Introduction
Participatory Ontology in the Reformed Tradition
In Heavenly Participation, Hans Boersma traces a connection between the late medieval abandonment of the Great Tradition’s “sacramental ontology” and the Reformation. Once, all Christians regarded the created order as a deep mystery, a symbolic tapestry which mediated the presence of the heavenly realities it depicted. But late medieval scholastic intellectual developments, culminating in nominalism, severed the tapestry in which the natural and supernatural were interwoven, causing reality to unravel in the minds of men. Nature and created being were granted an autonomous existence and entirely separated from God and heaven.
In Boersma’s eyes, the Reformation is to be lamented, as it builds upon nominalism’s unraveled tapestry. While he admits certain attempts to knit the sacramental world back together, he regards the Reformation as a whole as sealing man’s divorce from the ancient union of heaven and earth. The Reformers allegedly failed to act sufficiently as the Platonic-Christian synthesis of Christendom unraveled around them.
But, as Eric M. Parker has pointed out, this understanding of the Reformers as the successors to Ockham’s vandalization of the created order has little connection to reality.1 Boersma appeals to two examples—Luther and Calvin—charging them with pitting heaven against earth, and nature against grace. But it is quite easy, in both authors, to find evidence to the contrary. In a note written in his copy of a book by Pliny, Luther expresses belief in Boersma’s tapestry, writing, “All creation is the most beautiful book of the Bible; in it God has described and portrayed Himself.” And elsewhere he writes,
God is substantially present everywhere, in and through all creatures, in all their parts and places, so that the world is full of God and He fills all, but without His being encompassed and surrounded by it… His own divine essence can be in all creatures collectively and in each one individually more profoundly, more intimately, more present than the creature is in itself, yet it can be encompassed nowhere and by no one. It encompasses all things and dwells in all, but not one thing encompasses it and dwells in it.2
In his comments on Psalm 104, Calvin likewise clearly describes the “real presence” of God through His sacramental creation:
In respect of his essence, God undoubtedly dwells in light that is inaccessible; but as he irradiates the whole world by his splendor, this is the garment in which he, who is hidden in himself, appears in a manner visible to us…that we may enjoy the sight of him, he must come forth to view with his clothing; that is to say, we must cast our eyes upon the very beautiful fabric of the world in which he wishes to be seen by us, and not be too curious and rash in searching into his secret essence.
Evidently, whether or not Boersma is right that particular teachings of the Reformers were inconsistent with the implications of a sacramental ontology, they nonetheless affirmed the doctrine itself.
To make his point, Boersma attributes the splitting of the church (by the Reformers, of course, not those who excommunicated them) to a disconnect between the Eucharist and the “mystery of the church’s unity.” Yet this very deficiency in Roman eucharistic theology was consistently pointed by the Reformers and emphasized in their own articulations. For instance, Bullinger writes that sacraments are established for this very end: “to gather together a visible church.”3 Bucer likewise, drawing from the Christian Platonist Pseudo-Dionysius, describes the Lord’s Supper as the “ingathering” and “communion” of the body of Christ, by which the many are made one through union with the God who is one.4 They stood firm on the idea of the Eucharist as the “ingathering” of the church in opposition to the Roman practice of withholding the cup from the laity.
It seems then that Boersma is overextending de Lubac’s criticisms of 19th century Catholic neo-scholasticism and its conception of “pure nature” by tracing its development back to the Reformers. It was rather the case that the Reformation was, in many ways, an attempt to preserve the sacramental ontology that the Roman Catholic Church was in the process of abandoning. It was the pope after all, not Calvin, that declared the natural desire for the supernatural a denial of God’s grace.5 Meanwhile, it was Reformed theology that carried on the teaching that, “It is necessary that other principles above nature be inspired and infused by God so that we may know that end beyond nature to which we have been ordered, and the truth that would certainly lead to that end.”6 It was the Roman Catholic Church, not the Reformed tradition, that drew a hard line between nature and grace.
There is therefore no better context than within the Reformed tradition to call for a return to the ancient way of seeing the world. So let us return to the ancient sources and let them tell us what they saw when they looked at the world. In doing so, we will see that symbolic, or sacramental, realism goes even further back than the patristics.
What Ockham Hath Wrought
Before examining the ancient symbolic view of the world, it is necessary to briefly describe what has been lost in its absence. It has become commonplace in genealogies of ideas to heap blame upon Ockham, and rightly so. But because of this, I will not go to any pains to prove his guilt.
Nominalism, the rejection of the existence of universals and abstract concepts independent of the human mind, is certainly the turning point at which the metaphysical unity of all things was finally explicitly rejected. So for that reason, Ockham is to be vilified. But nominalism was not called into existence out of nothing.
To a certain extent, something like nominalism was an inevitability. This is not because it was the only possible consequence of Thomas’ distinction between essence and existence or Scotus’ univocity of being, as certain genealogies of ideas would lead you to believe. Those were certainly some of the raw materials Ockham used to construct—or, more accurately, deconstruct—his model of the world. But it likely has more to do with the natural trajectory of civilizations in general.
In imitation of the creation, complexity comes forth from simplicity, diversity from unity. Like the woman taken from the side of man, the intention is for all things divided to return in a more glorious union, and ultimately in union with its one, simple Source. Yet the curse on creation has introduced death, separation, and hostility. All attempts at unity of any kind within the creation are thus faced with the unavoidable forces of entropy. Entropy in creation is as inevitable as the passing of time, for the two have been inseparably wedded on this side of heaven.
Boersma is right to identify the split of the church at the Reformation as the result of the same forces at work in the splitting of particulars from universals. But this is only because fracturing is what happens to structures over time, and Christendom had by the late medieval and early modern periods reached an age at which cracks begin to show. That this was clearly the case is acknowledged by Melanchthon in the Augsburg Confession, in which he attributes the fracturing of Western civilization to the entropic trajectory of mankind in general.7
In the realm of ideas and language, the pattern of simplicity to complexity, unity to diversity, can be seen through the progression of history. The ancient way of thinking and speaking is much simpler and does not make many of the distinctions which modern men consider a sign of our superior intelligence. Though it is not the case, as is commonly assumed according to the evolutionary model, that such original simplicity and unity is to be regarded as ignorance. When Greeks and Hebrews used terms like pneuma or ruach to refer to “wind,” “breath,” or “spirit,” they were not necessarily ignorant of distinctions that are now known. Their use of language instead demonstrates an ability to see metaphysical unities that now go unseen, of which we are now ignorant.
As Owen Barfield argues, ancient man saw a single “footprint” stamped by nature upon diverse objects, both material and immaterial, and only later did linguistic distinctions between the material and immaterial arise. Ancient man spoke like a poet because he saw in the analogies between distinct objects evidence of an underlying unity to all things. The distinct role of ‘poet’ only arises in a developed society which must be reminded of its lost ability to see unities, rather than only distinctions. He writes,
Our sophistication, like Odin’s, has cost us an eye; and now it is the language of poets, in so far as they create true metaphors, which must restore this unity conceptually, after it has been lost from perception. Thus, the ‘before-unapprehended’ relationships of which Shelley spoke, are in a sense ‘forgotten’ relationships. For though they were never yet apprehended, they were at one time seen. And imagination can see them again.8
In other words, distinction is characteristic of an advanced civilization. Distinction comes with an increase in wisdom, and is good in itself. But because of the fragmenting effects of the curse, such distinctions over time become separations as the trajectory from simplicity to complexity accelerates, until the initial metaphysical unities are forgotten entirely and the whole world is eventually broken down to mere atoms with no discernible connection to one another.
This is the precise trajectory which Henri de Lubac observes in the transition from the “symbolism” of the patristic era (i.e., Boersma’s “sacramental ontology”) to the “dialectics” of the High Middle Ages. Joshua Mobley describes de Lubac’s view of this trajectory in this way:
This symbolic architecture was slowly reconfigured into a dialectical form of theology, which came to view symbolic vocabulary with suspicion. Under a dialectical impulse the terms “mystical” and “spiritual” came to be viewed in contrast to “real” and “true”: “all the symbolic inclusions were transformed into dialectical antitheses.” The old formulas needed to be rethought under new semantic orientations. De Lubac argues that this dialectical shift began in earnest with Berengar of Tours (d. 1088) but can also be seen in theologians of unimpeachable orthodoxy. St. Anselm is emblematic of this shift, and Aquinas is implicated as well. For de Lubac, Anselm’s mode of faith seeking understanding remained broadly Augustinian, but his concept of understanding consisted less in participation than in demonstration. While by no means a “rationalist,” Anselm helped inaugurate a Christian rationalism which “could no longer envisage the understanding of mysteries outside [its] demonstration.”9
De Lubac’s intention was not at all to denigrate or abandon Anselm or Aquinas, evidenced by the fact that the latter theologian is one of the main subjects of his ressourcement efforts. Nor was he advocating a rejection of “dialectical” theology. Rather, he hoped that by returning to the sources, particularly the church fathers, a synthesis could be achieved between symbolic and dialectical ways of thinking.10 In other words, his solution was for the complexities of scholasticism to be brought back into the symbolic unity of the patristics, to return to its source in greater glory.
It could be argued in fact that it is not only to the patristics, but also the patriarchs from whom we ought to recover a symbolic form of realism. As we will see, a similar trajectory occurred from the patriarchal era to the time of Aristotle. That such declines have occurred before should give us confidence that not all is lost, that graves giving up their dead is indeed possible. In that confidence, let us proceed to the symbolic realism of the ancient world.
Barbaros philosophia
The Oriental Origins of Philosophy
The first thing to consider when examining the philosophy of the pre-pre-socratics is whether philosophical categories of that sort are even appropriate to apply to their thought. As discussed in the previous essay, Greek philosophy is generally believed to have poofed into existence with the presocratics. Many histories of philosophy begin at that time, regarding the Greeks as the first to logically examine the nature of the world and existence. John Frame, for instance, begins his History of Western Philosophy and Theology with a distinction between ancient wisdom literature and philosophy, writing, “Philosophy, however, should not be understood as an extension of the tradition of wisdom literature. In many ways, as we will see, philosophy is historically a revolt against traditional wisdom.”11
While there are certainly distinctions in method and style between wisdom literature, myth, and ritual and Greek philosophy, it is not entirely accurate to deny that philosophy is still in some sense an extension of former modes of thought. It is true that Greek philosophy marks a significant, conscious transition in the approach to acquiring knowledge. For instance, Burkert notes what appears to be a parody of wisdom literature in Heraclitus’s On Nature:
The beginning of Solomon’s proverbs reads, with slight abbreviation, “The proverbs of Solomon son of David . . . by which . . . the simple will be endowed with shrewdness, and . . . if the wise man listens, he will increase his learning.” Contrast the beginning of Heraclitus’s book: “Logos of Heraclitus, son of Bloson: Of this logos, which is always, men prove to be uncomprehending, both before they have heard it and when once they have heard it; for although all things come to pass in accordance with this logos, men behave as if ignorant.”12
In his opening, Heraclitus copies the form of wisdom literature while exchanging its “logos optimism” for “logos pessimism.”13 Wisdom is not able to endow the simple with shrewdness, as Solomon had stated. Though one could argue that Solomon had already inverted his own formula of “logos optimism” with the pessimism of Ecclesiastes, which exists as part of the wisdom tradition. Further, it was Solomon’s own father, years before Heraclitus, that said, “God looked down from heaven upon the children of men, to see if there were any that did understand, that did seek God. Every one of them has turned aside; They have together become corrupt; There is none who does good, No, not one” (Ps. 53:3).
To modify the formula, even with the clear intent to make a counterpoint to what came before, does not quite constitute a “revolt,” especially when there is precedent in the tradition itself for that very thing. It is certainly a break from conventions within the tradition, just as modernist poetry reacted against Victorian conventions within the larger Western poetic tradition. However, the very fact that Heraclitus finds it relevant to break the formula in the first place demonstrates the fact that he sees himself as engaged in the same pursuit of wisdom as those who precede him. It should thus be regarded as an extension of, not a revolt against, the wisdom tradition.
Aristotle likewise gives indications of a break from former approaches to wisdom, which could be seen as revolutionary in nature. For instance, Aristotle (as paraphrased by Hegel) disparaged those “whose philosophy takes a mythical form.”14 He also regards enigma (αἴνιγμα) in poetry, traditionally a centerpiece of its style, as a flaw of style.15 In his preference for logical clarity over mystery, he breaks away from the ancient world’s highly symbolic perspective. But this still does not mean that he saw himself as engaged in an entirely separate discipline. In fact, as mentioned in my previous essay, his students studied what he described as “barabaros philosophia,” that is, ancient mythology and wisdom literature. The identification of the wisdom of prior civilizations as philosophia is present likewise in Diogenes Laertius and Damascius (the last head of the Neoplatonic Academy at Athens), the latter of whom quotes Aristotle’s pupil, Eudemus, who himself quotes the Enuma Elish.16
It is myth and wisdom literature, likely introduced to the Greeks along with the Phoenician script, which were synthesized in Greek philosophy; Metaphysical truths explained narratively through Babylonian cosmology are explored through discursive prose, and instructions in virtue stated pithily by Solomon are discussed in a lengthier logical progression. The innovation of the Greeks did not consist necessarily in asking new questions, but rather in their singular dialectical approach to the variety of questions once explored in their own respective mediums. This new approach, reflecting the new context of learning, was modeled after a conversation between two equals rather than a transmission of knowledge from a superior to an inferior. Greek philosophy can therefore in a sense be regarded in the same way that de Lubac regards scholastic theology, as a movement from symbolism to dialectic within the same discipline.
In fact, such movements from symbolism to dialectic both accompany a historical shift in the context of learning. The shift from barbaros philosophia to Greek philosophy was simultaneously a shift from temple and palace to the school. Burkert writes,
In the oriental world, there were additional institutions for the tradition of knowledge: the temples that existed as economically independent and self-supporting units and that fed a clerus of priests; to these the schools of writing, ‘‘the house of tablets,’’ was attached. Since the complicated old systems of writing, which continued to be used throughout the first millennium BCE (sic), required a professional formation that lasted for years, the house of tablets would make up the basis for the self-consciousness of ‘‘the knowing ones’’: a wise man is a ‘‘Lord of tablets.’’ Wisdom literature tends to appeal to kings and seeks profit from their authority, be it Solomon or another monarch.
The situation of the Greeks, compared to this, is characterized by a threefold defect: there are hardly temples as economically independent units to feed a clerus; there is no prestige of a house of tablets; and kings, too, have soon disappeared. Alphabetic writing is so easy to learn and to practice that no class distinction will emerge from elementary school; it was the sophists who invented higher education as a new form of class distinction. In fact, this will have been a decisive factor to turn deficit into progress: cultural knowledge became separated from dominating institutions and hierarchies, from the house of tablets, from temples and from kingship; it became movable, to be managed by the single individual. This became widespread with the economic and political changes of the time, which brought individual initiative of persons and groups to the fore. Thus even ‘‘wisdom’’ became the capital of the enterprising individual, in competition with his like.17
The pursuit of knowledge began in temple and palace contexts, as an endeavor associated with worship and authority. But with the democratization of learning and writing, it was detached from this context and specialized institutions were established for the pursuit of knowledge for its own sake. It became secularized and individualized. Likewise, the exact time at which de Lubac describes a theological shift from symbolism to dialectic is when the pursuit of knowledge began its shift from monastic and cathedral schools to the university. While the former schools certainly maintained their importance for centuries, there was now competition, which would eventually overtake them entirely.
The movement from unity to diversity, from simplicity to complexity, and consequently eventual fragmentation, is not an isolated development in the realm of ideas. It is rather the natural cycle of a civilization as it moves from the cultic foundations of its culture toward distinction and specialization. Leisure (the Greek word for which is schola, from which the English school is derived) begins as Sabbath, participation in God’s restful declaration of His works as “very good” (Gen. 1:31). Plato, in fact, resorts to myth to acknowledge the origins of learning in divine festivity:
But the Gods, taking pity on human beings - a race born to labor - gave them regularly recurring divine festivals, as a means of refreshment from their fatigue; they gave them the Muses, and Apollo and Dionysus as the leaders of the Muses, to the end that, after refreshing themselves in the company of the Gods, they might return to an upright posture.18
Barbaros philosophia is therefore the philosophy of the Sabbath and the festival, of communal participation in divine rest. It is the tradition of the priest and king’s orientation of the whole people toward its highest end—through myth, proverb, psalm, law, and ritual—that formed the foundation of Greek philosophy. Therefore, if our philosophy is to grasp the unities from which Greek distinctions emerged, we must go back further than the Greeks in our return to the sources.
Barbarian Metaphysics
What’s in a Symbol?
In order to understand the metaphysical assumptions of ancient symbolism, let us consider a divinely-crafted symbol that is nearly as ancient as the world itself: man. When man is made in the image and likeness of God, he is not able to fulfill his function as image until he receives the breath of life (Gen. 2:7). On the surface, this seems rather obvious. Man cannot imitate God unless he is alive and able to do anything at all. But that is not exactly what I mean.
In the creation account of Genesis 1 & 2, the creation of the world is presented as the construction of a temple. As the narrative of the construction of the temple is structured around a series of seven acts performed according to the command of God (“The Lord said”; Ex. 25:1; 30:11, 17, 22, 34; 31:1, 12), so also the creation account is structured around seven speech-acts of God (“And God said”; Gen. 1:3, 6, 9, 14, 20, 24, 26). Likewise, both end with their respective authorities, God and Moses, inspecting and declaring a blessing over their work (Gen. 1:31; Ex. 39:43).19 Further, Adam is placed in the garden to “work” and “keep” it (Gen. 2:15) as the Levites were to “keep” the “work” of the tabernacle (Num. 3:7-8).20 Creation is thus a macrocosmic temple, and the temple a microcosmic creation; Both are made after the pattern of God’s dwelling place in heaven (Heb. 8:5).
There are multiple layers to the role that man plays in the temple motif of the creation account, and how that relates to his reception of the divine breath. First, he is a microcosm of the cosmic temple, as the High Priest was likewise a microcosm of the tabernacle—demonstrated by his participation in the tabernacle’s adornment through vestments (Ex. 26:1, 6; 28:5-6). As the garments of the High Priest were made of the materials of the tabernacle, so also Adam’s garment of flesh was made of the dust of the earth. And as the priests were anointed with oil representing the Spirit (ruach) of God in their ordination, so Adam is filled with the breath (ruach) of God. Further, as the construction of the tabernacle, and later the temple, were not complete until the descending of God’s presence into the Holy of Holies, so also Adam is completed by the descent of God’s breath into his lungs. Adam is thus high priest of the cosmic temple, and as high priest, a microcosm of the cosmic temple.
But secondly, Adam is also the cult image of the cosmic temple. The pattern followed by the creation account and tabernacle construction narrative also appears in other accounts of ancient temple constructions, and this process would conclude with the installation of the image of the deity.21 That Adam plays the role of a cult image in Genesis 1 & 2 is supported by the use of “image” (צֶלֶם) throughout scripture to refer to cult images (Num. 33:52; 1 Sam. 6:5-11; 2 Kgs. 11:18). If we understand Adam as the cult image of the cosmic temple, the two-step process of fashioning and breathing calls to mind the similar fashioning and bathing process of cult images. Christopher D. Kou describes this process:
This image of the god, while crafted of materials like wood, stone, or metal, was regarded as living, representing the deity in a realistic sense, participating in the identity of the deity, and in some cases even erasing completely the distinction between referent and representation. “The ‘image’ becomes a god ... [it] assumes the identity of its referent.” Appropriate service by the king and priests was rendered to the image in the deity’s newly built temple dwelling. … The presence of the deity in the world was therefore ritually facilitated through the cult image by a ceremony of “opening the mouth” (Akkadian pīt pî; Egyptian wpt-r), which imbued the image with the divine personality. Until this occurred, the image was understood to be inanimate, even if conceptually crafted in heaven. The cult image needed first to be vivified, clothed, and fed in order to fulfill its role as a god. Having had its mouth washed and opened, along with its eyes and ears, the now-animated image was no longer regarded as a bare lifeless icon, but a representation of the deity itself, such that the image could even be referred to by divine names.22
Adam likewise has no life as God’s image when he is first formed, but requires the second step of being filled by the breath of the One whose likeness he bears. Adam’s reception of the breath of life is therefore the true mouth-opening ceremony, in which man is established as the symbolic representation of God which truly makes Him present.
But man is not entirely unique in this presence-bearing representation. He is unique in the degree to which he symbolically mediates the divine presence, but not in the mere fact that he does so. He is a microcosm, after all, of the whole creation, which means that the created order must likewise bear some resemblance to the likeness of God, and through its likeness make Him present. And Scripture certainly speaks as if this is the case:
The heavens declare the glory of God;
And the firmament sheweth his handywork.
Day unto day uttereth speech,
And night unto night sheweth knowledge.
There is no speech nor language,
Where their voice is not heard. (Ps. 19:1-3)Do not I fill heaven and earth? saith the LORD. (Jer. 23:24)
Holy, holy, holy, is the LORD of hosts:
The whole earth is full of his glory. (Isa. 6:3)
God’s omnipresence is not like a physical object existing in all places at once, but He is rather in all things, and they declare the mystery of His glory through their likeness to Him. Consequently, all things are divinely established symbols, which make Him present within themselves through the Spirit. It is in God that all things “live and move and have [their] being” (Acts 17:28), and thus God is “over all and through all and in all” (Eph. 4:6). All things have their being by participation in His being, and make His divine nature present to all by displaying His glory as analogies, mediating symbols.
Beyond His presence in all things by their very being, the Lord also grants particular symbols by which man himself can make present His glory, attributes, and activity in a special sense. He has granted man kingship, an image of God’s own reign from heaven, by which His very own vengeance is enacted through human hands (Rom. 13:4). He has granted him fatherhood, which is called by His name and acts as the connecting point of love for God and man in His law (Eph. 3:15; Ex. 20:12).
In the Old Covenant, he gave man a symbol of His heavenly temple where He would dwell among His people (Ex. 25:8), and “copies” and “shadows” of Christ’s heavenly sacrifice through which the grace of that very sacrifice would be administered to them by faith (Heb. 9:23-24). In the New Covenant, he gave us the Eucharist, which so specially makes Him present to us that it may truly be called his body and blood (Lk 22:19-20), and baptism, which truly unites us to Christ’s death and resurrection (Rom. 3:6-7). These signs grant real “participation” in the things signified (1 Cor. 10:16). As with the image of God in man in relation to the rest of creation, what distinguishes the sacraments from other symbolic manifestations in creation is degree. They are not wholly unique, but unique only in the greater extent to which they make Him present.
It is this ontology that is present in ancient myth and ritual, and though they did not articulate it in the philosophical language of the Greeks, they were certainly nonetheless presupposing and enforcing a distinct metaphysical framework. It may in fact be the case that, as the pagans certainly knew their wooden idols were not identical with the being of their deity, some instances of identification of the sun, moon, stars, rivers, and seas with deities were expressions of this view.
When Akhenaten worshiped the sun as Aten, for instance, was he simply speaking the way that we speak of the Lord’s Supper as Christ’s body and blood, or did he literally believe that the being of sun and Aten were identical? It is difficult to know in many cases like this, as the Lord Himself likewise speaks as if there is no distinction between stars and angels (Dt. 4:19). It may be the case that the name of a thing signified is applied to its sign simply due to a belief that the thing is present in its sign, not because the thing is identical with it.
This was the understanding of many Greek philosophers when they read mythology. Their approach to mythology was often to read it as enigmatic philosophy, or philosophy communicated through symbolism or allegory. For instance, in Plato’s Timaeus, an Egyptian priest reads the myth of Phaethon, who loses control of the chariot of his father, Helios. He then provides an allegorical interpretation:
This is told in the form of a myth, but the truth of it lies in a shifting of the bodies that travel around the earth throughout the heavens and after great stretches of time there arises a destruction of those on earth by a great fire (Tim. 22c-d).23
Yet that the actual subject of the myths is not merely material elements, but that the gods represented by the elements still exist behind them, is demonstrated by stoic philosopher Balbus:
But though these myths are repudiated with contempt, nevertheless a god is diffused through the nature of each thing. Through the earth is Ceres, through the sea is Neptune, and others have their own elements. We can understand who they are and what sort they are, and by the customary name by which the gods are known we ought to worship and revere them.24
In other words, while things stated concerning the gods are only literally true of the material elements which symbolically represent them, the mythologists referred to them by the names of the gods because they are communicating truth about them on an allegorical level. What is literally true about their associated material elements communicates symbolically what is true about the gods themselves, since the gods are in their material elements.
The language of mythology can thus be understood as the way in which metaphysical questions were explored, emphasizing metaphysical unities through the conflation of diverse yet related objects. We can see in this understanding the reason why symbolism was so highly utilized in the ancient world, as it was not merely a way of communicating ideas efficiently or stylistically, but rather a way of signifying the mysteries that dwell within the physical world.
Wisdom, Law & Cosmic Order
The gaining of knowledge, until relatively recently, was understood primarily as receptive. The academic was one who was at leisure, engaged in contemplation, not an “intellectual worker.”25 This was due to a participatory view of knowledge. The world was understood to be ordered by some all-encompassing deity or force, in which one’s mind participated to gain understanding.
For Solomon, this is Wisdom, or hokmah. He teaches, “The LORD by wisdom hath founded the earth; by understanding hath he established the heavens” (Prov. 3:19). In Proverbs 8, the wisdom of the Lord is personified as Lady Wisdom, who was the Lord’s handmaiden in the creation of the world, by whom kings reign, and who calls out to all men to make them righteous. For a man to be wise, for a king to be just, and for the stars to stay their course in heaven, they must all participate in Wisdom. Virtue, justice, and physics are all connected in one cosmic order, governed by Lady Wisdom. The laws of physics, in this understanding, are distinct from God’s laws concerning men only in the nature of the things being governed, not in the law itself. It is one cosmic order by which men are righteous and the sea does not transgress its boundary. This is precisely why, in the Mosaic law, the land flourished when men acted justly and vomited them out when men were wicked. Injustice is a violation of the law of physics, a violation of Wisdom.
For the Egyptians, this cosmic order was called Ma’at, which can be translated as “order” or “justice.” It is, like the Hebrew hokmah, both cosmic order and social order. An equivalent concept for the Babylonians is Misharu, which is similarly translated, “Just Order.” In both of these systems, the changing of seasons and the rise and setting of the sun are presented in terms of justice. This is reflected also in Heraclitus, who writes, “Helius will not transgress his boundaries or else the Erinyes, the helpers of Justice, will find him.” Anaximander likewise speaks of the created order paying “penalty and retribution to each other for their injustice,” referring to a hypothetical failure of the created order to behave properly.26
Most well-known is the logos of the Stoics, which is the Reason which generated and upholds the universe. It has been common to identify this concept as the primary source of John’s use of the term in John 1, and this is likely partially true. But the view of the Word of God as the creative agent by whom God creates, sustains, and interacts with the world in Jewish literature is more likely what John primarily has in mind. For instance, in the Targums, the term Memra (“word”) is used in place of “the Lord,” “the angel of the Lord,” “the hand of the Lord,” and so forth. Its usage seems to represent a theology similar to that of John’s logos, presenting the Word as a proto-Trinitarian second person similar to Lady Wisdom.
There is also an identification in Jewish literature between the Torah, God’s wisdom, and the commands by which God created the world. A potential reason for this connection may be the fact that God establishes the cosmic order with ten commands (“And God said”) in Genesis 1, and establishes the social order of Israel likewise with ten commandments. In Bereshit Rabbah, for instance, the Torah is stated to have been the first of God’s creations, by which He created the world, citing Proverbs 3:19 and 8:22.27
Included in this understanding was not only the moral order of the Torah, but also the priestly service in the microcosm of the temple which it prescribes. According to Philo, the symbolism of the temple and the high priest’s garments, which represent the elements of the world, are a participation in God’s own upholding of the cosmos:
In its whole it is a copy and representation of the world; and the parts are a representation of the separate parts of the world… The high priest, then, being equipped in this way, is properly prepared for the performance of all sacred ceremonies, that, whenever he enters the temple to offer up the prayers and sacrifices in use among his nation, all the world may likewise enter in with him, by means of the imitations of it which he bears about him, the garment reaching to his feet, being the imitation of the air, the pomegranate of the water, the flowery hem of the earth, and the scarlet dye of his robe being the emblem of fire; also, the mantle over his shoulders being a representation of heaven itself…28
The Torah as a whole, in its moral, civil, and ceremonial laws, can thus be understood as the cosmic order codified. In later terminology, it is the book of nature revealed in the form of human law. The Hebrews possessed, in the Torah and the rituals it prescribed, the Wisdom that held the world together, expressed in written form.
While Socrates finds writing to be an inferior form of communication, this was not at all the perspective of the ancient world. Ancient Mesopotamians, for example, had a special emphasis on cuneiform texts as a means of knowledge, which was related to their view of the cosmos:
To the ancient Mesopotamians the basis for investigation was the written word, that is, the way in which words, concepts, and phrases were written out in the cuneiform script. To them, an omen… was a written message from the gods. They called celestial phenomena ‘heavenly writing’ in Akkadian; they implored the gods to write a message in the liver of the sacrificial animal.29
In the Egyptian Memphite Theology, the written word is likewise related to the order of the world. The creation account is similar to the biblical account in its creation of the world through the word, yet the speech that creates the world is conceived first in the heart Atum as hieroglyphs before they are read. Hieroglyphs precede the creation of their material instantiations, which come into existence when the words are read aloud.30 Hieroglyphs for the Egyptians were therefore more than mere instruments for written communication, but were rather as if Plato’s forms were able to be carved into stone.
Bereshit Rabbah was certainly putting the cart before the horse in believing the Torah itself to be the very Word or Wisdom that created the world, rather than the Torah merely being a later expression of that Wisdom in a distinct written form. Nonetheless, this background does demonstrate the close connection between the written word and the created order. God’s very own Wisdom, the Logos, by whom He created the world is sacramentally present in His written word, and He is there to be discovered through the enigmas of its written form (i.e., the allegorical reading).
This written form is a superior form of revelation to the heavenly writing (Ps. 19). But this should not give one the impression that it replaces it altogether. It is superior in quality, but not in quantity. A common misconception about the Torah is that it was the exhaustive law code of Israel. But the ancient understanding of law was quite different from the way it is understood in the present. The word torah literally means, “instruction,” and is used frequently in Proverbs for the communication of parental wisdom communicated to a son. Its civil laws are to be understood not as a comprehensive law code, but as instruction in justice. They are exemplary decrees of God’s own Wisdom by which the judges and kings of Israel might acquire wisdom for their own decrees, learning to apply the justice of His verdicts by analogy.31 In other words, the written word grants the wisdom necessary to properly read the world.
The Torah is therefore the Father’s instruction to Israel, His son, in how to conform themselves morally, civilly, and ritually to the “just” and “wise” order of creation. And as Wisdom reveals herself through the mysteries of the creation, so also she would be expected to be found through the mysteries of the text, not just in its principles. Therefore, the ultimate aim would be to find Wisdom herself, who is Christ, hidden in both the substance and the literary details of the written text.
This view of Wisdom—upholding the cosmic order, made present enigmatically in textual form, and granting participation in herself in the form of human knowledge—is authentic to the world in which the Old Testament was written. We should therefore not view the patristic portrayal of Christ as the Greek logos, allegorical interpretation of the Old Testament, or appeals to natural law as strange fire from Athens brought into the Jerusalem temple. We should also not find it strange that so much efficacy is attributed to the sacraments, nor the seriousness with which they take the liturgy, given the way in which Wisdom grants participation in the cosmic order ritually, as well as morally and civilly.
Returning to Symbolism
The ancient way of viewing the world is as hieroglyph-made-flesh. Symbols formed in the heart of God were instantiated materially through speech, and in those instantiations we are able to ascend back to their immaterial source. In the Eucharistic theology of the Reformers, we are able to learn how this works: Our participation in the mysteries that lie behind the created order is not through the mere use or beholding of them, but by faith and through the Spirit, contemplating the mysteries within them.
The degree to which symbols make their mysteries present varies, and we especially dare not put man-made symbols on the same level as the sacraments. Yet this caution should not lead us to disregard the importance of human symbols, any more than we should abandon human theology because it is not Scripture. Our own creation of symbols, when drawn from the natural symbolism of the world, is a means by which we walk in the path of the created order.
A people that embraces symbolism is a people that believes in a creation that pours out speech concerning its Creator. When we work the symbols of creation into our poetry, architecture, or clothing, we both express our belief in the symbolic nature of the world and draw the minds of others toward such belief. As the Lord communicates truth to us not only through the text of Scripture but also through natural symbolism, so also we should not find it sufficient only to proclaim the truth discursively.
When we understand that it is in the nature of a mountain to connect heaven to earth, of the sun, moon, and stars to display the light of God’s rule, of a lion to display the glory of a king, and of fire to evoke the terror of God’s presence, then we will not for long be able to worship in buildings that are outwardly indistinguishable from office buildings, devoid of all adornment. We will notice the disparity between the plain business attire of modern politicians and the divine glory which scripture ascribes to the magistrate, once reflected in golden crowns and purple robes. We will realize the implicit transgender ideology symbolized by the existence of female trousers.
In fact, speaking of female trousers, we would do well to take note of Deuteronomy 22:5: “The woman shall not wear that which pertaineth unto a man, neither shall a man put on a woman's garment: for all that do so are abomination unto the Lord thy God.” This does not merely teach us an important lesson about women’s pants, but also demonstrates more broadly an overlap between human symbolism and civil participation in the created order. Attire is to a certain degree relative, but not entirely. There is not one time period that represents the Platonic ideal of clothing. However, this law still expresses an objective standard for attire which ought not be transgressed.
We are charged in this command to maintain a clear distinction between the sexes through the symbolism of clothing. It is not sufficient therefore to dress only in such a way that others can technically tell (with no help from any distinction in clothing) that we are male or female. As silly as it might sound, the push to remove distinctions between men’s and women’s attire in the West (through the popularization of female pants, abandonment of the head covering, etc.) has really made a significant contribution to the erasure of distinctions, and this is by design.
Mary Edwards Walker, a significant figure in the dress reform movement of the late 19th century, attacked the distinctions of feminine attire as a means of erasing gender distinctions. She saw the blurring of distinctions through clothing as means of getting men to recognize “that the true position of women is always one of equality with themselves in all the relations of life.”32 In 1870, she was arrested for cross-dressing and questioned by police as to whether she had ever been with a man. We used to be a proper country.
Paul, in 1 Corinthians 11, takes a hard line on symbolizing our sex through our appearance. For him, a woman who worships with an uncovered head dishonors her husband. Likewise, a man with long hair shames Christ his head. Appearances certainly do not matter for Paul as much as the heart, but he demonstrates in this passage that they still do matter quite a lot. Paul would agree with Mary Edwards Walker that a lack of distinction in female attire does in itself constitute a rebellion against the patriarchy. And he will have none of it.
The head covering in particular as a symbol by which gender hierarchy is maintained is not defended by Paul according to custom, but rather by an appeal to nature. It is because man is the head of woman, her authority and source of existence, that the woman must cover her head. In doing so, he insists on a practice that goes at least as far back as the 13th century B.C.,33 is presupposed throughout the Old Testament,34 and is taught explicitly in Jewish tradition.35 It was a carefully maintained tradition by which women demonstrated submission to their male head in all public settings for centuries, and Paul treats it as a natural part of the institution of marriage.
What this demonstrates more broadly is that observance of signs is a necessary aspect of showing honor to the things signified. Is it not the case, after all, that both circumcision and the Eucharist are referred to as “the covenant”? Likewise, there is a close relation to the symbols used to signify the glory of magistrates, the holiness of churches, the noble pursuit of learning in universities, and the things signified. Should we not be surprised then that the decline in symbolism in attire, architecture, and language used in regards to these institutions has been accompanied by the decline of the institutions themselves?
If we truly desire to restore our society’s conformity to the natural order, it is therefore necessary that we bring about a restoration of its symbols. If we want hierarchy, we must symbolize hierarchy wherever it is present. If we want men to fix their minds on heavenly things, we must present heaven’s symbols continually before their eyes. For any reality with no honored symbols will not itself be honored. Because earthly reality is inherently symbolic, made in the image of heaven, we cannot return to reality without a return to symbolism.
Eric M. Parker, “How the Reformation Preserved the Sacramental Worldview.” https://northamanglican.com/how-the-reformation-preserved-the-sacramental-worldview/
Luther WA: XXIII,134.34-23:136.36
Heinrich Bullinger. “The Sixth Sermon: Of Signs & Sacraments” in Decades. https://www.monergism.com/decades-ebook
Eric M. Parker. “‘Saint Dionysius’: Martin Bucer’s Transformation of the Pseudo-Areopagite.” 138-9.
Humani generis. 26.
Franciscus Junius. The Mosaic Polity. 26.
Augsburg Confession. Article XXIII.14.
Owen Barfield, Poetic Diction. 87.
Joshua K. Mobley. Symbolism: A Systematic Theology of the Symbol. 11. http://etheses.dur.ac.uk/13712/1/Joshua_Mobley_Symbolism.pdf?DDD32+
Mobley. Symbolism. 11-12.
John Frame, A History of Western Philosophy and Theology.
Walter Burkert, “Prehistory of Presocratic Philosophy in an Orientalizing Context” in The Oxford Handbook of Presocratic Philosophy. 68.
Burkert, “Prehistory.” 68.
Hegel, Lectures on the History of Philosophy: Vol. 1: Greek Philosophy to Plato. 88.
Peter T. Struck, Birth of the Symbol. 24.
Burkert, “Prehistory.” 60.
Ibid. 58-9.
Quoted in Josef Pieper, Leisure: The Basis of Culture. 23.
G. K. Beale, The Temple and the Church’s Mission: A Biblical Theology of the Dwelling Place of God. 60. The same pattern is also present in the construction of Solomon’s temple (1 Kgs. 6:38).
Beale, The Temple and the Church’s Mission. 66.
Christopher D. Kou, “God’s Statue in the Cosmic Temple.” 17. https://www.academia.edu/99675167/GOD_S_STATUE_IN_THE_COSMIC_TEMPLE_%D7%A6%D6%B6_%D7%9C%D6%B6%D7%9D_and_%D7%93%D6%B0%D6%BC%D7%9E%D7%95%D6%BC%D7%AA_in_Genesis_and_the_first_person_plural_cohortative_of_Gen_1_26_in_light_of_sanctuary_setting_and_Christological_telos
Kou, “God’s Statue.” 18.
Struck, Birth of the Symbol. 45.
Ibid. 116.
Pieper, Leisure. 29.
Burkert, “Prehistory.” 67-8.
Bereshit Rabbah 1:3-4.
Philo of Alexandria, The Life of Moses 2. 117, 133.
Marc van de Mieroop, “Ancient Near Eastern Philosophy” in A Companion to the Ancient Near East. 299.
Jan Assmann, “Creation Through Hieroglyphs.” 25-9.
Raymond Westbrook, Ex Oriente Lex. 185; see also Thomas Carpenter, “Recovering True Law.” https://americanreformer.org/2024/08/recovering-true-law/
Mary Walker Edwards, Unmasked, or, The Science of Immorality: To Gentlemen. 10.
Stephen D. Ricks and Shirley S. Ricks, “‘With Her Gauzy Veil Before Her Face’: The Veiling of Women in Antiquity.” 346. https://scholarsarchive.byu.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?filename=18&article=1016&context=mi&type=additional
Numbers 5:18 and Isaiah 3:17 both present the removal of the head covering as a sign of shame. It also has the same connotation in III Maccabees 4:6, and refusal to remove it before men is an act of faithfulness in Susanna 32.
In Talmudic literature, married women are to cover their hair in all communal spaces (Ned. 30b; Num. R. 9:16). It is also considered a valid cause for divorce for a woman to violate this practice (Ket. 7:6). Similar to Paul in 1 Cor. 11, the pronouncement of blessings is forbidden in the presence of a bareheaded woman (Ber. 24a). It was considered a display of extraordinary piety for women to remain covered even in their own homes (Yoma 47a; Lev. R. 20:11). https://www.jewishvirtuallibrary.org/covering-of-the-head