In an extended passage that has already attracted some controversy, Letham recounts the convoluted story of the Assembly’s debate over whether to defend the imputation of Christ’s active, as well as passive, obedience (ICAO and ICPO). Of course, the relevance of this discussion is clear for the contemporary (conservative) Reformed tradition, with the recent debates over Norman Shepherd’s The Call of Grace, “federal vision” theology, and the New Perspective on Paul (which Letham quickly, and peremptorily, lumps together in a brief footnote). The level of detail in Letham’s account is impressive, and in response, it’s difficult to come away with a belief that the divines meant to inscribe one clear and dogmatic interpretation of the matter. The diversity of opinion within the Assembly ranged – paradoxically – from antinomians who defended ICAO to federal theologians who rejected ICAO in order to bolster the forensic nature of justification. The lines of debate were quite fuzzy and, according to Letham and Van Dixhoorn, constantly shifting. In the end, the Standards appear to lean toward the ICAO, but fall short of an explicit endorsement.

At the conclusion of the ordo, the Assembly addresses the early Reformation doctrine of the necessary assurance of faith in salvation. The language of the Confession reaffirms the “infallible” grounding of the assurance of faith, but then gives an extended caveat on the many ways in which a believer may lose sight of this infallible assurance. Many scholars have noted this deep tension in Reformed theology – one that perhaps began in both Calvin and Luther in equal, if distinct, measure (see Randall Zachman’s The Assurance of Faith: Conscience in the Theology of Martin Luther and John Calvin). For Calvin, as well as some of his heirs, e.g. John Owen, assurance of faith is not subsequent to faith, but somehow coincident with it. Assurance is so deeply integrated into saving faith for Calvin that they often appear as one and the same thing. The value of this doctrine is clear in reference to the later teaching of Trent. However, in the WCF antinomianism has become more of a perceived threat. As a result, it’s easier to find the seeds of the later Puritan preoccupation with doubts over salvation and its evidential fruits. While the WCF maintains the formal structure of the early doctrine of assurance (its “infallible” character), it opens the door for the individual’s tortuous and complicated journey toward attainment of that assurance. LC 81 states that “assurance of grace and salvation is not of the essence of faith” (287, emphasis original).

Interestingly, Letham objects to the Assembly’s emphasis on the many conditions for doubt in the Christian life. While he notes that “English Puritanism bred a barrage of books on spiritual desertion,” Letham suggests that the WCF should have resorted to the traditional Calvinist emphasis on perseverance. And while he acknowledges the pastoral instincts which likely motivated the divines to talk about doubt so extensively, Letham calls this section “one of those occasions when the Assembly was not at its best” (288).

Letham offers a fair assessment of the Confession, and he does acknowledge the abiding tension in the Calvinist doctrine of assurance. However, I fail to see how his proposed resolution really fixes the root problem. Returning to more traditional language of infallible assurance in connection with perseverance would seemingly only rewind the clock, but not prevent the approaching death knell of introspective moralism. While I share Letham’s discomfort with the Confession’s detailed recital of ways in which the “infallible” assurance can be shaken in the individual Christian, my critique comes from a different perspective – one that I believe is present in the WCF, but not nearly as clear as it could be. To put it simply – at least in this one instance, I find Barth’s allegation about the WCF’s neglect of Christology to be quite accurate. Christ appears only once in chapter 18, and that is primarily an aside about the individual’s saving “belief.” But as far as assurance itself is concerned, the focus has subtly shifted from Christ to individual election. The WCF states that the grounds for infallible assurance are found in “the divine truth of the promises of salvation” and the inward evidences that result from them. The prioritization of inner evidence and election are certainly present in Calvin, yet in the WCF, after several generations have passed, the problem of inner doubt can no longer be ignored. Strangely, Letham’s proposal seems to brush past this urgent existential reality. Yet, contrary to Letham, when a system of spirituality stresses the inward assurance of faith too much, corresponding inner doubts seem inevitable.

Just to introduce the possibility, I think it is precisely on this point that the Reformed tradition needs something like a modified system of virtue ethics in order to complement its original emphasis on “infallible assurance.” On its own, the very notion of infallibility implies a very static conception of saving faith – a spiritual inertia that certainly runs contrary to some of Calvin’s more Augustinian moments. Letham and I both agree that the WCF contains the seeds for later problems in Puritanism. However, while Letham locates the “fix” in the WCF’s doctrine of perseverance, I prefer to emphasize its statement in 18.3:

Yet, being enabled by the Spirit to know the things which are freely given him of God, he may, without extraordinary revelation, in the right use of ordinary means, attain thereunto. And therefore it is the duty of everyone to give all diligence to make his calling and election sure; that thereby his heart may be enlarged in peace and joy in the Holy Ghost, in love and thankfulness to God, and in strength and cheerfulness in the duties of obedience, the proper fruits of this assurance: so far is it from inclining men to looseness (emphasis added).

The reference to “ordinary means” is unfortunately vague. Yet, I believe it could be possible to expand on this definition, incorporating elements of sacramental theology as well as a kind of Cranmerian prayer book spirituality. Doing so, it might be possible to adapt the best elements of virtue ethics (external spiritual formation) while maintaining the Calvinist emphasis on the total reliance of the Christian upon the grace of God.

In terms of developing this ethical theology, I think that Calvin’s inextricable doctrines of anthropology and Christology may be invaluable. His strong emphasis on the believer’s participatory union with Christ can, I believe, chart a middle course between Erasmian eudaimonism and Puritan perfectionism. In the process, I acknowledge that the whole of WCF 18 rests uncomfortably at points with my proposal. But nevertheless, I think the Calvinist tradition contains the resources for a deep ethical humanism, albeit one that rests extensively and pervasively in the condescending grace of God, a grace which adopts us and incorporates into the divine life through the Son. If Calvin’s twofold knowledge of self and God can be applied to assurance and ethics – via the lens of Christology – I have hopes that the Reformed tradition can battle off both the onset of introspective pietism and its close cousin, moral perfectionism.

However — on account of the very nature of the decretists’ “project,” I have a few remaining questions:

1) Perhaps at the most basic level, I wonder whether their project is a feasible one. Steven (alongside Peter Escalante, Eric Parker, and others) has done really excellent work outlining the original context and sources of the Reformed natural law tradition that informs the contemporary project. The decretists are quite right to point out the deep influence of Aristotelian and late medieval natural and canon law on the early Reformed. By doing so, in my opinion, they’ve severely undermined the thesis of the confessionalists, who have unwittingly adopted the 19th century interpretation of Luther’s two kingdoms as if it were true and original to the Reformation. But, in reality, the early Reformed — not to mention the Lutherans — allowed for a good deal of interplay between the state and church. The distinction between temporal and spiritual powers was strongly maintained, but was not nearly so rigid as modern day confessionalists like David VanDrunen or D.G. Hart appear to suggest. Confessionalists have always had a difficult time explaining away the fact that the early Reformed were supportive of state oversight over spiritual matters like church councils (the Westminster Assembly, after all, was not a church court, but a civil one). The decretists solve this “problem” by simply embracing the “mere Christendom” of the 16th and 17th century Reformed. And yet — this is precisely why I have nagging doubts about the project. To put it simply, it is one thing to say we’ve understood and “recovered” the original tradition; it’s another thing to implement it. Which leads me to my second question.

2) The decretist position owns up to its Aristotelian assumptions. While every system has its positives and negatives (and surely the Aristotelian system has an impressive intellectual history), why exactly should we resort to a Thomist or Aristotelian system in the 21st century (Alasdair MacIntyre notwithstanding)? I have a good deal of respect for the Thomist tradition; my long-term research goals include trying to put the early Thomist tradition into dialogue with the Augustinian-Barthian strand of Reformed thought. However, every tradition contains within itself the propensity for certain excesses and errors. The Barthian tradition, admittedly, has the conditions for the possibility of a kind of fideism (a point which its opponents have run into the ground). At the same time, the history of the Thomist tradition has revealed its own temptations, perhaps most importantly — the temptation to a bifurcation of natural and supernatural ends. While I believe that the Saintly Doctor himself avoided most of these excesses, by the 16th century, Cajetan and others were pushing the Thomist tradition in a new direction. And this incipient neo-scholasticism is what the early Reformed were having to interact with — and not just Thomas himself. So, I worry that by emphasizing the 16th and 17th century Reformed, as the decretists do, the “Thomism” that is most accesible is not really Thomas, but Cajetan & Co. Or at the very least — that will be a constant temptation.

3) Lastly, I’d like to see the Reformed decretists continue to define and expand on their terminology. There are a few points at which I feel they could improve their thesis by incorporating some more recent arguments, both Protestant and Catholic.

• a) First, perhaps because of the predominantly historical interests of the decretists, the Protestant-Catholic distinctions so far have been strangely out-dated. The heavy interaction of a few hyper-traditionalist Catholics has only added to the problem. But, as Steven does allow, the modern Catholic church does not present the same arguments that its 16th century counterpart did. Unam Sanctam is de facto a dead letter in the 21st century. The decretists might do well to interact with the modern arguments of Catholics like Jacques Maritain and John Courtney Murray on one side, and perhaps William Cavanaugh on the other.
• b) Similarly, from the Protestant side — while Aristotelianism did have a major impact on 17th and 18th century Reformed thought, that influence dissipated for a reason. While this discussion requires an essay (or book!) of its own, I find the Reformed adoption of Aristotelian causality to be inherently problematic. A reading of Alasdair MacIntyre’s take on Scottish Calvinist Aristotelianism and its road to Hume might be particularly valuable here. Besides, Aristotelianism/Thomism is not the only option. I have reservations about the neo-Calvinist paradigm myself, but I do believe it is a legitimate heir of the early Reformed tradition. Or, again, the alternative tradition of Barth and the Torrances has a good deal of merit, in my estimation. While Barth and T.F. Torrance have some sketchy historical interpretations, their theological systems are intriguingly and pervasively Reformed. This more existential-Augustinian strand of Reformed thought deserves some attention as well, in my opinion. As I’ve pointed out on several occasions, the recent work of Eric Gregory, Charles Mathewes, and Jerry McKenny could be quite useful in delineating an alternative tradition.
• c) In Steven’s post, the most programmatic summary I could find about the relationship of church and state was this sentence: “The magistracy as such only has competence around sacred matters, not in them; and the ministry as such only has authority around temporal matters, not over or in them.” For many reasons, this statement is very appealing. In the interests of clarity, though, I’d be curious to see how exactly the “not in, but around,” interplay of authority would actually work. The historical record of Reformed thought is both diverse and also incomplete — particularly since the Reformed only had a few short periods of time when they were actually in control of the state “machinery.” So, for example, would the decretists really push for a re-instatement of Cromwellian polity? Or how about the Massachussetts Commonwealth? Or Covenanter Scotland? Or the Kuyperian Netherlands? What about the Barmen Declaration or the more recent Belhar Confession? These were diverse practices embedded in specific regional and civic spaces. For the decretists to really push their theological program into application, it’d be healthy to interact with the the complications and vagueries of actual polity — particularly in a contemporary context.

All that said — I’m excited to see the discussion pushed to this point. The usual clichés of the church-state debates are exhausting. And I’ll be the first person to support a project of Reformed ressourcement. I’d just like to see the discussion incorporate as many contributions as possible.

[...] I find little persuasive in Oord’s positive argument, but let me highlight only one point that, to my mind, pulls the rug from his whole project.  Jettison creatio ex nihilo, and what’s left?  A God who creates from something existing alongside.  And how does this God-who-cannot-create-from-nothing shape that something into the world we know?  He’s gotta struggle with it.  Oord cites, with apparent approval, Jon Levenson’s claim that “We can capture the essence of the idea of creation in the Hebrew Bible with the word ‘mastery,” and Oord himself adds that in creation “God is the victor in combat” over enemies that “existed prior to God’s creating the universe.”  He also cites Rolf Knierim’s claim that creation is like redemption, “Yahweh is the creator of the world because he is its liberator from chaos, just as he is the creator of Israel because he is its liberator from oppression.”

Now, “mastery” and “victor in combat” and “liberation from oppression” all sound terribly coercive to my ear.  Creation is like redemption from Egypt – as in, Yahweh brings plagues and beats down the chaos in order to liberate order?  For Oord, apparently, God’s relation to creation is, at its initiation, coercive.  While, on the other hand, those dreaded “classical theists” speak of creation as a gift of being, of created existence as existence by participation, which is to say, by the continuous generous outpouring of the Spirit.  Who’s got the better-founded theology of love?  Oord’s position doesn’t sound at all like an ontology of love to me.  It’s a reiteration of pagan/modern/postmodern ontologies of violence.

See also Leithart’s first brief review of Oord, as well as the book itself: The Nature of Love: A Theology.

There are two related covenants at stake in these sections – God’s creational covenant with humanity and the pre-temporal covenant among the persons of the trinity themselves. Regarding the first, Letham is at pains to argue against some modern theologians that God’s original creational covenant assumed that grace is “fully compatible with law” (226). The notion of condescension was used by Protestant scholastics to denote God’s accommodation to human ways of known in order to graciously reveal Himself. Letham argues that while this non-contrastive relationship of grace and law is clearly articulated in the WCF and Larger Catechism, the growing influence of federal theology is also apparent – but still “incipient” (227). In his view, the legal-federal system – although hinted at in the earlier Reformed tradition – remains a potentiality, not an actuality. Or, as he describes Calvin’s relationship to federalism: “the ingredients are present, but the evidence is that, while he may have heated the oven, he had not yet put anything in” (228). Interestingly, although Letham resists the modern temptation to ascribe full-fledged federalism to the Westminster standards, he is also suspicious of the theological motives of some of the Assembly’s harshest critics. Both Holmes Rolston and James B. Torrance argued that the influence of federalism reinforced a legalistic form of theology and practice – one in which law always precedes grace. Letham, however, worries that for some opponents of the creation covenant, there is an implicit critique of penal substitution. Letham prefers the more traditional view articulated by John Murray, which maintained forensic atonement as well as rejecting the notion of a probationary-legal covenant between God and Adam. Against Meredith Kline, Letham makes two claims. First, quite simply, “the Westminster documents clearly affirm that grace was present before the fall” (see WCF 7.1 and LC 20). Second, and perhaps most relevant to recent debates in the Reformed tradition: “law and gospel are different means of administering the one covenant of grace” (233). Letham notes that the Assembly speaks of the covenant of grace “in the singular,” so that the distinction of law and grace is administrative, not substantive or intrinsic.

Letham is similarly critical of some modern articulations of the inter-trinitarian “covenant of redemption.” However, in this case, he is more inclined to take Westminster itself as responsible for later errors. The idea that the three persons of the trinity entered into an almost contractual covenant for the plan of redemption strikes Letham as dangerously tritheistic. He even sees this doctrine as the root for the later English Presbyterian departure from trinitarian orthodoxy (236).

Similarly, while he tries to answer Barth’s Christological critique of the WCF, Letham does find fault with the standards’ failure to adopt the anti-Nestorian revisions of the Councils of Constantinople. Reformed theology has often been charged with Nestorian tendencies, and while Letham (rightly) defends the WCF from this charge, he admits that the Assembly did not articulate a sufficient defense of the eternally divine Son who takes on human nature.

Letham’s critique maps neatly onto Michael Horton’s recent defense of a “covenantal” approach to God’s transcendent relation to immanent humanity (see Horton, Lord and Servant). In this model, God’s condescension to our human frailty is a central theme; humanity relates to God in a way akin to “meeting a stranger.” However, regarding Christ’s own human role in salvation history, Horton objects to Kathryn’s Tanner statement that “the Word’s assumption of [Jesus’] humanity is the immediate source of his whole human life.” Rather, Horton prefers to emphasize the distinctly human nature of Jesus’ salvific work. He asks: “And what about [Jesus’] own faithful humanity as a true covenant partner? Is it just God’s faithfulness acting in and through the humanity?” Christ’s humanity must be affirmed as necessarily human – and “not as deified or elevated humanity.”

This model has profound implications for Reformed Christology, as well as natural theology. For instance, Horton argues that “God was not interested in creating a world without its own inherent, generative capacities – its own space.” Some part of created nature must be “relatively independent.” One wonders in all this whether Horton would be able to affirm the Councils of Constantinople. He certainly goes beyond Calvin and Edwards – not to mention Thomas Aquinas. Further, his emphasis on the two natures of Christ, as opposed to the eternal Son who assumes humanity, also seems to reinforce the stereotype of Reformed Nestorianism. Letham’s sympathetic critique of the Westminster standards is quite welcome on this point. Although it might be tempting to dismiss these debates as arcane and abstract, I tend to view this fundamental Christological question as the heart of our creational theology. How we view the humanity of Jesus frames how we view God’s work of redemption in creation.

The influence of federalism on the doctrine of sin comes through in later theology in the notion that Adam’s sin was imputed to the rest of humanity through a covenantal relationship – a relationship that effectively mirrors the legal imputation of the righteousness of Christ, the second Adam. While Princeton theologian A.A. Hodge (among others) simply assumed that the WCF taught this doctrine, Letham notes that “it is important to note that neither the Confession nor the Catechisms speak of our first parents being placed on probation, being given a commandment as a moral test, nor of a promise of everlasting life on their successful completion of such a probationary period” (198). Rather, the divines were generally informed by the traditional (Augustinian) belief that original sin was imputed, not legally, but by natural generation. Our first parents were “the root of all mankind.”

At the same time, Letham explains that the Assembly took place in the midst of a changing theological environment. The doctrine of covenantal imputation of sin, while absent from early Reformers like Bucer, Calvin, and even Bullinger, began to make inroads in the late 16^th century, particularly through the work of William Perkins. Still, even after the introduction of federal imputation, the doctrine was resisted by many in the Reformed tradition. Edinburgh theologian Robert Rollock rejected the idea as a ‘dangerous view of the schoolmen’ (this, despite Rollock’s adoption of an incipient doctrine of the covenant of works in a 1597 treatise).

In conclusion, Letham allows that while the covenantal imputation of original sin is consonant with the WCF, the doctrine is by no means explicitly affirmed. Since the Assembly was situated during a time of shifting theological paradigms, we need to be careful not to read later developments back into the Westminster texts. Along these same lines, however, it may be quite useful to approach the Assembly as a resource for theological archaeology – that is, as a way to understand how imminent arrival of the Enlightenment — as well as the dominance of Aristotelian thought in 18^th century British Calvinism — may have already been at work in Westminster itself.

In his discussion of the Westminster Assembly’s formulation of the Trinity and God’s sovereignty, Robert Letham highlights several of the ways in which the confession is very clearly a product of its time – for good and ill. On the doctrines of the Trinity, election, and providence, many have critiqued Westminster for an overly scholastic, merciless presentation of biblical truths. As usual, Torrance shows up as the first among Letham’s usual suspects, arguing that the shocking absence of the love of God in the Westminster documents (aside from two brief mentions in the LC) is directly related to the failure of the divines to begin their confession with the Trinity. With this, Letham agrees, noting the ‘astonishing omission’ of God as love (164-5). However, other charges do not find a similar verdict. Concerning accusations of Nestorianism, neglect of the Holy Spirit as well as mission, Letham defends the Assembly from ‘anachronistic’ emphases. Letham implies that Torrance may understandably emphasize the role of the Holy Spirit and the mission of the church thanks to historical and theological developments in the 19^th and 20^th centuries. However, why should we expect the WCF, a document of 17^th century, to anticipate the missionary movement, German idealism, or Pentecostalism? Rather, the Assembly had its own problems to resolve, e.g. the authority of Scripture against the Catholics, the extent and nature of the atonement against the Arminians, Amyraldians, and hypothetical universalists. The divines “did not intend to say everything that could be said” (171). It’s clearly implied: we shouldn’t ask the WCF to behave like a 21^st century document.

Letham draws out a similar point in his discussion of the doctrine of creation. While modern-day proponents of various interpretations of Genesis want to claim Westminster for themselves, Letham argues that the ‘six days’ were simply not an issue of much interest to the divines. Yet, while the Assembly chose not to endorse a specific interpretation, he notes that their silence implied an ambivalence about the revolutionary nature of recent scientific discoveries – namely, Copernican cosmology. He mentions John Leith’s assessment that at Westminster (and in the later Reformed tradition) “theology was increasingly being conducted in isolation from the intellectual currents of the day” (192). Perhaps here we can see an example of how implicit cultural assumptions (in this case: an Aristotelian cosmology) can shape more explicit theological opinions.

While the authority of Scripture is a clear example of an explicitly relevant doctrine for the WCF, the historicity of Genesis chapter one remains implicit. Letham, with the trained eye of a theological historian, ably points out many instances along these lines. However, a question still remains about how Reformed Christians almost four hundred years later should ‘own’ these older texts. While we share many assumptions with the divines, Letham allows that there are other instincts (e.g. the modern emphasis on God’s love) which mark us out as somehow different.

Interestingly, in concluding his commentary on Westminster’s discussion of providence, Letham defends the confession’s use of Aristotelian causality in section 5.2: “[the Assembly] used these concepts to maintain the integrity of the created order, not to impose an alien philosophical framework upon pristine biblical thought” (194). Still, even if we acknowledge that an ‘alien’ framework may be useful in the articulation of Christian doctrine, it seems we are still liable to consider the long-term implications. Every Christian community, by necessity, draws on the language of its surrounding world to formulate ‘timeless’ beliefs about God, Scripture, etc. If postmodernity has taught us anything, it is that we need to be conscious of our own cultural embeddedness – and therefore appropriately humble about our own fallibility. At the same time, as orthodox Christians, we confess to share one faith and one baptism throughout all the ages of history. When applying this hermeneutic to our own Reformed identity, I wonder whether we Calvinists have been very good as seeing the long-term undercurrents in our history. For instance, while Letham points out that the Assembly did not intend to impose Aristotelianism on their theological framework, I have trouble understanding how this absolves us – as later members of the Reformed tradition – from responsibility for the consequences of using such a system. Again, this is not to say that the mere use of philosophy pollutes our biblical faith (a la Harnack’s Hellenism thesis). However, I would love to see modern-day Reformed believers wrestle honestly with the implications of our philosophical assumptions. Perhaps Aristotelianism was actually more friendly to Reformed theology than, for example, the later American modifications of Common Sense Realism (or see Paul Helm’s discussion of Reformed theology’s brief flirtation with Cartesianism). However, in order to be able to make that kind of judgment, we first have to admit that form does influence content; they can’t be entirely separated. The words, practices, and rhetorical structures that we adopt will shape us over time.

In the end, it seems like it’s counterproductive to try to exorcise Aristotelianism or any other 17^th century influence from the Westminster documents. As Letham points out, Torrance does the WCF some injustice by critiquing the confession on anachronistic grounds, while failing to notice its rather remarkable trinitarianism, which stands out against much of 17^th century theology. At the same time, the ‘traditioned’ nature of the WCF, like other confessions, might force us to consider whether, and how deeply, we should incorporate the philosophical assumptions of the divines into our theology.