Posted by deangonzales on February 1, 2009
Gerhard von Rad, an OT scholar, aptly depicts the spread of human sin after the Fall as “an avalanche.” This avalanche accelerates to such staggering proportions that God is forced to visit the world in a catastrophic flood-judgment (7:6-24). But prior to the judgment itself, God evaluates the human condition in Genesis 6:5 and issues a judgment oracle in 6:7. Sandwiched between the divine evaluation and oracle is a striking depiction of God’s inward response to the human condition: “The LORD was grieved that he had made man on the earth, and his heart was filled with pain” (6:6, NIV).
Moses isn’t content to portray sin’s sway by merely dissecting man’s rotten heart. He quickly turns to a staggering disclosure of God’s broken heart. Using emotionally charged vocabulary, Moses depicts the Lord as feeling both regret for creating humanity and also heart-deep pain because of the rebellion of his images. In response to man’s change from very good (1:31) to very evil (6:5), the Lord genuinely feels a mixture of disappointment and anger, which in turn produces a profound heart-felt sorrow, something with which any reader who has felt the pangs of the curse can to some degree identify. The Hebrew verb translated “was filled with pain” (NIV) or “grieved” (ESV) and its cognates often refer to deep emotional pain experienced by humans. It denotes the aroused feelings of brothers whose sister has just been raped (Gen. 34:7), a loyal friend who has just learned of his father plans to murder his best friend (1 Sam. 20:34), a father who laments the untimely death of a prodigal son (2 Sam. 19:3 [Heb. 2]), and a wife whose husband has just deserted her (Isa. 54:6). Interestingly, the same terms are used to depict the “pain” Adam and Eve must suffer as a result of the curse—a pain including both emotional as well as physical dimensions (3:16, 17). Hence, man’s fall into sin brings pain to his Creator’s heart as well as to his own.
God’s emotive reaction to the proliferation of human sin serves not only as the literary connection between his inquest and doom oracle. It also serves to remind the reader that God himself has a heart that can be touched by human sin and misery. To cite von Rad once again,
From the first Fall sin had grown like an avalanche; here at a special climax the narrator pauses and interrupts the regular progress of the account. He takes us from the world of complete disorderliness to God and dares to look into God’s grieving heart…. In daring contrast to what is said about the human heart there follows a word about what takes place in God’s heart: grief, affliction, and disappointment in man. Precisely in this way, by reference to the Creator’s bewilderment, he has communicated something of the incomprehensibility of this incursion of sin.”
Or, as another OT scholar, Franz Delitzsch, notes, “[God] does not decide on the extinction of he world with cold indifference. The divine judgment and the divine pain are but two sides the external and the internal of one and the same reality.”
Classical and Reformed Rejections of Divine Emotivity
In their effort to preserve God’s transcendence, sovereignty, and immutability, some Reformed commentators and theologians dissuade the reader from interpreting God’s emotive response literally. John Calvin, for example, remarks, “God was so offended by the atrocious wickedness of men, as if they had wounded his heart with mortal grief.” Nevertheless, the emotional grief Calvin attributes to God with the right hand he retracts with his left hand when he couches his remark within the follow qualification:
The repentance [“grief,” NIV], which is here ascribed to God, does not properly belong to him, but has reference to our understanding of him. For since we cannot comprehend him as he is, it is necessary that, for our sake, he should, in a certain sense, transform himself…. Certainly God is not sorrowful or sad; but remains for ever like himself in his celestial and happy repose: yet, because it could not otherwise be known how great is God’s hatred and detestation of sin, therefore the Spirit accommodates himself to our capacity…. God, in order more effectually to pierce our hearts, clothes himself with our affections. This figure, which represents God as transferring to himself what is peculiar to human nature, is called anthropopatheia (emphasis added).
So, according to Calvin, God’s transcendent and immutable condition of bliss precludes the possibility that he might experience such emotive responses as sorrow or anger. Thus, the reader should interpret the attribution of an emotional response in God as an “accommodation” to finite human capacity. Calvin elaborates on this use of accommodative language in his Institutes:
For because of our weakness does not attain to his exalted state, the description of him that is given to us must be accommodated to our capacity so that we may understand it. Now the mode of accommodation is for him to represent himself to us not as he is in himself, but as he seems to us. Although he is beyond all disturbance of mind, yet he testifies that he is angry toward sinners. Therefore whenever we hear that God is angered, we ought not to imagine any emotion in him, but rather to consider that this expression has been taken from our own human experience; because God, whenever he is exercising judgment, exhibits the appearance of one kindled and angered. So we ought not to understand anything else under the word ‘repentance’ than change of action, because men are wont by changing their action to testify that they are displeased with themselves (emphasis added).
Calvin’s line of reasoning seems to run as follows: the attribution of emotional states to God has reference not to the inward feelings that you and I normally associate with emotions. Rather, it has to do with the outward actions that such feelings in us normally provoke. Feelings of sadness, grief, compassion, joy, or anger usually move us to react in certain ways. For example, if we feel compassion towards someone in need, we’ll be motivated to alleviate his or her need if possible. If we feel angry towards someone who has wronged us, we’ll seek vindication or redress. Like you and me, God acts in certain ways towards others. He shows kindness to the needy, and he executes judgment on the ungodly. But unlike us, God’s actions are not the manifestations or consequences of genuine emotions. Instead, divine emotions serve as a literary device—an anthropopathism, as Calvin calls it—that points to the effect rather than the cause.
Other Reformed commentators and theologians have followed Calvin’s view of divine emotivity. Francis Turretin, one of Calvin’s successors, articulates this perspective with great precision:
Repentance is attributed to God after the manner of men (anthropopathos) but must be understood after the manner of God (theoprepos), not with respect to his counsel, but to the event; not in reference to his will, but to the thing willed; not to affection and internal grief, but to the effect and external work because he does what a penitent man usually does. If repentance concerning the creation of man (which he could not undo) is ascribed to God (Gen. 6:6, 7), it must be understood not pathetically (pathetikos), but energetically (energetikos). Although he could not by a non-creation undo what he had done, yet by a destruction he could produce change.
William Ames, John Owen, Stephen Charnock, John Gill, John Dick, and John Henley Thornwell argue similarly. This viewpoint may be part of the rational for a phrase found in the Westminster Confession of Faith, the Savoy Declaration, and the Second London Baptist Confession, all of which affirm that God is “without body, parts, or passions [emphasis added]” (II, 2). Richard Muller, an expert in post-Reformation dogmatics, seems to confirm this notion when he writes,
Since a passion has its foundation or origin ad extra [without] and its terminus ad intra [within], it cannot be predicated of God and, in fact, fails to correspond in its dynamic with the way that God knows. An affection or virtue, by way of contrast, has its foundation or source ad intra and terminates ad extra, corresponding with the pattern of operation of the divine communicable attributes and, in particular, with the manner of the divine knowing. This understanding of affections and passions corresponds, moreover, with the etymology of the terms: an af- or ad-fectio from adficio, to exert an influence on something—in other words, an influence directed toward, not a result from, something; whereas passio, from patior, is a suffering or enduring of something—it can refer to an occurrence or a phenomenon and even to a disease.
One might illustrate Muller’s distinction between “affections” and “passions” as follows:
It’s important to note that Calvin and Reformed theology did not hatch this construal of divine impassibility. One finds similar analyses in the writings Augustine, Anselm, and Aquinas. Anselm, for instance, discusses whether or not God really feels compassion for those in need. Writing as if he were speaking to God, Anselm queries,
How are thou compassionate, and, at the same time, passionless? For if thou are passionless, thou dost not feel sympathy, thy heart is not wretched from sympathy for the wretched; but this is to be compassionate. But if thou art not compassionate, whence cometh so great consolation to the wretched?
Do you see the tension Anselm is highlighting? The Bible describes God as “compassionate.” The realization of such divine compassion brings great comfort to those who are in misery. Yet, Anselm is committed to the idea that God is without passions. How does he reconcile the apparent contradiction? Listen to his solution:
Truly, thou art [compassionate] in terms of our experience, but thou art not so in terms of thine own. For, when thou beholdest us in our wretchedness, we experience the effect of compassion, but thou does not experience the feeling. Therefore, thou are both compassionate, because thou dost save the wretched, and spare those who sin against thee; and not compassionate, because thou art affected by no sympathy for wretchedness.
To illustrate Anselm’s viewpoint, think of Jesus’ parable of the “Good Samaritan.” When Jesus depicts the Samaritan helping a wounded man, he wants us to imagine not merely a kind deed but also a warm feeling arising within the Samaritan’s heart as he sees this needy victim on the roadside. Indeed, Jesus himself is said to have felt such feelings. In Matthew 9:36, we read, “When [Jesus] saw the crowds, He felt compassion for them, because they were weary and worn out, like sheep without a shepherd” (CSB). But such is not true of God, Anselm would argue. God may do kind things for needy people. But like Mr. Spock of Star Trek, God does not feel the emotion of compassion.
One may find analogous reasoning among some Greek philosophers. Although the nature of deity, as depicted in Greek philosophy, differed significantly from classical Christian theology on a number of points (e.g., the Trinity), it did at points find semblance, particularly in an emphasis on a kind of transcendence that precluded the proper attribution of emotion to deity. For instance, the Epicurean Lucretius (96-55 b.c.) opined,
For the nature of gods must ever in itself of necessity enjoy immortality together with supreme repose, far removed and withdrawn from our concerns; since exempt from every pain, exempt from all dangers, strong in its own resources, not wanting aught of us, it is neither gained by favors nor moved by anger.
Lucretius’ phrase “supreme repose” has a similar ring to Calvin’s “celestial and happy repose.” Such transcendent bliss is thought to be incompatible with emotional responses, which seem to imply psychological changes within God’s heart. And, as the great Puritan theologian John Owen argues,
That which is inconsistent with absolute blessedness and all-sufficiency is not to be ascribed to God; to do so casts him down from his excellency. But can he be blessed, is he all-sufficient, who is tossed up and down with hope, joy, fear, sorrow, repentance, anger, and the like?
It should be noted that this view of divine impassibility does not leave us with an immobile God. That is, these theologians do not portray God as if he were in an “eternally frozen pose.” Unfortunately, some classic theologians have employed illustrations that may have prompted such caricatures. Thomas Aquinas, for example, sought to account for apparent changes ascribed to God in relationship to creation or humanity by means of a fixed stone pillar. When the Scriptures ascribe changes in God’s attitude, disposition, or affections toward us, they are not literally ascribing change to God but changes in us that place us in a different relationship to the fixed stone pillar. Such an illustration is unsuitable since it leaves one with the impression that God is immobile. Aquinas and other classic theologians clearly deny this and affirm that God is active.
Perhaps we would do better to liken God to a bar magnet. Get on his “right side,” and he finds you “attractive,” which the Scriptures might describe with such emotive terms as love, pleasure, or peace. Get on his “wrong side,” and he finds you “repulsive,” which the Scriptures might describe in terms of anger, wrath, or hatred. Or better, we might compare God to the mercury in a thermometer. The mercury within the thermometer rises or falls according to the ethical climate to which it is exposed, but the chemical properties of the mercury never change. But these illustrations, though more helpful than Aquinas’s stone pillar, still leave us with a God that seems less than personal and who is emotively detached from this world.
In sum, the classical view of God would seem to preclude divine emotivity. Emotions attributed to God in the Bible are to be interpreted metaphorically because a literal interpretation, so it is argued, would undermine divine transcendence, sovereignty, and immutability.
Is God Really Angry and Grieved at Human Sin and Misery?
Where does this leave our interpretation of Genesis 6:6? A literal reading of that text suggests the idea that God genuinely experienced heart-felt sorrow and even anger in response to the escalation and aggravation of human sin (6:5). If we follow the reasoning of some classic theists, however, we may have to revise our exegetical conclusions. We are left with a God who thinks (6:5) and a God who acts (6:7), but not with a God who genuinely feels (6:6). God’s remorse and pain, we are told, do not refer to the kind of feelings that would prompt the redemptive/punitive action described in the verses that follow (6:8ff.). They are, rather, God’s mode of “accommodating himself” to our finite understanding. “It is only by the use of such human expressions,” writes Augustine, “that Scripture can make its many kinds of readers whom it wants to help to feel, as it were, at home. Only thus can Scripture frighten the proud and arouse the slothful, provoke inquiries and provide food for the convinced.” Hence, it would seem that the God of Genesis 6:6 is not profoundly touched by human sin and misery. On the contrary, according to the reasoning summarized above, God is, to borrow the title of a popular song, “comfortably numb.” Accordingly, we might be tempted to provide the reader with the following lyrical caution:
There is no pain you are misreading;
It’s just God’s mode of accommodation.
When it says, “feels,” it means, “behaves”;
His heart’s “moved,” but that’s not what it’s saying.
Has God an eye? Or has he an ear?
Or hands? Come on, you silly goon!
He’s too transcendent to descend,
To grieve, to feel the plight of man.
Despite the load of evil done,
God shall remain comfortably numb.
The satirical lyric above is, admittedly, a bit hyperbolic and rhetorically overstated. In fact, the God of classic and Reformed theologians like John Calvin is not heartless. Indeed, Calvin himself speaks of God’s “fatherly care,” which he extends to “all mankind.” Moreover, the common portrayal of God’s impassibility, as summarized above, contains a vital truth, which serves to ensure that God’s supreme authority (transcendence), absolute control (sovereignty), and perfect nature (immutability) remain intact. Nonetheless, some classic and Reformed theologians have sometimes articulated this doctrine in a way that seems, at best, somewhat one-sided and, as a result, imbalanced.
Reformed Dissent from the Classic View
Not surprisingly, there are other Reformed theologians who have expressed dissatisfaction with the classic treatment of divine emotivity sketched above. For instance, the great Princeton systematician, Charles Hodge, remarks,
The schoolmen, and often the philosophical theologians, tell us that there is no feeling in God. This, they say, would imply passivity, or susceptibility of impression from without, which it is assumed is incompatible with the nature of God…. Here again we have to choose between a mere philosophical speculation and the clear testimony of the Bible, and of our own moral and religious nature. Love of necessity involves feeling, and if there be no feeling in God, there can be no love…. The philosophical objection against ascribing feeling to God, bears, as we have seen, with equal force against the ascription to Him of knowledge or will. If that objection be valid, He becomes to us simply an unknown cause, what men of science call force; that to which all phenomena are to be referred, but of which we know nothing. We must adhere to the truth in its Scriptural form, or we lose it altogether. We must believe that God is love in the sense in which that word comes home to every human heart.
One of Hodge’s students and the first president of Southern Baptist Theological Seminary, James Petigru Boyce, agreed with this mentor. Writes Boyce,
The immutability thus set forth in the Scriptures and implied in the simplicity and absolute perfection of God is not, however, to be so understood as to deny in him some real ground for the Scripture statements of emotional feeling in the exercise of joy, pity, longsuffering and mercy, or of anger, wrath and avenging justice. We could as well deny some real ground for the attributes of love, justice and truth which are at the basis of these emotions.
Similarly, Benjamin B. Warfield employs his eloquence in favor of a theology that gives full place to divine emotivity. In a sermon entitled, “Imitating the Incarnation,” Warfield exclaims,
We have a God who is capable of self-sacrifice for us…. Now herein is a wonderful thing. Men tell us that God is, by very necessity of His own nature, incapable of passion, incapable of being moved by inducement from without; that he dwells in holy calm and unchangeable blessedness, untouched by human sufferings or human sorrows for ever,–haunting
The lucid interspace of world and world,
Where never creeps a cloud, nor moves a wind,
Nor ever falls the least white star of snow,
Nor ever lowest roll of thunder moans,
Nor sound of human sorrow mounts to mar
His sacred, everlasting calm.
Let us bless God that it is not true. God can feel; God does love. We have Scriptural warrant for believing, as it has been perhaps somewhat inadequately but not misleadingly phrased, that moral heroism has a place within the sphere of the divine nature: we have Scriptural warrant for believing that, like the hero of Zurich, God has reached out loving arms and gathered to his own bosom that forest of spears which otherwise had pierced ours. But is not this gross anthropomorphism? We are careless of names: it is the truth of God. And we decline to yield up the God of the Bible and the God of our hearts to any philosophical abstraction. We have and we must have an ethical God; a God whom we can love, in whom we can trust.
More recently, Gregory Nichols, a professor of systematic theology for Reformed Baptist Seminary, has averred,
We must not deny either God’s infinite joy and blessedness or his incessant grief over human sin. Someone may object that these texts must contain a figure of speech, since God can’t really feel sensations of anguish. If so, why does Scripture ascribe this feeling to God? What truth does it actually tell us about him? All such objections fly in the face of the clear and emphatic teaching of Scripture.
Other Reformed theologians such as Oliver Buswell, Robert Reymond, John Frame, and Michael Horton have added their voices to these witnesses. They note that some theologians have pressed the concept of impassibility so far as to deny even that God responds emotively. But they reject that view as unbiblical, noting that Scripture writers ascribe many attitudes to God that are generally regarded as emotions.
As these examples, not all Reformed theologians have embraced the treatment of divine impassibility that precludes the attribution of genuine emotional responses to God.
Evaluating the Classic View
Before dismissing the classical view of divine emotivity, we should pause and explore some of the reasons that prompted such careful thinkers as Augustine, Anselm, Calvin, and Owen to reject a more literal reading of divine emotivity.
One reason that gives these scholars pause is the fact that emotions as experienced by humans often include a physiological dimension. Sweaty palms, flushed face, rapid heartbeat, goose bumps and other like physical phenomena frequently accompany human emotivity. Since God is an incorporeal Spirit (Rom. 1:20; Col. 1:15; 1 Tim. 1:17), theologians have correctly rejected any physiological dimension to divine emotivity. This also may have been part of the reason why many theologians call emotional ascriptions to God “anthropopathisms” (i.e., human emotions ascribed to God that have a figurative not literal meaning) much like bodily ascriptions to God are called “anthropomorphisms” (i.e., human body parts ascribed to God that have a figurative not literal meaning).
But, as we’ve seen, the many classical theologians that reject a more literal reading of divine emotivity are motivated by more than a concern to protect God’s incorporeal nature. After all, with the exception of strict materialists, everyone agrees that emotivity has a psychological as well as physical dimension. If so, why can’t God experience the psychological aspect without the physical? Enter the doctrines of divine transcendence, sovereignty and immutability. Emotions, affections, and passions are commonly understood as inward reactions and/or responses to outside stimuli. These inward reactions and/or responses entail psychological changes. Since, according to Scripture, God is unchangeable or immutable (Num. 23:19; 1 Sam. 15:29; Ps. 102:27; Mal. 3:6; James 1:16-18; Heb. 1:12; 13:8), how can we attribute psychological “changes” to an unchangeable Being?
Moreover, the outside stimuli to which you and I respond (i.e., circumstances or events that normally provoke emotive responses) are often beyond our control. We have little or no control over the premature death of a family member that brings grief, the deceitful politician who provokes anger, or the surprise birthday party that prompts joy and gratitude. And some outward circumstances, which confront us, are so surprising and overwhelming that we have trouble controlling the emotional responses themselves. Many of us can recall the sibling or friend hiding behind the door whose “surprise” appearance and exclaimed “boo” sent us emotionally (not literally) “through the ceiling.” Almighty God, however, stands transcendently above time and space (Gen. 1:1; Pss. 90:2; Isa. 40:25-28; 57:15; John 1:1; Acts 17:24-28; Rom. 1:20; 16:26; Col. 1:16-17; 1 Tim. 1:17; 2 Pet. 3:8). Furthermore, he is absolutely sovereign. He’s planned every event that has or ever will come to pass within the matrix of human history. He actively controls every event and circumstance so that nothing can take him unawares or by surprise (Gen. 50:20; Job 23:13-14; Ps. 135:6; Prov. 16:33; Isa. 46:9-10; Dan. 4:34-35; Acts 4:27-28; Rom. 8:28-29; 9:19-20; Eph. 1:11). Since God is the supreme ruler and governor over all things, how can we attribute psychological “reactions” and “responses” that would make him seemingly the “pawn” of outward circumstance and, therefore, vulnerable?
I suspect it was this latter concern—a concern to protect God’s transcendence, sovereignty, and immutability—that primarily has driven some classic theologians to reject, minimize, or redefine divine emotivity. The concern to guard God’s non-material nature was secondary. This suspicion is supported by the fact that the primary heresies to which classic theists have responded on the question of divine emotivity have affirmed the non-material nature of God but have tended to reject (in part or entirely) God’s absolute transcendence, sovereignty, and/or immutability. These would include Socinianism, Pantheism, Panentheism or Process Theology, and Open Theism. None of these views attribute to God a literally body like that of man’s (though Pantheism and Panentheism closely identify God with the material universe). They all, however, to one degree or another, challenge God’s absolute transcendence, sovereignty and/or immutability. They have no hesitation, therefore, conceiving of God as less than omnipotent and omniscient. He is, therefore, not absolutely sovereign over all events in creation. Accordingly, he is subject to external stimuli and genuine change. For example, Clark Pinnock, an Open Theist, doesn’t hesitate to assert, “God does not control everything that happens. Rather, he is open to receiving input from his creatures. In loving dialogue, God invites us to participate with him to bring the future into being.” This line of reasoning, not surprisingly, exploits the biblical data on divine emotivity. “God is not cool and collected,” avers Pinnock, “but is deeply involved and can be wounded.” Indeed, this capacity to feel sorrow and pain makes God genuinely “vulnerable.”
When one considers the clear biblical affirmations of God’s non-material nature, transcendence, sovereignty, and immutability, together with the ancient and modern challenges to these doctrines, he can understand why a number of classic theists and Reformed theologians have felt constrained to dissuade the reader from interpreting divine emotivity too literally. After all, responses to external stimuli that entail psychological changes would seem to conflict with the biblical portrait of a sovereign God who has decreed the end from the beginning and who does not change. It has seemed preferable to some, therefore, to interpose a great deal of dissimilarity between the referent we normally associate with emotional attributes and the referent to which such emotive attributions actually point when predicated of God. As a result, what you and I normally think of as emotions turn out to be quite different when applied to God. They refer, metaphorically, to divine actions (redemptive or punitive), which, in turn, spring from unchanging ethical virtues within the Godhead.
Is this classical interpretation of divine emotivity, which some Reformed theologians advance, fully biblical? Should we interpret God’s heart-piercing grief over the explosion of human sin and misery in Genesis 6:6 as a mere metaphorical expression that points proleptically to his enactment of the judgment portrayed in the subsequent context (6:7ff.)? As I demonstrated above, a number of Reformed theologians have not been persuaded by the classical treatment of divine emotivity and would, presumably, answer these questions in the negative. They insist that God has genuine feelings. I’m inclined to agree with this latter group of theologians.
Toward a Biblical View of Divine Emotivity
It’s my conviction that the a comprehensive view of the all the biblical data compels us to affirm that God has real emotions while at the same time acknowledging that there is some degree of discorrespondence between divine and human emotions.
1. The God Who Feels
I believe the Bible provides an overwhelming amount of data in favor of divine emotivity. God is said to feel such affections as love and hate, joy and grief, pleasure and anger, and peace. And this list is by no means exhaustive. Of course, the Scriptures also attribute human body parts to God, such as eyes, arms, hands, a mouth, etc. Obviously, God’s incorporeal nature constrains us to interpret the latter metaphorically, as “anthropomorphisms.” So, it has been argued, we must interpret God’s emotions in like fashion, as “anthropopathisms.”
However, as we noted above, emotivity has a psychological as well as physical dimension. This is true of mental activity as well. When humans think, there is both a psychological as well as physical dimension involved. Yet, very few theologians interpret cognitive activities ascribed to God metaphorically, as mere “anthroponouisms.” In fact, it can be argued that the essence of thinking, feeling, and choosing is not primarily physical but spiritual in nature. After all, may we not safely assume that the disembodied souls of righteous men in heaven presently experience joy, pleasure, and peace while the disembodied spirits of the ungodly experience sorrow, pain, and torment? What is more, the Bible ascribes emotional experience to angels, which are spiritual beings (Job 38:7; Pss. 103:20; 148:2; Rev. 5:11-14). It follows, then, that corporeality is not an essential feature of genuine emotivity. Hence, the obvious disjunction between human body parts (which are material) and divine “body parts” (which are metaphorical) does not equally apply to human and divine emotivity.
These considerations should prompt us to reconsider the way we think of so-called “anthropomorphisms” and “anthropopathisms.” Traditionally, Bible interpreters have reserved these expressions for some language about God. But since all special revelation comes to us via human language, then all special revelation is, in one sense, “anthropomorphic.” Furthermore, since the heavens declare the glory of God (Ps. 19:1; Rom. 1:19-20), then we may speak of general revelation as, in a sense, “anthropopomorphic” or, more generally, “cosmomorphic.” Of course, this line of reasoning corresponds nicely with man’s identity as “the image of God” (Gen. 1:26-27). As such, human beings are analogues of God. More precisely, we are visible replicas and representatives of the invisible God. Hence, we might even reverse the tables and refer to humans as “theomorphs” and human language as “theomorphic.” Consequently, there is a reciprocal interplay between our knowledge of God and our knowledge of ourselves (and the world around us). This is the note on which Calvin begins his famous Institutes:
Nearly all the wisdom we possess, that is to say, true and sound wisdom, consists in two parts: the knowledge of God and of ourselves. But, while joined by many bonds, which one precedes and brings forth the other is not easy to discern. In the first place, no one can look upon himself without immediately turning his thoughts to the contemplation of God, in whom he ‘lives and moves.’ For, quite clearly, the mighty gifts with which we are endowed are hardly from ourselves…. Then, by these benefits shed like dew from heaven upon us, we are led as by rivulets to the spring itself…. Accordingly, the knowledge of ourselves not only arouses us to seek God, but also, as it were, leads us by the hand to find him.
Conversely, writes Calvin, “It is certain that man never achieves a clear knowledge of himself unless he has first looked upon God’s face, and then descends from contemplating him to scrutinize himself.”
Unfortunately, Calvin forgets his own counsel when it comes to interpreting divine emotivity. Instead of looking for analogy, Calvin stresses discontinuity. Hence, when interpreting God’s grief in Genesis 6:6, Calvin insists,
The repentance [“grief,” NIV], which is here ascribed to God, does not properly belong to him, but has reference to our understanding of him. For since we cannot comprehend him as he is, it is necessary that, for our sake, he should, in a certain sense, transform himself…. Certainly God is not sorrowful or sad; but remains for ever like himself in his celestial and happy repose: yet, because it could not otherwise be known how great is God’s hatred and detestation of sin, therefore the Spirit accommodates himself to our capacity.
Two logical inconsistencies appear in Calvin’s reasoning. First, he seems willing to allow God the emotions of anger and detestation (or does he mean for us to take these figuratively too?) but not the emotions of regret and sorrow. Second, he argues that God (through Moses) uses descriptive language that, on the one hand, is not properly true of himself in order to, on the other hand, make known to us what “could not otherwise be known.” Am I missing something?
Similarly, when commenting on Isaiah 63:9, which reads, “In all [Israel’s] affliction [God] was afflicted,” Calvin remarks,
In order to move us more powerfully and draw us to himself, the Lord accommodates himself to the manner of men, by attributing to himself all the affection, love, and (sumpatheia) compassion which a father can have. And yet in human affairs it is impossible to conceive of any sort of kindness or benevolence which he does not immeasurably surpass.
So far so good. But then Calvin adds his anthropopathic qualifier: “not that [God] can in any way endure anguish, but, by a very customary figure of speech, he assumes and applies to himself human passions.” Of course, it’s true that divine emotivity is not univocal with human emotivity (any more than divine knowledge is univocal with human knowledge). Hence, one may speak of a degree of “accommodation” when applying language used to predicate human emotions to God. Nevertheless, as the imago Dei, man is an analogue of God. Hence, when we approach “anthropomorphic” language biblically, we won’t place all the emphasis on discorrespondence. That’s not where the Bible places the emphasis! Listen to the language of 94:9: “He who planted the ear, does he not hear? He who formed the eye, does he not see?” The psalmist is certainly not implying that God has physical ears or physical eyes. He’s assuming a certain discontinuity between Creator and creature. Nevertheless, the emphasis of the text is on continuity or correspondence. Our hearing ear and our seeing eye apparatus is a visible replica of God’s invisible and spiritual ability to perceive.
Similarly, divine emotivity is the Archetype of human emotivity, which is the ectype. Human emotions were not designed by God in order to cloud or confuse our understanding of what God is like. Rather, they were purposely designed to provide us with some analogy of the way in which God, as a moral being, evaluates and inwardly responds to good or evil. We are, therefore, compelled to agree with Donald Carson when he writes,
It is no answer to espouse a form of impassibility that denies that God has an emotional life and insists all of the biblical evidence to the contrary is nothing more than anthropopathism. The price is too heavy. You may then rest in God’s sovereignty, but you can no longer rejoice in his love. You may rejoice only in a linguistic expression that is an accommodation of some reality of which we cannot conceive, couched in the anthropopathism of love. Give me a break. Paul did not pray that his readers might be able to grasp the height and depth and length and breadth of an anthropopathism and know this anthropopathism that surpasses knowledge (Eph. 3:14-21).
In sum, we should not interpret God’s grief in Genesis 6:6 merely as a figure of speech that points to outward acts (i.e., judgment) rather than to an inward feelings (as it normally does vis-à-vis humans). After all, God has plenty of human words at his disposal to refer to judgment literally. Indeed, God employs such literal terminology in the subsequent context when he portends a worldwide flood (6:7ff.). So if God can use plain language to depict his imminent intervention in judgment, why employ a figurative expression that might lead the reader to the “mistaken” notion that the Almighty might have something analogous to human feelings?
Need I say more? God through Moses discloses to us that the escalation of human hubris and the misery that followed in its trail prompted him to grieve. Of course, his grief was not accompanied with literal tears or heaving breast. Nor was it tainted with sin, as post-lapsarian human grief often is. But it was grief nevertheless. Accordingly, Victor Hamilton is correct when he observes, “Verses like this remind us that the God of the OT is not beyond the capability of feeling pain, chagrin, and remorse. To call him the Impassible Absolute is but part of the truth.”
2. Impassible & Passible
But doesn’t the conclusion reached above contradict what the Bible teaches regarding God’s transcendence, sovereignty, and immutability? If God is above time and space, if he’s decreed and determines the end from the beginning, if he’s immutably happy in his “celestial repose,” how can we conceive of him as being moved to respond with sorrow by something outside himself (i.e., human sin and misery)? In other words, if we interpret God’s emotions as genuine inward responses to outward stimuli, won’t we compromise the doctrine of God’s impassibility?
The simple answer is “no.” Ultimately, God has determined the end from the beginning. He ordained the Fall (Gen. 3:1-6) and the proliferation of human sin (Gen. 6:5). He ordained his outward redemptive/punitive response to human sin (6:7ff.) But he also ordained his inward emotional response to human sin (6:6). In that sense, we may speak of God as “impassible.” Nothing takes God by surprise. On the other hand, God manifests his covenant presence within the matrix of human history. He not only exists outside of time and space, but he has chosen to manifest his presence within time and space. And within the matrix of human history, God responds or, if I may use the term without being misunderstood, he is “moved” by human events. In this (guarded) sense, we may speak of God as “passible.” Samuel Waldron, Academic Dean and Professor of Systematic Theology at Midwest Center for Theological Studies, agrees. “We must,” argues Waldron, “augment the doctrine of impassibility with a clear doctrine of divine relationality.” That is,
We must, I think, clearly affirm that God is both impassible and passible. As the God who was free not to create, as the God who has decreed whatsoever comes to pass, as the God who has no needs not satisfied by his own fullness, He is and must be immutable and impassible. He is (always has been and will be) serene in the blessedness of the inter-Trinitarian fellowship of persons and in the execution of His immutable and comprehensive decree.
Yet by His free act of creation God has chosen to subject Himself to the influences of His creatures. Of course, He has done this without giving up His position as the Creator and Sovereign of the universe who in Himself is immutably serene, has no need-based emotions, and who is immutable in His comprehensive purpose. Thus, He is only passible in exactly those ways and for exactly those purposes that He has freely chosen in His decree and in no other way. The fact, however, that He has chosen to be passible and passible in only those ways He has chosen does not devalue or deny the fact of His passibility. It simply means His passibility is limited and has to do with His purposes in the world—His free decision to glorify His name in the world. It also means that it coexists with an infinite and transcendent impassibility in God considered in Himself eternally.
John Frame, Professor of Apologetics and Systematic Theology at Reformed Theological Seminary, speaks in a similar fashion:
Although God’s eternal decree does not change, it does ordain change. It ordains a historical series of events, each of which receives God’s evaluation. God evaluates different events in different ways. Those evaluations themselves are fixed in God’s eternal plan. But they are genuine evaluations of the events. It is not wrong to describe them as responses to these events.
In the words of J. Oliver Buswell, “Does ever a sinner repent, there is always joy in the presence of the angels (Luke 15:7, 10). Does ever a child of God, ’sealed’ by the Spirit, fall into sin, the Holy Spirit is ‘grieved’ (Eph. 4:30).” In other words, God really responds emotively to events that transpire within creation and redemption history. One might say that God is “impassible” from the perspective of his transcendence and “passible” from the perspective of his immanence.
I’ve tried to think of a good illustration. Imagine God as the cosmic movie scriptwriter, producer, and director. God’s also chosen, like many modern directors, to participate in the story as one of the main actors. Indeed, he’s given himself the leading role. He’s created a magnificent epic. It’s full of tragedy. But it has a happy ending. As the scriptwriter, producer, and director, God takes pride in his work and enjoys it with a sense of peace, calm, and gratification, knowing the plot has a glorious ending. But as God actively participates in the various stages of the plot in the capacity of actor, he weeps at misfortune, grows angry at injustice, and rejoices in the triumph of good. Granted, this illustration fails to capture the full complexity of God’s heart. But I believe we must embrace all the biblical descriptions of God (those emphasizing his transcendence as well as those emphasizing his immanence) even if we can’t fully conceptualize their relations.
So I affirm that God is self-contained, independent, and wholly satisfied with himself. He possesses a kind of joy that cannot be marred. Yet, I also affirm that within the matrix of human history God experiences grief, sorrow, anger, pleasure, love, hatred, jealousy, joy and peace. All of these emotional responses are perfectly consistent with his unchanging “being, wisdom, power, holiness, justice, goodness, and truth.” The complementary perspectives of divine impassibility and passibility may be illustrated as follows:
God’s emotivity is both an inward reaction to external states of affairs and events and also an inward response of his moral virtues toward eternal states of affairs or events within the matrix of human history. Moreover, all outward states of affairs and events, as well as God’s inward reactions and responses within the matrix of human history have been decree by God outside the matrix of human history.
3. Is this Consistent with the Confession of Faith?
The framers of the Westminster Confession of Faith, the Savoy Declaration, and the Second London Baptist Confession assert that God is “a most pure spirit, invisible, without body, parts, or passions [emphasis added]” (II, 1). Does the affirmation of divine emotivity (above) require us to reject the Confession’s teaching that God is “without … passions”? Some scholars believe so. But I’m not convinced we need disagree with our forefathers. We may, however, need to clarify or augment their teaching.
I have a facsimile copy of the 1689 (actually, 1677) Baptist Confession of Faith. There’s no proof text given. I don’t have a facsimile edition of the Westminster Confession. But in the edition I do have, as well as later editions of the Baptist Confession, Acts 14:11, 15 is given as a proof text. In that passage, Paul and Barnabas dissuade the crowds in Lystra from venerating them as “gods” (v. 11) since they were mere mortals, that is, men of “like passions” (v. 15, KJV). Most modern translations render it “the same [like] nature” (NKJ, NAS, ESV, CSB; NET) or “human like you” (NIV). At best, the text teaches that humans have human passions and, by way of inference, that deity does not have human passions. So the framers of our Confession may have been thinking of the physiological dimension of human emotion, which, of course, could not be predicated of God. This would fit the context since the term “passions” is immediate preceded by the words “body” and “parts.” Perhaps adding the term “human” before “body, parts, or passions” would help to clarify the intent of the Confession and prevent modern Reformed Christians from arriving at the unbiblical conclusion that God does not experience what are analogous to human emotions.
On the other hand, I’m not convinced that the framers of the confessions (WCF, Savoy, LBCF) were uninfluenced by philosophical notions related to divine impassibility. It is possible, therefore, that their doctrinal formula, viz., that God is “without … passions,” reflects an attempt to protect God’s transcendence, sovereignty, and immutability by means of precluding any genuine emotivity as a proper predicate of God. If so, then we may laud their zeal to protect God’s transcendence and agree that God is the ultimate cause behind every event in human history, including his own responses to sin (inwardly and outwardly). Hence, God is not passive. He is, in this sense, impassible.
But affirming God’s impassibility vis-à-vis his transcendence, sovereignty, and immutability is only one part of the truth. God, as we have seen, is also covenantally present within the matrix of human history. Consequently, it may be appropriate at some point, for the sake of removing ambiguity and enhancing clarity, to augment the Confession’s excellent summary of God’s nature with an affirmation of his relationality toward the work of his hands not only outwardly (via the works of creation and providence [redemptive/ punitive]) but inwardly (via emotive responses). Somehow, we, as Reformed Christians, need to make it plain to the world and to the church that the God we worship and serve is a God who genuinely feels.
Bob Gonzales, Dean
Reformed Baptist Seminary
Posted by deangonzales on September 4, 2008
The NT employs the Greek paradosis to refer to religious teaching that has been handed down orally or in writing, commonly known as “tradition.” One finds examples of both good and bad tradition. Inspired apostolic tradition is viewed in a positive light (1 Cor. 11:2; 2 Thess. 2:13). Non-inspired ecclesiastical tradition is usually viewed in a negative light (Matt. 15:1-9; Gal. 1:13-14; Col. 2:8). The danger of non-inspired tradition is its potential for distorting, invalidating, and even supplanting biblical truth. This would hold true not only of non-inspired Jewish tradition but also of non-inspired Christian tradition. The framers of the Westminster Confession of Faith were well aware of this danger and addressed it unambiguously in I, 6 and XXXI, 3:
The supreme judge by which all controversies of religion are to be determined, and all decrees of councils, opinions of ancient writers, doctrines of men, and private spirits, are to be examined, and in whose sentence we are to rest can be no other but the Holy Spirit speaking in the Scripture.
All synods or councils, since the apostles’ times, whether general or particular, may err; and many have erred. Therefore, they are not to be made the rule of faith or practice; but to be used as a help in both.
A concern about Reformed traditionalism today
Throughout the last several decades many evangelical churches in America have been engaged in a process of reformation analogous to the great Protestant Reformation of the 16th century. Like the early Protestant churches, a number of churches today are reforming in doctrine, in worship, and in church government. In these and other respects, today’s reformation is analogous to the Reformation of Luther, Zwingli, and Calvin, except on a smaller scale.
In other respects, however, these two reformations differ. For example, the Reformers lived in a context in which there was an overemphasis on the authority of the church and an under-emphasis on the priesthood of the believer (which is related to liberty of conscience). In our day it seems to be the reverse. Today there appears to be an overemphasis on the priesthood of the believer (i.e., individualism) and an under-emphasis on the importance and authority of the church. In the 16th century, the Reformers had to correct a distorted gospel, which attempted to make good works the instrument of justification, by restoring simple faith to its proper place. Today, we have to correct the perversion of grace and faith (i.e., Easy-believism) by an emphasis upon the necessity of good works as the fruit of saving faith. There are other differences we could highlight. But there is one in particular upon which I’d like to focus our attention. This distinction between the Protestant Reformation and our modern reformation is subtle. But I believe it is an important distinction and worthy of our consideration.
One of the hallmarks of the Protestant Reformation was a movement away from traditionalism and a return to the Scriptures as the ultimate authority of the Christian church. This was not a complete rejection of church tradition or legitimate human authority. Rather, it was a conscious effort to reestablish the primacy of Scripture in matters of faith and practice and to subordinate all church tradition to the teaching of Scripture. It was this restored focus upon Bible’s authority and teaching that gave birth to the Latin phrase, sola Scriptura (the Bible alone).
How does this differ from our modern reformation? Most Reformed churches today continue to affirm the principle of sola Scriptura. However, alongside that affirmation, there is, I believe, a renewed emphasis upon historical tradition, particularly the Protestant Reformed and Puritan traditions. This renewed interest in the Reformed tradition is seen in the resurgence and republication of Reformed literature. Think, for example, of all the good Reformed and Puritan books that have been reprinted and republished by Banner of Truth Trust. And many theologians today are publishing articles and books that analyze and expound this Reformed tradition—Luther’s doctrine of justification; Calvin’s doctrine of sacraments; the Puritan regulative principle of worship, etc.
Furthermore, there has been the republication of the great Reformed confessions and catechisms. This renewed interest in the Reformed creeds has coincided with the emergence of evangelical churches like ours that are studying and adopting these old creeds as doctrinal standards. In fact, many of these churches have chosen to express their commitment to and identification with this Reformed tradition by inserting the term “Reformed” in the name of the church. Thus, one can find a “Reformed Baptist Church Directory” on the Internet in which appear such names as, “Grace Reformed Baptist Church,” “Covenant Reformed Baptist Church,” or the “Reformed Baptist Church of Holland.” So, alongside an affirmation of sola Scriptura there is also this growing interest in and identification with the Reformed and Puritan tradition.
As I said earlier, the Protestant Reformers were not opposed to all tradition. If you read their writings, you’ll find that they often cite the church fathers and earlier church tradition, sometimes in a positive light. For instance, both Luther and Calvin had a deep appreciation for the writings of Augustine. They quoted Augustine to demonstrate that what they were teaching was not entirely novel. But we do not seem to find among the Reformers a pronounced concern or preoccupation to be identified with the Augustinian tradition. We do not find Protestant churches springing up with the name, “The Augustinian Church of Wittenburg,” or “Grace Augustinian Church.” We do not find Luther and Calvin calling the church to return to the writings of Augustine. Rather, the Reformers were primarily concerned to take the church back not to Augustine, not to Athanasius, not to Irenaeus, but all the way back to Jesus, and to Paul, and to John, and to the other biblical writers.
By noting this contrast, I’m not implying that Reformed churches today are unconcerned with the Bible. On the contrary, one of the reasons churches like ours appreciate the Reformed tradition is because of its emphasis upon the Scripture. Along with the Reformers, we continue to affirm the principle of sola Scriptura. But here is where the danger lies: whereas the Reformers evaluated the faith and practice of the church in the light of Scripture; some Reformed leaders today seem to evaluate the faith and practice of the church in the light of the Reformed tradition, especially in light of their Reformed Confession of Faith.
Actually, the danger is really more subtle. Few Reformed pastors today would begin their sermon by asking the congregation to turn to page 250 of Calvin’s Institutes of the Christian Religion or to chapter 14 of the Westminster Confession of Faith. Like the 16th century Reformers, modern Reformed pastors endeavor to take God’s people back to the Scripture. With a growing interest in and appreciation for the Reformed tradition, however, there can be a tendency to look at the Bible only through the lens of Reformed tradition. In other words, there is a real danger of imposing the Reformed tradition as a grid over the Bible and then insisting that every interpretation and application must agree with that tradition.
In principle no Reformed pastor or theologian would elevate his tradition to the same level as Scripture. But in practice I believe there can be a very subtle tendency in that direction. Let me give you two examples: first, consider Herman Hoeksema’s Reformed Dogmatics (Grand Rapids: Reformed Free Publishing Association, 1966). This is a systematic theology written by a professor of the Protestant Reformed church. Let me quote the volume’s description from the dust jacket:
Here is a thoroughly Scriptural and Reformed exposition of the faith once delivered to the saints…. In the view of the author, there are three factors essential to a sound dogmatics. The first is that dogmatics must be faithful to the Scriptures, and therefore thoroughly exegetical. The second is that fundamentally all of dogmatics must be theologically construed, and must therefore be theocentric. The third is that a sound dogmatics must be faithful to the Reformed creeds and to the dogma of the church [emphasis added].
A perusal through the book demonstrates the author’s coordinate concern to base his doctrinal formulations both in the teaching of Scripture and also in the Reformed continental symbols. A second example of this determination to remain within the confines of Reformed tradition can be found in D. G. Hart and John R. Muether, With Reverence and Awe: Returning to the Basics of Reformed Worship (Phillipsburg: Presbyterian and Reformed, 2003). In the introductory chapter, the authors identify the purpose and method of their book. In light of what they see as wrong assumptions and practices in modern worship, they write,
We need to return to basics on worship. That is the purpose of this little book. On the basis of Scripture and Reformed confessions, we have designed a primer on what is arguably the Christian’s most important calling. A primer is defined as a short, introductory book on a single subject. This is exactly what follows—a brief overview of how Reformed theology informs the way we think about, put together, and participate in a worship service [emphasis added] (p. 13).
Can you see how in both of these examples the authors want us to look at the Scriptures through the lens of Reformed tradition? Of course, they affirm the authority of Scripture. But there seems to be an underlying assumption that the only right way to interpret and apply the Bible is through the medium of Reformed creeds. I fear that this underlying assumption can slowly erode our commitment to the principle and practice of sola Scriptura, and it can dangerously elevate the authority of our Reformed tradition.
Please don’t misunderstand me. I am not opposed to creeds or confessions. On the contrary, I’ve recently written a series of posts defending the use of creeds and underscoring their value to the church (see “On the Validity & Value of Confessions of Faith,” Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV). Of all the historical creeds, I believe those of the Reformed tradition most accurately represent the teaching of Scripture. Of all the Reformed creeds, I believe the 1689 is, overall, the best! To use the language of my local church constitution, I regard “the London Baptist Confession of Faith … as an excellent, though not inspired, expression of the teaching of the Word of God” (Art. IV). Moreover, I not only believe in the validity and value of our confession, but I also believe we should know and acquaint our congregation with the teaching of its doctrinal symbols.
I am, nevertheless, sensitive to the danger of creating the impression that our Baptist Confession is incapable of improvement or that the Confession has said everything that needs to be said or that teachings of the Bible must conform in proportion and emphasis to the teaching of our Confession. In order to prevent our esteem for the London Baptist Confession in particular or our Reformed heritage in general from subtly weakening our commitment to sola Scriptura, I suggest that (1) we beware of the danger of traditionalism and (2) we be aware of the limitations of our own Baptist Confession. In this post, I’ve tried to alert us to the danger of Reformed traditionalism. In the next post, I hope to provide an example of a limitation (or weakness) in our own 1689 Baptist Confession of Faith.
Bob Gonzales, Dean
Reformed Baptist Seminary
According to Genesis 6:6, God felt emotional pain as he assessed the proliferation of human sin and misery on the earth. But as we noted in Part 1 of this series, some classical and Reformed Bible scholars caution the reader against reading emotions predicated of God literally. “Certainly,” writes John Calvin, “God is not sorrowful or sad; but remains for ever like himself in his celestial and happy repose.”1 Emotions attributed to God in Scripture should be interpreted figuratively as “anthropopathisms,” by which God accommodates himself to our understanding.2 When the reader inquires after the referent to which these figures of speech point, he learns that the internal emotions ascribed to God actually refer to outward actions usually associated as the effect of such emotions. In the words of Francis Turretin, the emotivity ascribed to God in Genesis 6:6 refers “not to affection and internal grief, but to the effect and external work…. It must be understood not pathetically (pathetikos), but energetically (energetikos).”3 This line of reasoning may account (at least partly) for a statement found in the Westminster Confession of Faith, the Savoy Declaration, and the Second London Baptist Confession, all of which affirm that God is “without body, parts, or passions [emphasis added]” (II, 2). Moreover, this interpretation of emotions ascribed to God is commonly linked to the doctrine of divine impassibility, which, in turn, is related to God’s immutability.
