BLANSHARD ON JESUS BEING THE ALL-KNOWING AND SINLESS GOD
[Context: God is all-knowing and sinless so if Jesus is God then he should be able to know anything he wants and should be sinless]
CRITIQUE BY BRAND BLANSHARD
https://www.giffordlectures.org/books/reason-and-belief
Can the attributes of Deity, when ascribed to Jesus, be dismissed, then, on
inductive grounds? We shall see that they can. It is surprisingly easy to show
that if any reasonable meaning is given to these attributes, the New Testament
record itself excludes them all. On such inductive grounds one error would
nullify the claim to completeness of knowledge. One clear bit of evidence that
the agent was ever frustrated of his aim would reveal limitation of power. One
unkind word, one loss of temper, one act of less than full justice, one instance
of underrating or overrating any of the intrinsic goods of life, would be
inconsistent with a claim to moral perfection. Now, however ungrateful the
assignment, we can only report that the recorded life of Jesus does not pass
these tests.
Consider the claim that has been made for Jesus to perfect knowledge. There are
three principal forms in which a falling short of such knowledge might be
evinced: ignorance, error, and inconsistency.
Is there any reason to believe that Jesus was free from the burden of ignorance?
He could hardly have been thus free if he grew in knowledge, as it is recorded
that he did (Luke 2:52), for such growth means ascent from one degree of
knowledge to another, and degrees of knowledge are, from the other side, degrees
of ignorance. Henry Parry Liddon, the eloquent Victorian Canon of St Paul's,
argued ‘that since the founder of Christianity, in divinely recorded utterances,
alluded to the transformation of Lot's wife into a pillar of salt, to Noah's ark
and the Flood, and to the sojourn of Jonah in the whale, the biblical account of
these must be accepted as historical, or that Christianity must be given up
altogether.’The acceptance of this as a true dilemma would ensure the
abandonment of Christianity. However great a figure Jesus was, he was not
infallible and not omniscient. Did he know, for example, what the modern
biologist knows about the origin of species, or what the geologist knows about
the formation of the earth, or what the psychologist knows about conflict and
repression? There is no evidence that he did, and a strong presumption that he
did not. He knew his Old Testament, with its account of the creation of the
earth and the sun (in that incorrect order), of the creation of birds and
reptiles (also in that incorrect order), of the creation of man from ‘the dust
of the ground’ and of woman from the man's rib. He read these things in his
Scripture, which he regarded as inspired, and presumably accepted them as others
did. Diseases that a modern psychiatrist would probably diagnose as epilepsy or
schizophrenia he took as demon possession, and believed that he cured them
(which he possibly did) by casting the demons out (which he pretty certainly did
not). To say that he was somehow in command of modern knowledge in these fields
is not only without ground; it is to indict him for indifference to his own
people; for if he knew what the modern mind knows without making any effort to
impart it, he was deliberately keeping his people in darkness. Since there is no
reason to impute to him such a desire, we can only believe that in these and
many other fields he shared the ignorance of his time.
Did he commit errors of fact? The New Testament records that he did. There were
errors as to the past, the present, and the future. As for the past, he accepted
the content of the Pentateuch generally as written by Moses, whereas it was not,
and ascribed to David the authorship of the 110th Psalm (Mark 12:36), which most
modern critics agree could not have been David's. As for mistakes about what to
him was the present, he mistook the character of Judas when he was selecting his
disciples. As for the future, he told his disciples that they should not have
gone over the cities of Israel before he returned to earth in judgement (Matt.
10:23); they went over the cities, but his promised return did not come. He
predicted that those who were faithful to him would receive ‘now in this time’ a
hundredfold in such things as houses and lands (Mark 10:30); they did not
receive them. He seems indeed to have held important misconceptions about
himself. Was he the Messiah expected by the Jews? His own opinion on this point
apparently varied. He never called himself the Son of David, a common way of
referring to the Messiah, and preferred to call himself ‘the Son of Man’, which
was not so used; indeed in one passage he seems to disavow the Messiah-ship
(Matt. 22:41–45). But in another he seems to accept it (Matt. 11:2 ff.). It is
probable, as Erdmann argues, that his conviction of being the Messiah came to
him gradually, in which case either the earlier or the later conviction must
have been in error. And how are the final tragic words about having been
forsaken to be interpreted? The only intelligible way to construe them is that
he had expected some form of divine co-operation and that the expectation had
not been realised.
The record, then, does not support a claim that he was free from errors of fact.
What of consistency in his reported life and teaching? Here too theological zeal
on his behalf has shot beyond the mark. We have noted several instances already
in which his teaching, as recorded, was not coherent. There were the two
doctrines about divorce, the universality of his mission combined with its
confinement to the lost sheep of Israel, the exhortation to honour father and
mother combined with the refusal to let a disciple bury his father; the
injunction to non-resistance combined with the violent clearing of the temple.
One inconsistency that we have noted must be stressed again, since it comes so
near to the heart of the ethical teaching. If there was anything central in that
teaching, it was the stress on love and forgiveness. Yet in both his teaching
and his practice Jesus seems to have departed from the ideal repeatedly and in
perplexing fashion. ‘Whosoever shall deny me before men, him will I also deny
before my Father which is in heaven’ (Matt. 10:33). This sounds uncomfortably
like the expression of a vengeful spirit. A different kind of vengeance, but one
still strangely at variance with the central Christian teaching, is ascribed to
God by Paul. He writes of certain persons who ‘received not the love of the
truth’ that ‘for this cause God shall send them strong delusion, that they
should believe a lie’ (2 Thess. 2:10–11). To the modern mind this seems more
like cat-and-mouse morality than like love or even justice. Along with the
injunction of love, the spirit of revenge played a part in early Christian
teaching that is explicable only on the assumption that this teaching had
imperfectly broken away from the semi-barbarism of the day. In the epistle to
the Hebrews, it is taught that even repentance is impossible on the part of a
Christian who has been baptised and slipped away (Heb. 6:4–6); he will
presumably be damned in spite of all efforts to repent.
It may be suggested that though a vengeful spirit may have been displayed on
occasion by Paul and some of the other early Christians, it was never approved
or exhibited by Christ himself. This is not borne out by the recorded facts.
Christ specifically ascribed acts of vengeance to God: ‘Shall not God avenge his
own elect…? I tell you that he will avenge them speedily’ (Luke 18:7–8); and we
have seen that he represented God as inflicting for certain sins a penalty of
everlasting agony disproportionate to any finite offence. Furthermore, if his
denunciation of the Pharisees as ‘full of dead men's bones and all uncleanness’,
as ‘serpents’, ‘offspring of vipers’, and due for ‘the damnation of hell’ is
expressive of love or forgiveness, it is difficult to see what resources of
language are left to provide a vehicle for condemnation. It may be answered that
he denounced the sin, but loved the sinner. But he seems in some cases to make
the sinners blacker than the sins. ‘So far as I can make out…,’ writes Professor
Fite, ‘the dark picture of the Pharisees presented in the Gospels, often in the
words of Jesus himself, stands alone in the history of the sect, unconfirmed by
other evidence’.In his parable of the rich man and Lazarus, the rich man,
condemned incidentally for no reported reason except his wealth, is denied, even
in the flames, the means of wetting his mouth or of warning his brothers of what
lay in store for them. Immediately after saying that the stone which the
builders rejected would become the head of the corner, Jesus added: ‘but on
whomsoever it shall fall, it will grind him to powder’ (Luke 20:18). He is
widely believed to have preached and practised unfailing love. But toward
certain classes of persons, most notably hypocrites, his attitude as expressed
would be more accurately described as an intense and withering detestation.
There were other breaches of consistency. He declared: ‘whosoever shall say,
Thou fool, shall be in danger of hell fire’ (Matt. 5:22), but on more than one
occasion he used the forbidden phrase himself (Matt. 23:17; Luke 12:20; 24:25).
He announced that he came not to destroy but to fulfil, and that not a jot or
tittle of the law was to pass away; but he repeatedly set aside the law with the
remark, ‘it has been said… but I say unto you’. He promised that his yoke was
easy and his burden light; he also warned that any man who would follow him must
‘deny himself and take up his cross’. He blessed the peacemakers, and his birth
was heralded, according to tradition, by the proclamation of peace on earth; but
he also said that he came to bring not peace but a sword, and to set one member
of a household against another.
The ease with which such inconsistencies, which are
certainly not all verbal, can be found suggests that Jesus’ mind belonged to a
different mould from the mind of the West, with that interest in clearly
reasoned positions which it inherited from the Greeks. This impression is
strengthened when we study the replies he gave to the many who questioned him.
Seldom is a quite straightforward answer given. Sometimes the question is
evaded. Was it in accordance with the law of Moses to give tribute to Caesar?
The answer, ‘Render to Caesar the things that are Caesar's’ (Mark 12:17), was
scarcely an answer at all, since the question was precisely whether such tribute
was to be included among ‘the things that are Caesar's’. The evasion here may,
to be sure, have been a justified resort to political expediency. But it was not
always so. The Sadducees, who disbelieved in personal immortality, asked him
regarding a woman who had been married seven times, whose wife she should be ‘in
the resurrection’ (Mark 12:18–27). The reply given, namely that ‘when they shall
rise from the dead, they neither marry nor are given in marriage, but are as the
angels which are in heaven,’ answers the question in a sense, but by suggesting
a degree of impersonality and sexlessness in the next life that threatens the
notion of personal survival itself. The Pharisees asked him when the kingdom of
God would come. His reply was that ‘the kingdom of God cometh not with
observation’, meaning apparently that whenever it did come it would not be
outwardly observable. The evasion is not made easier to understand by the fact
that on another occasion he frankly stated that he did not know when the kingdom
would come (Mark 13:32), and also that men would ‘see the Son of man coming in
the clouds with great power and glory’ (Mark 13:26; italics mine). The Pharisees
asked him whether divorce was lawful. He replied, ‘What… God hath joined
together, let not man put asunder’. They pointed out that their lawgiver, Moses,
had expressly permitted divorce, which was correct. He replied: ‘Moses because
of the hardness of your hearts suffered you to put away your wives’ (Matt.
19:3–8). The reply again is puzzling, both because there seems to be no ground
for it in the relevant Mosaic account (Deut. 24), and because it is hard to see
why, merely because men were hard-hearted, their hard-heartedness toward their
wives should have been legitimised. Sometimes the evasive answer was given with
impressive intellectual skill. Certain doubters, noting his confidence that his
acts embodied the divine will, asked him by what authority he did these things.
He replied that he would tell them if they would first answer a question of his
own about the baptism of John: Was it from God or from man? This was a dilemma
on whose horns the questioners were neatly impaled, and they found themselves
unable to give either answer. Whereupon Jesus said, ‘Neither do I tell you by
what authority I do these things’ (Mark 11:33). His disciples seem to have
complained to him on one occasion that they were short of bread, to which his
response, as reported, was, ‘Take heed, beware of the leaven of the Pharisees,
and of the leaven of Herod’ (Mark 8:15). The disciples were puzzled as to the
relevance of the remark. So is the modern reader.
Much that puzzles us would no doubt be cleared up if we
knew the circumstances of the case and the motives of the questioners. Jesus
possessed an extraordinary power of divining what these motives were, and of
giving answers that were relevant not so much to the questions asked as to the
state of mind of the inquirers. And in spite of the skill he sometimes displayed
in intellectual thrust and parry, it was not this kind of activity in which his
heart lay, or his power. He was a practical moralist who wanted to regenerate
men's feelings about others and about the goods they lived by, and he
instinctively adopted the language that would speak to their feelings, the
language of parable and poetry. When challenged to formulate his ethical
counsels exactly, or to state in express propositions what men were to believe
and why, he was still inclined to fall back on metaphor and simile, so that we
do not know, and presumably never shall, what precisely he meant by some of the
cardinal terms of his teaching: ‘the kingdom of God’, ‘the love of God’, ‘the
fatherhood of God’, ‘the son of man’, ‘everlasting life’, ‘heaven’, ‘hell’,
‘peace’. The fathers of the church and Catholic theologians have developed an
immense intellectual apparatus to explicate and relate these ideas, all based on
the assumption that through the simple language of the sower and his seed, of
lost sheep and prodigal sons, houses built on rock or sand, candles hid under
bushels and lambs led out to slaughter there is peeping an elaborate and
articulated cosmology, with the Trinity, the creation, the incarnation, the
atonement, the salvation of the faithful, and the eternities of heaven and hell
all taking their precisely defined and rationally appointed places. To anyone
who tries to get rid of preconceptions and to read for himself the simple and
beautiful language of the gospels, all this seems just the way in which the mind
of Jesus did not work. He was not an ‘intellectual’. A third-rate logician can
point out inconsistencies, obscurities, errors, ambiguities, and fallacies
almost without number in the record of his life and teaching. This does not show
that he was not a great moralist or great man. It does show that the attempt to
make of him an embodiment of omniscience does not correspond to fact.
Compared with this conviction that the power that governs all things cares, the
prospect offered by rationalism is bleak. It admits that the world is governed
by logic; it finds insufficient evidence that it is governed by love. The nature
of things is not patterned to the heart's desire, though that desire has written
itself large across every heaven that men have lived under. Religion and the
philosophies animated by religion, holding that the heart has its reasons that
reason does not know, have constructed a fabric in which the work of reason and
that of feeling are intricately entangled with each other. We have seen already
in our reflections on myth in religion how natural this entanglement is. We have
also seen something of the long process by which an advancing reason has
separated the strands of objective thought and anthropomorphic feeling. The
understanding of how desire fashions belief was better understood after the
explorations of Strauss and Feuerbach, of Freud and Frazer: and the shock of
disillusionment was made more tolerable by the imaginative sympathy with which
sceptics like Renan and Santayana could deal with the faith they had lost. The
work of these men was iconoclastic, but in spite of defects of temper and
insight it was in the main true.