Friday, Apr. 08, 1966
"Is God Dead?"
THEOLOGY Toward a
Hidden God (See Cover)
Is God dead? It is a question that
tantalizes both believers, who perhaps secretly fear that he is, and atheists,
who possibly suspect that the answer is no.
Is God dead? The three words represent a
summons to reflect on the meaning of existence. No longer is the question the
taunting jest of skeptics for whom unbelief is the test of wisdom and for whom
Nietzsche is the prophet who gave the right answer a century ago. Even within
Christianity, now confidently renewing itself in spirit as well as form, a
small band of radical theologians has seriously argued that the churches must
accept the fact of God's death, and get along without him. How does the issue
differ from the age-old assertion that God does not and never did exist?
Nietzsche's thesis was that striving, self-centered man had killed God, and
that settled that. The current death-of-God group* believes that God is indeed
absolutely dead, but proposes to carry on and write a theology without theos, without God. Less radical
Christian thinkers hold that at the very least God in the image of man, God
sitting in heaven, is dead, and—in the central task of religion today—they seek
to imagine and define a God who can touch men's emotions and engage men's
minds.
If nothing else, the Christian atheists are
waking the churches to the brutal reality that the basic premise of faith—the
existence of a personal God, who created the world and sustains it with his
love—is now subject to profound attack. "What is in question is God
himself," warns German Theologian Heinz Zahrnt,
"and the churches are fighting a hard defensive battle, fighting for every
inch." "The basic theological problem today," says one thinker
who has helped define it, Langdon Gilkey of the
University of Chicago Divinity School, "is the
reality of God."
A Time of No Religion.
Some Christians, of course, have long
held that Nietzsche was not just a voice crying in the wilderness. Even before
Nietzsche, SÖren Kierkegaard warned that "the
day when Christianity and the world become friends, Christianity is done away
with." During World War II, the anti-Nazi Lutheran martyr Dietrich
Bonhoeffer wrote prophetically to a friend from his Berlin prison cell: "We
are proceeding toward a time of no religion at all."
For many, that time has arrived. Nearly one
of every two men on earth lives in thralldom to a brand of totalitarianism that
condemns religion as the opiate of the masses—which has stirred some to heroic
defense of their faith but has also driven millions from any sense of God's
existence. Millions more, in Africa, Asia and South America, seem destined to
be born without any expectation of being summoned to the knowledge of the one
God.
Princeton Theologian Paul Ramsey observes
that "ours is the first attempt in recorded history to build a culture
upon the premise that God is dead." In the traditional citadels of
Christendom, grey Gothic cathedrals stand empty, mute witnesses to a rejected
faith. From the scrofulous hobos of Samuel Beckett to Antonioni's tired-blooded
aristocrats, the anti-heroes of modern art endlessly suggest that waiting for
God is futile, since life is without meaning.
For some, this thought is a source of
existential anguish: the Jew who lost his faith in a providential God at
Auschwitz, the Simone de Beauvoir who writes:
"It was easier for me to think of a
world without a creator than of a creator loaded with all the contradictions of
the world." But for others, the God issue—including whether or not he is
dead—has been put aside as irrelevant. "Personally, I've never been
confronted with the question of God," says one such politely indifferent
atheist, Dr. Claude Lévi-Strauss, professor of social anthropology at the Collège de France. "I find it's perfectly possible to
spend my life knowing that we will never explain the universe." Jesuit
Theologian John Courtney Murray points to another variety of unbelief: the
atheism of distraction, people who are just "too damn busy" to worry
about God at all.
Johannine Spirit.
Yet, along with the new atheism has come
a new reformation The open-window spirit of Pope John XXIII and Vatican II have
re vitalized the Roman Catholic Church.
Less spectacularly but not less decisively,
Protestantism has been stirred by a flurry of experimentation in liturgy,
church structure, ministry. In this new Christianity, the watchword is witness:
Protestant faith now means not intellectual acceptance of an ancient
confession, but open commitment—perhaps best symbolized in the U.S. by the civil
rights movement—to eradicating the evil and inequality that beset the world.
The institutional strength of the churches
is nowhere more apparent than in the U.S., a country where public faith in God
seems to be as secure as it was in medieval France. According to a survey by
Pollster Lou Harris last year, 97% of the American people say they believe in
God. Although clergymen agree that the postwar religious revival is over, a big
majority of believers continue to display their faith by joining churches. In
1964, reports the National Council of Churches, denominational allegiance rose
about 2%, compared with a population gain of less than 1.5%. More than 120
million Americans now claim a religious affiliation; and a recent Gallup survey
indicated that 44% of them report that they attend church services weekly.
For uncounted millions, faith remains as
rock-solid as Gibraltar. Evangelist Billy Graham is one of them. "I know
that God exists because of my personal experience," he says. "I know
that I know him. I've talked with him and walked with him. He cares about me
and acts in my everyday life." Still another is Roman Catholic Playwright
William Alfred, whose off-Broadway hit, Hogan's Goat, melodramatically plots a
turn-of-the-century Irish immigrant's struggle to achieve the American dream.
"People who tell me there is no God," he says, "are like a
six-year-old boy saying that there is no such thing as passionate love—they
just haven't experienced it."
Practical Atheists.
Plenty of clergymen, nonetheless, have
qualms about the quality and character of contemporary belief. Lutheran Church
Historian Martin Marty argues that all too many pews are filled on Sunday with
practical atheists—disguised nonbelievers who behave during the rest of the
week as if God did not exist. Jesuit Murray qualifies his conviction that the
U.S. is basically a God-fearing nation by adding: "The great American
proposition is 'religion is good for the kids, though I'm not religious
myself.' " Pollster Harris bears him out: of the
97% who said they believed in God, only 27% declared themselves deeply
religious.
Christianity and Judaism have always had
more than their share of men of little faith or none. "The fool says in
his heart, 'there is no God,' " wrote the Psalmist, implying that there
were plenty of such fools to be found in ancient Judea. But it is not faintness
of spirit that the churches worry about now: it is doubt and bewilderment
assailing committed believers.
Particularly among the young, there is an
acute feeling that the churches on Sunday are preaching the existence of a God
who is nowhere visible in their daily lives. "I love God," cries one
anguished teenager, "but I hate the church." Theologian Gilkey says that "belief is the area in the modern
Protestant church where one finds blankness, silence, people
not knowing what to say or merely repeating what their preachers say."
Part of the Christian mood today, suggests Christian Atheist William Hamilton,
is that faith has become not a possession but a hope.
Anonymous Christianity. In search of
meaning, some believers have desperately turned to psychiatry, Zen or drugs.
Thousands of others have quietly abandoned all but token allegiance to the
churches, surrendering themselves to a life of "anonymous Christianity"
dedicated to civil rights or the Peace Corps. Speaking for a generation of
young Roman Catholics for whom the dogmas of the church have lost much of their
power, Philosopher Michael Novak of Stanford writes: "I do not understand
God, nor the way in which he works. If, occasionally, I raise my heart in
prayer, it is to no God I can see, or hear, or feel. It is to a God in as cold
and obscure a polar night as any non-believer has known."
Even clergymen seem to be uncertain.
"I'm confused as to what God is," says no less a person than Francis
B. Sayre, the Episcopal dean of Washington's National Cathedral, "but so
is the rest of America." Says Marty's colleague at the Chicago Divinity
School, the Rev. Nathan Scott, who is also rector of St. Paul's Episcopal
Church in Hyde Park: "I look out at the faces of my people, and I'm not
sure what meaning these words, gestures and rituals have for them."
Hydrogen & Carbon.
To those who do formulate a God, he seems
to be everything from a celestial gas to a kind of invisible honorary president
"out there" in space, well beyond range of the astronauts. A young
Washington scientist suggests that "God, if anything, is hydrogen and
carbon. Then again, he might be thermonuclear fission, since that's what makes
life on this planet possible." To a streetwalker in Tel Aviv,
"God will get me out of this filth one
day. He is a God of mercy, dressed all in white and sitting on a golden
throne." A Dutch charwoman says: "God is a ghost floating in
space." Screenwriter Edward Anhalt (Becket) says
that "God is an infantile fantasy, which was necessary when men did not
understand what lightning was. God is a cop-out." A Greek janitor thinks
that God is "like a fiery flame, so white that it can blind you."
"God is all that I cannot understand," says a Roman seminarian. A
Boston scientist describes God as "the totality of harmony in the
universe." Playwright Alfred muses: "It is the voice which says,
'It's not good enough' —that's what God is."
Even though they know better, plenty of
Christians find it hard to do away with ideas of God as a white-bearded father
figure. William McCleary of Philadelphia, a Roman
Catholic civil servant, sees God "a lot like he was explained to us as
children. As an older man, who is just and who can get angry at us. I know this
isn't the true picture, but it's the only one I've got."
Invisible Supermen.
Why has God become so hard to believe in,
so easy to dismiss as a nonbeing? The search for an answer begins in the
complex—and still unfinished—history of man's effort to comprehend the idea
that he might have a personal creator.
No one knows when the idea of a single god
became part of mankind's spiritual heritage. It does seem certain that the
earliest humans were religious. Believing the cosmos to be governed by some
divine power, they worshiped every manifestation of it: trees, animals, earth
and sky. To the more sophisticated societies of the ancient world, cosmological
mystery was proof that there were many gods. Ancient Babylonia, for example,
worshiped at least 700 deities. Yet even those who ranked highest in the divine
hierarchies were hardly more than invisible supermen. The Zeus of ancient
Greece, although supreme on Olympus, was himself subject to the whims of
fate—and besides that was so afflicted by fits of lust that he was as much the
butt of dirty jokes as an object of worship.
Much closer to the deity of modern
monotheism was the Egyptian sun god Aten, which the Pharaoh Amenophis
IV forced on his polytheistic people as "the only god, beside whom there
is no other." But the Pharaoh's heresy died out after his death, and the
message to the world that there was but one true God came from Egypt's tiny
neighbor, Israel. It was not a sudden revelation. Some scholars believe that
Yahweh was originally a tribal deity—a god whom the Hebrews worshiped and
considered superior to the pagan gods adored by other nations. It is even
questionable to some whether Moses understood Yahweh to be mankind's only God,
the supreme lord of all creation. Even after the emergence of Israel's faith,
there is plenty of Biblical evidence that the Hebrews
were tempted to abandon it: the prophets constantly excoriate the chosen people
for whoring after strange gods.
The God of Israel was so utterly beyond
human comprehension that devout Jews neither uttered nor wrote his sacred
name.* At the same time, Judaism has a unique sense of
God's personal presence. Scripture records that he walked in the Garden of Eden
with Adam, spoke familiarly on Mount Sinai with Moses, expressed an almost
human anger and joy. Christianity added an even more mystifying dimension to
the belief that the infinitely distant was infinitely near: the doctrine that
God came down to earth in the person of a Jewish carpenter named Jesus, who
died at Jerusalem around 26 A.D.
It was not an easy faith to define or
defend, and the early church, struggling to rid itself of heresy, turned to an
intellectual weapon already forged and near at hand: the metaphysical language
of Greece. The alliance of Biblical faith and Hellenic reason culminated in the
Middle Ages. Although they acknowledged that God was
ultimately unknowable, the medieval scholastics devoted page after learned page
of their summas to discussions of the divine
attributes—his omnipotence, immutability, perfection, eternity. Although
infinitely above men, God was seen as the apex of a great pyramid of being that
extended downward to the tiniest stone, the ultimate ruler of an ordered cosmos
cooperatively governed by Christian church and Christian state.
Undermining Faith.
Christians are sometimes inclined to look
back nostalgically at the medieval world as the great age of faith. In his
book, The Death of God, Gabriel Vahanian of Syracuse
University suggests that actually it was the beginning of the divine demise.
Christianity, by imposing its faith on the art, politics and even economics of
a culture, unconsciously made God part of that culture—and when the world
changed, belief in this God was undermined. Now "God has disappeared
because of the image of him that the church used for many, many ages,"
says Dominican Theologian Edward Schillebeeckx.
At its worst, the image that the church
gave of God was that of a wonder worker who explained the world's mysteries and
seemed to have somewhat more interest in punishing men than rewarding them.
Life was a vale of tears, said the church; men were urged to shun the pleasure
of life if they would serve God, and to avoid any false step or suffer
everlasting punishment in hell. It did little to establish the credibility of
this "God" that medieval theologians categorized his qualities as
confidently as they spelled out different kinds of sin, and that churchmen
spoke about him as if they had just finished having lunch with him.
The Secular Rebellion.
The rebellion against this God of faith
is best summed up by the word secularization. In The Secular City, Harvey Cox
of the Harvard Divinity School defines the term as "the loosing of the
world from religious and quasi-religious understandings of itself, the
dispelling of all closed world views, the breaking of all supernatural myths
and sacred symbols." Slowly but surely, it dawned on men that they did not
need God to explain, govern or justify certain areas of life.
The development of capitalism, for example,
freed economics from church control and made it subject only to marketplace
supply and demand. Political theorists of the Enlightenment proved that law and
government were not institutions handed down from on high, but things that men
had created themselves. The 18th century deists argued that man as a rational
animal was capable of developing an ethical system that made as much sense as
one based on revelation. Casting a cold eye on the complacency of Christianity
before such evils as slavery, poverty and the factory system, such 19th century
atheists as Karl Marx and Pierre Joseph Proudhon declared that the churches and
their God would have to go if ever man was to be free to shape and improve his
destiny.
But the most important agent in the secularizing process was science. The Copernican revolution was a shattering blow to faith in a Bible that assumed the sun went round the earth and could be stopped in its tracks by divine intervention, as Joshua claimed. And while many of the pioneers of modern science —Newton and Descartes, for example —were devout men, they assiduously explained much of nature that previously seemed godly mysteries. Others saw no need for such reverential lip service. When he was asked by Napoleon why there was no mention of God in his new book about the stars, the French astronomer Laplace coolly answered: "I had no need of the hypothesis." Neither did Charles Darwin, in uncovering the evidence of evolution.