True to his premise, Buckley traces the peculiar character of modern Western atheism to the choices made by theistic philosophers in the early modern era. At the turn of the 17th century, Leonard Lessius, a Flemish Jesuit, wrote De providentia numinis (On Divine Providence) to combat atheism. Yet his attacks are not against any modern atheist (they are apparently too shrewd to announce their unbelief openly) but against the classical figures associated with atheistic belief.  As Lessius’ “atheists” are drawn from classical antiquity, so are his refuting arguments. This approach makes atheism primarily a philosophical, not a religious issue.  Another Jesuit, Marin Mersenne, likewise sought to combat present atheism along classical lines. He too excuses faith, but designs an argument for god upon ancient Epicurean and Neoplatonic lines. In the distinction between faith and reason, the battle against atheism is conducted by reason in the method of philosophy. Jesus and traditional theology scarcely appear, and will continue to play only a token role through the Enlightenment.

The two most pivotal intellectual figures of the early modern period are René Descartes, the founder of a Universal Mathematics, and Isaac Newton, the founder of a Universal Mechanics. Both were theists, and both insisted that the existence of god could be defended by reason alone. Rather, reason is the only justifiable foundation for theistic belief. Yet, the two offer different approaches. Descartes’s skepticism argues not from the world to god but from god to the world. God is necessary as the guarantor of human reason, and then as the connection between the mind and the external world. Since we must be indubitably sure of god’s existence, and since indubitable knowledge must be gained by the geometrical method, there is no place (or need) for revelation or personal experience to establish god’s existence.

Newton, however, takes the physical world for granted, and seeks an explanation of its predictability and order. God appears as a necessary postulate for the Newtonian universe to function as it should. Absolute time and absolute space must be necessary effects of god’s existence. He must be the one who formed great astronomical masses and determined the correct distance of the planets from the sun to ensure stable orbits. Further, Newton’s calculations revealed that the universe is not quite self-sustaining; god must periodically wind the clock to keep it from getting too out of time.

Some theologians jumped on the chance to develop the Cartesian or Newtonian philosophies into even more rigorous proofs. Nicholas Malebranche, a French priest, pressed Cartesian dualism to the limit. Since mind and body are separate substances, all sensation must be due to the direct intervention of god. The soul and god are more closely united than the soul and the body. Our idea of god is the idea of the infinite, which is not really an idea at all but the direct presence of god in the human consciousness. Samuel Clarke, an English philosopher of unorthodox Christianity, sought a Newtonian path to god. He argued from the non-necessity of matter to a necessary being. Then, “necessity requires immensity and immensity requires omnipresence” (184). Likewise, an examination of intelligence in the world leads us to an intelligent cause.

Thus, the stage is set for the atheism of Denis Diderot. Diderot did not begin an atheist, and in fact earlier in his life wrote proofs from design and order for the existence of god. However, during his research into the intellectual formation of the blind, Diderot uncovered the dark side of the argument from order. Order is not the only characteristic of the universe; there is also disorder. If god is invoked to explain order, what can explain the disorder? Dualism was not an acceptable answer for Diderot or any other early modern philosopher. Instead, Diderot sought a single principle capable of explaining both: matter. If matter is to be the explanatory principle, however, it cannot be as Newton suggest, mere inert bulk to which motion is added extrinsically. Rather, following Democritus’ atomic theory, matter must be imbued with its own motion and potentiality. As a seed contains within itself the entire organism which will follow, so all matter contains within itself its own dynamic principles, eternally in motion. Life can thus come from non-life through recombination, and the intelligible world can be understood as a higher echelon of development in matter.

Baron Paul Henri d’Holbach extended Diderot’s line of argumentation and systematized an atheist polemic against theistic belief in his groundbreaking work, Le Système de la nature ou des loix du monde physique et du monde moral (The System of Nature or the Laws of the Physical World and the Moral World). From the title one gleans d’Holbach’s proposition: nature, sufficiently examined and systematized, suffices to explain both physics and morals. The supernatural is reduced entirely to the natural. ”Motion as a result or inherent attribute of matter gives natural philosophy its own enclosed world, its own principle, and eliminates the natural theologies of either the religious believer or the deist. Matter carries the attributes of god. It is the necessary being. It is contradictory, inconceivable, to imagine a moment when it did not exist. And since motion is a necessary property of matter, it is coeval with matter” (282).

As Diderot had explained both order and disorder by a single principle, d’Holbach explained both atheism and religious belief by the single principle of nature. At the heart of human motivation is a single principle, self-conservation. Pain and fear—and the corresponding impulse to avoid them—explain every human action, invention, and belief. Some people handle their pain and fear by philosophic investigation, allowing them more control over them environment. Others turn to religious hypotheses, soothing themselves by thinking that the deities can be rendered propitious by a certain type of living. In d’Holbach’s reading, religious belief is caused by ignorance of nature, so he predicted that advancing scientific progress was destined to destroy religion. The common argument for god by appeal to universal human worship is refuted by pointing out the great variety of beliefs between cultures. There is no single concept of god underlying all of them.

At the end of the Enlightenment, the grounds for both theism and atheism had shifted. Kant’s critique had rendered Cartesian rationalism impotent. Laplace’s corrected Newtonian equations left no need for god to interfere with the operation of the cosmos. Schleiermacher’s existential defense of religion changed the grounds of the debate; atheism, as is its habit, adapted and followed suit. Theistic arguments continue to be formed and deconstructed.

Among the lessons Buckley draws from his investigation, two stand out for special consideration:

“The Christian god cannot have a more fundamental witness than Jesus Christ, even antecedent to the commitments of faith; Christian theology cannot abstract from Christology in order to shift the challenge for this foundational warrant onto philosophy. Within the context of a Christology and a Pneumatology of both communal and personal religious experience, one can locate and give its own philosophical integrity to metaphysics, but Christology and Pneumatology are fundamental. If one abrogates this evidence, one abrogates this god” (361).

“If an antimony is posed between nature or human nature and god, the glory of one in conflict with the glory of the other, this alienation will eventually be resolved in favor of the natural and the human. Any implicit, unspoken enmity between god and creation will issue in atheism” (363).

To Reading and Reviews

Because union is the sort of doctrine that is discussed in relation to other doctrines, Letham does not organize the book according to Scripture, history, and theology. Rather, he arranges the book thematically, incorporating the three components into each chapter. The first chapter, “Creation,” establishes the foundational principles for union: Christ as mediator of redemption and man as the image of God. These two truths provide the cosmic or natural foundations for union, which provide a platform for a higher level of union in grace.

The next chapter, “Incarnation,” develops the theme of union by showing that in the person of Christ, God and man are perfectly united. The history of Christology comes to the fore in this chapter, as Letham retells the early Church’s struggle to articulate the Incarnation as the basis of salvation. As a man Christ had to live in perfect conformity to God’s law, die as a propitiation, and conquer death with new life. However, the Incarnation does not, by itself, ensure our salvation. Christ was united to human nature in general, not to the elect. Thus, the third chapter, “Pentecost,” explains how the Holy Spirit unites the elect to Christ so that they, as individuals and as a corporate body, share in him and his benefits.

So far the book follows a redemptive-historical format, explaining the trinitarian and narrative basis for union. The final three chapters explicate in what union with Christ consists, grouping aspects of union into three categories: representation, transformation, and death and resurrection. The chapter on transformation is masterful. It covers issues relating to the ordo salutis (order of salvation), the relationship between the Greek Fathers and Reformed theology, and the bumpy history of Reformed thought on sacramental theology. It concludes with ten theses on union with Christ and transformation. It is worth reading the book simply for this chapter.

On the whole, though, the book is a bit disappointing. Despite its admirable breadth, logical progression of thought, and interdisciplinary awareness, it possesses one fatal flaw: length. The book is simply too short to develop properly the ideas it contains. Letham’s previous book, The Holy Trinity: In Scripture, History, Theology, and Worship, comprises 551 pages. This one is a miniscule 164. Often, a provocative statement is left unsupported or a significant historical figure is given the most cursory treatment. Detailed exegesis is sorely lacking, insufficiently compensated for with abundant parenthetical citations. Almost all the chapters seem more like sketches than finished products.

Also, the book varies in style. At times, it reads in a popular, almost unscholarly, tone. At others, long strings of Latin obscure the text. For example, Letham is relating a comment by Calvin, “Paul testifies that we are of the members and bones of Christ (Paulus nos ex membris et ossibus Christi esse testatur).” More often than not, the Latin takes up space rather than clarifies a point. A few times, I noticed that something was underlined in the Latin, presumably for emphasis, without any correspondingly indicated emphasis in the English translation. Since I read Latin, I found these choices to be mere annoyances, but I suspect non-Latinists will be much more frustrated by this. The Latin should have been either omitted or moved to the footnotes, except in cases of special significance.

Nevertheless, I am glad I read this book, especially for the chapter on transformation. Letham’s overall approach to union with Christ is highly illuminating, and the germs of many worthy thoughts reside here in nuce. Also, the upside to it being a short work is that if you don’t like it, at least you didn’t invest too much time in it.

So this year, I want to put the indicative before the imperative. I propose a different kind of resolution, a joyful abandonment to grace and a sure confidence in God my Father.

1. Resolved, that God, who made heaven and earth, made me also, and loves me, and delights in me.

2. Resolved, that God, who is infinitely holy and demands perfect adherence to his moral law, took upon himself the task of restoring me, his fallen child.

3. Resolved, that Jesus—through his life, death, resurrection, and ascension—has become my wisdom, righteousness, sanctification, and redemption.

4. Resolved, that even when my faith seems to waver and my conscience accuse me, God is greater than my heart and will reassure me.

5. Resolved, that in my baptism, God tells me that I have been washed from sins, born anew, and filled with the Holy Spirit.

6. Resolved, that in the bread and wine of the Eucharist, Jesus offers himself to me for spiritual food.

7. Resolved, that God will sustain my faith and bring me, through trials, into his beautiful presence, never more to depart.

8. Resolved, that all my brothers and sisters in Christ are likewise objects of God’s love and mercy, and are thus my friends and fellow-travelers.

There are many more I could add, but as the numbers multiply, it becomes more difficult to focus my attention on each one. My daily perseverance requires embracing God’s promises, not inventing my own, which I cannot keep. There will come a time for resolutions in the conventional sense, personal goals and the shouldering of responsibility. But the law will bear crops only where grace has fertilized the soil. So, at least for the first month of this new year, my focus will be not on what I plan to do better, but what has been done perfectly for me. Resolved.

Titles marked with asterisks I especially enjoyed.

*Aquinas on God by Rudi te Velde

Aquinas on the Divine Ideas as Exemplar Causes by Gregory Doolan

At the Origins of Modern Atheism by Michael Buckley

Augustine & the Pelagian Controversy by B. B. Warfield

Augustine Through the Ages, ed. Allan Fitzgerald

Catholic Social Thought: The Documentary Heritage

Christ and Culture by Reinhold Niebuhr

Christ and Culture Revisited by D. A. Carson

*Compendium of the Social Doctrine of the Church by the Pontifical Council for Peace and Justice

Contra Academicos by Augustine

Enchiridion by Augustine

Foundations of Christian Faith by Karl Rahner

French 1 (Cliffs Quick Review)

Grammatical and Exegetical Study of New Testament Verbs of Transference by Paul Danove

Maximus the Confessor by Andrew Louth

Models of Revelation by Avery Dulles

Portraits of Paul by Bruce Malina and Jerome Neyrey

*Postmodernism: A Beginner’s Guide by Kevin Hart

Resident Aliens by Stanley Hauerwas and William Willimon

Rethinking Christ and Culture by Craig Carter

Surprised by Hope by N. T. Wright

The Mission of God’s People by Christopher Wright

The Moral Vision of the New Testament by Richard Hays

*The Nature of Doctrine by George Lindbeck

The Politics of Jesus by John Howard Yoder

*The Prologue of the Fourth Gospel by Peter Phillips

*The Spirit and Forms of Protestantism by Louis Bouyer

The Theology of the Primacy of Christ According to St. Thomas by Thomas Potvin

*The Trinitarian Theology of St. Thomas Aquinas by Gilles Emery

The Trinity by Gilles Emery

Thomas Aquinas on the Divine Ideas by John Wippel

Thomas Aquinas: Theologian by Thomas O’Meara

*To Change the World by James Hunter

Transforming postliberal theology : George Lindbeck, pragmatism and scripture by C.C. Pecknold

Verbum: Word and Idea in Aquinas by Bernard Lonergan

So, the Reformed began to emphasize the counterpoint to lack of assurance, presumption of salvation. In some cases, elaborate systems were designed to distinguish between “true” and false regeneration, or repentance, or faith, or conversion. Charles Spurgeon weighed in on the more extreme of these Calvinists, but his diagnosis did not target the religious culture of the day (thanks to Tim, a missionary friend, for this reference):

There is a certain breed of Calvinist, whom I do not envy, who are always jeering and sneering as much as ever they can at the full assurance of faith. I have seen their long faces; I have heard their whining periods, and read their dismal sentences, in which they say something to the effect – “Groan in the Lord always, and again I say, groan! He that mourneth and weepeth, he that doubted and feareth, he that distrusteth and dishonoureth his God, shall be saved.” That seems to be the sum and substance of their very ungospel-like gospel. But why is it they do this? I speak now honestly and fearlessly. It is because there is a pride within them – a conceit which is fed on rottenness, and sucks marrow and fatness out of putrid carcasses. And what, say you, is the object of their pride? Why, the pride of being able to boast of a deep experience – the pride of being a blacker, grosser, and more detestable sinner than other people. “Whose glory is in their shame,” may well apply to them. A more dangerous, because a more deceitful pride than this is not to be found. It has all the elements of self-righteousness in it. ~  ”Full Assurance” by C. H. Spurgeon, Metropolitan Tabernacle Pulpit, 1861, p. 292.

One might be tempted to relegate this phenomenon to the context of a state religion. Surely, in the contemporary U.S., where there is freedom of religion, there is little pressure to conform. Surely among Baptists, who require personal assent and profession of faith for membership, this problem is almost non-existent. Yet, I find the opposite to be the case. Many of the worst of this sort are Calvinistic Baptists.

Walter Chantry, raised Presbyterian but later a Baptist pastor, authored Today’s Gospel: Authentic or Synthetic?, a book that few sensitive Christians can read without questioning their own salvation and the status of those around them. John MacArthur followed in Chantry’s footsteps, leveraging the story of the rich young ruler, as had Chantry. MacArthur’s books give the impression that hardly any of the professing Christians you know are truly saved. The title of one of his books is Hard to Believe, an unorthodox title if ever there were one. (In an earlier work, MacArthur said much more astutely that belief is neither easy nor difficult, but impossible for man.)

My point here is not to bash Calvinistic Baptists, of whom there are many fine examples. It is merely to refute the idea that a hyper-critical approach to assurance is something of a bygone era, confined to overzealous Puritans dealing with nominalism caused by infant baptism and political religion. Glorying in misery and doubt is indeed a form of spiritual pride for some people, and self-righteousness is not restricted to any time, place, or religious culture.

Brother Lawrence, a seventeenth century French monk, wrote The Practice of the Presence of God, in which he shared his practice of turning every moment and every activity to God, of feeling him always. The preface to a contemporary edition of his work describes him this way:

No wilderness wanderings, no bitter winter seasons of soul or spirit, seem to have intervened between the Red Sea and the Jordan of his experience. A wholly consecrated man, he lived his life as though he were a singing pilgrim on the march, as happy in serving his fellow monks and brothers from the monastery kitchen as in serving God in the vigil of prayer and penance.

This is the Christian life we all want, the God we all want: the Shekinah glory, the Emmanuel, the Resurrection, the cloven tongues of fire. When we can all but touch God, we are happy. But that is not the God of our Christian lives, at least not all the time. We are disturbed by the absent God: the God of the Exile, the God of Esther, the God of Saturday, the God of the Ascension. Yet, contrary to Brother Lawrence, we do not get to choose how God meets us.

Luther turned the absence of God into a form of presence. For Luther, God is not merely absent or withdrawn; he actively hides. Why would God deny us his presence? To show us that he does not come as we expect him. Our concept of God needs to be dismantled before we can meet him. How did God demonstrate his power, his justice, his righteousness? God died Godforsaken on the cross. In so doing, he dismantles us as well. Our reason is confounded; we could never predict this God. Our self-righteousness evaporates when we realize we cannot manipulate, persuade, or bargain with this hidden God. It is there, in our moment of Godforsaken nakedness, that God reveals himself in his proper work of forgiveness and mercy. So, absence becomes the necessary precondition for the truest presence.

If Luther focused on the “poor in spirit” of Matthew’s Gospel, Liberation theologians focus on the “poor” of Luke’s. In Luke’s Gospel, Jesus identifies himself with the temporally Godforsaken, those who are marginalized by society. He associates with children and women, tax collectors and other “sinners.” His enemies are the societal (Herodians, Saducees) and religious (Pharisees) elites. The cross is the price of Jesus’ refusal to abandon the abandoned, to collaborate with the oppressors. He maintains his commitment to the very end, no matter the cost. We, then, who claim the name of Jesus, must walk just as he walked, in solidarity with the outcast. We must identify, comfort, and protect the vulnerable. We must expose and peacefully resist the oppressors. We must measure justice by love. We may lose our security, we may lose our lives; but we will not lose our souls, we, the Godforsaken.

Alister McGrath – He is one of the great pillars of Christianity in contemporary England. He is likely also one of it’s most prolific authors, with top-notch publications spanning historical, systematic, scientific, and philosophical theology. With works ranging from winsomely popular to dauntingly academic, every Christian can and should find something in McGrath to enjoy.

Leon Morris – The Apostolic Preaching of the Cross is a tour de force on the theology of the atonement. His powerful commentaries on New Testament books and his New Testament Theology lodge him squarely in the center of conservative biblical scholarship.

J. Alec Motyer – Here is a man who simply loves the word of God. Indeed, most of his career was devoted to helping Christians understand the Old Testament. In college, I wound my way through the prophets under Motyer’s guidance. His The Prophecy of Isaiah (not any of the abridged versions) is a fantastic and illuminating piece of conservative scholarship. You don’t even have to be a scholar to read it.

John Newton – Who can forget the slave trader that later converted and penned “Amazing Grace”? He also worked for abolition, penned several other hymns, and mentored fellow hymnist William Cowper. I came upon his sermon (letter?) “More than a ‘Calvinist’” right when I needed it most.

J. I. Packer – If Knowing God were all Packer had given to the world, I would have loved him for that. But there is much more. He is an ardent student of the Puritans (search for History and Theology of the Puritans on iTunes), an articulate defender of orthodox Christianity, and an all around good-tempered gentleman.

J. C. Ryle – Ryle was a pastor’s pastor. Much of what I know of holiness, I know from his book by that title. Ryle did not believe in tolerating sin, and he took every opportunity to instruct his congregation how to get rid of it. His sermons transcend their time. I cannot offer greater spiritual advice than to pick up something by Ryle and read it until your heart burns.

John Stott – An entire generation of British evangelicalism was shaped by John Stott. Works such as Basic Christianity and The Cross of Christ proclaimed afresh the old, old story. Stott influenced me not only in his books, but also through the many other pastors and authors who quoted and reinforced his teaching.

Rowan Williams – I’m not going to lie; his face scares me. Beyond that, though, the Archbishop of Canterbury is one of the world’s finest historical scholars. By perusing his works, I’ve grown as both a historian and theologian. For all his historical acumen, the archbishop is a firmly contemporary figure, speaking out on behalf of the disadvantaged and voiceless around the world.

N. T. Wright – Wright is to young evangelical what Edward Cullen is to young girls. Except, we like him for his warm manner and active mind, not any creepy undead stuff. Controversial and at times maddening, Wright nevertheless proves that rigorous historical criticism, painstaking biblical exegesis, and an ear for intertextual echoes can make one a peerless scholar. Skip his popular books; they’re good, but the academic ones are so much better.

Father in heaven, creator of my soul and body, by your breath I have breath. I can speak because you spoke me into existence. My lips shape sounds because you first uttered forth your eternal Word. But I am impure, by sin both original and volitional fallen from the plan of your creation. My speech discords with your harmony; I am out of step with your rhythm. My words land flat or shrill on those I love. I am altogether out of tune. Have mercy. Give grace.

Jesus, Messiah, to whom else shall I go? Only you have the words of life. Only you give counterpoint to the violent noise of this world. You resolve every broken chord, but not by force. You entered into the driving rhythm and were broken by it. It could not dampen you. After a dramatic pause, you transposed its key. Bestow on me your righteous melody.

Spirit, overflow of love and joy, be the wind in my lungs. Correct my erring notes. Carry my tones. May they enter soft and sweet on troubled souls, climactic and triumphant upon the weary, elegant and alluring upon the disillusioned. Meld my aria into your choir of souls, your church in every place that sings the tragedy and victory of the lamb. Sustain me forever. Amen.

Pictures and interpretations which were once appropriate and evocative can become irrelevant in another culture. Or within our present culture, which regards, for example, the ritual slaughter of animals as repulsive, it is highly questionable whether we should go on describing the saving significance of the death of Jesus as a bloody sacrifice made to an angry God who needed it in order to be placated. In modern conditions this is likely to discredit authentic belief in the real saving significance of this death: it goes against all critical and responsible modern experience. ~ Edward Schillebeeckx

A modern person may believe in the cross, but not as bloody; in God, but not as wrathful; and in Jesus, but not as sacrifice for sins. In short, a modern person may believe, but not in Christianity.

Schillebeeckx notes that moderns find atonement repulsive. This is not surprising. Ancients, too, found it repulsive. There is nothing endearing about leading an animal to an altar, hacking it to pieces, waving its dismembered pieces, and igniting its carcass. Aesthetic satisfaction is scarce amid the blood-soaked ground, sweat-stained clothes, and charred-flesh fumes. If there was flair and bombast in the ritual, it was to obscure the gruesome reality. If there was celebration at the end, it was for the effects the sacrifices procured.

Even if we could imagine that the ancients truly enjoyed sacrificing animals to the gods, we still must explain the prevalence of “bloody sacrifice” language in Christianity. It occurs among the Calvinists, the Wesleyans, the Moravians, the Baptists, the evangelicals, and more. Yet, none of these groups were bloodthirsty neanderthals. In several of them, the contrary was quite the case. Stuffy bourgeoise values and staid characters were the norm. Yet, when they spoke of the cross, blood and propitiation were on their lips.

Schillebeeckx cringes at the response of the modern person to the cross. He seeks to fashion a passion that confirms the modern person in her sensitivities, applauds her virtues, and reinforces her concept of reality. Before we condemn him, we should remember that this process has been long in the making. Catholics fashion gold-gilded crucifixes so beautiful that they obliterate any trace of horror. Evangelicals gather to sing “The Old Rugged Cross” in dulcet, nostalgic tones. Christians paint crucifixion as three neat silhouettes casting even shadows over a hushed hillside, the sinking sun bathing all in its last splendid rays. If the cross has become so unintelligible to Christians, it is little wonder that it perplexes the world.

The cross is the resounding, “No!” to the modern world’s pretensions. It mocks our values, reverses our expectations, unmasks our ambitions, deconstructs our security. It refuses to approbate our utopias and coddle our narcissism. It testifies that the world cannot bear God’s righteousness. The world encountered a man who did no wrong, who fully embodied God’s presence and taught the ways of God’s kingdom; for this, it hated him so much it destroyed him. The modern person knows that the cross condemns him, so he must either domesticate it or reject it.

Domestication is the usual first choice. If the cross can be emptied of wrath and punishment, sin loses its sting. Indeed, the modern person applies the word “sin” now only to child molesting or over-rich chocolate cake. The gross incongruity marks the vapidness of the term. Condemnation deflected, modernity finds itself reflected in this cross of its own creation. This is the cross that found “biblical” arguments for slavery, for segregation, for domination, for apathy. It is a cross that can hang in one’s church or around one’s neck and never drive one to self-denial, to identification with the suffering or the outcast.

Yet the cross reasserts its message in every community that keeps the Scriptures. There the holy wrath of God gives meaning to sin; against the midnight backdrop of sin the Savior’s perfection shines. The perfect God, who would be within his rights to snuff out the breath of man, is instead murdered by sinful creatures! Rejected by those he came to save, forsaken by the eternal Father, God is dead! The heavens cannot bear the absurdity; the sky darkens. The earth cannot contain its outrage; the ground quakes. Hades is dumbfounded; graves open and the dead walk. But God is satisfied; the temple veil is torn in two. The Father has not forever forsaken the Son of his love; resurrection looms, waiting for the unveiling.

The cross is a parting of the ways. The modern person may see the cross and go his own way, sensibilities intact. Or, he may embrace the way of the cross, surrendering unconditionally to its “no” and finding  the “yes” that was in fact always on the other side.

The occasions and cause of so wonderful and important an event as the Reformation have naturally occupied very largely the thoughts of both its friends and its foes. On the part of its enemies the solution of its rapid rise, its gigantic growth, its overwhelming march, has been found by some in the rancor of monkish malice–the thing arose in a squabble between two sets of friars, about the farming of the indulgences–a solution as sapient and as completely in harmony with the facts as would be the statement that the American Revolution was gotten up by one George Washington, who, angry that the British Government refused to make him a collector of the tax on tea, stirred up a happy people to rebellion against a mild and just rule.

The solution has been found by others in the lust of the human heart for change –it was begotten in the mere love of novelty; men went into the Reformation as they go into a menagerie, or adopt the new mode, or buy up some “novelist’s last.”  Another class, among whom the brilliant French Jesuit, Audin, is conspicuous, attribute the movement mainly to the personal genius and fascinating audacity of the great leader in the movement.  Luther so charmed the millions with his marvellous speech and magic style, that they were led at his will.  On the part of some, its nominal friends, reasons hardly more adequate have often been assigned.  Confounding the mere aids, or at most, the mere occasions of the Reformation with its real causes, an undue importance has been attributed in the production of it to the progress of the arts and sciences after the revival of letters.  Much stress has been laid upon the invention of printing, and the discovery of America, which tended to rouse the minds of men to a new life. Much has been said of the fermenting political discontents of the day, the influence of the great Councils in diminishing the authority of the Pope, and much has been made, in general, of the causes whose root is either wholly or in part in the earth.  The Rationalist represents the Reformation as a triumph of reason over authority.  The Infidel says, that its power was purely negative; it was a grand subversion; it was mightier than Rome, because it believed less than Rome; it prevailed, not by what it taught, but by what it denied; and it failed of universal triumph simply because it did not deny everything.  The insect-minded sectarian allows the Reformation very little merit except as it prepared the way for the putting forth, in due time, of the particular twig of Protestantism on which he crawls, and which he imagines bears all the fruit, and gives all the value to the tree.  As the little green tenants of the rose-bush might be supposed to argue that the rose was made for the purpose of furnishing them a home and food, so these small speculators find the root of the Reformation in the particular part of Providence which they consent to adopt and patronize.  The Reformation, as they take it, originated in the divine plan for furnishing a nursery for sectarian Aphids.

But we must have causes which, however feeble, are adapted to the effects. A little fire indeed kindleth a great matter, but however little, it must be genuine fire., Frost will not do, and a painting of flame will not do, though the pencil of Raphael produced it. A little hammer may break a great rock, but that which breaks must be harder and more tenacious than the thing broken. There must be a hand to apply the fire, and air to fan it; it must be rightly placed within the material to be kindled; it must be kept from being smothered. And yet all aids do but enable it to exercise its own nature, and it alone kindles. There must be a hand to wield the hammer, and a heart to move the hand; the rock must be struck with vigor, but the hammer itself is indispensable. God used instruments to apply the fire and wield the hammer; His providence prepared the way for the burning and the breaking. And yet there was but one agency, by which they could be brought to pass. Do we ask what was the agency which was needed to kindle the flame? What was it, that was destined to give the stroke whose crash filled earth with wonder, and hell with consternation, and heaven with joy? God himself asks the question, so that it becomes its own answer: “Is not MY WORD like as a fire? Is not MY WORD like the hammer which breaks the rock in pieces?”

It is not without an aim that the Word of God is presented in the language we have just quoted, under two images; as fire and as a hammer. The fire is a type of its inward efficacy; the hammer, of its outward work. The one image shows how it acts on those who admit it, the other how it effects those who harden themselves against it; the one symbolizes the persuasive fervor of that Word by which it makes our hearts burn within us in love to the Son of God, the other is an image of the energy with which, in the hands of the King on the holy hill of Zion, it breaks the opposers as with a rod of iron. The fire symbolizes the energy of the Word as a Gospel, which draws the heart to God, the hammer shadows forth its energy as a law which reveals the terrors of God’s justice against transgressors.  In both these grand aspects the Word of God was the creator of the Reformation and its mightiest instrument. It aroused the workers, and fitted them for their work; it opened blind eyes, and subdued stubborn hearts. The Reformation is its work and its trophy. However manifold the occasions of the Reformation, THE WORD, under God, was its cause.