his by right, became — in union with humanity and human nature — dependent and subject to death, "even death on the cross." And as Christ shares in our humanity in this way, we also come to participate in the divine life through our union with Christ.

The notion of original mortality is also coherent with the Genesis 1 commandment to the primeval couple, "be fruitful and multiply" — identical to the commandment given the non-human creatures, about whom no suggestion of immortality was ever made, nor does the Genesis 2-4 account offer any explanation for a "Fall" for the non-human world. The reason this commandment reflects mortality rests on the fact that progeny would not be needed if the couple were immortal; indeed, fertility and immortality combined would lead to eventual massive overpopulation of any finite space. Moreover, this is also coherent with the teaching of Jesus in Luke 20:35-36, where he explains that those who attain the resurrection to eternal life do not marry, exactly because they are immortal — no one will die, so no one will need to be replaced by a descendent.

All of this seems to mesh with a notion that the primal Fall lost something that the original humans had by grace, not by innate nature; and that the effect of that loss falls on their heirs and assigns not as a substantial inheritance — the presence of an inherited sinfulness distilled into their nature — but as the absence of something. If you think of it as a possession an ancestor had and then lost — say, a deed to a silver mine — it is easier to understand that the current poverty of their heirs is due not to something passed along, but precisely to something not passed along, as a consequence of that original loss. It is, effectively, about disinheritance.

None of this is to fall into the Pelagian view that Augustine was combatting at Carthage, and in which I think he went too far in his effort to find a mechanism for the workings of original sin as a substantial inheritance. I think ordinary life, and again the Scriptural text, reveal that human beings tend to sin by nature. The myth tells us that the primal couple commit the original sin while they are in Paradise. The sin is in their heart before it is in their hands. If they were naturally incapable of sin, they could not have done so; so there must have been in them a natural drive to the self (a theme beloved of Augustine, and surprising that he missed in his effort to pin all this down) is there from the beginning. It was the assertion of the human self, in its drive to become self-sufficient and independent of all else ("like God"), that it lost the likeness it already had, and the fellowship with God that allowed it access to immortal life in God's presence.

— Tobias Stanislas Haller BSG

Early Christian Socialism?

There's a meme going around the net quoting the 13th chapter of C S Lewis’ Mere Christianity, in which he observes that by economic standards and practice one would call the early Christian movement “Leftist.” The meme itself raised some suspicion as to accuracy, but Lewis did indeed make that observation.

And it is a trivial observation for anyone whose hackles are not immediately raised by anything even remotely pink, let alone red. Because by any objective standard, the Christian community described early in the Book of Acts resembles nothing so much as a religiously inspired commune, living with all goods in common, and shared ideology concerning wealth and community.

And like all communes, it didn't last. Due to the human desire for self-preservation, and the tendency for even egalitarian systems to come to rely on volunteers who edge into being professional leaders, almost all communes eventually evolve into capitalist oligarchies or corrupt dictatorships, or simply decline to the point of extinction as they try to remain faithful to their original idealistic vision.

That being said, I remain a committed Christian Socialist, not because I believe such a regime will come to pass, but because I believe even the tentative approach to it is better than the capitalist vision, and far better than the fascist alternatives.

— Tobias Stanislas Haller

Love and Envy

Proper 7b 2024 • Church of the Advent, Baltimore • Tobias Stanislas Haller BSG 

Saul was afraid of David ...

Today’s reading from First Samuel shows us the stark difference between two human emotions: love and envy. Two weeks ago we heard Samuel’s warning that having a king was a bad idea; last week we saw Saul turning bad, and Samuel sent to find a new king, David. And today we see what happened after David’s defeat of Goliath.

Saul can’t help but admire David, who becomes one of his trusted warriors. He sends him out to battle over and over, and David always returns victorious — so much so that people honor him over Saul — and their cheers are sour in Saul’s ears. Even the music of David’s harp becomes an annoyance to Saul. Even his presence arouses Saul to mayhem, trying to spear him as he plays.

Here we see green-eyed envy at its worst, its most bitter and soul-destroying. Pride is often classed as the worst sin, but isn’t envy just a form of wounded pride? And like wild animals, it is dangerous when wounded. As God’s favor drains from Saul to rest on David, his envious anger grows.

+ + +

So there’s your envy! what about love? We see love in Saul’s family too — in his son Jonathan, who, as soon as he sets eyes on David, feels his heart melt as if — as Scripture puts it — his own soul is bound to David, and he loves him as his own soul and makes a covenant with him. That is powerful language, perhaps embarrassingly so for the Greeks who left these verse out when they translated the Hebrew Scriptures into Greek. Yet there it stands, the beginning of what some have called the greatest love story in the Bible. As one of the earliest Rabbinic texts (Mishnah Pirke Avot, 5:16) proclaims, “When a love depends on something, when that thing passes away, the love passes away; but when a love does not depend on anything, it lasts for ever. What is the love that passes away? The love of Amnon and Tamar. And the love that does not pass away? The love of David and Jonathan.” 

And envy comes into this, too — for Saul knows that his son has taken a liking to David — to put it mildly. In succeeding chapters Saul will curse Jonathan on account of David, and even try to kill him. Saul and Jonathan have become rivals (at least in Saul’s mind) for David’s love and loyalty.

Of course, it starts before David kills Goliath — though we didn’t hear that part of the account — but it tells us a bit about what bothers Saul. When David first volunteered to fight Goliath, Saul tried to dress him up in his own armor, and gave him his sword. But they don’t fit — Scripture tells us Saul is a big guy, head and shoulders above everyone else, but David is probably no more than sixteen. So he rejects Saul’s oversize armor — and the sword too big for him to swing.

But after David kills Goliath with his slingshot, Jonathan — also about David’s age — is so taken with David that he strips off his robe and armor, and gives them to David, along with his sword, his bow, and his belt. Imagine how Saul felt at that moment: David rejected him, and chose his son instead — and his son chooses David! And green-eyed envy stirs up and Saul begins to give in to the Dark Side, even against his own son. (Aren’t you glad Fathers’ Day was last week!)

+ + +

Such is the force of envy. But while envy is a powerful force it cannot do what love can do. For even in the midst of this envious struggle, love is there, conquering all, as the Roman poet said.

Think for a moment, about how much the world is driven by these two engines, love and envy. Think how much they resemble so many of the other pairs of joys and pains, of what builds up and what tears down; and how the building-up always seems to triumph in the end. The Apostle Paul writes to the Corinthians about these conflicting forces, and how love manages to triumph. Envy may raise obstacles, but love will knock them down, or pass right through them: for all the forces of affliction, hardship, calamity, beating, imprisonment, riot, labor, sleepless nights and hunger — all of these are overcome by purity, knowledge, patience, kindness, holiness, love, truth, and the power of God. All of this is better armor than a mere sword, bow and belt. These are the triumphant weapons of righteousness for those inspired with the love of God. All it takes is opening the doors of the heart — turning away from the dark side of envy and embracing the light of love.

+ + +

For with God, and through the love of God, even the seemingly impossible is possible. With God, as the Apostle testifies, the one treated as an imposter is the one who tells the truth; the one undocumented and unknown is the chief witness; the one threatened with death and dying is revealed to be alive and well; the sorrowful one is lifted up with joy; the one with nothing is able to provide everything. And, as the Gospel reminds us, the one asleep in the stern of the boat can quell the storm of wind and sea.

We will hear more of Saul and Jonathan and David in coming weeks — it ends sadly for all three — though David becomes a great king; — not perfect, by any means — we’ll hear about that as well — but devoted to God even when he fails, even when he himself gives in to envy, to have what another possesses; even when he stoops to a criminal conspiracy worthy of punishment.

But for now, we have three witnesses before us: we have young David — this teenager fresh from his victories, clothed in the kit of another young soldier — one who loves him as he loves his own soul — envied by Saul, yet adored by the people. We have the Apostle, shaming the haughty Corinthians by his own humility and open-handed forgiveness. And we have Jesus himself, as he triumphs over sea and wind, calming the storm and strife — not with a shout — but with a gentle word of peace. ✠