Wednesday, December 31, 2014

What are we really giving when we give Christmas gifts?



[As a brief word of introduction, this paper, which does challenge the logical value of Christmas gifts is NOT a paper that is discussing the cloying Christian trope of society’s commercialization of and war on Christmas; rather, this is a paper that challenges the very practice that devout Christians often hold so dear.]

A traditional practice for the Christmas holiday is the exchanging of gifts. This practice is further practiced on some other special occasions (birthdays, anniversaries, baby showers, weddings, etc.) as well and this paper would additionally apply to them; I focus here on Christmas simply because it is the most common time in which gifts are given. Indeed, the practice of gift giving and the Christmas holiday have become ubiquitous. Even those who do not really celebrate much of a Christmas at all, still give gifts. This paper, though, wonders what is truly being exchanged and whether those can truly be called “gifts” or not. If it is truly a giving of gifts, why is it that such things are frequently paired with emotional regret and frustration? Why is it that these need to be followed with “Thank you” cards or even worse – they have to be opened in the presence of the giver so that the reaction can be observed? It is as if the “gift” is not really “given” at all – instead, it is something that requires some kind of exchange – something that expects something in return. This paper argues that holiday gift giving is illogical and contradictory. Further, it is something that is not very honest – rather than it actually being an exchange of items symbolizing the relationship between two people, it is instead identity discourse which reifies one’s own identity in a public way to satisfy the demands of an oppressive societal nomos (order).

A gift is something that is to be freely proffered to one party to another. This is something that can show appreciation and symbolizes love and care. Further, for something to be a gift, it has to be offered “freely.” This is true in both its senses. On the one hand, it is “free” in the sense that the one offering the gift did not have to offer it. It was offered spontaneously and if it were not offered, there would have been no negative consequences. For a gift to be presented, it cannot be an obligation – otherwise, its nature as a gift is in question. Second, the “free” aspect of a gift is that it expects nothing in return – it is “economically” free. The one receiving the gift has no obligations of any kind (no “strings attached”). The receiver does not have to keep the gift, does not have to provide compensation, nor does the receiver have to even appreciate the gift. The gift is free because it is a complete transfer of ownership. The gift used to belong to giver x and now after a proper gift giving ritual now belongs to owner y. Whatever happens to the gift is completely up to owner y and giver x is no longer involved. If the giver wanted to control the object, it would need to be a contract rather than a gift.

While these things are logically sound, practically, they are rarely followed. Very few people truly “give” anything. They expect some kind of praxis once the gift is given. Usually this includes a variety of responses: 1). An appreciation of the gift – the giver recognizes the gift as valuable, will keep the gift, and use it regularly; 2). An exchange of some kind of thanks; 3). A compensatory gift or action ensuring equality; 4). Some kind of parity in thought and value of the compensatory gift; or 5). An emotional uplifting of the relationship of the two parties by means of this gift giving ritual.  All of these are, at a bare minimum, expectations that accompany a gift and call into question whether a gift is actually free. In fact, the fact that the term “free gift” has been coined is simply to show how rarely it truly is such.

At the end, the gift giving ritual is based upon reciprocity. If one party x gives a gift that is of very much value to party y, and party y gives a gift of little value to party x, the “thought” that is supposed to be behind the gifts are called into question. If this was simply economic value, then there would be no problem. However, what is actually needed reciprocally is the “thought” included in the gift. The “thought that counts” can be better understood as the gift being a symbol of one’s relationship. It is a measure of how important and meaningful the relationship is to the giver to be able to identify a gift. This, is precisely why, it is based upon reciprocity. If one person gives a gift of large value and the other one of little value, then it suggests that one person does not think of the relationship as highly as the other, thereby being a physical object of disparity in the center of the room. For the relationship to be on equal footing, the gift needs to be on equal footing.

What is worse, is that “value” is not economic. If it were, then the two parties could generally follow the standard practice of getting for one another things that are of generally equal monetary value. Instead, though, “value” is measured based upon future use. It shouldn’t matter how much it costs, so long as it is something that the receiver will really use. The closer the relationship, the more useful the gift – seemingly. The problem, of course with this, is that a gift that could be very useful is not use at all if the receiver already owns this item. Use is amazingly subjective and creates a wild disparity.

A further consequence of this is the type of comparisons that gifts provide as physical markers of relationships. When parents have multiple children, it is standard that the children will compare their gifts with one another. Children can become distraught if one gift is superior to the others. The children, in this case, are not stupid and understand the societal problem – that the symbol of the relationship with one child is stronger than the same for the others. What has occurred is that the children have been ranked by means of this gift giving system. Further, comparison is done by the giver when gifts are being doled out. It is not uncommon to hear a trope such as “I spent x dollars on recipient a, so I really need to spend a similar amount for recipient b.” The comparison of relationships based upon gifts is tremendously acute.

Another complication with the sentiment “that it is the thought that counts” is that it is not simply a transfer of ownership. A gift is not something that is given from person a to person b. Instead, it is an ongoing symbol of the relationship. Given that, the original source of the gift preceding its being purchased and given is important. It is apparently uncouth to “re-gift” something. If the “thought” that symbolizes the relationship is in the gift, its source should not matter – whether it was re-gifted, stolen, bought, or bartered. However, it matters very much. What this leads toward is the illogical nature of gifts – it is not the gift at all, it is the action of the giver. The commensurate measure of gifts to ensure the relationship is in the amount of work done. It is not actually based upon any type of meaning that the gift might provide.

Finally, the practical challenge of gift giving that makes what is done at Christmas not actually gift giving is what is expected after the gift is given. The gift is a symbol of the relationship, and as such, there are expectations as to what will be done with it. If the gift is expected to be used. If the gift is edible or an article of clothing, the expectation is that the gifts will be eventually used up, but barring those restrictions, gifts are expected to be kept and used. One is not free to simply throw out the gift. To do so is to, apparently, throw out the relationship. The gift needs to remain in the possession of the receiver as a monument to the friendship that has been fostered so long as it continues. The gift can only be discarded when the relationship has soured and therefore the symbolic value of the gift has been lost.

The reason gift giving is illogical is because what is done is not the giving of gifts; rather, what is done is an exchange in Derrida’s terms. An exchange is a relational quid pro quo whereas a gift is something that expects nothing in return.[1] A Christmas gift is coupled with an expectation of thanks. While the practice of the official thank you card wanes, it is very common to expect that the one receiving the gift will state their thanks to the giver. Children are taught to do this at a very young age – even if they aren’t thankful for the gift that well could be slightly manipulative (e.g. an uncle who is a football enthusiast gives a football to a child who has made it very clear he has no interest in sports). This is even more telling by the portion of the ritual where they expect to watch someone open the gifts that they are given. It is a process wherein the giver sits attentively and watches the every move of the receiver to ensure that the receiver really wants it. This is at least slightly creepy and puts the receiver in a very awkward position. The positive goal, of course, is to attempt for the receiver to actually want the gift, provide the giver with the emotional thank you that their relationship is sound, and reify the bond. However, throughout the ritual it is amazingly clear that the “gift” is not given – it is exchanged. It is an action for an action – the giving of a gift for the response of the individual.

The only pure gift, then, is one where there is no exchange. It is the gift that is given with no expectation of anything in return. While most everyone says they do this, they rarely do. If a receiver gets a gift, laughs out loud, tosses the gift in the trash, the giver is usually quite offended. The receiver took the gift wrongly. This receiver is so crass that “no one could give him a gift.” That, logically, should be the only person to whom a gift could be given. It is as Derrida says of Forgiveness – the only things that could actually be “forgiven” are those that are utterly unforgivable.[2] Similarly here, the only people to whom gifts could be “given” are utterly “ungiftable.”

The crass way of understanding these gifts is that it is between the two people – person a gives person b a gift and person b commensurates person a with a similar gift in this economy of exchange. Aside from this system being impractical – as my favorite comedian David Mitchell hilariously points out (Gifts: David Mitchell's Soapbox who points out that we usually know what we want better than other people in addition to the horrible frustrations of not being allowed to simply purchase things we really need because it happens to be nearing Christmas) – it is also not very honest. We are not actually appeasing our friend or relative with this gift – they are our friends and relatives, they don’t really care if we give gifts or not – particularly those who are fiscally well off. Rather, we are fulfilling our role in society. The exchange is not even between the person giving and the person receiving. Both of those figures are simply enacting their given role in the societal nomos.[3] This is, in Lacanian terms, the “big Other” – the symbolic universe that we all silently buy into in order to preserve meaning and identity.

Society as a whole has set these norms and practices in order that we can find our own identity. The goal of the giving of gifts is not that “society” really needs us to – society could continue to function with or without gifts. The “Big Other” would simply change to be a symbolic world without any place for holiday exchanges. However, when the person enacts these rituals and participates in these exchanges, they do so to tell themselves that they are filling their proper duty and as such, they know they are active participants in society. When they act in the way that society expects, they feel they are part of the society and they are grounded in timeless truths.

Society, generally, while being a living construct, is not illogical. It is known that this exchange is an obligation, and hence it really is not a gift – instead it is simply a personal statement of filling the role expected of the individual in order to remind oneself that he or she is a member of the society. Society, then, emphasizes the chosenness of this gift giving. To give the gift was a choice and therefore is not a simple societal obligation. However, upon closer examination, this is what Zizek calls a “forced choice.” The person has to buy into the system of their own free-will; however, the consequences of not buying into the system are very real and looming. If one did not buy into it, they would be social outcasts, would be ostracized and scorned. While that is true, there still is some vague idea that this is really chosen. It is some kind of logic like “Well, you could choose to turn your back on everyone and everything that matters to you, have no sense of belonging, and be punished – or you could choose to participate.” Anyone who is not an idiot knows that this is not a choice. Zizek calls this choice one that occurred sometime in the past. We act in the present as if we had made the choice to participate in the past.[4] The reality, of course, is that no one truly made the choice. The choice was made long ago that this system was set and there is no choice but to participate in it.

While this essay can be accused of catastrophizing the situation, real question should be asked. While it is easy enough to say that gift giving really does not matter an that this is a superfluous ritual, it is more significant than one expects. Consider how frequently gifts are given. This essay has focused on Christmas simply for ease of reference, but the general gatherings of family systems are nearly always centered around a ritual where gifts are given. It seems superfluous, but it really is not. If one decided to simply recuse himself or herself from the ritual, that person would be recusing himself or herself from nearly all family events, and thereby family relationships.


[1] Jacques Derrida On Cosmopolotanism and Forgiveness, trans. Mark Dooley and Michael Hughes (London and New York: Routledge, 2001), 28-32.
[2] Derrida, On Forgiveness, 32.
[3]Peter L. Berger The Sacred Canopy: Elements of a Sociological Theory of Religion (New Yorks: Anchor Books, 1967).
[4] Slavoj Zizek The Sublime Object of Ideology (London and New York: Verso, 1989, repr. 2008), 186-187.

Wednesday, December 3, 2014

Chapter Two: Shadows, Souls and Where They Go: Life Beyond Death in Ancient Paganism



 [This is an ongoing project that is analyzing N.T. Wright’s 5 volume series, Christian Origins and the Question of God. This series is widely read and bridges the gap between the academic and devotional world. It is therefore worthy to be carefully analyzed so that all readers can understand his key points while at the same time gaining a critical eye to some of his rather bold claims. This series of posts are concerning volume 3 – The Resurrection of the Son of God.]

N.T. Weight’s emphasis in this chapter is laudable. He is primarily interested in how the message of the resurrection would have been heard to a Gentile audience (he will discuss how this same message would have sounded to a Jewish audience in the following two chapters). Wright focuses on the worldview of most members of Greco-Roman society. He does a good job presenting the worldview, but less of a good job showing the possibilities within the world by focusing so exclusively on the concept of resurrection and by not discussing minority religion such as Greek magic or the mystery cults.

First, Wright emphasizes that on the level of the worldview, most people could not have imagined a conversation about any type of “resurrection” in any way that would have made sense to them:
This basic tenet of human existence and experience is accepted as axiomatic throughout the ancient world; once people have gone by the road of death, they do not return. When the ancient classical world spoke of (and denied) resurrection, there should be no controversy about what the word and its cognates referred to: it was a coming back again into something like the same sort of life that humans presently experience.[1]
He argues that any idea of “resurrection” would not be expected because such an idea would be a reanimation of one’s bodies – a view held by very few. While Wright is correct that the focus of Greek and Roman religion is on the present world – and frankly very little speculation about any type of “life after death” – his focus being so narrowly on resurrection causes problems.

First, it is necessary to show where it is that Wright succeeded. He correctly points out that the worldview generally had little interest in life after death. He argues any idea of life after dearth would be something that was not particularly hoped for:
We can, then, answer the worldview questions in relation to the dead. Who were the dead thought to be, in the ancient pagan world? They were beings that had once been the embodied human beings, but were now souls, shades or eidola. Where were they? Most likely in Hades; possibly in the Isles of the Blessed, or Tartarus; just conceivably, reincarnated into a different body altogether. They might occasionally appear to living mortals; they might still be located somewhere in the vicinity of their tombs; but they were basically in a different world. What was wrong? Nothing, for a good Platonist, or a Stoic like Epictetus; the soul was well rid of its body – a sentiment echoed by many non-philosophers in a world without modern medicine, and often without much justice. Almost everything, for most people: some kind of life might continue after death, but it was unlikely to be as rich and satisfying as the present could be, at least in theory.[2]
This is certainly accurate. Most people did not focus on the coming life after death, rather, they focused upon life right now. Roman religion had almost no interest in any kind of future life, instead religious devotion was centered upon a do ut des relationship that addressed current needs (as well as having nearly no interest in ethics).

He illustrates this by showing that life after death in Homer is something that is not what a Western reader would expect. Any type of future existence is not “bodily” in the sense that Christians would later make so popular. Instead, the type of existence was shadowy and elusive:
Who then are the dead, for Homer and the subsequent centuries that read him devoutly? They are shades (skiai), ghosts (psychai), phantoms (eidola). They are in no way full human beings, though they may look like them; the appearance is deceptive, since one cannot grasp them physically. The Latin word Manes conjures up the same sort of world, with similar variations. Where are they? They are in Hades, under the eponymous rule of the underworld’s god and his dread wife. What’s wrong? They are sorry both to be where they are and at much that happened in their previous human existence. They are sad at their present subhuman state. In some cases they are tormented, as punishment for particularly heinous crimes (though we are not told, interesting, the crimes of Tantalus and Sisyphus). There may be some who have a shadowy alter ego in a better place; we shall come to Hercules presently. But for most of them, including those who have been great and goo din their former life, Hades holds no comforts, no prospects, but only a profound sense of loss.[3]
Here Wright is correct – at the level of Homer, there really is very little as far as a Christian life after death. There certainly were not otherworldly expectations of wages of life based upon any kind of merit.

Wright then explains that in philosophy, there was a development of a kind of future life that would be valued. Here, he argues that Plato broke new ground by dividing the soul and the body and having the soul exist in the world of the forms as a kind of happy future:
How will we ever get people to be good citizens, he asks, to serve in the army, to do their duty to their friends, if their view of the future life is conditioned by epic pictures of gibbering ghosts in a gloomy underworld? Instead, the young must be taught the true philosophical view: death is not something to regret, but something to be welcomed. It is the moment when, and means by which, the immortal soul is set free from the prison-house of the physical body…Here is the central difference between Plato and Homer. Instead of the “self” being the physical body, lying dead on the ground, while the “soul” flies away to what is at best a half-life, now the “self,” the true person, is precisely the soul, while it is the corpse that is the ghost.[4]
Wright argues that Plato found a way for some type of afterlife to be of value. In fact, it was of utmost value in the world of the forms when a human could finally stand at rest rather than being tossed to and fro in the vicissitudes of the present world rife with changes.

Wright though, narrowly focusing, argues that Christianity was fundamentally different because this idea of a soul was not “bodily” in the same sense Christians would expect and therefore was not analogous to “resurrection.” He argues that this goal of life is fundamentally different in that it is not bodily in the sense that Christians would expect. However, this is too narrow. There certainly is an expectation of a life after death – just because they did not focus on the issue of resurrection does not make this so foreign that it cannot be fathomed. What seems to be at issue is the nature of the human after death. Rather than being souls (which, in themselves were not acorporeal in the way that Wright seems to imply), they would be truly somatic (bodily). However, that is far less of a change than he wishes it were.

The important emphasis is that a future life that had something to do with a change in philosophy was generally valued. The point, though, is that the worldviews he expresses does not find it important. Take, for example, what he says about Seneca and the general apathy toward future life everlasting:
For Seneca, the immortal human soul has come from beyond this world – from among the stars, in fact – and will make its way back there. Though one might hold that it simply disappeared, it is more likely that it will go to be with the gods. Death is either the end of everything, in which case there is nothing to be alarmed about, or it is a process of change, in which case, since the change is bound to be for the better, one should be glad.[5]
Seneca – like many stoics – was simply indifferent to the issue of death. There might well be something in the future, there might well not; however, that was not the goal of human life.

The worldview of Greco-Roman society was far less one of disdain toward any discussion of resurrection; rather, it was general indifference. The vast majority of people would not have heard the message of a physical resurrection as troubling because they felt any future life should not be physical – they would have been indifferent to the calling of the question in the first place. This is the emphasis that would have been more rich for Wright to explore.

There were minorities, however, who did think of life after death as something to be taken very seriously. These are most easily found in the mystery cults and in Greek magic. These groups did very much focus upon a future life in which ethics often determined one’s future (the latter being more true of mystery cults than magic). Wright does briefly bring up mystery cults arguing that they held the same goal as Platonists with less work:
Already in Socrates’ time the mystery religions had begun to flourish, offering (so it seemed) a comparable benefit to philosophical wisdom but without the hard intellectual work. Beginning with the Orphic cult, but fanning out much more widely, these religions (if that is indeed the right term for them) offered the initiate access to a world of private spiritual experience in the present time which would continue into the world beyond death.[6]
He argues that the eventual goal of the mystery cults was not a bodily resurrection and therefore can simply be folded inside Platonism. The problem, though, is the issue of indifference cited above. Many Platonists would be generally indifferent about a future life – they expected it, but it was not their main concern. By contrast, a reasonable argument can be made that the mystery cults were very much interested in an afterlife and it was their main concern. Therefore, real question arises as to why Wright does not discuss this issue further. He does bring up mystery cults one more time, but the conversation is so clipped that it is hard to follow:
These multifarious and sophisticated cults enacted the god’s death and resurrection as a metaphor, whose concrete referent was the cycle of seed-time and harvest, of human reproduction and fertility. Sometimes as in Egypt, these myths and rituals include funerary practices: the aspiration of the dead was to become united with Osiris. But the new life they might thereby experience was not a return to the life of the present world. Nobody actually expected the mummies to get up, walk about and resume normal living; nobody in that world would have wanted such a thing, either. That which Homer and others meant by resurrection was not affirmed by the devotees of Osiris or their cousins elsewhere.[7]
Why would this be different? Why is this not an important element to delve into very deeply? Wright does not clearly explain.

This omission is further exacerbated for Wright’s eventual goal – to see how the message of Jesus and his resurrection would have sounded to a gentile audience. The one thing Christianity might have sounded like would be a mystery cult. Therefore, to simply ignore major elements of them and instead to focus on Homer does not make a tremendous amount of sense – except in the most vague terms as a general “worldview” – magic and mystery cults were minority religions – but they did exist. It seems that his narrow discussion of resurrection from the dead has eliminated conversation that well should have occurred.

In all, his conversation of the general worldview is strong; however, his details could have been far more carefully managed to create a more robust picture.


[1] RSG, 33.
[2] RSG, 82.
[3] RSG, 43-44.
[4] RSG, 48.
[5] RSG, 54.
[6] RSG, 51.
[7] RSG, 80-81.

Monday, December 1, 2014

Chapter One: The Target and the Arrows


 [This is an ongoing project that is analyzing N.T. Wright’s 5 volume series, Christian Origins and the Question of God. This series is widely read and bridges the gap between the academic and devotional world. It is therefore worthy to be carefully analyzed so that all readers can understand his key points while at the same time gaining a critical eye to some of his rather bold claims. This series of posts are concerning volume 3 – The Resurrection of the Son of God.]

This first chapter of N.T. Wright’s third volume of his series “Christian Origins and the Question of God” sets up well what Wright is doing in this book. Therefore, some general comments will be made about the book’s scheme and the suspicions that we will need to levy against Wright throughout this book. It is important to take the time to lay out these views now, so that in further analysis of subsequent chapters, the same points do not need to be constantly rehashed. The major critique I have is Wright’s general view of historiographic epistemology and the limits he sets for himself in his study.

First, this volume is amazingly important to study because, first, it is by far the most popular of the 5 volumes so far published of the series and therefore has the most interest for an audience to take the time to study it. Further, this book is particularly helpful because it is less out of date than his previous volumes. The New Testament and the People of God was written in 1992, and throughout the critical reading of the book, I felt I was continually framing in a historical lapse in scholarship. This volume – the Resurrection of the Son of God was published in 2003 and is in dialogue with the major scholarship that is still current. While a decade is no small amount of time in the modern scholarly world, it is still generally true that larger questions and frameworks remain the same. Further, many of the authors have not changed. Therefore, far less accommodation for later developments need to be made.

As to the content of the chapter – and thus the book – the first point is laudable. Wright argues that this book will merge theology and history. This is a helpful plan when one is considering the resurrection. It is very difficult to discuss this “historically” without discussing theological implications. Wright demonstrates this well throughout:
As the overall title of the project indicates, and as Part I of the first volume explained, my intention is to write both about the historical beginnings of Christianity and about the question of god. I am, of course, aware that for over two hundred years scholars have labored to keep history and theology, or history and faith, at arm’s length from one another. There is good intention behind this move: each of these disciplines has its own proper shape and logic, and cannot simply be turned into a branch of the other. Yet here of all place – which Christian origins in general, and the resurrection in particular – they are inevitably intertwined.[1]
These, of course, do not have to be necessarily intertwined, but Wright is not foolish and is very much in tune with his audience. Most of the readers of these books are interested in not only what happened, but also in its significance.

Wright, then, asks a fundamental question as the topic of the book – what really happened on Easter morning? He argues that whatever happened on that morning should explain the movement that followed:
So what did happen on Easter morning? This historical question, which is the central theme of the present book, is closely related to the question of why Christianity began, and why it took the shape it did.[2]
Here, Wright’s analysis sets it tone – to understand the event, it must explain the consequence. At some level this is accurate. Something occurred at some point (given that we do not know precisely the date of the resurrection as we are unsure exactly of the year in which this occurred) that led a group to believe that Jesus was raised and built a movement around him.

Wright, though admits that he is also interested in challenging what he sees as the common scholarly and ecclesiastical view of the resurrection. He argues that there are six key points that generally held – all of which he disputes:
Though my approach throughout the book will be positive and expository, it is worth nothing from the outset that I intend to challenge this dominate paradigm in each of its main constituent parts. In general terms, this view holds the following: (1) that the Jewish context provides only a fuzzy setting, in which ‘resurrection’ could mean a variety of different things; (2) that the earliest Christian writer, Paul, did not believe in bodily resurrection, but held a “more spiritual” view; (3) that the earliest Christians believed, not in Jesus’ bodily resurrection, but in his exaltation/ascension/glorification, in his “going to heaven” in some kind of special capacity, and that they came to use “resurrection” language initially to denote that belief and only subsequently to speak of an empty tomb or of “seeing’ the risen Jesus; (4) that he resurrection stories in the gospels are late inventions designed to bolster up this second-stage belief; (5) that such “seeings’ of Jesus as may have taken place are best understood in terms of Paul’s conversion experience, which itself is to be explained as a “religious” experience, internal to the subject rather than involving the seeing of any external reality, and that the early Christians underwent some kind of fantasy or hallucination; (6) that whatever happened to Jesus’ body (opinions differ as to whether it was even buried in the first place), it was not “resuscitated”, and was certainly not “raised from the dead” in the sense that the gospels stories, read at face value, seem to require.[3]
Here, Wright has painted a picture that is quite striking. This view might be held by some – such as Marcus Borg – but serious questions would remain as to the number of scholars who would hold all of these views. Further, these would not be the only views that they held – they also would hold far more that would make such a picture make some kind of sense. Unfortunately, this is a straw man that needs to be taken very critically. Wright has framed the objections in ways to avoid what are the bigger problems. For instance, many skeptics of the sources would not necessarily argue that the problem is whether it was a bodily resurrection or not. Rather, the argument would be whether there was any resurrection of any kind. Some hold that Jesus was in no sense raised and that the story that it occurred was simply a fabrication of Jesus’ early followers which then spread like wild fire.

Wright’s response to these seven points betrays his bias – that whatever happens must explain what followed as an eventual world religion:
The positive thrust, naturally, is to establish (1) a different view of the Jewish context and materials, (2) a fresh understanding of Paul and (3) all the other early Christians, and (4) a new reading of the gospel stories; and to argue (5) that the only possible reason why early Christianity began and took shape it did is that the tomb really was empty and that people really did meet Jesus, alive again, and (6) that, though admitting it involves accepting a challenge at the level of worldview itself, the best historical explanation for all these phenomena is that Jesus was indeed bodily raised from the dead.[4]
His 5th point is actually the turning point. He will dispute the other points piece by piece, but the piece of evidence he demands to understand that many other scholars of the historical Jesus would not necessarily require – is that whatever occurred must explain what followed.

To understand how Wright has presented this it is helpful to consider what he is seeking when he discusses the historical event. He argues that there are 5 levels of historical inquiry. For our purposes we will focus on two. He rightly divides historical questions. The “first” question, he rightly points, is that there are some things that we believe and are convinced happened, but we have absolutely no way of knowing how or why they occurred – here he uses the example of the extinction of the pterodactyl.[5]  Anything that “happened” is therefore “historical” – even if we can’t explain it. This portion is not very helpful for analysis, because it’s whole point is that we cannot know whether it occurred. Far more helpful is his third category – that which can be verified/proved: 
Third, there is history as provable event. To say that something is historical in this sense is to say not only that it happened but that we can demonstrate that it happened, on the analogy of mathematics or the so-called hard sciences.[6]
The historian can admit that many things could have occurred – and indeed have occurred – but only a portion of these things can be verified. Wright paints this as logical positivism – and there are indeed historiographers who start here, but in reality few stay here – most go beyond this and posit what probably happened given the very small number of set things that can be proved.

Wright argues that the study of the historical Jesus is its own type of epistemology that fluctuates between what is “provable” and what can be discussed. He argues that the worldview that must be satisfied is post-enlightenment and this is the failure of the system:
Fifth, and finally, a combination of (3) and (4) is often found precisely in discussions of Jesus: history as what modern historians can say about a topic. By “modern” I mean “post-Enlightenment,” the period in which people have imagined some kind of analogy, even correlation, between history and the hard sciences. In this sense, “historical” means not only hat which can be demonstrated and written, but that which can be demonstrated and written within the post-Enlightenment worldview.[7]
The problem with Wright’s presentation here is what is implied rather than what is said. He seems to use the phrase “Post-Enlightenment” as a kind of attack. Wright tries to suggest that this is a scandal because these historians are using modern models to understand ancient sources. The problem is history is not an ancient source. Historical analysis is done in the present. One is confident in history – if it fits one’s own epistemology. We can only posit what we believe is valid. Just because someone in the first century was satisfied with an answer does not mean that we should be in the 21st. I am not saying that modern historiography is without error or does not need to be improved, but Wright’s trump card here really makes very little by way of strong, provable, points.

The key to understanding Wright’s framework, though, is not his critique of historiographers – as Wright says, his goal is a positive one. The key to understanding Wright is his view of the connection between the Easter event and the later Jesus movement. As stated above, in some sense, this is and must be accurate. Wright, though, frames this movement in a way that would not be satisfactory to many readers – though it is amazingly common.

Wright argues that the movement that followed Jesus was unique. He uses this fact to retroject backward that the event they held must have been sound. He argues against Troeltsch in this manner:
It is important to note what would follow if we took Troeltsch’s point seriously: we would be able to say nothing about the rise of the early church as a whole. Never before had there been a movement which began as a quasi-messianic group within Judaism and was transformed into the sort of movement which Christianity quickly became. Nor has any similar phenomenon ever occurred again.[8]
This view is amazingly common among Christian apologeticists and it is important to realize its weaknesses. Wright will go through this view in depth later in the book that will display a far smarter presentation of this point, but as to framework, this is not very strong.

First, Wright’s argument that there has never been a movement like the Jesus movement is simultaneously true and ridiculous for what he means by it. It is true only in the sense that there has never been any other movement that is precisely the same – if it were, it would just be called Christianity – as it would be the same. However, Wright means more than just this – he argues that the uniqueness of the movement is how a religious group could develop from a figure such as this. He argues no movement since has done that. Unfortunately, it is hard to argue this. For example, Manichaeism certainly did develop from a leader who proclaimed himself to be divine and flourished for a lengthy time period (until the 16th century).

Second, and probably more to the point, Wright treats the earliest followers as monolithic. He argues that all of Jesus’ followers had a general view of Jesus that was consistent. If there is one thing we have learned about the earliest Jesus movement groups is that aside from a general basis in Jesus in one way or another, very little else was common. This is why some scholars refer to early “Christianities” rather than early Christianity. I find this cloying as it makes it sound as if there were several religious groups. I find the best way to describe the earliest groups were members of Jesus movements – meaning that these people were varied and members of various communities with some connection to Jesus.

All of this is not to say that I do not think Jesus was resurrected nor do I think that the historical study of the event is fundamentally flawed. I do, however, think we need to be honest about the challenge of sources. I do not think – as so many people hold, Wright simply being among them – that the only way for a movement to develop around Jesus was for him to actually rise from the dead. That certainly is one real possibility, but it needs to be seen as that – one possibility among many.


[1] RSG, 5.
[2] RSG, 4.
[3] RSG, 7.
[4] RSG, 8.
[5] RSG, 12.
[6] RSG, 13.
[7] Ibid.
[8] RSG, 17.

Saturday, November 29, 2014

The Pragmatic Logic of Canon Formation


(I would like to thank Scott Yakimow for making me aware of Peirce, Semiotics, and Pragmaticism. After hearing him present two papers and going through a class of his on semiotics, I am still an aggressive amateur. Therefore all the things that I do understand about the field I owe to him; whereas all the mistakes are proudly my own.

Many Christians are troubled with the historical process of canon formation. Many want to believe that the Bible fell straight from heaven and was simply discovered by the early church in the style of Joseph Smith’s discovery of the golden plates. Others value church tradition as inspired and argue that because the apostolicity of the books, these were the obvious choices decided by the followers of the apostles. Further conspiracy theorists – most recently with Dan Brown in their company – think that what should be included and what should not was decided by church elites to put down the masses at the council of Nicaea. The reason for all of this speculation is that the actual story of canon formation is far less exciting. There were never meetings to decide what ought to be included in the canon of the New Testament and what should be excluded. The process was far more gradual based upon general use and practice. What bothers people about this is not so much that it is not exciting, but that the process was so dependent upon the usage of Christian communities so that it seems random. The concern is one of authority/inspiration of scripture. If people were the key in deciding which books ought to be included and excluded from the Bible, it seems less likely that these particular books were inspired by God. This essay applies Pragmaticism as depicted by Charles Sanders Peirce – as applied by Peter Ochs and Scott Yakimow – to show that while the process was not deliberate in a Cartesian propositional sense, it did have good pragmatic logic and that at the end of the day, this process is how most decisions are made based upon habit rather than formal reason.

This project is therefore conjectural. In order for it to function, I am applying a theory that was developed in the late 19th-early 20th centuries to discussions and texts from the 1st-5th centuries. Whenever this is done, it has to be very carefully applied. It is bad scholarship to tacitly assume that one’s own logic is consistent with all logics that have come before and therefore can be applied to any other human at any other time. This is a Cartesian error known as “internalism.” All thinkers use logic – as Wayne Meeks has pointed out, the things that seem to “make sense” are based upon a logical framework and that framework needs to be proved.[1]  These theoretical frameworks are historically bound. However, just because we can’t assume that all people thought in a manner developed in the modern era, there is no reason to conversely think they couldn’t have thought in that manner. All inquiries into the past must use theoretical bases, most all of which are modern conceptions. Further, while there are ancient frameworks of knowledge, the questions that we, as modern thinkers, ask are essentially different than the questions asked by ancient thinkers. Therefore, it is no surprise that we need to use modern frameworks to understand modern questions to ancient texts. Given this caveat, I find Peirce’s pragmatic framework helpful because it can best explain the historic phenomenon we know to have occurred – it does not change the historic phenomenon, it only enlightens it for us as readers to address new questions.

Further, a fundamental view of pragmaticism is that ideas can be used in ways that the original author could not have imagined. This is summarized well by Scott Yakimow:
As an additional issue, I am concerned that such a restriction of claims to particular space-time occurrences itself goes against a pragmatic logic of vagueness which recognizes the possible applicability of propositions or discrete claims in ways hitherto unperceived. It is possible that such claims may take on unexpected force later on and yield not only accurate portrayals of the world at hand but also of one’s relationship to God and can function to create new habits of thought an action in unpredictable ways. After all, for Peirce, the import of a proposition is in what it conceivably could result in as long as it is in the realm of real possibilities. I take this to be the import of the statement [from Peirce] like the following: “Pragmaticism makes the ultimate intellectual purport of what you please to consist in conceived conditional resolutions, or their substance; and therefore, the conditional propositions, with their hypothetical antecedents, in which such resolutions consist, being of the ultimate nature of meaning, must be capable of being true, that is, of expressing whatever there be which is such as the proposition expresses, independently of being thought to be so in any judgment, or being represented to be so in any other symptom of any man or men. But that amounts to saying that possibility is sometimes of a real kind.”[2]
Here, Peirce is discussing the possible meanings that can be extrapolated from an A-reasoning, through his theory of vagueness that empowers meanings that can be multiform, and even contradictory. This can be done so long as those situations are found in the real. The way to ensure something is “real” is its practical application – as this paper will attempt to apply the theory to the process of canonization as a “real” issue that was being addressed.

To show the unease that many feel with canon formation, consider how the development of canon is still taught in some textbooks. Some scholars put together hypothetical qualifying categories that all books had to “pass” in order to be included in the New Testament. These categories are presented as 1) apostolicity, 2) catholicity, 3) antiquity, 4) orthodoxy.[3] These categories were even taught to me as an undergraduate in my first “History of Christianity” class. This was presented, I now realize, to try and make the process propositional. Some books were antilegoumena because they struggled to reach all of these categories. The books then could gain some authority as truth claims, because they were based upon truth claims that would logically coincide with inspiration.

The problem with this analysis is that it has no basis in historical analysis. There is no place where we have any writer challenging a work on these four criteria. Further, in the way that it is presented – as qualifying categories – not even a single one is used. There was never a flat statement that all books of the New Testament had to meet X criterion. To be fair, Eusebius does use the term antilegoumena – but he does not use it in the sense of a value judgment, he simply uses the term to report that some books are disputed. In fact, the actual discussion of which books were accepted and which were not was merely reported on by usage. Those books that were universally used were the same ones which made it into the New Testament. Consider Eusebius famous discussion of the books of the New Testament:
At this point it seems reasonable to summarize the writings of the New Testament which have been quoted. In the first place should be put the holy tetrad of the Gospels. To them follows the writing of the Acts of the Apostles. After this should be reckoned the Epistles of Paul. Following them the Epistle of John called the first, and in the same way should be recognized the Epistle of Peter. In addition to these should be put, if it seems desirable, the Revelation of John. These belong to the recognized (homolegoumena) books. Of the disputed (antilegoumena) books which are nevertheless known to most are the Epistle called of James, that of Jude, the second Epistle to Peter, and the so-called second and third Epistles of John which may be the work of the evangelist or of some other with the same name. Among the books which are not accepted must be reckoned the Acts of Paul, the work entitled the Shepherd, the Apocalypse of Peter, and in addition to them the letter called of Barnabas and the so-called Teachings of the Apostles. And in addition, as I said, the Revelation of John, if this view is right.[4]
Note that Eusebius’s language hinges around usage. These are the ones that are accepted by all (homolegoumena) because there is unanimity of practice. Further, there are some that are rejected by most all – again a measure of practice rather than hypothetical principles.

There certainly were some people who were opposed to using certain texts due to their character. Marcion, most famously, used only the works of Paul and sections of the Gospel of Luke. It is unclear how much of the New Testament Marcion had available, but it is certainly clear he did have the Old Testament available and deliberately chose to exclude it. However, he did not do that based upon a logical principle – even though he is frequently accused as such – he did that based upon what worked for him in praxis. He could not proclaim Paul’s letters and the Old Testament – he found them too different to be presenting a consistent message. Therefore, we are in the same position – things were included or excluded based upon their practical use.

This process was absolutely practical and this is where Pragmaticism might be helpful in explaining what happened and why it occurred in this manner. Pragmaticism is distinct from Cartesianism in that Cartesian thought asks for truth claims about a particular issue that can be directly stated. These truths are universal and therefore apply to all situations. The problem with this is not so much that such a thing could exist – it surely could – it simply is unclear how a human could ever know this. Peter Ochs explains this problem:
This is, in other words, a self-referring and self-legitimating cognition. Within the theory of perception, this would mean that among our perceptions are those that indicate to us, at once, at that there is something there and that it is this (or has this quality). The brunt of Peirce’s critique is that such cognitions would be immune from any criticism or reevaluation (since any criticism would belong to a separate cognition), that if non-falsifiable they could not at the same time count as truth claims, and that the general belief that warrants them (that there are such cognitions) would have to presuppose them; that, since, self-referring cognitions could be warranted only be self-referring cognitions, the claims of intuitionism are circular and thus not truth-claims but mere assertions.[5]
Ochs points out that any propositional claim here assumes that humans have the ability to make and know them. Ochs calls this kind of thinking “foundationalist” and Yakimow summarizes this very quotation to challenge it in regard to the variance among people and situations:
If this [foundationalism] were true, then one could know something “as it is” or the “thing-in-itself” as it exists objectively without regard for any given context or the interpretive lens of the individual knower. The knower would then attain knowledge that is independent of any inherited tradition of practice, knowing as God alone knows.[6]
Here, we see the challenge of Cartesian knowledge. It assumes that people can know what is completely “true” or “false” outside of their own circumstances. This is certainly possible for God, but it is far less sure that those of us in a sinful world can attain this same confidence.  

Applying this to the development of canon, what one is expecting in a Cartesian sense is that the early Church could have had this type of knowledge. They could have known by divine fiat which books should be included and which should not be included. They would have seemingly known which authors were “inspired” and which were not. This is a practical impossibility for a variety of reasons. First, the earliest groups had no writings at all (it is possible they had a Septuagint – the Greek translation of the Hebrew Bible – but they did not have any Jesus movement writings) and did not seem to see a problem with that. Second, when the books were distributed, very few chose among a variety of books – most communities only had one or two books of the New Testament and possibly a few that are not in the New Testament. The communities generally did not have that many writings at all, making the idea that they could have knowledge about which were “true” or “false” by logical analysis silly. They could not evaluate books they did not have. Third, the concept of canon took some time to develop. It was not until Marcion – and indeed as a reaction to Marcion – that we see any communities attempting to create two classes of writings – some that are our “measure” (canon) and some that are just good reading (and perhaps some that were bad reading – but those have always existed in every community). Irenaeus, for example presents that there should be 4 gospels, but only 4 gospels in response to what he understood about the way Valentinians used other texts. Therefore, it really was not possible for this early Christian group to make the logical assertions – based upon a Cartesian sense of true knowledge outside of practical application – to make a logical declarative view of which books were “in” and which were “out.” The early church did not know which books were “inspired” (if they ever used such a term) and which were “human” – it only could discover by simply trying them out. It should be noted that there was the concept of books being special – given the scriptures of the Old Testament - but to apply that concept to new books, while it might have been expected, was certainly unknown as to which books deserved such an honor.

The logic of Pragmaticism is based around the idea that knowledge is only gained locally as it is applied. Pragmaticism does not deny that there is a truth in the world, what it does, though, is argue that rather than foundationally believing it can be obtained, it argues that all knowledge is obtained locally. In logical analysis, there is usually relatively little problem with the argument that something is true for a particular community. The problem arises when then that one community is universalized to the larger communities. That is an issue that Pragmaticism avoids by simply focusing upon the local character of knowledge. Here Yakimow explains Peirce’s interest in such a thing:
Given that a corollary of this observation is that the inherited habits of thought and action of the pragmatist herself are also situated historically, pragmatic claims need to be situationed in the milieu out of which they arose, and that milieu is explicitly described by Pierce as Cartesian modernism.[7]
Pragmaticism uses the language of Cartesian propositions because as humans we mostly have to, but does so by dividing it into A and B reasonings (described below). The point is that all knowledge is dependent upon situations. This is explained by Yakimow that Foundationalism fails because all knowledge is “pegged” or tied to the one interpreting it:
If this [foundationalism] were true, then one could know something “as it is” or the “thing-in-itself” as it exists objectively without regard for any given context or the interpretive lens of the individual knower. The knower would then attain knowledge that is independent of any inherited tradition of practice, knowing as God alone knows. Instead of this, Ochs sees cognitive judgments as the basis for propositional claims. Per Peirce’s semiotic, the meaning of the judgments only arises relative to its interpretant. An interpretant is a habit of thought or action, and it yields a particular trajectory of thought that serves to make a propositional claim understandable. Moreover, it “pegs” that claim to a particular individual’s understanding of the world, and through her, to the understanding of the community in which she operates.[8]
A person’s habits or actions – here described as an “interpretant” are the basis for all knowledge. This is the more common view that one’s “worldview” (if such a term means much) defines how one understands and “knows” things. This is hardly new – it is simply pointing out the flaw in Cartesian thought- that such propositions outside of worldviews are impossible because all people interpret knowledge through their habitus.

The way Cartesian ideas can still be applied is by dividing up “reasonings” as those that are explicitly expressed by a community – what Peirce calls “B-reasonings” and those views that are unexpressed and simply held by the community without ever having expressed them – what Peirce calls “A-reasonings.” These A-reasonings are what Peter Berger calls the nomos of a society – the norms that a society holds as true and not questionable. They are so far from being questioned that they do not even need to be expressed. Berger explains that this is a necessary feature of human life that people internalize and do not know they produce and reproduce until challenged:
The objective nomos is internalized in the course of socialization. It is thus appropriated by the individual to become his own subjective ordering of experience. It is by virtue of this appropriation that the individual can come to “make sense” of his own biography. The discrepant elements of his past life are ordered in terms of what he “knows objectively” about his own and others’ condition. His ongoing experience is integrated into the same order, though the latter may have to be modified to allow for this integration.[9]
This “nomos” is expressed by Peirce as “A-reasonings” and are the very reason that knowledge must be, and always will be, local. Yakimow summarizes these reasonings well:
To summarize, any given claim that might be encountered is by definition a B-reasoning. B-reasonings arise from an (or set of) A-reasonings and are tokens of that reasoning. A-reasonings, because they are habits, are not amenable to being encompassed or fully comprehended by a propositional definition. If they are, they lose their status as A-reasonings and become B-reasonings. They may, however, be glimpsed in their ‘Fruit” by hypothesizing backwards form any particular B-reasoning to the A-reasoning that gave rise to it.[10]
A-reasonings are therefore habits or actions that a community does and perpetuates without considering it.[11]

B-reasonings, by contrast, are the deliberately stated propositions that Cartesianism depends upon. B-reasonings are the stated expressions that develop from the core A-reasonings. This is what Peter Berger calls “legitimated truths” for a community – “By legitimation is meant socially objectivated “knowledge” that serves to explain and justify the social order. Put differently, legitimations are answers to any question about the “why” of institutional arrangements.”[12] This is a nice way of explaining Peirce’s dynamic of B-reasonings – the propositions that come from the A-reasoning that is operative in action. Yakimow explains this in Peirce’s terms (borrowing from Ochs):
A-reasonings are beliefs that have the character of habits that a community holds as “free from doubt so long as they continue to ground the critic’s capacity to doubt and to propose alternative responses to doubt.’ These are what I have termed the “backbone” of the community’s “common-sense” habits of thought and action. The latter, B-reasonings, are particular articulations of propositions or instances of adopted practices or responses to a dilemma that arise form the exercise of A-reasonings in a given situation.[13]
B-reasonings, then are the propositions that are dependent upon the “local” A-reasonings.

To understand more clearly the value of Peirce’s pragmatic logic, it is important to understand that knowledge is not something that is speculated on, but acted out. A-reasonings are not speculated on – if they were, they would no longer be A-reasonings. Instead, A-reasonings are how a community acts and persists. Yakimow summarizes Och’s view on this topic:
For Ochs, one apprehends the generality of pragmatic claims only indirectly; they cannot be “read off” the surface of any particular claim. This indirect apprehension of generality takes place by examining the various propositions as acted by a community and their particular practices. These are themselves tokens of the habits of thought and action that for the basis or the “backbone” of a community’s discourse.[14]
This then leads to the larger pragmatic point – if all B-reasonings are dependent upon A-reasonings, and all A-reasonings are more action than they are propositions, then it logically follows that all knowledge is based upon praxis – how a community acts is how it knows something. The B-reasonings are simply a secondary means to communicate.

To remind ourselves of the application toward canon formation, this is very helpful. It shows how early Christians focused on scripture for its proper use rather than its propositional analysis. Recall Eusebius’s categorization based upon communities that used the texts rather than any propositional analysis. Further, this also makes logical sense in the way that texts were actually used in communities. Communities used a variety of things in their proper worship praxis that aided them in their relationship with God they already knew (A-reasoning). The documents that continued to aid them started to be used (or even were developed) normatively in that community because they so expressed in a propositional narrative claim (B-reasonings) the habits and actions of the community (A-reasoning). Thereby, texts were developed locally for local knowledge of how to relate with God. This is explained very well with Peirce’s argument for the necessity of local knowledge.

The situation becomes complicated when one attempts to understand how one text – developed in community X – could be understood and accepted by community Y which did not develop the text. This was an issue in early Christianity that is explained very well by Peirce’s pragmatic logic. Peirce points out that while A-reasonings may be the engine that drives all knowledge, for practical purposes they are not very helpful. As soon as a question arises, a B-reasoning is necessary. Yakimow explains this phenomenon:
On the other hand, A-reasonings per se have little immediate relevance to any given situation. They cannot be made fully concrete, and any attempt to do so will result in the production of a B-reasoning. That is, if a particular proposition is clear-and-distinct and practically useful, it is not an A-reasoning. The virtue of A-reasonings, however, is that they are, by definition, free from doubt….They are those implicit rules by which a community is organized and serve to frame the entire world-view of that community.[15]
A-reasonings are very good for the individual in the community – so long as it is never questioned. However, as soon as it is, then a B-reasoning needs to be developed.

The primary way a B-reasoning needs to be developed is if one compares one community with another. In that comparison, the B-reasonings that community X expresses become cognizant to community Y that had never asked those questions. Those questions then seek answers, but because they do not share the same A-reasonings (given that A-reasonings are by definition local), new explanations have to be understood – and what is not transferred are the actual A-reasonings that gave birth to these propositions in the first place. The community X is forced to imagine by working backward community Y’s A-reasonings via their stated B-reasonings. Consider Yakimow’s summary of this problem:
An implication of this interplay between A-reasonings and B-reasonings comes to light when communities with different reasonings are compared. It should be clear that A-reasonings cannot be compared directly between communities the way propositions can be compared. Being communally dependent and resistant to clear-and-distinct formulation, they cannot be precisely displayed. Rather they are displayed indirectly, via the tokens that they produce. These tokens (B-reasonings) come in the form of distinct claims or particular actions. These B-reasonings can then be compared by the community itself to be judged by that community to conform more or less to the set of A-reasonings operative with that community. They can also be compared with other communities to begin to allow a sense within the other community of the A-reasonings that are operative within the first community. The form of this comparative judgment takes is that of recognition, where on recognizes certain claims or actions as conforming to what an exemplar of the community’s values (or A-reasonings) would do or would say given a similar set of circumstances or concerns.[16]
The propositions (B-reasonings) can be compared; however, the habits that formed those propositions nearly cannot – except by analogy.

This explains well the challenge of canon formation in the early church. One community developed a particular text and used it for identity formation in worship. That knowledge fit very well with their A-reasonings. However, when trying to become a religion: “Christianity” – something that is larger than any one congregation – it became important to attempt to regularize the movement. One of the ways of doing so was by attempting to use common scriptures – here considered as B-reasonings. These scriptures, however, were secondary. What were primary were the A-reasonings of the community’s relationship with their God. This could not be understood via texts – as Ochs points out, habit change only can occur with illustration of habit change.[17] Instead, texts were used, possibly misunderstood, and any conversation about their normative content would have been talking past one another. It is for this reason we simply do not see that conversation occurring.

A further value to this theory is through Peirce’s logic of vagueness that allows mutually contradictory propositions to hold – something that the process of canonization depended upon with the eventual result of 27 different books with contradictory information in them. Peirce explains that there is an allowance of contradiction through a concept of vagueness. B-reasonings are developed to be consistent with A-reasonings. B-reasonings will always represent the nomos of a community. However, B-reasonings in so expressing A-reasonings, might well not be consistent with one another. The goal of B-reasonings is to express the unexpressable vertically (from A-reasonings to B-reasonings). They are not expressed in order to be consistent horizontally (B-reasonings with B-reasonings). They frequently will be consistent, but they certainly do not have to be so. This is Peirce’s logic of vagueness that allows for such a situation that would be impossible in a Cartesian framework. This is a very helpful framework for understanding canon formation. Unlike the Latourette’s four qualifying categories for canonization that had as their goal the idea that all books in the canon were of the same quality, Peirce’s framework empowers difference. The books are not of the same quality – that would be frankly impossible, so long as they were actually developed from A-reasonings.

Given this dynamic between A-reasonings and B-reasonings, it then should be logically consistent that Pragmaticism is interested in how knowledge is applied in communities over space in order to test their veracity (to verify them as true knowledge). Given this, thought experiments ought to be created to see how certain propositions can be applied. Yakimow explains this at the very beginning of his dissertation:
While this initial chapter will begin to clarify the relation between philosophy and theological inquiry, a more complete picture will not be possible until after the work of chapter three is complete as the tenets of scriptural pragmatism itself provide warrants for the claim that understanding the practical outworking of any given reasonings is necessary to apprehend that reasoning. This is the case for pragmatists because reasoning and praxis are inextricably interrelated such that one is best able to apprehend a given reasoning by observing its practical ramifications. These practical ramifications, in turn, provide fodder for reflection that might yield hypothetical, yet conceivable, outcomes in new contexts that can be observed to test the validity of a line of reasoning.[18]
Here, the power of Peirce’s pragmatism takes shape. One can still use the Cartesian propositions, but uses them as they apply rather than standing on their own. This is what Peter Ochs calls a “reparative rationality” that uses both objectivist and internalist ideas in contrast with one another to balance their positions in the practical world. Yakimow explains this interest:
In sum, objectivist and internalist tendencies describe discrete claims (B-reasonings) and obscure the habits of thought and action that gave rise to them (A-reasonings); a reparative rationality seeks to not only describe particular but insatiate by way of performance of a particular set of habits (A-reasonings). It is this performance of habits that help to refigure the discrete claims of objectivism and internalism into something that is fruitful and life-giving rather than being merely an explication of purely binary thought.[19]
Here, one can see the power of pragmatism – it uses the propositions, recognizes that behind them are A-reasonings that cannot be seen, and considers many examples to continue to push their application to a logical end that will show the meaning that is possible from a particular proposition, rather than narrowing meaning to a restrictive dictum that confines knowledge rather than enlarging it.

This aspect of Pragmaticism is what is of particular value for understanding the process of canonization. Texts in the early Jesus movement were never understood to be restrictive. They were developed to show communities what kind of possibilities were present in Christianity. There were general avenues of discourse that were restricted as an end.[20] The best example is the regula fidei – rule of faith. In proper devotion, nearly any possibility were open, so long as they ended with a statement of faith that looked much like the Apostles Creed. Further it should be noted that these creeds were developed once again due to practice rather than by proposition. The only way for this to occur was to test the veracity of particular texts through varied use in varied communities – precisely what Pragmaticism seeks to do.

Applying this to the development of canon, it should be noted that the way books were used in antiquity were as B-reasonings that could encourage the community to consider new A-reasonings. They were texts to explore the possibilities of being as members of the Jesus movement. The only way to practically do this, is to apply it to communities and see which function and which do not. The “truth” or “falsehood” of them was therefore by definition local – but that of course does not mean they could not have been universal as well, we just would not know.

Finally, this paper began by discussing the challenges Christians have with the concept that scripture has simply been developed by communities trying and using a variety of texts. This is troubling to some because it appears random and putting too much trust in humans. This paper has tried to show that while it did depend upon humans – the only alternative is to posit that humans are indeed divine. The process while seeming to be random, can actually be understood logically and propositionally as valuable. A long quote by Yakimow presents the challenge of Cartesian binary thinking about truth that can be very practically helpful here:
Rather it elucidates an important aspect of pragmatic claims – that they are, in the first place and primarily, context-specific in that they arise within particular communities of discourse and must be tied to those communities in order to be meaningful. When the issue of particularity is raised, frequently the immediate (and Cartesian) objection is made that this is then to deny the existence of universal claims, as if there are only two choices – particular OR universal – and that the law of the excluded middle applies thereby declaring that either one or the other must be true. Rather than engaging in such a binary, it is enough to point out that just because a claim is formulated regarding a local and particular situation does not mean that it cannot have enhanced generality or even possible universality. There are many possibilities. It is possible that a claim may have considerable generality once its reasoning is grasped in that many people might consider it to be a valid conclusion; even so, no given group may actually adopt it in any regulative sense. Another possibility is that functional generality is achieved where the claim is adopted by another group and when more and more communities find a claim or form of argumentation useful for their own ends. Other possibilities exist. But the point is that the extent of this generality cannot be measured except in the actual event of such adoption itself.[21]
Yakimow argues that, in essence, the early church got it right – Eusebius’s argument that the more functional a text is, in the more cases, the more likely we can move gradually toward feeling confident in its veracity as universally valid. This is particularly valuable for canon, because the texts of the New Testament were not meant to be propositions to be considered logically, they were meant to be included in habit formation and their principles adopted as A-reasonings. Therefore, while we can never know if a text is truly universal or not – this is, after all a matter of faith – the process by which the early church selected the texts of the canon is not a scandal. Rather, the logic of Pragmaticism explains the behavior to be a rational enterprise that could well be one of the better means by which knowledge is obtained.


[1] Wayne A. Meeks, The First Urban Christians: The Social World of the Apostle Paul (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1983), 1-3.
[2] Scott Yakimow, Proclamatory Pragmatism: An Investigation into the Lutehran Logic of Law and Gospel, PhD Dissertation, University of Virginia 2014,  64, quoting Charles Sanders Peirce, Essential Peirce 2:354. I am indebted to Scott Yakimow for sharing his draft of his dissertation before his defense for use in this paper.
[3] See for example this description in Kenneth Scott Latourette, 133-135 for this view, but note its persistence as it creeps into such far more recent works such as John McManners (ed.) The Oxford Illustrated History of Christianity (Oxford: OUP, 1990), 29.
[4] Eusebius HE 3.25.1-4.
[5] Peter Ochs, “Reparative Reasoning: From Peirce’s Pragmatism to Augustine’s Scriptural Semiotic” Modern Theology 25 (2), April 2009, 189.
[6] Yakimow, 21.
[7] Yakimow, 15.
[8] Yakimow, 21.
[9] Peter Berger, The Sacred Canopy: Elements of a Sociological Theory of Religion (New York: Anchor, 1967) 21.
[10] Yakmow, 31.
[11] For a helpful discussion of how a community can produce tenets without deliberately considering them, see Berger’s cycle of “World-Creation” and “World-Maintenance” through the process of externalization, objectivation, and internalization. See Berger, Sacred Canopy, 3-51.
[12] Berger, Sacred Canopy, 29.
[13] Yakimow, 30.
[14] Yakimow, 29. 
[15] Yakimow, 31.
[16] Yakimow, 32.
[17] Ochs 191-196.
[18] Yakimow 12-13.
[19] Yakimow, 44.
[20] For the concept of Pragmaticism as opening primarily a mode of discourse, see Yakimow chapter 3, pp. 129-209.
[21] Yakimow 28-29.