Tertullian, Voltaire, and the Lectio Difficilior

 Did you find yourself sputtering, as you read yesterday's post, "But -- but -- but what about Tertullian?"  We certainly did ourselves, even as we were typing away. But perhaps we need not have.

Yesterday, we posted about the remark, attributed to Voltaire, that "the one who can make you believe absurdities can make you commit atrocities."  The remark, we observed, is a misquotation; Voltaire wrote something a bit subtler, about injustices.  But the maxim is still worth remembering, particularly in a time when over-the-top heretical thinking has seized both political power and the the public name of Christianity.

Yet all the while, as we pontificated about those who make you believe absurdities, we were guiltily thinking of old Quintus Septimius Florens Tertullianus, the first great Latin theologian. Did he not say, as we distinctly remember being taught in an introductory church history course,  "Credo quia absurdum est, I believe because it is absurd?" Is it not, therefore, practically incumbent upon us Christians to accept uncritically an entire body of historic doctrine not despite but because it gives offense to ordinary reason?

Well, no. The first thing is not what he said. Nor, even if Tertullian were an unimpeachable guide to Christian belief, would the second thing be quite what he had intended. Poor Quintus S.F.T. has, it seems, been more misquoted and misrepresented.  And ironically enough, a chief part in the drama has been played by Voltaire himself.

In his treatise De carne Christi (5.4), Tertullian argues against Marcion and the Docetists generally that Christ did indeed possess a natural human body, one which therefore was both born and crucified. In the midst of this argument, he writes:

parce unicae spei totius orbis: quid destruis necessarium dedecus fidei? quodcunque deo indignum est mihi expedit: salvus sum si non confundar de domino meo: Qui me, inquit, confusus fuerit, confundar et ego eius. alias non invenio materias confusionis quae me per contemptum ruboris probent bene impudentem et feliciter stultum. crucifixus est dei filius: non pudet, quia pudendum est. et mortuus est dei filius: prorsus credibile est, quia ineptum est. et sepultus resurrexit: certum est, quia impossibile. sed haec quomodo vera in illo erunt si ipse non fuit verus, si non vere habuit in se quod figeretur quod moreretur quod sepeliretur et resuscitaretur, carnem scilicet hanc sanguine suffusam ossibus substructam nervis intextam venis implexam, quae nasci et mori novit, humanam sine dubio ut natam de
homine? ideoque mortalis haec erit in Christo quia Christus homo et filius hominis. aut cur homo Christus et hominis filius si nihil hominis et nihil ex homine, nisi si aut aliud est homo quam caro, aut aliunde caro hominis quam ex homine, aut aliud est Maria quam homo, aut homo deus Marcionis?

In English:

Spare the one and only hope of the whole world: why tear down the indispensable dishonour of the faith? Whatever is beneath God's dignity is for my advantage. I am saved if I am not ashamed of my Lord. Whosoever is ashamed of me, he says, of him will I also be ashamed. (Mark 8:3) I find no other grounds for shame, such as may prove that in contempt of dishonour I am nobly shameless and advantageously a fool. The Son of God was crucified: I am not ashamed--because it is shameful. The Son of God died: it is immediately credible--because it is silly. He was buried, and rose again: it is certain--because it is impossible. But how can these acts be true in him, if he himself was not true, if he had not truly in himself that which could be crucified, which could die, which could be buried and raised up again--this flesh, in fact, suffused with blood, scaffolded of bones, threaded through with sinews, intertwined with veins, competent to be born and to die, human unquestionably, as born of a human mother? And in Christ this flesh will be mortal precisely because Christ is man, and Son of Man. Else why is Christ called Man, and Son of Man, if he has nothing that is man's, and nothing derived from man?--unless perchance either man is something other than flesh, or man's flesh is derived from somewhere else than from man, or Mary is something other than human, or Marcion's god is a man.

The whole thing is worth reading, if only to recall just what an entertaining stylist Tertullian was. 

But let us note the key words, which are: The Son of God died: it is immediately credible, because it is silly. He was buried and rose again; it is certain, because it is impossible. This is not quite the maxim we were taught, and in context, its meaning seems quite different that we had been led to believe.

In a fine 2017 article in Church History, Peter Harrison sketches the ways that this remark has been changed over the years, and the rhetorical purposes behind those changes.  To summarize, he detects two principal changes: Thomas Browne, in Religio Medici (1643), adds a personal note -- credibile becomes credo; and 124 years later Voltaire (in Le Diner du Comte de Boulanvilliers) makes the still more important change, by rendering ineptum into French as as absurde. Harrison argues that Browne, a convinced if eccentric Protestant, is using language, borrowed from the liturgical creeds, to emphasize the importance of one's personal appropriation of the common faith, and that Voltaire is trying to emphasize the irrationality of faith altogether.  Harrison also shows that, throughout the modern period, this misquoted phrase has been held up frequently as an instance of faith as the willful abandonment of reason, variously contrasting Protestantism to Catholicism, Latin Christianity with Greek, or religion with unbelief.

A key problem is the translation of ineptum. Voltaire's absurde, like Ernest Evans' 1956 silly, quoted above, is lexically feasible. But neither quite hits the mark in context. Ineptus can be used a synonym for absurdus, meaning discordant, out-of-character, and carrying distinct tones of irrationality. But its primary senses according to Lewis & Short, are "unsuitable, impertinent, improper, tasteless," and another dictionary prefers "undignified."

When Tertullian uses the word, his argument centers not on whether Christ's incarnation, birth and death are reasonable, but whether they are dignified -- and his conclusion that they are not. The logic here is not easy for moderns to parse, but it helps to remember how many Patristic arguments are predicated on what is "fitting" for God to do. Tertullian seems argue that those "Christians" who deny the reality of the Lord's body (a form of materialism, and closer than he to what we would call "rationalism") call themselves Christians, but fail to embrace the paradoxical nature of the Gospel. In Christ, God over and over undertakes things which are not only uncharacteristic but undignified, even unworthy, of "God" as conceived by philosophy: to become human, to be born, to be killed -- and yet never ceases to be God.

To be sure, there is a bit of an anti-rational, or anti-rationalistic, argument here, but it falls well short of the common depiction of Tertullian as an advocate of uncritical acceptance of official doctrine. He is, at most, foreshadowing Luther's "theology of the Cross," with its emphasis upon the appearance of God in seemingly unlikely places.

On the contrary, as Harrison shows, Tertullian in this very work and elsewhere is eager to defend the human power of reason as well as to demand causes, reasons, for his own beliefs. His argument about indignity and impossibility may even proceed from Aristotle, who in the Rhetoric (2:23) suggests that reports of highly improbable events are more likely to be trustworthy than those of ordinary ones, because (quoting Harrison) "the only thing that would make a witness believe such a thing is that it had happened."

And in fact -- here we depart from Harrison, who must not be blamed -- Tertullian's claim, that the Incarnation and related events are credible because they do not seem like what one would expect from God, places him in line not with the irrationalist fanatics of the contemporary Christian world, but with their regular opponents, the hardheaded historical-critical Bible scholars. Is it not, after all, a maxim of textual and literary critics that lectio difficilior potior, meaning the more difficult reading of a text is the stronger one? By this they mean that, when an author writes something that seems odd or out of place, later scribes have a natural tendency to amend it to a more readily digestible form; and therefore the scholar, confronting two manuscript traditions, should take the one that seems "wrong" to be correct.

This, then, seems to be Tertullian's argument that Jesus possessed a true body against those who thought he merely gave that appearance: that they are trying to smooth over the difficulty of the authentic narrative, by retelling it in a way that seems more fitting for the "god" in whom they believe; but that in doing so, they lose the precise element which makes the original story convincing, which is that it presents a new and different vision of God.

Absurdities and Atrocities

One hears, not infrequently, a remark to the effect that "one who can make you believe absurdities can make you commit atrocities." It came up this very evening, as we were preparing a sermon, and we wanted to ascertain the authentic form of the the phrase.

Turns out to be a loose translation of Voltaire. He admits that there are things a person may believe by faith, and then proposes that a wise person will not "make the sacrifice of reason in the conduct of our lives." At which point, he admits:

Il y a eu des gens qui ont dit autrefois : Vous croyez des choses incompréhensibles, contradictoires, impossibles, parce que nous vous l’avons ordonné ; faites donc des choses injustes parce que nous vous l’ordonnons. Ces gens-là raisonnaient à merveille. 

Certainement qui est en droit de vous rendre absurde est en droit de vous rendre injuste. Si vous n’opposez point aux ordres de croire l’impossible l’intelligence que Dieu a mise dans votre esprit, vous ne devez point opposer aux ordres de malfaire la justice que Dieu a mise dans votre cœur. (Questions sur les Miracles, 11ieme Lettre)

In English, that is something to this effect. 

"There have been people who thought otherwise [saying]: You believe incomprehensible, contradictory, impossible things, because we have commanded you believe them; so do unjust things because we command do you now." These people reason marvelously!

Certainly, whoever has the right to make you act absurdly has the right to make you act unjustly. If you do not oppose the command to believe the impossible with the intelligence God has placed in your mind, then you ought not to oppose the command to do evil with the sense of justice God has placed in your heart.

Walter Olson credits the more familiar phrasing, about absurdities and atrocities, to Norman Lewis Torrey in Les Philosophes (1961). I cannot find it there. In any case, the translation may be loose, but it is not wrong.

How did this figure in our sermon, preached on the Fourth of July in this semi-quincentenary year. Well, we were mixing up a number of images -- Zechariah calling the Judahites "prisoners of hope;" Paul escaping Damascus in a basket; Jesus promising that his "burden" of Tarah interpretation is "lighter" than that imposed upon their disciples by the Pharisees. There may have been something in there from Philippians, as well, about our true commonwealth.

Bit of a stewpot, to be honest. But that's not the point.

I was thinking about the peculiar role of religion in American history, and in America today. In particular, I was thinking about the strange phenomenon that these days calls itself "American Evangelicalism."  The name is, of course, misleading; the people of whom I am thinking are far more deeply invested in law than in gospel, and the law in question is by no means always God's.  In fact, "American Evangelicalis" often seem to use Christian language and imagery to tell an entirely different story, one more like an ethno-nationalist Gnosticism.

But they certainly do impose absurdities upon their followers, don't they? Has there ever been a time in American history when science -- the method and the results alike -- was held in such disrepute? Flat-earthers, anti-vaxxers, and their ilk are having a field day. Never mind the measles outbreak and the soldiers sidelined by flu. In place of observation, experiment, and hypothesis, the order of the day is to proceed based upon appeals to the leader's "gut," or to the undocumented (and unexpressed) will of "the American people." Neither of these is an effective antiseptic.

Those who have begun espousing the absurdities then commit, if not outright atrocities, acts of staggering folly -- Voltaire's choses injustes. These sycophants gut the senior military leadership, shrivel the diplomatic corps, abandon the combination of soft power and military alliances that were linchpins of American influence, and on and on. All the while, they punch downward, hard, often and publicly, at the most vulnerable people they can find -- Haitians, the transgendered, pregnant women, and black voters in the South.

Most surprising is that many of the people doing these things do them in service to a man who has publicly humiliated them, personally, along with their families.  He insults their fathers and their wives, he calls them names in public, and yet they stand by, offering him and endless string of effusive compliments, as he violates the law over and over, sets criminals free in almost-certain exchange for cash, and starts an utterly pointless war with a major strategic adversary, which reveals American weakness and leaves us in a weaker tactical position afterward.

Obviously, these are difficult times for America, and especially for the ideals of the Founders.  But they are especially difficult times for classical Christianity, of the sort represented by creeds and confessions, by ecumenical dialogues and collaboration on works of mercy. The Christianity represented by, say, the World Council of Churches scarcely registers with the politicians, the press or even its own members as a vital force in public affairs. Even Roman Catholicism, barring a scandal, a schism, or a creative misappropriation of its theology by the Vice President, gets shoved to the side in the public square.

In place of anything recognizable as historic Christianity, we get the Prosperity Gospel, the New Apostolic Reformation, and Trump-as-Jesus memes. 

Perhaps I was mistaken, when I allowed that our leaders have not yet committed "atrocities." There are certainly some dead Iranian schoolchildren whose corpses argue against me. And although far less grave, I wonder whether history may not see the setting aside of Christianity and the lifting up of a vile pretender as an atrocity of its own kind.

I Am Baptized, Part 2

Among Luther's many uses of the phrase "I am baptized," one appears to be cited with special frequency. It is from his Table-Talk for 18 February 1542, as recorded by a graduate student named Caspar Heydenreich (TR 5658a). It can be found in the WA Tischreden series, in v. 5 on page 295.  

Luther's Table-Talks are quoted frequently, but should be approached with caution. They are not, after all, the product of a scholar in his study, writing for posterity, nor even of a lecturer or preacher hoping to shape the hearts of his listeners. They are dinner-time chat, extemporized at a boarding-house table, as food is chewed, wine is poured, amid squawking children and a dog pleading for scraps. They were then transcribed by guests, presumably with some reconstruction from memory. Moreover, many of them have been passed on in forms altered for publication by Luther's sometime secretary, John Aurifaber. Although modern scholarship has recovered the underlying manuscript evidence, the altered versions are still in circulation.

On top of that, the Table-Talk are (as conversation at Luther's table surely was) a mixture of German and Latin, which can be a little disorienting for many, and a genuine obstacle for some.

Those caveats duly caveatted, what was Luther talking about on that winter evening almost five centuries ago? 

According to Heydenreich, it was a "discourse on predestination," but that is really only part of it. As was Luther's wont, it seems (at a quick reading) to be a rambling reflection on his own spiritual life, and especially on the transition from dread of divine judgment to assurance of favor.  It is especially touching that he still speaks warmly and repeatedly of his old spiritual mentor, von Staupitz, who had at this point been two decades in the grave.

Here's a snippet of the original:

Alioquin illae cogitationes sunt diabolicae de praedestinatione. Ficht dich die cogitatio an, so sprich: Ego sum filius Del, sum baptizatus, credo in lesum Christum pro me crucifixum, lass mich zu friden, zu Teufel!  Tum illa cogitatio te deseret. Also list man von einer nonnen, quae vexabatur a Diabolo miserabilibus illis cogitationibus; wen er ein spruch gemacht hett und mit seinen feurigen pfeilen kam, so sprach sie nit mer den dise wort: Sum christiana. Das verstund der Teufel wol, und war so vil gesagt: Ego credo in Deum crucifixum, qui ad dextram Patris sedet et mei curam gerit et qui pro me interpellare solet; du leidiger Teufel. las mich zu friden, ille me suo impenetrabili sigillo certum reddidit. 

Honestly, this is a bit beyond our modest translation abilities, but it seems to say something like this:

In any case, these thoughts of predestination are demonic. If a thought bothers you, say: I am a child of God, I am baptized, I believe in Jesus Christ crucified for me, so leave me alone you devil! Then this thought leaves you. 

So we read of a nun whom the Devil tormented miserably with these thoughts. When he had come to her with speech like burning arrows, she said only these words: I am a Christian.  The Devil understood that perfectly well, and no more needed to be said. 

I believe in the Crucified God, who sits at the right hand of the Father and cares for me and who habitually intercedes for me. Leave me alone, you pitiable devil, for he has surely given me his invincible sign.

Note that there is nothing here about chalk or a handkerchief. For that matter, although in context Luther has been speaking of his own experience, he is not here telling a personal anecdote concerning a diabolic visitation during one of his Anfechtungen. Rather, Luther distances the story from himself, by using what appears to be a conventional preacher's topos: "We read about a certain nun," he says. Yet after ending the story -- "no more needed to be said" -- Luther continues, perhaps putting further words into the mouth of his fictional nun, but more likely imagining either himself or his audience in her place, and giving them an alternative protective formula.

If, incidentally, the words "protective formula" sound like something out of Keith Thomas, it seems fitting that it might. Although it is widely held that (as a publisher's blurb for Religion and the Decline of Magic puts it) "the Protestant Reformation attempted to take the magic out of religion," this is a surprisingly debatable point. We once heard a fine lecture by a colleague, an expert on Johannes Kelpius and the Wissahickon Hermits, who observed that well into the 17th century, it was still quite normal for the Protestant clergy, very much including Lutherans, to deal in potions and amulets as part of their pastoral practice.  In a 2019 article for the Science Museum Group Journal, Annie Thwaite gives examples of various amulets, the most interesting of which is a gold coin given to those healed of scrofula by Charles I, to be worn around the neck as protection against further infection. In an engraving, the king is shown healing his subjects, surrounded by approving courtiers -- at least three of whom are clearly Anglican priests.

Perhaps we are overthinking this, but it seems to us that in this particular Table-Talk, Luther is using the language of faith and the sacraments much the way somebody else might have used a magical incantation. He even identifies baptism as an "impenetrable sigil," an invincible sign, given to him by Christ -- not so different from the golden coin given by Charles to his subjects.

This observation in no way accuses Luther of mechanizing faith or religious rituals -- his life's work may be conceived as an extended argument against that implication of ex opere operato. Nor does it identify Luther as somehow "medieval" in contrast to the "early moderns" around him.  It rather reminds us that early modern theology was quite different from the late modernity more familiar to us. Symbols functioned a little differently, we think, and it was as natural to use words (in a curious recursion of Wimsatt’s “verbal icon”) to defend oneself against doubt, fear and deviltry as to use a magic coin against disease.

UPDATE: a few hours after posting this, we learned of a 2011 book by Carolyn Schneider exploring Luther’s repeated use of the story about the nun. We haven’t seen the book (yet), but here’s a review: https://crossings.org/book-review-i-am-a-christian-the-nun-the-devil-and-martin-luther-carolyn-m-schneider/

I Am Baptized, Part 1

 Doing some routine pastoral work on a snowy morning in the Iron City, Father A. stumbled across a form letter written by a predecessor in which Martin Luther is purported to have said Baptisma sum. Obviously, Luther did not say this precisely, since it would have meant either that he was baptism itself personified, or perhaps a baptized female. What he did say, however, is ego sum baptizatus, "I am baptized," and this is something he said often.

But when and in what context did he say this?  We thought it might be enjoyable to track down a few instances now and then, as time allows.  Most of of us have heard stories about Luther mentioning his baptism to ward off the Devil, or writing it in chalk and covering it with a hankie (as he did with the Lord's hoc est corpus meum at Marburg). If a reader can provide citations to either of these, we will be most grateful.

Meanwhile, here is a little something for starters.

In his Lectures on Genesis from the 1540s, Luther discusses 26:15-16, and praises Isaac's patience at a time when it would have been easy to feel forsaken by God, and proposes it as a model for Christians:

In spite of all, we should say "I believe. I have been baptized. I have been absolved. I have God's promise of grace and mercy. I have enough. Whether night, day, tribulation or joy befalls me, I shall nevertheless not forfeit His mercy or lose courage." (LW 5; consulted online, so no page number is available; cf WA 43:469).

This is quite a quotable moment. If you are pretentious and would like to quote it in Latin, come sit by us at the Synod assembly:

...  dicamus tamen: Credo, sum baptisatus, sum absolutus, habeo divinam promissionem gratiae et misericordiae, satis habeo, sive nox, sive dies, sive tribulatio, sive laetitia mihi obversentur: non tamen amittam misericordiam, nec despondebo animum.

Another instance from Luther's 1523/1524 discussion of Genesis, which exists in two forms as recorded by two students, concerns the faith of Noah, in chapter 7.

You see what the Word can do, if it is understood by faith; it protected him for 150 days. This is written to praise faith, because the Scriptures are given in order that faith may be preached. Here there is no need of Noah's works to help. What is the bare word of God? "Make an ark and I will be with you." 

This let us learn, and this is written for us, so that when the hour of death or affliction comes, we will not ask "Where shall we stay?" That to those who say "I am dying," and ["Woe is me,"] may stand firm in the words "I am baptized." [You pray:] "Thus have you spoken, O Christ"; and as much as Death invades, so much more must you hold to the Word.

That is a very weak translation; Latinists are welcome -- nay, implored -- to improve it based on the original:

Vides, quid verbum possit, si fide percipitur, quod servavit 150 dies. Hoc scriptum est pro laude fidei, quia data est scriptura, ut fides praedicetur. Hic nullum opus adiumento Noe. Quid autem nudum verbum dei 'fac arcam, Ego tecum ero', hoc discamus, et nobis scriptum, quando hora venit vel mortis vel afflictionis, ut non quaeramus, ubi manebimus? ut illi dicunt "Ich stirb und weis wie" sed consistendum in verbo 'ego baptizatus sum'. 'Ita dixisti, Christe", et quanto plus invadit mors, tanto plus verbum arripe. 

In the first passage, baptism is connected closely to faith, absolution, grace, mercy and even providence.  It is as if Luther, quite possible speaking off the cuff, simply lists a series of God's gifts. In the second (if we have understood it correctly) Luther uses baptism as a defense against the familiar medieval dread of death. It will surprise nobody familiar with Luther that, in both passages, he connects baptism closely to the Word of God.

The Morning After ... Blues

 As we write, the newsboys are standing on the corners shouting, "Wuxtry! Read all about it! Blue wave swamps billionaires' yacht! Getcha morning paper!"

Which is to say the the November 2025 election appears to be good news for the Democratic Party and correspondingly bad for the Republicans. This appearance is purely arithmetical, in the sense that it is attested by votes counted and estimated. While no doubt encouraging, it is by no means clear -- nor could it be at this preliminary stage -- that the results will actually conduce to strengthening the Democratic Party or weakening the grip of Trumpism on America.

Two of the most heralded victories of the moment, for example, are those of Zohran Mamdani in New York City and Abigail Spanberger in Virginia.  Neither of these is surprising in itself. Mamdani was the Democratic nominee in a city where Democrats enjoy a powerful historic advantage, notwithstanding the Giuliani years. Spanberger was the Democratic nominee in a state where governors must stand down after a single term, and are most often chosen from the party that does not hold the White House. (She was also running against a Black woman in the South.) So neither victory was inherently unpredictable.

The more interesting point, as pundits observed often during the campaign, is that these are two very different varieties of Democrat. New York's mayor-elect is conspicuously young for the job, at 34. Although born in Africa, he was raised in the cushiest and New-Yorkest of confines, among the Upper West Side's academic and artistic elites.  His politics certainly lean left, as reflected by his decade-long affiliation with the Democratic Socialists. He is a Muslim. Also -- and perhaps most interesting to both readers of this blog -- he worked on the unsuccessful 2017 campaign of our friend and seminary classmate, the Rev. Khader El-Yateem.

Spanberger is 12 years older than Mamdani. In matters of faith, she is something called "Protestant Unspecified," which we imagine means as religious as her constituents need her to be in the moment. Born in New Jersey but raised in Virginia, with a background in federal law enforcement and intelligence, she has cut a considerably more conservative pose. After the Dems' 2020 election losses, she famously argued that they had suffered because Republicans were able to accuse them of "socialism," as well as because of the poorly-phrased call to "defund the police." She went so far as to propose that no Democrat should ever use the word "socialist" again.

Clearly, these two Democrats are shaped differently, both by their life experience and by the constituencies they serve. While it is certainly true that America's two principal parties are by nature complex and often unwieldy coalitions, it is also fair to ask how easily these two leaders, or their respective supporters, will be able to collaborate on policy and governance.  This is not a new question; the co-existence of conservative Democrats and liberal Democrats is as old as the party. But in a time when Republicans are so very ascendant, and so very averse to be caught compromising with the other party, it will be impossible for Democrats to make headway except by working closely with each other, even when their convictions and constituencies differ deeply.

Looking for analogies on the other side of the aisle, we recall that the Paleo-Cons and Neo-Cons of old managed reasonably well despite some fundamental differences. Yes, the Tea Party was the bane of John Boehner's life, but he was also able to make common cause with them against the ACA, and even to promote the career of a TP leader.  More recently, though, there appears to be an impassible chasm between the radical Republicans aligned with President Trump and virtually the entirety of the party's old guard.  Even the late Dick Cheney, than whom few Republican leaders could be called more Republican, and whom this blog pilloried with zeal during his vice-presidency, cast his last vote for a Democrat. 

Put plainly, Republicans unwilling to endorse both Trump's extreme policies and his chaotic personal style find themselves as impotent at the moment as Democrats, if not more so. Democrats are feeling good indeed this morning, as well they might -- but their ability to continue feeling good, and above all to govern effectively, may come to depend on their ability to do what the Republicans currently cannot and do not need to: work closely even when they disagree.