The Reformation restored the holistic nature of faith to include both knowledge and trust in keeping with the organic unity of the whole person and our union with the whole Christ as taught in Scripture. These two elements, however, were again pulled apart more and more under the stress of Enlightenment thinking and criticisms. Faith was positioned on the chopping block of human autonomy which rushed down upon it like a guillotine. Despite attempts to save it, its lifeblood was emptied. True restoration would again be found only in reformation, in renouncing the absolute freedom of man and returning to God’s revelation in Scripture.

A New Dualism: Cold Orthodoxy and Pietism

Herman Bavinck provides a helpful summary of the dichotomy that resulted,

On the one hand, a cold orthodoxy emerged that interpreted faith only in terms of doctrine, and on the other hand, a Pietism that valued devoutness above truth. This dualism in religion, church, and theology was strengthened by a twofold orientation of the newer philosophy, that, after Descartes and Bacon, eventually ended up in dogmatism and empiricism (“Philosophy of Religion (Faith),” 26).

This new dualism sat uncomfortably with many—but was a new reconciliation even possible within the system of Enlightenment thinking? The attempted solution by Immanuel Kant would argue, No.

Kant’s epistemology was especially influenced by the criticism of David Hume, so that “he turned his back on dogmatism and became convinced that rationalism in theology and metaphysics was untenable” (27). In turn, he divided reality into two worlds, the noumena and the phenomena. The noumena consisted of things as they are in themselves, while the phenomena, in distinction, included things as they are knowable by the senses. Kant argued that genuine scholarship and science was only possible in the world of the phenomena since it alone is accessible to the human mind. The transcendental and supernatural world of the noumena was inaccessible and all proofs adduced for it end up in an antinomy.

Kant’s (Unsuccessful) Attempt to Save Faith

But Kant did not want to surrender the supernatural, nor the concept of faith, yet he knew neither could rest on cogent reasons and proofs of rationalism. He needed another, firmer foundation, which he discovered in the writings of Rousseau, the father of Romanticism. Rousseau, conscious of the sharp contrast between nature and culture of his time, “became the enthusiastic preacher of the gospel of nature.” Bavinck goes on,

In [Rousseau’s] teaching about society and state, education and religion, he turned from the corrupt culture of his time to the truth and simplicity of nature. In all areas, the historical had to make room for what was originally given, [abandoning] society for innocent nature, positive Christianity for natural religion, the false reasons of the mind for the impulse of feeling. Certainty about the truths of religion was also to be found in feeling. … For him the final certainty of these truths of the faith [including the existence of God] are not to be found in the theoretical but in the practical sphere, in the original and immediate witness of feeling that is deeper and much more reliable than the reasoning mind. Each person is assured in his heart about a supersensory world (27).

This idea would have a tremendous influence on the philosophy of Kant (and the theology of feeling of Schleiermacher among others). Specifically what Kant learned from Rousseau was that “religious truths possess a different certainty for people than truths of the mind or reason, of science or philosophy.” Religion and morality contain their own kind of certainty, that is, a certainty that is distinct from the certainty of natural phenomena. With this being the case, “metaphysics does not need to provide all kinds of proofs for God’s existence, the freedom of the will, and the immortality of the soul. Moreover, science could then freely go its own way and be bound only by its own character and laws” (28). In short, the certainty of the noumena (religion) rests on a different foundation than the certainty of the phenomena (science). Herein is the dualism of Kant’s philosophy: there are two, separate foundations of a two-story reality constructed of the noumena and the phenomena.

Kant, however, does not adopt Rousseau’s idea that the foundation of the noumena is feeling; instead, he posits the foundation as “practical reason, the moral nature of man. In his conscience, man feels himself bound to a categorical, unconditional, absolute imperative” (28). The certainty of the world of the noumena rests on the foundation of man’s morality as he finds in himself the “thou shalt” of the moral law, which transcends all other powers in nature. From here, Kant argues, man can find certainty of other noumena realities: the freedom of his will, the immortality of the soul, and the existence of God.

If this moral world order is to be true reality and not an illusion, and if it is to triumph one day over all that is great and strong and mighty in this world, then man must be free in his actions and his soul must be immortal to receive his reward in the hereafter, and God must exist in order to reconcile in eternal harmony the terrible opposites between virtue and luck that exist on earth. These are not conclusions legitimately deduced from preceding scientific premises, but they are postulates put forth by man according to his moral nature. He cannot prove, he cannot demonstrate, that it is all true, but he is subjectively certain of it; he believes and acts as if it were true; he does not know, but he believes, and he has moral grounds for his belief” (28).

The Destruction of Faith in Kant, Schleiermacher and Hegel

At this point, we have come far afield from the Reformation and biblical view of faith as including both knowledge and trust in an organic unity. Kant sought a safer place for faith by relinquishing all elements of knowledge about divine truth and relocating it solely to a supernatural order, but, ironically, in so doing he destroyed it.

Schleiermacher will move in a similar direction in theology, having basically the same epistemological commitments as Kant, but instead of a moral/ethical direction, he will move toward the mystical sense of absolute feeling. In distinction from Kant, Schleiermacher “held that willing and acting and knowing do not disclose the supersensible world, because this willing also moves in opposites and never reaches unity. This unity, enjoyed only in feeling, which precedes thinking and willing and is completely independent of absolute power” (29).

In the opposite direction of both Kant (ethical) and Schleiermacher (mystical) was the German Idealist, Hegel (speculative/rationalism). He elevated reason to a cosmic principle with the progress of history being the absolute Spirit or Mind realizing itself. Religion, then, is merely a developmental stage in the movement of absolute thought in history.

Van Til’s Critique of Kant

Cornelius Van Til wrote, “If Kant’s position were to be retained, both knowledge and faith would be destroyed.” That is, not only does Kant fail to arrive at any true knowledge in the realm of the noumena by way of practical reason and faith, but equally so he fails to arrive at any true knowledge in the realm of the phenomena by way of theoretical reason. Despite his desire to salvage God, morality, and all else that belongs to the noumena, he makes wreckage of the noumena along with the phenomena. After totaling both realms on the speedway of human autonomy, Kant is left with an irreparable theory of knowledge.

The reason for this totalizing failure is his starting point in man, rather than in God’s revelation. Kant imprisoned God to the noumena and made the link between the noumena and phenomena not God’s self-revelation but man’s sense of morality. Accordingly, God is ignorant of the phenomena and man is enthroned over the natural world as an autonomous interpreter of the facts of the phenomena. Both God and the world are man-contained, dependent on him and relative to him. Man does not think God’s thoughts after him, that is, in accordance with and submission to the comprehensive knowledge of God, but comes to the natural world as if it was comprised of uninterpreted, brute facts. Man has therefore replaced God in Kant’s theory as the world’s primary interpreter and definer. Van Til writes,

Knowledge and faith are not contradictories but complementaries. Kant did not make room for faith, because he destroyed the God on whom alone faith is to be fixed. It is true of course, that Kant spoke of a God as possibly existing. This God, however, could not be more than a finite God, since he at least did not have, or did not need to have, original knowledge of the phenomenal world. Kant thought that man could get along without God in the matter of scientific knowledge. It is thus that the representational principle which we saw to be the heart of the Christian theistic theory of knowledge is set aside. If man knows certain facts whether or not God knows these facts, as would be the case if the Kantian position were true, man’s knowledge would be done away with. Whatever sort of God may remain, on Kant’s view, he is not the supreme interpretive category of human experience (A Survey of Christian Epistemology, 109; see esp. pp. 106-13 for his full critique).

No One Can Serve Two Masters

On the basis of God’s self-revelation in Scripture, Bavinck counters the dualism of Kantian philosophy by returning to the central unity in man. He argues that Kant’s ethicisim, Schleiermacher’s mysticism and Hegel’s rationalism suffer from “a significant one-sidedness” and “diminish man’s universal character.” These anti-theistic systems divide man in two and separate what belongs together. The result is that true religion is lost since it is reduced to either moral duty or aesthetic emotion or a philosophic view. “But according to the Christian, confession [sic] religion is other than and higher than all those views; religion must not just be something in one’s life, but everything. Jesus demands that we love God with all our heart, all our soul, and all our strength. In our thinking and living, there can be no division between God and the world, between religion and culture; no one can serve two masters” (29).

The more I read orthodox theology, the more apparent it becomes that a fundamental tenet of Christian belief is either embraced or ignored (to various degrees) by any given author. For me, this choice or tendency on the part of the author has dramatic implications for the truth of what he or she says. That tenet is this: Scripture is the very speech of God.

Most conservative Christians are quick to grant the validity of this tenet and would even affirm its centrality to our thinking about God. But I find in some orthodox theology an inconsistent working out of this tenet in the areas of metaphysics, epistemology, and language. This is not the place to pose and proliferate on theoretical questions concerning how Scripture as the speech of God influences our understanding of the nature of reality, or human thought, or language—those are oceans that even the best theologians that I have read have trouble navigating. I myself have only just begun exploring these issues and hope, by God’s grace, to write about them in the future. But I would at least suggest that confessional, orthodox theologians ask themselves a simple question when they begin thinking about a particular doctrine or body of thought in the above areas: What does God himself say about X in Scripture? Put differently, what does God’s speech tell us about his own nature and the nature of reality (metaphysics), how we acquire knowledge of him and the world that he has made (epistemology), and how our communicative behavior (language) functions to reveal both our epistemology and metaphysic? I believe that meditating on Scripture as the speech of God is absolutely critical in answering these questions. In the paragraphs that follow, I hope to explain why.

To begin with, if the Bible is the speech of God, it is the highest, most trustworthy, and most illuminating authority we have—on everything. In my understanding, that is why the Reformers were so adamant about the maxim sola Scriptura. Scripture alone is sufficient for us because Scripture alone is the speech of God—the verbal revelation of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit in the medium of human language. Given this fundamental belief of Reformed theology, I cannot help but be puzzled as to why some theologians would first turn to a “respectable” figure in the history of human thought when they begin thinking about metaphysics, epistemology, or language—especially a figure outside the Christian tradition. Plato is not God, and neither is Aristotle, or Locke, or Wittgenstein. And yet the inanity of the previous sentence does not keep some theologians from turning to such figures first (sometimes through an intermediary such as Aquinas) when questions of metaphysics arise, for instance.

Now, let me be careful. I do not want to downplay the value of these thinkers and others when it comes to “big questions” of philosophy and theology. I did my undergraduate work at a liberal arts institution. I have benefited greatly from reading as widely as I can. To reaffirm the words Carl Trueman once uttered, echoing many before him, we learn a great deal not from reading only those who agree with us, but from reading those who disagree with us, those who differ from us. So, this is not a question of whether great figures in the history of human thought should be mined for their insight. It is a question of where Christian theologians are to begin. What will be their foundation for inquiry? When the question is put that way, I cannot help wondering, why do we not always begin by asking what God himself has to say about metaphysics, about the nature of human knowledge, and about language? Why not always begin with the speech of God in Scripture?

The inspiring thing about these questions is that when we do begin with the speech of God, I find that the whole world—our perception of God and reality, as well as human knowledge—takes on a linguistic dimension. In other words, the very fact that the triune God speaks, as revealed in Scripture means that he has created, sustains, and governs everything by word. Should this not profoundly shape the areas of human thought mentioned above? Should we not have a metaphysic, epistemology, and view of language grounded in and shaped by God’s speech?

A Linguistic Metaphysic

Take metaphysics, for instance. Some might argue that Scripture does not have a metaphysic (at least, not a developed one as can be found in Aristotle’s Metaphysics). But I would contest this. I believe that Scripture has a metaphysic yet to be fully developed in the church, though some have certainly begun to explore this. Perhaps what people mean when they say that Scripture does not have a metaphysic is, “Scripture does not have a metaphysic that looks like other metaphysical theories in human history.” But should it? Would we not expect the speech of God to be clearly distinct—even relatively radical—as compared to merely human speech? Or perhaps people mean, “The purpose of Scripture is not to give us a view of metaphysics, but a clear exposition of what God has done in history to redeem his people.” I understand the sentiment behind that statement, but what about the words of 2 Timothy 3:16–17? “All Scripture is breathed out by God and profitable for teaching, for reproof, for correction, and for training in righteousness, that the man of God may be complete, equipped for every good work.” We would be hard pressed to teach anything—much less be “complete”—if God did not reveal the nature of reality to us. In other words, if the purpose of Scripture is to reveal what God has done in history for our salvation so that we may use this to teach others, how can we do so without having a basic view of reality that is itself dictated by God?

This has led me to believe that Scripture does (in fact, must) have a metaphysic. In fact, Scripture begins to lay this out for us in the first chapter of Genesis. The very first page of Scripture tells us that all of reality came into existence by God’s speech (Gen 1), and Scripture elsewhere reminds us that all things are held together by the eternal Word of the Father (John 1:1; Col 1:17; Heb 1:3), who stood behind God’s speech at creation. Scripture’s metaphysic is thus linguistic. All things exist and draw their nature from the language, the speech, of the triune God, which governs the world and guides it to the ends that he has set for it. It is the divine voice—the Father uttering the person of his Son in the power of his Spirit—that has created, sustains, and governs all things. God’s voice has the power to bring the world into being, to sustain it, and to melt it away. As the psalmist wrote, “The nations rage, the kingdoms totter; he utters his voice, the earth melts” (Ps 46:6).

This linguistic metaphysic, I believe, should be where theologians begin when they ask what something is, when they ask about the nature of reality. To ask what something is, biblically speaking, is to ask what purpose that thing serves in the spoken plan of God, as revealed in Scripture (God’s written speech). It is to ask what God’s speech has done to create it, sustain it, and direct it to his revealed ends. An apple, for instance, is not merely a piece of produce from the malus pumila tree. That might be true in the context of botanical science, but in the context of redemptive history, an apple is a life-sustaining gift from a garden-speaking God (Gen 1:12). It exists as a revelation of God’s gracious providence, as a means of sustaining God’s image-bearers as they work to steward the world (Gen 1:29). That understanding might not appear in the Latin, and it certainly will not appear in Aristotle, but that does not make it any less true—at least, not for the biblically minded theologian. To discern what something truly is, to understand the nature of the world in which we live, we must turn first to God’s speech in Scripture, not to the thought of a philosopher or even to that of another godly theologian. When we turn to God’s speech, we find a metaphysics of word. That metaphysic certainly does not resemble the neat categories of form and matter, substance and accidents, or potentiality and actuality. But, again, I ask, should it?

An Epistemology of Word

Epistemology has a similar foundation when we examine the speech of God in Scripture. Scripture reveals two things very plainly: (1) God has spoken into existence a world that everywhere “speaks” about him, i.e., offers revelation of God (Ps 19:1–3); and (2) God speaks directly with his people to guide them in paths of wisdom. The bedrock question of epistemology—what is truth and how do we know that something is true—is again based on the speech of God. God tells us what is true in his revelation. This is what Reformed theologians have come to call a revelational epistemology. It is an epistemology that stands firmly on the grounds that God speaks to reveal himself and to reveal what we can faithfully know about his world. So, when we turn to God’s speech, we find an epistemology of word.

Again, let me re-emphasize my point here. I am not saying that examining the thought of philosophers is a fruitless endeavor. Despite our fundamental disagreements with them, we can learn much from reading Plato’s Gorgias, or considering satirists such as Voltaire, or rationalists such as Leibniz, or empiricists such as Locke and Hume. But biblical theologians should never begin there. That is not their foundation. Their foundation is God’s speech in Scripture.

A Christian Philosophy of Language

Lastly, language likewise must be understood according to God’s speech. This is perhaps the most profound truth I have ever encountered and something I plan on studying for the rest of my life, and well into eternity. Language—what I have in another article (“Words for Communion”) defined as communion behavior—is not a human faculty; it is a divine disposition that has been gifted, with creaturely restraints, to God’s image bearers. Language is a behavior that allows for interpersonal communion. It is a behavior that God sees fit to use in infallibly revealing himself to us throughout history. It is a behavior that God calls us to take up in prayer. It is a behavior that God calls us to take up in worship. It is, in essence, a behavior that is at the heart of God’s very being and at the heart of our being as image bearers. A Christian philosophy of language begins with the Trinity—the speaking God we encounter on every page of Scripture—and moves from there to humanity.

Once more, it is not that we cannot learn something from Aristotle’s view of language (though his etymological discussions are humorous at times), or Wittgenstein’s notion of “language games,” or Austin’s speech-act theory, or Saussure’s structuralism, or Chomsky’s generative grammar, or Derrida’s deconstructionism. We can learn something from all of them even when we have deep disagreements. (I would argue here that Kenneth L. Pike’s language theory is a far more biblical and Trinitarian approach to language than most others, and is often left unconsidered in many discussions of language.) But the point is that we should not begin there. We begin with the speech of God. When we do, we find a view of language that is deeply personal and purposive according to the ends that God has declared for his creation in Scripture.

Conclusion

Now, I’m sure that to some academics what I’ve just said is a blend of naivety and fideism. Some might read this article and conclude that I am merely a biblicist who attempts to elevate himself over all other “thoughtful” human beings. I cannot control what others might think of my motives. But I know my own history. I know what is on my bookshelf and how I have been blessed by great thinkers of the past and present.

I also know that my God is a God who speaks. And that truth—the tenet that Scripture is the very speech of God—takes precedence over any thought that mankind could develop. We can interact with the thoughts of men, but we should not begin there. Once we do, we are in danger of pandering to something less than divine revelation. What we end up saying will be attractive to the world, and even to much of Christian academia these days, but will it be pure? Will it be something that aligns with the speech of God? Titus 1:15 says, “Everything is pure to those whose hearts are pure.” Theological “purity,” if we might call it that, is found only in adherence to the speech of God, a speech that has made our hearts pure, and a speech that should purify our thinking as well.

I am always edified when I read Van Til. I am also always challenged to conform my thinking to the Holy Scriptures and the Reformed faith. But I am not often surprised. That is a testament to the consistency of Van Til’s thought.

But I was recently surprised by Van Til while reading Common Grace and the Gospel.  There he writes:

As for “Old Princeton Theology” in the booklet on Common Grace, I have scarcely referred to it. Elsewhere I have expressed disagreement with its apologetics. In this I was following Kuyper. But never have I expressed a basic difference with its theology or its basic epistemology. (p. 177)

In context Van Til is defending himself against a number of charges leveled against him by William Masselink. Masselink asserts that Van Til disagrees with Old Princeton (among others such as Kuyper, Hepp, etc.) on the matter of epistemology. And here Van Til retorts that while he does disagree with Old Princeton on apologetics, he does not disagree “with its theology or its basic epistemology.”

This surprised me, in part, because I have always thought of Van Til’s criticism of Old Princeton as a criticism—first and foremost—of its epistemology. Of special interest here is what Van Til says about Warfield’s notion of “right reason” (for example in Defense of the Faith, 350). Is Van Til’s criticism against Warfield’s notion of how the unbeliever knows, or against his approach to the unbeliever apologetically? Or is it both?

I won’t try to answer that question here. But, it seems to me, it is awfully difficult to separate out Warfield’s idea of “right reason” (which seems to be an epistemological issue) from his apologetic method. Is Van Til being completely consistent with himself here?

Again, I raise the question not to answer it here. It seems the answer would be complex enough to warrant a longer study. Or, at the very least, it seems to warrant further discussion.

Now it’s your turn. Thoughts?

Following Kuyper and Bavinck, Van Til so emphasized the antithesis between believer and unbeliever that many have concluded that Van Til cuts the unbeliever off from any point of contact whatsoever. Van Til’s system has been caricatured as one in which the believer and unbeliever inhabit two different worlds from which they can only shout their own particular claims at each other, but can never engage in any meaningful way at any point.[1] The charge is that, for Van Til, the believer and unbeliever live in two antithetical, hermetically sealed, worlds.

But that is only a caricature of Van Til’s thought. For instance, he says in Common Grace and the Gospel:

Metaphysically, both parties have all things in common, while epistemologically they have nothing in common. (p. 9).

The believer and the unbeliever both inhabit the same creation. Both stand in God’s world. Both are recipients of God’s self-disclosure “in the things that have been made” (Romans 1:20). Furthermore, both the believer and unbeliever bear the imago dei. As such their conscience, informed by the “works of the law written on their hearts,” bears witness against all people of their sin and rebellion (Romans 2:15). In other words, when an unbeliever becomes a believer it is not as if he metaphysically becomes something other than what he was before. Rather, his covenantal status has changed from a child of wrath to a child of the Father. And with the transforming work of the Spirit, who works faith in the unbeliever-become-believer, we have received “the Spirit who is from God, that we might understand the things freely given us by God” (1 Corinthians 2:12).[2]

So, not only is the covenantal status of the believer antithetical to that of the unbeliever, but so is his whole way of thinking. The believer, alone, has the mind of Christ (1 Cor. 2:16). It is true the believer still has indwelling sin, and so his mind needs to be progressively transformed (Romans 12:2). Nevertheless, the believer no longer knows God, the world, or himself in exactly the same way he did before the regenerating work of the Spirit. In fact, it is not just a matter of the believer thinking better, but he thinks differently now that he seeks to “think God’s thoughts after him.” In other words, the manner in which the believer knows is not quantitatively different than the unbeliever (the unbeliever may know a whole lot more than the believer about science, math, history, or even the Bible), but rather the difference is qualitative. The unbeliever cannot think truly about anything (because all his thoughts are darkened and informed by rebellion against the Creator). He has no capacity for true thinking about the world, himself, or God. Only the believer can think truly about the world, himself, and God. Of course, that does not mean the unbeliever cannot make a valid calculation (he can add two plus two), but he cannot think truly (in a way that takes “every thought captive to the obedience of Christ,” 2 Cor. 10:5) about this valid calculation.

It is in this sense that Van Til can say that the believer and unbeliever have nothing in common epistemologically. At the same time, every area of life becomes a potential point of contact with the unbeliever because both live in God’s world as his creatures. This, of course, makes evangelism and apologetics both imperative and possible.

Finally, now with an eye toward Barth, there are significant ontological and epistemological differences between Van Til and Barth which can be pointed up over the issue of the point of contact. Barth denies a point of contact, but Van Til affirms it. The question is: why? Answer that question and you are well on your way toward understanding the foundational difference between the two thinkers. And here is a hint for my Barthian friends: the difference is not because Van Til adopts an analogia entis metaphysic. In fact, he does not. And that will be an issue to address in a future blog post. Stay tuned!

[1] See John Warwick Montgomery, “Once Upon an Apriori,” in ed. E.R. Geehan Jerusalem and Athens: Critical Discussions on the Philosophy and Apologetics of Cornelius Van Til (Nutley, NJ: P&R, 1971), 380-92.

[2] See the very helpful exegetical comments on this verse in Richard B. Gaffin, Jr., “Some Epistemological Reflections on 1 Cor 2:6-16,” in Westminster Theological Journal 57:1 (1995), 103ff.

On October 31st, 1517, Martin Luther nailed his ninety-five theses to the church door in Wittenberg. These were dark, dark days; the gospel had been shackled by the superstitions and idolatries of the Roman Catholic Church and consigned to her dungeon where its light was hidden from the world. But Luther’s action that day would initiate its emancipation by sparking the Protestant Reformation. The Reformers rescued the gospel from Rome’s dungeon and brought it to the hilltops from where its light could again emanate as a beacon of salvation for all to see. To remember this day in the history of Christ’s church, brothers from various Reformed denominations (OPC, URCNA, RCUS, RCNZ, RPCNA) have contributed articles on each of the five solas of the Reformation: sola scriptura, sola fide, sola gratia, solus Christus, and soli Deo gloria. Together they form the five-fold light of the gospel that overcomes the darkness.

– Daniel Ragusa

We Are All Epistemologists

The question couldn’t be more straightforward. But despite the disarming nature of its apparent simplicity, it has proven to be one of the most challenging questions human beings have ever endeavored to answer. The answers put forward, by philosophers and poets alike, couldn’t be more varied, more contradictory, more labyrinthine in complexity.

How do you know what you think you know?

On what basis do we have any confidence that the knowledge we claim as unassailably true has any point of contact with reality? We human beings have no problem with the “unassailably true” part. That observation is as empirically verifiable as you could possibly desire. Scroll through Facebook for thirty seconds on any given day and come to the conclusion that people don’t simply take for granted the inviolable veracity of their predications! Take a walk down the street, talk to a random sampling of people about the world, about themselves, about humanity, about God. Invariably, they will repeatedly appeal to a body of knowledge, the truthfulness of which they will take utterly for granted. We all do it.

But there’s a rub, isn’t there? The knowledge that we so blithely assume to be unassailably true—how do we know that it has real, vital contact with reality? It is that question, that conundrum, that has, in equal parts, both fascinated and infuriated thinking men and women from time immemorial. And for all the attempts of modern philosophy to argue to the contrary, it is a matter of deeply intuitive settledness in the human heart that truth has a universal character, i.e. that truth for me must also be truth for you, that truth is not ultimately a purely subjective construct de mente singulorum.

But where does this truth come from? What validates our truth claims as possessing a vital point of contact with reality? By what standard do we then discriminate between truth and error, knowledge and falsity?

These are all questions that have been taken up by philosophers under the discipline of epistemology, the study of (logos) knowledge (episteme). And appealing to our observations thus far, we can say with ease that we are all epistemologists. There is not a living, breathing man or woman (Or child! My children—five, four, and two—all readily prove this on a daily basis) for whom the definition, nature, and limits of knowledge are not of intimate concern. And more often than not, we simply bypass these questions by assuming epistemological certainty concerning the knowledge we believe we possess. But do we actually have grounds for epistemological certainty? Is epistemological certainty possible? From where does it come?! As we contemplate the most important questions of life concerning ourselves, the universe—concerning God—how do we lay our heads on our pillows at night at peace that we have real knowledge concerning reality as it really is.

A Revelational Epistemology

The doctrine of sola scriptura (“Scripture alone”) is theological shorthand for what might otherwise be called (and has been called) a revelational epistemology. For all of the discussion that the doctrine of sola scriptura will deservedly receive Reformation Day 2016, the goal of this brief meditation is to focus on the Scriptures as the sole ground of the believer’s epistemological certainty. And, therefore, the fulfillment of the epistemological ideal after which all humanity strives and yearns.

The doctrine of sola scriptura presents the nature of our epistemic conundrum with a beautiful, but perilous, clarity (depending on how one reacts to its implications). Human beings ultimately have two choices and two choices only. We either receive the self-authenticating revelation of God as contained in the Scriptures of the Old and New Testaments as the one and only key to human knowledge that comports with reality—or we remain enslaved to epistemological darkness.

To illustrate, imagine a labyrinth. What is the implicit invitation of the labyrinth if not to discover the path leading to final escape? But this labyrinth is different. It promises that which it does not possess and cannot yield. So it is with every pursuit of ultimate knowledge and meaning that is not grounded in Scripture alone. All unbelieving epistemologies bid us escape a labyrinth that is, by definition, inescapable. It is inescapable because it is the finite mind trapped within itself, with no transcendent vantage point from which to even evaluate, let alone correct, its own deficiencies.

But does this stop us from trying? No! For in the heart of man there is an equally inescapable notion that the possibility of escape exists. Problem being, of course, that we invariably seek this escape presupposing that our reason—fallen and finite—will lead us to freedom. And just like the old myth, every would-be philosopher believes himself to possess Ariadne’s thread and so fancies himself the long-awaited guide to lead us out of the perilous labyrinth of our epistemological conundrum. But again, with no recourse except to human reason—as fallen as it is finite—every postulated escape proves a delusion, just as the Minotaur rounds the corner and we find ourselves hemmed in on every side with our backs against the wall.

What, then, is the Christian’s escape? When the darkness of our noetic condition seems to extinguish all light, what hope could there ever be? The Son of God bears testimony to the blessed way of escape. “So Jesus said to the Jews who had believed him, ‘If you abide in my word, you are truly my disciples, and you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free’” (Jn. 8:32). What is this truth about which Jesus speaks?! He further describes and defines it as the passage unfolds. Verse 37—My word. Verse 38—that which I have seen from My Father. Verse 40—the truth that I heard from My Father. Verse 43, again—My word. Verses 45 and 46, again—the truth. Verse 47—the words of God. And all this comes to a climactic pitch in John 17 when Jesus prays thus for His people—“‘Sanctify them in the truth; your word is truth’” (Jn. 17:17).

The Word of God is our escape. The Word of God is truth. And the Lord Jesus Christ, the Word of God incarnate, is the One who rescues us from our epistemological darkness. “My sheep hear My voice, and I know them, and they follow Me” (Jn. 10:27). That is why Jesus’ voice is so precious to those who trust in Him! Because the alternative is utter darkness. The Spirit of God has illumined the eyes of our hearts to embrace the Word of God (Eph. 1:17-19). And by that same Word, the Spirit has deeply impressed upon our hearts that to follow the voice of strangers (Jn. 10:5) is to walk the path of destruction. Clinging to Christ by faith, we have that same Spirit-wrought instinct that we see exhibited by Peter—“So Jesus said to the twelve, ‘Do you want to go away as well?’ Simon Peter answered him, ‘Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life, and we have believed, and have come to know, that you are the Holy One of God’” (Jn. 6:67-69).

All other voices will betray us. All other paths inexorably proceed only from darkness to darkness. Such is the end of every epistemological pursuit that appeals to human reason as its ultimate point of reference. In whatever language it is clothed, with whatever degree of sophistication it presents itself—it is a maze with no solution, a labyrinth of constant flux and the infinite regress of endless obfuscation, where every supposed solution plays out to yet another dead end. Either the Lord Jesus leads us out by Word and Spirit, or we remain in darkness—for it is only in His light that we see light (Ps. 36:9). Sola scriptura is the Spirit-wrought cry of the redeemed heart—“Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life.”

From the Mouth of God

Recall the striking language that Christ used in spiritual combat against the devil, “‘It is written, ‘Man shall not live by bread alone, but by every word that proceeds from the mouth of God’” (Matt. 4:4). Our Savior here is speaking about the Scriptures by quoting the Scriptures speaking about the Scriptures! The quote comes, of course, from Deuteronomy chapter 8, verse 3, “… man shall not live by bread alone; but man lives by every word that proceeds from the mouth of the Lord.”

Should this not make us tremble? The inscripturated Word of God constitutes the very mouth of God by which He speaks His word and reveals His will.[1] As the Apostle Paul likewise testifies, “All Scripture is given by inspiration of God” (2 Tim. 3:16). And the word here translated as “inspiration” is, of course, that profound and evocative Paulinism—θεόπνευστος, God-breathed. What a striking anthropomorphism! That the Bible is Almighty God Himself—Father, Son, and Holy Spirit—opening His mouth and breathing out a divine revelation perfectly accommodated to our redeemed, finite capacities.[2]

One beautiful implication of this is that we ought never to separate the doctrines of inspiration and authority. They are two sides of the same coin. Why are the Scriptures authoritative? Because they proceed from the mouth of God! And what else can we call that which proceeds from the mouth of God but authoritative—and that in the most ultimate, comprehensive, and exhaustive of senses!

A simple, but shattering truth. If man would know God, God must reveal Himself. And He has done so. God has opened His mouth and spoken. And this Word bears all the intrinsic authority of the divine being. Consider this quote from William Whitaker,

Scripture has for its author God Himself; from whom it first proceeded and came forth. Therefore the authority of Scripture may be proved from the Author Himself, since the authority of God Himself shines forth in it. 2 Tim. 3:16, the whole Scripture is called theopneustos.[3]

And following Whitaker, the beautiful creedal formulation of this truth from the Westminster Confession of Faith, chapter 1

The authority of the Holy Scripture, for which it ought to be believed, and obeyed, dependeth not upon the testimony of any man, or Church; but wholly upon God (who is truth itself) the author thereof: and therefore it is to be received, because it is the Word of God.[4]

Sola Scriptura, Spiritual Warfare, and the Voice of a Stranger

Should it surprise us that again and again throughout church history the doctrine of sola scriptura has proved a spiritual battleground? No, it shouldn’t. Point in fact, the doctrine of sola scriptura has been a spiritual battleground from the beginning. “Has God indeed said, ‘You shall not eat of every tree of the garden?’” From the beginning (Gen. 3:1-7; Jn. 8:44), Satan has been most eager to cast doubt upon the Word of God and thus cast doubt upon the very character of God. His is the original “voice of the stranger” (Jn. 10:5). And as Genesis chapter 3 unfolds the anatomy of temptation, what we find is that at the base of all the evil one’s temptations there is this basic goal and desire—to cause us to waver and weaken concerning the authority and the sufficiency of God’s Word. And when Adam chose to interpret reality according to the word of the serpent, over the Word of God, so fell all of humanity—descending from Adam by natural generation (Rom. 5:12-18; 1 Cor. 15:21-22)—into epistemological slavery and darkness (Jn. 8:37-47; Rom. 1:18-23; 1 Cor. 1:18-25).

But when Satan comes to attack the Second Adam (Matt. 4:1-11), what happens?! When Satan seeks to tempt Christ away from the Word of God, when Satan seeks to impugn the character of God by misusing and twisting His Word—how does our Savior respond? Does He capitulate? Praise be to God—no! He stands firm. He wields the sword of the Spirit to hew down the blasphemous insinuations of the enemy. And at the very point at which Adam fell—Christ prevailed. At the very point at which we all fall, inheriting from Adam the same corruption of nature—Christ prevailed. “It is written—it is written—it is written.”

It is with great pastoral wisdom, then, that the Westminster Divines speak to us about “the corruption of the flesh, and the malice of Satan and of the world.”[5] Satan’s tactics haven’t changed. He still comes to us, appealing to the flesh and appealing to the rebellious streak that yet remains in our hearts—“Has God actually said?!” Let us be strong in the Lord and in the strength of His might (Eph. 6:10). And following our Savior, being conformed to His image from one degree of glory to another (2 Cor. 3:18), let us pick up the sword of the Spirit, which is the Word of God (Eph. 6:17)—and let us wield it to His glory.

We need never be intimidated by the boasting of the world in their epistemological poverty. This divine deposit (the 66 books inspired books of the New Covenant canon) constitutes God’s sufficient and final revelation—God’s last days speech-in-Son (Heb. 1:1-2). And praise be to the Lord—it contains everything that we need to know Him, to believe in Him, to be reconciled to Him, to know His will, to please Him, and to proclaim Him to the world.

The Crux of the Matter

We cannot arrive at the crux of the matter in words more clear, perceptive, and earthy than those of Cornelius Van Til,

We cannot choose epistemologies as we choose hats. Such would be the case if it had been once for all established that the whole thing is but a matter of taste. But that exactly what has not been established. That is exactly the point in dispute.[6]

The question is not whether or not we have an epistemology. The question is what kind of epistemology do we have and whether that epistemology leads us to the green pastures and still waters of God’s self-authenticating Word, or to yet another dead end in the serpentine labyrinth of unbelief. The doctrine of sola scriptura is the clarion call of the divine revelation that the Scriptures alone constitute the only ground by which humanity might come to a true knowledge of itself, of the universe, and of our God.

We cannot do without the Scriptures; having them we need no other guide. We need this light to light our pathway; having it we may well dispense with any other. Are we making it the light to lighten our feet? Are we following it whithersoever it leads? Are we prepared to test all religious truth by it, while it is tested by none? Are we prepared to stand by it in all things on the principle that it is God’s Word and God will be true though every man be a liar?[7]

From Soli Deo Gloria to Sola Scriptura and Back Again

The series of articles on the five solas began with the end and now ends with the beginning. If the omega point of Reformed theology is soli Deo gloria, then the alpha point is sola scriptura. And as we bring this series to an end, let’s connect the dots and work now from the alpha back to the omega. After all, where does the Bible ultimately lead us? Does this God-breathed Book have a central message? Yes, it does. As the Son of God testifies, “‘You search the Scriptures because you think that in them you have eternal life; and it is they that bear witness about me, yet you refuse to come to me that you may have life.’”

The Scriptures are not themselves eternal life, as though black-and-white on a page could magically confer the grace of God. In the power of the Spirit, the Word of Christ leads us to the Word Christ.[8] As Geerhardus Vos wrote concerning the relationship between the Bible’s historical record and the Bible’s exalted Redeemer, “The Person is immanent in the facts, and the facts are the revelation of the Person.”[9] The Bible is a redemptive book, the product of God’s desire to save. The epistemological and the soteriological are bound together in the warm embrace of God’s redemptive purposes for humanity in and through Jesus Christ. And that warm Christological embrace cannot but propel the church toward the doxological.

When, in the power of the Spirit, we embrace by faith (sola fide) the testimony of the Scriptures (sola scriptura)—we are forever united to the Lord (solus Christos). And in Him what do we find but grace upon grace (sola gratia)? And beholding Him with unveiled face (2 Cor. 3:18) what do we see? His Glory. And as we delight and rejoice in the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ (2 Cor. 4:6)—what is our cry?

Oh, the depth of the riches both of the wisdom and knowledge of God! How unsearchable are His judgments and His ways past finding out!

‘For who has known the mind of the Lord?

Or who has become His counselor?’

‘Or who has first given to Him

And it shall be repaid to him?’

For of Him and through Him and to Him are all things, to whom be glory forever.

Amen.

Soli Deo Gloria.

For Further Study

• Listen to our discussion with Glen Clary on Zwingli, Sola Scriptura, and the Reformation of Christian Worship. You may also find his article “Ulrich Zwingli and the Swiss Anabaptists: Sola Scriptura and the Reformation of Christian Worship” in volume 6 of the Confessional Presbyterian Journal. Camden Bucey has also written on Zwingli’s view.
• See John Murray, “Reformation” and “The Crux of the Reformation” in volume 1 of Collected Writings of John Murray. In the first address he proposes and develops that “the Reformation was the reassertion of the whole counsel of God, to the refutation of error and display of the truth. Sola gratia and sola scriptura were its fundamental principles.”
• Cornelis Van Til, A Survey of Christian Epistemology and his chapter on Scripture in An Introduction to Systematic Theology.
• Sinclair Ferguson, From the Mouth of God.
• Thy Word is Still Truth: Essential Writings on the Doctrine of Scripture from the Reformation to Today.
• There are many helpful essays in the recent volume edited by D. A. Carson, The Enduring Authority of the Christian Scriptures.
• Richard Muller, Post-Reformation Reformed Dogmatics, vol. 2: Holy Scripture.

[1] Cf. the recently published and wonderful book by Sinclair Ferguson, From the Mouth of God.

[2] Cf. 1 Cor. 2:6-16. The Trinitarian foundations of sola scriptura (though space does not permit us to follow that thread) are radiant—Father, Son, and Spirit each intimately involved in the divine revelation (Opera Trinitatis ad extra sunt indivisa). Cf. also the penetrating article by Dr. Richard B. Gaffin, “Epistemological Reflections on 1 Cor. 2:6-16.”

[3] William Whitaker (1548-1595), Disputations, 3.3. Again, theopneustos is Greek for “God-breathed.”

[4] WCF I.4.

[5] WCF I.1.

[6] Van Til, Survey of Christian Epistemology, xiv.

[7] B.B. Warfield, Selected Shorter Writings, Vol. 2, 570-71.

[8] Consider the following epistemological insight from Edward Calamy, “There are two great Gifts that God hath given to His people: The Word Christ and the Word of Christ. Both are unspeakably great; but the first will do us no good without the second” (The Godly Man’s Ark, 7^th ed. [1672], 55).

[9] Geerhardus Vos, “Christian Faith and the Truthfulness of Bible History,” The Princeton Theological Review [1906] 4:289-305.

While ministering at the church in Corinth, Paul resolved to know nothing except Jesus Christ and him crucified (1 Cor. 2:2). The tactic sounds admirable and rings as worthy of imitation in the ear of the believer, but what exactly did it entail? What does knowledge of Jesus Christ and him crucified encompass? I want us to explore this in the context of 1 Corinthians 1:18-2:16, drawing primarily upon the insights of Herman Ridderbos in Paul: An Outline of His Theology and Richard B. Gaffin, Jr. in “Epistemological Reflections on 1 Corinthians 2:6-16.” This will be the first in a series of articles that will look to explain and apply Paul’s teaching on knowing Jesus Christ within his two-age eschatology.

Two-Age Eschatology, Huh? 

By “two-age eschatology” I simply have in mind Paul’s philosophy of history by which he divides all of history (past, present and future) into two comprehensive ages: (1) the present age and (2) the age to come. This two-age scheme is explicit in Ephesians 1:21 where Paul says Christ has been raised and seated “far above all rule and authority and power and dominion, and above every name that is named, not only in this age but also in the one to come.” 

Paul is clear throughout his letters that Jesus Christ has inaugurated and already entered into the age to come upon his resurrection from the dead (Rom. 1:3-4). This has a profound impact on believers who are united to Jesus Christ by faith, for it means that “in Christ” we too have already entered the age to come, at least in part (Eph. 2:6; Col. 3:1). It’s for this reason Paul can say that if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation (2 Cor. 5:17). This is further confirmed by the fact that Christ has poured out the Holy Spirit upon the church. The Spirit properly belongs to the age to come; he is the future breaking into, or better yet, invading, the present age. Vos writes, “The Spirit’s proper sphere is the future aeon; from thence he projects himself into the present, and becomes a prophecy of himself in his eschatological operations” (Pauline Eschatology, 165). This is also brought out when the Spirit is set in opposition to the powers of the present age, such as “the spirit of the world” (1 Cor. 2:12) or “the flesh” (Gal. 5:16ff).

With that said, when we speak about “eschatology” (which literally means, “last things”) we are referring to everything that properly belongs to the future age to come. In other words, if something is “eschatological,” it exists in the age to come. Hence we can speak about the eschatological Spirit, for example. And because the age to come has been inaugurated and we have already entered into it by means of our union with the resurrected Christ, we can also speak of an “inaugurated eschatology.” Much more can be said (and probably should be said) about these things, but hopefully this provides us with some clarity to move forward in our discussion of the knowledge of the eschatological Christ. (For more on this see Geerhardus Vos, The Pauline Eschatology.)

So the question before us in this first article is this: what does knowledge of Jesus Christ and him crucified encompass?

Is Paul Being Reductionistic?

You may have heard these words echoed at a Bible study as a sort of (probably well-meant) excuse to avoid considering difficult passages in Scripture or topics in theology. Someone might say, “It’s not worth wrestling over these obscure issues. We’re overcomplicating things. What really matters is simply knowing Jesus Christ and him crucified.” In this sense, to know nothing except Jesus Christ and him crucified is to find the lowest common denominator, the minimum that can be understood and agreed upon. According to this application, Paul would’ve reduced the content of his knowledge by knowing nothing except Jesus Christ and him crucified.

However, when we consider the context in which Paul writes and his two-age eschatology, which is made explicit in the passage (he mentions the “wisdom of this age” and “rulers of this age” in 2:6), we see that far from being reductionistic, Paul actually has in mind what is all-encompassing and cosmic in scope. We can get at this in two broad steps by first considering the knowledge of Christ within Paul’s two-age eschatology and then bringing the cosmic work of Christ to bear on it.

Knowing Nothing Except Eschatology

Paul says that the wisdom that he imparts is “not a wisdom of this age” (2:6). This implies that the wisdom belongs to another age, that is, the age to come; it is eschatological wisdom (see Gaffin, 21-22). We see further proof that this wisdom is eschatological in that it is imparted by Paul to τοῖς τελείοις, which is unfortunately translated by the ESV and NIV as “the mature.” It instead refers to those who have been “perfected,” not in a moral or ethical sense, but as having come to “participate in the fullness of Christ” (Ridderbos, 271). In other words, it refers to those who have an eschatological existence in Christ, namely, the church (2 Cor. 5:17). It is only to them that this eschatological wisdom is imparted.

What is the content of this eschatological wisdom? Earlier in 1:30 Paul said that Christ Jesus “became to us wisdom from God…” So when Paul goes on to write that he decided to know nothing except Jesus Christ and him crucified, he is speaking of the eschatological wisdom that belongs to the age to come. Jesus Christ and him crucified is the hidden wisdom of God that has now been revealed.

What becomes evident is that there is a wisdom that belongs to the age to come (received by the Spirit who is from God) and there is a wisdom that belongs to the present age (received from the spirit of the world), and these are in stark opposition to one another. Those who possess the wisdom of the present age, whether Jew or Gentile, find the wisdom of the age to come to be either a stumbling block or folly. (This antithesis of two sets of wisdom/knowledge will be developed in a subsequent article especially as it relates to apologetics, evangelism and the point of contact between the believer and unbeliever.)

In summary, when Paul says that he decided to know nothing except Jesus Christ and him crucified, what he means is that he rejected in toto the wisdom of this age and expounded only eschatological wisdom. That he rejected the wisdom of this age is evident when he writes, “I was with you in weakness and in fear and much trembling, and my speech and my message were not in plausible words of wisdom” (2:3-4). That he expounded the wisdom of the age to come only is clear by his “demonstration of the Spirit and of power” (2:4)—both of which are eschatological (see Gaffin, Resurrection and Redemption, 68-70). Paul resolved to know nothing except eschatology, that is, the all-encompassing knowledge that belongs to the age to come that has dawned in Christ. This eschatological knowledge is made available to us by the Spirit, who comprehends the thoughts of God, and by our having “the mind of Christ” (2:16).

The Cosmic Nature of “Christ-Eschatology”

Herman Ridderbos speaks of Paul’s eschatology as “Christ-eschatology.” This is helpful for at least two reasons. First, it keeps us from thinking of Paul’s eschatology in isolation from his Christology. Knowledge of Christ is not just a subset or category that makes up part of the eschatological wisdom; no, Christ is the eschatological wisdom of God.

Second, it helps us get at the all-encompassing and cosmic nature of the knowledge of “Jesus Christ and him crucified.” When Paul speaks of Christ “crucified,” we should recognize with Calvin that this is a synecdoche, that is, a part for the whole (see Institutes 2.16.13). It doesn’t exclude his resurrection, but actually entails it, along with the whole redemption complex that constitutes the gospel.

The center of [Paul’s] gospel (“of first importance”) is Christ’s death and resurrection in their significance as the fulfillment of Scripture (1 Cor. 15:3-4), entailing ultimately the soteriological-eschatological renewal of nothing less than the entire creation (Rom. 8:19-22; 2 Cor. 5:17). (Gaffin, 20n11)

Because God has created everything, nothing exists randomly, aimlessly or independently of his plan and goal for it. This means that if we are to know something truly and rightly, then we must see the impress of God’s plan upon it.[1] And what is God’s plan? Paul writes in Colossians 1:16 that it was by Christ “all things were created, in heaven and on earth, visible and invisible, whether thrones or dominions or rulers or authorities—all things were created through him and for him“ (see also Rom. 11:26; 1 Cor. 8:6; Heb. 2:10). Everything exists for Christ. Sin has sought to defy this, but through Christ, God has reconciled “to himself all things, whether on earth or in heaven, making peace by the blood of his cross” (Col. 1:19). This reconciliation is nothing less than a new creation (2 Cor. 5:16-19). Here is where we begin to feel the full force of the eschatological impact of knowing nothing except Jesus Christ and him crucified. The death and resurrection of Christ have an all-embracing, cosmic significance that is at the basis of all true knowledge.

Ridderbos puts it this way:

God in Christ has brought to fulfillment and will yet bring to fulfillment his man- and world- and history-encompassing redemptive work in a conclusive way. This all-embracing character of Paul’s eschatology and Christology come to the fore, as we shall see still further, in the epistles to the Ephesians and Colossians. But it forms the great presupposition of all of Paul’s preaching. For the Christ in whose death and resurrection the new aeon [or age] dawns is the Messiah of Israel (Rom. 1:2-4; 9:5), in whom God gathers and saves his people (2 Cor. 6:16ff.), and whom he has exalted and appointed Savior and Kyrios of all things (Phil. 2). … Paul proclaims Christ as the fulfillment of the promise of God to Abraham, as the seed in which all the families of the earth shall be blessed (Gal. 3:8, 16, 29), the eschatological bringer of salvation whose all-embracing significance must be understood in the light of prophecy (Rom. 15:9-12), the fulfillment of God’s redemptive counsel concerning the whole world and its future. (Ridderbos, 49-51)

Conclusion: Rightly Understanding Everything

So what does knowledge of Jesus Christ and him crucified encompass? Everything! There is not an inch of creation that the gospel of Jesus Christ does not have an eschatological impact on; it is as all-encompassing as the new creation and cosmic in its scope. To know Jesus Christ, then, is to know something fundamental about everything. “The saving revelation of God in Christ, taught by the Holy Spirit, is the indispensable key to rightly understanding God himself and, with that understanding, literally everything (panta) in his creation. Right knowledge is saving knowledge. Anything else, every other knowledge, no matter how operationally effective or functionally productive, is essentially misunderstanding” (Gaffin, 30). So then,

Let no one deceive himself. If anyone among you thinks that he is wise in this age, let him become a fool that he may become wise. For the wisdom of this world is folly with God. For it is written, “He catches the wise in their craftiness,” and again, “The Lord knows the thoughts of the wise, that they are futile.” So let no one boast in men. For all things are yours, whether Paul or Apollos or Cephas or the world or life or death or the present or the future—all are yours, and you are Christ’s, and Christ is God’s. (1 Cor. 3:18-23)

[1] Cornelius Van Til writes, “For the Christian system, knowledge consists in understanding the relation of any fact to God as revealed in Scripture. I know a fact truly to the extent that I understand the exact relation such a fact sustains to the plan of God. It is the plan of God that gives any fact meaning in terms of the plan of God. The whole meaning of any fact is exhausted by its position in and relation to the plan of God. This implies that every fact is related to every other fact. God’s plan is a unit. And it is this unity of the plan of God, founded as it is in the very being of God, that gives the unity that we look for between all the finite facts” (A Survey of Christian Epistemology, 6).