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Chapter One: The First Creation Story

We begin our study of how both past and present Christian thinkers incorporate some of the most enduring biblical images into their descriptions of the Christian life, fittingly, “In the beginning . . .” The opening chapter of Genesis presents the progressive unfolding of God’s creation of the world and all the living creatures that inhabit it. This first of two creation stories in the Bible captures the theological and pastoral imaginations of two of the most influential figures in the fourth-century Christian church: Basil of Caesarea and Ambrose of Milan. Both bishops devoted a series of homilies to the Hexaemeron, the six days of creation. Their works demonstrate how they approach the biblical narrative and discern a spiritual meaning in the most minute detail in the text. The six-day creation story also illustrates the challenges that contemporary Christian thinkers, such as the theologian Sallie McFague, face when seeking to employ that classic image in their own theology. Can the image of the six-day creation still inform the theology, spirituality, and morality of a Christian community that no longer shares Basil and Ambrose’s understanding of the universe, their theory of the origins of species, or their acceptance of the Mosaic authorship of the text? Can the six-day creation story still speak to Christians who are deeply troubled about the state of the environment and the role that humans have played in disturbing it? Is it possible to ground a theological position in Scripture, to critically engage the work of esteemed thinkers within the Christian tradition, and to respond in a way that is credible and meaningful to contemporary Christians? Before we turn our attention to Basil and Ambrose, we need to survey our options for how best to answer these difficult questions.

Spectrum of Theological Approaches

As we survey the contemporary theological landscape, we discover a wide range of possible strategies for the dealing with the gap between the world of Basil and Ambrose and our own. The spectrum runs from traditional orthodoxy to liberalism, postliberalism, and postmodernism. Each of the four brings its own set of theological and philosophical convictions to bear on the problem. As a result, each has its own particular concerns and points of emphasis. At times many of the approaches share a common point of view, while at other times their differences are irreconcilable. We will draw upon all four perspectives as we approach the question of the ongoing vitality of the image of the six-day creation story for the life of the church.

In the approach that emerged in the early orthodox theology of the church, all Scripture is ultimately interpreted in light of the life, death, and resurrection of Christ. As divinely inspired texts, the Old Testament contained “types” or foreshadowings of Christ. Jonah’s three days in the belly of the whale, for example, prefigured Christ’s three days in the tomb (Matt 12:40). Augustine expressed the logic of this approach to the Bible succinctly when he stated that, “in the Old Testament is concealed the New, and in the New Testament is revealed the Old.”1 Theologies centered on the concept of Logos were especially marked by this sense of continuity. The Logos (the Word) that became incarnate in Christ Jesus was also the same Logos by which the world was created. All of creation, especially human reason, therefore, participated in the rationality of the Creator. The second-century Christian theologian Justin Martyr spoke of the seeds of the Word scattered throughout the teachings of Greek philosophers. At its deepest level, the Logos theology of the early church rested on a deep continuity between creation and redemption, and therefore rejected any system of thought, such as that found in the various forms of Gnosticism, that saw the material world as a creation of an evil principle and the salvation wrought by Christ as a freedom from the confines of darkness and materiality.

The drawback of the orthodox position was later codified in the principle, “Error has no rights.” Armed with the objective truth that all rational human beings should embrace, orthodox Christians at various times in history have subjected those in error to scorn, “correction,” or worse. The Christian truth-claims stood in judgment of other tradition’s claims, but orthodoxy provided little insight on how to judge the Christian tradition itself. Abolitionists, for example, challenged orthodox Christians citing biblical verses on slavery. Similar episodes can be found throughout the Christian tradition involving the treatment of indigenous peoples by Christian missionaries to condemnations of various scientific theories that today we accept without question. For this reason, many thinkers in the Christian tradition have been drawn to our second approach.

The liberal tradition accepted the orthodox belief that truth is universal, but did not regard the Christian tradition as its sole repository. This approach identified an “essence” of Christianity within the vast plurality of the biblical writings. This essence formed the kernel—to use one of the most common images in the liberal tradition—that could be separated from the husk of culturally bound and theologically dispensable framework in which it was presented. For example, the twentieth-century biblical theologian Rudolf Bultmann pursued a project of “demythologizing” the New Testament so that the original kerygma or proclamation (God’s offer of authentic human existence to the individual in the present moment) could be recovered without asking modern Christians to accept the outdated three-tiered view of the universe (heaven above, earth in the middle, and hell below) assumed by the biblical writers. Christians could then incorporate truths uncovered by physicists, geologists, and biologists within their religious beliefs. Christian belief could be revised in ways that are responsive to the developments in all areas of human inquiry without sacrificing what is essential to the gospel message.

The critics of liberalism saw in its attempt to reshape Christian belief a dangerous inclination to accommodate the church to the prevailing beliefs and attitudes of the wider culture. The line between Christian commitment and national pride, for example, could be blurred and one mistaken for the other. When the young Swiss pastor, Karl Barth, read a letter in 1914 supporting Kaiser Wilhelm II’s war policies signed by many of the liberal professors he revered, he feared that liberal theology had led Christian thinkers down a dangerous road from which it must urgently retreat. Among his many concerns, Barth believed that Christians should not feel compelled to revise their theological claims according to the canons of modern rationality. Such a policy endangered Christian identity and weakened the ability of the church to witness to the truth. Barth’s theology was a repudiation of the working assumption underlying much of Christian thought since the Enlightenment that human knowledge could be secured on an indubitable foundational principle, thus guaranteeing that certain canons of reasonableness would prevail across all communities of rational human beings.

Whereas the liberals stress the universality of reason, postliberals emphasize the particularity of the Christian narrative. Human understanding is inextricably bound with the narratives by which humans view the world and their place in it. The task of Christian theology is not a matter of correlating its truths with those discovered in other disciplines. Rather, it involves Christian self-description. The Christian narrative, stretching from the beginning of creation to the final consummation of the kingdom, in the expression of the postliberal theologian, George Lindbeck, “absorbs the world” that Christians inhabit.2 The Christian way of life involves becoming proficient in the language of Christian narrative and acquiring the virtues that characterize the Christian way of being in the world. Unlike orthodox theologies that see the truth of Christian claims as consisting in a correspondence between statement and objective reality, the postliberal approach sees no way of definitively proving or disproving Christian claims in this way. While certainly not ruling out the possibility that doctrines do in fact correspond to the nature of God or Christ, the postliberals insist that we cannot step outside the language we used to know if, or in what way, the propositions we make are true. We can only apply a regulative test as to whether a proposition coheres with the way of life described in the Christian narrative.

Postliberalism has its critics on both the orthodox and liberal sides. First, the orthodox have reservations about the postliberals’ account of truth. The Evangelical theologian, Alister McGrath, has taken issue with Lindbeck on this very point. “The possibility (which Lindbeck seems unwilling and unable to consider) is that the discourse that he identifies Christian doctrine as regulating . . . may represent a serious misrepresentation, or even a deliberate falsification, of historical events; and that it may represent a completely spurious interpretation of the significance of Jesus Christ.”3 Identifying claims that are compatible with the Christian narrative is an element of Christian thought, but it does not address the critical question of whether these claims are in fact correct. On the liberal side, the ethicist James Gustafson writes, “George Lindbeck’s commendation of ‘the ancient practice of absorbing the universe into the biblical world’ does not come naturally to anyone I know. It is hard to determine what the biblical world is; there clearly are many. Even if one could, it is not easy to absorb neuroscience and genetics, black holes and quarks, viruses and broken limbs, Alzheimer’s disease and bipolar disorder, Palestinian-Israeli and Northern Ireland tensions into biblical, theological, or other religious discourse.”4 If all of this suggests that the contemporary theological scene is fragmented, it is the next position that emphasizes this fact.

Postmodernism is a broad term covering a variety of positions, and as such, defies precise definition. In general terms, postmodernism is marked by a deep and abiding suspicion of any system of thought that claims to have been given some privileged access into the true nature of reality or that attempts to provide a grand narrative in which all of reality can be properly understood. As the postmodern thinker John Caputo puts it, “The secret is that there is no Secret, no capitalized Know-it-all Breakthrough Principle or Revelation that lays things out the way they Really Are and thereby lays to rest the conflict of interpretations. When we open our mouths, it is only we who are speaking, poor existing individuals, as Kierkegaard likes to put it, and we would be ill advised to think that we are the Mouthpiece of Being or the Good or of the Almighty.”5 As the claims of a group (operating within its own interpretive framework) grow more and more absolute, the suspicion of the postmodern thinker rises. Typically, however, this is coupled with a realization that none of this removes us from the reality of having to navigate our way in this world. We may be awash in a world of interpretations, with no certain way of adjudicating conflicting interpretations, but at the same time, we are compelled to act, to name injustice, and to treasure some ideals while rejecting others.

The critics of postmodernism fear that such a position endorses relativism, a state in which one interpretation is no better or worse than any other interpretation. Caputo counters, “I do not recommend ignorance and I am not saying that there is no truth, but I am arguing that the best way to think about truth is to call it the best interpretation that anybody has come up with yet while conceding that no one knows what is coming next.”6 For the postmoderns, our inability to know definitively which position is right (“undecidability”) speaks to the traditional concept of faith. “If we really do not know who we are, then faith is really faith. Undecidability protects faith and prayer from closure and in keeping them thus at risk also keeps them safe.”7 Keeping beliefs at risk paradoxically keeps them safe from the danger of dispassionate engagement. Postmodernism is “the willingness to get along as best we can without capital letters and without final authoritative pronouncements, without a Knowledge of the Secret, and to splash about in the waters of undecidability.”8 The spirit of postmodernism, then, is one of disruption of all final answers. Critics fear that this leaves us with chaos; supporters insist that it is the crucial realization we need to make in order to find our way among the fragmented world in which we live.

Basil and Ambrose

Similarities in the Hexameron

If a reader were to compare the Hexameron by both Basil and Ambrose, he or she would be struck by the deep similarity between the structure and purpose of the two works. Both are comprised of nine sermons delivered extemporaneously during Holy Week. Basil delivered his sermons around 378 in Caesarea and Ambrose presented his in the following decade in Milan. Both are a combination of philosophical debate, moral exhortation, and catechetical instruction. Each author prefaces his scriptural commentary with a spirited defense of the Christian doctrine of creation ex nihilo (“from nothing”) and then engages in a detailed examination of each of the six days of the creation story narrated in the opening chapter of Genesis.

Basil and Ambrose both had a working knowledge of ancient scientific works on natural history, zoology, and botany. In his study of Basil, the theologian Stephen Hildebrand notes Basil’s familiarity with Plato’s creation story found in the Timaeus, Aristotle’s theory of the interaction of elements, and the Stoic concept of a divine law inscribed in the nature of plants and animals.9 Both Ambrose and Basil, however, display a keen interest in refuting any cosmological theory that suggested that God shaped preexisting material. Ambrose repeats Basil’s principle, “It is absolutely necessary that things begun in time be also brought to an end in time.”10 Not only is this a point of doctrine that both church leaders would feel compelled to defend, it also supports a particular reading of nature and human history. If we could go back to the start of time, says Basil, we would discover that “the world was not devised at random or to no purpose, but to contribute to some useful end and to the great advantage of all beings, if it is truly a training place for rational souls and a school for attaining the knowledge of God, because through visible and perceptible objects it provides guidance to the mind for the contemplation of the invisible” (I.6). Unlike ancient atomistic thinking that suggested that “the universe was without guide and without rule, as if borne around by chance” (I.2), Basil insists that the universe bears witness to the power, providence, and beauty of God. It is a school, a training place, for gaining knowledge of God. Through the creation we can glimpse into the mind of the Creator (I.11). Additionally, a universe that has a beginning in time and an end in time naturally turns the mind of those who contemplate it to the end of time, to a “future age with a spiritual and never ending light” (II.8).

Basil and Ambrose both regard the first creation story as a divinely inspired text and proceed accordingly in their close reading of it throughout the Hexameron. Where modern scholars focus on issues such as the relationship between the priestly account of creation (the modern designation given to the first creation story that was edited into its present form by the priests during the Babylonian exile) and the ancient Babylonian creation story Enuma Elish, Basil and Ambrose approach the text with an eye toward spiritual truth and moral exhortation. This becomes immediately apparent as we read their commentary on the events described during the first day of creation: the spirit of God sweeps over the waters on the formless earth covered in darkness; God separates the light from the darkness, and day and night are created. Relying on a Syrian interpreter whom he trusts, Basil argues that the spirit or wind of God sweeping over the waters might be better understood as “warmed with fostering care” as in the case of “a bird brooding upon eggs and imparting some vital power to them as they are being warmed” (II.6). This powerful maternal image of God suggests a vision of the world imbued with the life-giving power of God. Ambrose emphasizes the moral lesson found in the opening verses of Genesis: humans, not God, created evil. “If evil has no beginning, as if uncreated or not made by God, from what source did nature derive it?” It stems from our deviation from the path of virtue. “Our adversary is within us, within us is the author of error, locked, I say, within our very selves. Look closely on your intentions; explore the disposition of your mind; set up guards to watch over the thoughts of your mind and the stupidities of your heart” (I.8.31).

Basil and Ambrose continue to draw spiritual and moral lessons from each of the subsequent days in the creation story. No element of the created order is too insignificant for our contemplative consideration. The assessment of the Greek Orthodox theologian Doru Costache regarding Basil applies equally well to Ambrose: “the exploration of creation and the effort to picture a worldview ultimately became for St. Basil a quest for the marks of the Creator’s wisdom and the meaning of human life.”11 The variety of trees, for example, reflects the differences between virtuous and deceitful persons. While we may marvel at the symmetry of the pine cone, says Ambrose, the tamarisk tree reminds us that duplicitous individuals often intermingle with people of good will. “For, just as there are men everywhere who are double-dealers at heart, who, while they show themselves to be gracious and unaffected in the presence of good men, cleave to those who are most vicious—so in a similar way these plants have a contrary tendency to spring up in both well-watered regions and in desert lands. That is why [Jeremiah] compared dubious and insincere characters to tamarisks” (III.16.69). Likewise, crabs stealthily place a pebble within the shell of the oyster to prevent it from closing, and then insert their claw and devour the oysters. “There are men who, like the crab, exercise surreptitiously their guile on others and fortify their own weaknesses by the use of certain inherent characteristics. Thus they weave a web of deceit around their brethren and find their sustenance in another’s anxieties” (V.8.23). The natures of various birds, too, provide models of human virtue and vice. We should emulate the love and care of the bird known as the waterfowl who “adopts the nestling of the eagle when disowned or not recognized and allows him to mingle with her own brood. She exercises over him the same maternal care as she does her own, providing food and nourishment impartially” (V.18.61).

Basil and Ambrose: Differences in Biblical Interpretation

There are literally dozens of similar moral reflections offered by Basil and Ambrose based on the nature of various plants, sea creatures, and land animals, but they do have one key difference in their respective approaches to biblical interpretation.12 Basil preferred staying close to the “literal meaning” of the text, though we might today describe it as “the plain meaning.” Ambrose on occasion employs an allegorical interpretation that allows for pairing different elements in the biblical story to persons or events outside the passage under consideration. These two methods of biblical interpretation have traditionally been associated with two different centers of thought in the ancient world: the literal with the city of Antioch and the allegorical favored by readers in Alexandria. Scholars today, however, insist that this distinction does not always hold up in practice, so it needs to be understood as a generalization.

Basil expresses his reservation regarding the use of allegory in Homily IX.13 “I know the laws of allegory, although I did not invent them of myself, but have met them in the works of others. Those who do not admit the common meaning of the Scriptures say that water is not water, but some other nature, and they explain a plant and a fish according to their opinion. They describe also the production of reptiles and wild animals, changing it according to their own notions, just like the dream interpreters, who interpret for their own ends the appearances seen in their dreams” (IX.1). According to Basil, sticking to the plain meaning of the text guards against the introduction of wild speculation into the act of interpretation. The historian Philip Rousseau describes Basil’s starting point: “one had to take the text at face value . . . simply, without burrowing away to find difficulties and complexities that were not there. The truth, Basil felt, was by its nature ‘naked’ and therefore easily discovered.”14 The waters above the firmament and waters below the firmament are simply that: water. Those who regard the waters above the dome as powers praising God, while regarding the waters that have fallen to earth as powers of malice, are introducing false and dangerous ideas. Rather, “let us consider water as water” (III.9).

In the course of his commentary on the creation of the heavenly bodies, Ambrose offers an allegorical interpretation in which the moon represents the church and the sun represents Christ. “Deservedly is the moon compared to the Church, who has shone over the entire world and says as she illuminates the darkness of this world: ‘the night is far advanced, the day is at hand.’ . . . Looking down, then, the Church has, like the moon, her frequent risings and settings. She has grown, however, by her settings and has by their means merited expansion at a time when she is undergoing diminution through persecution and while she is being crowned by the martyrdom of her faithful” (IV.8.32). The moon, of course, does not produce its own light, but merely reflects the light of the sun. In the same way, “Not from her own light does the Church gleam, but from the light of Christ. From the Sun of Justice has her brilliance been obtained, so that it is said: ‘It is now no longer I that live, but Christ lives in me’” (IV.8.32). As the patristics scholar Michael Heintz observes, “[A]llegory, rather than being for Ambrose simply a means around the awkwardness of the literal sense, functioned catechetically as a vehicle through which his hearers saw the events recorded in the Scriptures as enacted in the present-day life of the community, particularly in its sacramental or ritual life; that is, allegory served to engage his listeners more deeply in the liturgical life of the local church.”15 For example, the Spirit sweeping across the waters at creation is a foreshadowing of the Spirit moving over the waters of baptism. Allegory, therefore, provided the link by which Ambrose joined the narrative world of the Bible with the world inhabited by those who crowded into the cathedral in Milan to hear him preach.

Basil and Ambrose’s Aesthetic Vision of Creation

Despite their differences regarding the appropriateness of offering an allegorical interpretation, Basil and Ambrose share a deep conviction that “the world is a work of art, set before all for contemplation, so that through it the wisdom of Him who created it should be known” (Basil, I.7). Both thinkers employed a variety of artistic metaphors when speaking about the relationship between God and the created order. God is the divine Artist (Ambrose, I.6.22); the artistry and order of the natural world guide us in forming an idea about God who is the source of all beauty and wisdom (Basil I, 11), and every element of the created order, depending on the preferred metaphor in that homily, lends its voice to a hymn praising God, adds its step to a dance celebrating God (Ambrose, III.4.18), or offers another chapter unfolding God’s story of salvation (Basil, 9.2). Basil’s opening comments to his congregation at the start of his sixth homily captures his sense of wonderment at the beauty and splendor of the creation wrought by the hands of God. “If, at any time in the clear cool air of the night, while gazing at the indescribable beauty of the stars, you conceived an idea of the Creator of the universe—who He is who had dotted the heavens with such flowers . . . or again, if at times you observed with sober reflection the wonders of the day and through visible things you inferred the invisible Creator, you come as a prepared listener and one worthy to fill up this august and blessed assembly” (VI.1).

Among the wide variety of artistic metaphors that both Basil and Ambrose employ, musical ones figure most prominently. Both the heavens and the earth sing a song of praise to the Creator (Ps 19:1–4). Following an ancient belief, Basil believed that the universe itself emitted a pleasant song as the seven planets held in place in crystalline spheres revolved around the earth. “Certainly, this is not more incredible than the seven circles through which nearly all philosophers with one consent agree that the seven planets are borne, and which they say are fitted one into the other like jars inserted into each other. And these, carried around in the opposite direction to everything else, when they cleave through the ether, give out such a melodious and harmonious sound that it supposes the sweetest singing” (Basil III.3; see Ambrose, II.2.6). On the terrestrial level, the four elements of earth, air, fire, and water interact in a similarly harmonious fashion. “The earth is dry and cold, the water is cold and moist, the air is moist and warm, and the fire is warm and dry. Thus, though their combining qualities each receives the faculty of mixing with the other; and, in fact, each through a common quality mixes with its neighboring element, and throughout the union with that which is near, it combines with its opposite . . . Thus, it becomes a circle and a harmonious choir, since all are in unison and have mutually corresponding elements” (Basil, IV.5).

The birds sing a chorus of praise to God from sunrise to sunset and throughout the night. “It is customary for the birds at nesting time ‘to charm the sky with song,’ in joy that their allotted task is done. This usually happens, following, as it were, a ritual pattern, at dawn and at sunset, when the birds sing the praises of their Creator, at the moment of transition from day to night or night to day” (Ambrose, V.12.36). A chorus of song heralds the start of a new day. “Would that the nightingale were to give forth a song to arouse a sleeper from his slumber! That is the bird accustomed to signal the rising of the sun at dawn and to spread abroad joy more penetrating than morning light. Still, if sweetness is lacking in their song, we have with us the moaning turtle-dove, the cooing pigeon, and ‘the raven who with deep tones calls down the rain.’” During the day, the “natural chant” of swan’s song fills the air with “strains of most tuneful and delightful music” (Ambrose, V.12.39). In the evening, birds “conceal themselves in their hiding places, saluting the close of day with a song, lest they depart without offering such thanks as a creature owes to glorify his Creator” (Ambrose, V.24.84). The descent of darkness does not end the birds’ performance. “Night also has its songs wherewith to soothe the hearts of men who lie awake. The night owl, too, makes a contribution of song” (Ambrose,V.24.85).

As Ambrose approaches the end of the Hexameron, he turns his attention to the creation of man and woman in the divine image. After extolling the musicality of the birds of the sky, Ambrose switches his artistic metaphor to portraits when describing the unique place humanity enjoys in creation. Based on the passage from Isaiah, “Behold, Jerusalem, I have painted the walls” (49:16), Jerusalem is interpreted allegorically to refer to the soul. “That soul of yours is painted by God, who holds in Himself the flashing beauty of virtue and the splendor of piety. That soul is well painted in which shines the imprint of divine operation . . . Precious is that picture which in its brilliance is in accord with that divine reflection” (Ambrose, VI.6.42).

Just like pollution and the effects of time can obscure the brilliance of a famous portrait, sin has a corrosive effect on the soul. The Christian life, then, becomes a continual process of preservation and restoration. “Man has been depicted by the Lord God, his artist. He is fortunate in having a craftsman and a painter of distinction. He should not erase that painting, one that is a product of truth, not a semblance, a picture, expressed not in mere wax, but in the grace of God” (VI.8.47).

When the human soul displays its beauty in all its brilliance to God and neighbor, it is the most splendid portrait on exhibition in God’s gallery that is filled with countless exquisite works.

Sallie McFague’s Life Abundant

While the theologian Sallie McFague shares Basil’s and Ambrose’s sense of wonderment at the beauty and harmony of the natural world, her theological vision is tempered by an anguished concern about the present state of our environment. In her 2001 work, Life Abundant, McFague calls for a revision of our current cultural and theological worldview so that we can envision a way of life that is focused on the well-being of the planet rather than on satisfying the insatiable demands of a consumer society. “My reflections coalesce around this point: what I have learned about who God is, who we are, and where we fit into the scheme of things tells me that the one thing needful in a theology for twenty-first century North American middle-class Christians is an alternative view of the abundant life from that of our consumer society. Life Abundant is about this reconstruction.”16 Her book falls into three parts: a discussion of the theological positions underpinning her proposal; a comparison of a worldview presented in neo-classical economics and that promoted in her ecological economic worldview; and an account of how we can better understand the meaning of God, Christ, and the world in our twenty-first-century context.

McFague begins by identifying “the relative absolute” that animates her theology. She defines a “relative absolute” as “a central conviction that is neither a foundation nor the ‘essence’ of Christianity, but a deeply held, abiding insight into God’s relation with us . . . my relative absolute is that we give God glory by loving the world and everything in it.”17 This core conviction steers a middle course between “ideological absolutism” and “radical relativism.”18 While “theological statements . . . are risky, partial uncertain assertions made by relative historically bound creatures about universal matters—God, world, and human beings,” they also represent a thinker’s deepest conviction about what is most universally true.19 It is from the vantage point of this “relative absolute” that McFague evaluates two competing worldviews: the neo-classical economic model and McFague’s own “ecological economic model.” “The first model sees the planet as a corporation or syndicate, as a collection of individual human beings drawn together to benefit its members by optimal use of natural resources. The second model sees the planet more like an organism or a community that survives and prospers through the interrelationship and interdependence of its many parts, both human and nonhuman.”20 Emphasizing the “relative” pole of “the relative absolute” McFague notes that as worldviews, both are interpretations of reality and descriptions of reality.21 They are both models of socially constructed reality, and as such, are capable of being altered. Emphasizing the “absolute” pole, however, McFague insists that the choice between models is not a theologically neutral one. “A working definition of Christian theology,” writes McFague, “as I understand it, goes like this: Theology is reflection on experiences of God’s liberating love from various contexts and within the Christian community.”22 This returns us to McFague’s “relative absolute”—our worldview is limited, partial, and historically conditioned, but the Christian tradition boldly stakes a claim that God’s love is a liberating love offered to all creation, and so that by loving the earth, we give glory to God.

In the final part of Life Abundant McFague analyzes how God, Christ, and the life of Christian discipleship appear differently when viewed through the interpretive lens of the neoclassical economic model and the ecological economic model. We begin, then, with the contrasting understandings of the God-world relationship in the two models. The dominant image of nature in the neoclassical economic model is that of a machine. The physical world operates according to certain immutable laws that modern physics has been able to express mathematically. God in turn ensures the constant operation of these laws. McFague sees in this model a distant God who does not “interfere” with the normal functioning of the world. In the ecological economic model, organic imagery dominates. The world is metaphorically God’s body. Distancing herself from a pantheistic interpretation of this image, McFague insists that while the world is in God, it is not identical to God. “With the metaphor of the world as God’s body, God as the agent or spirit in and through all that is (as our spirits are the energizers of our bodies) we can imagine a united view of God and the world, which does not, however, identify them.”23

The God-world relationship suggested in each of the economic models shapes how we view Christ and the nature of the salvation. The distant relationship between God and the world in the neoclassical model results in an understanding of Christ as the unique and unsurpassable union of human and divine nature in history. McFague criticizes the traditional understanding of the Incarnation as the singular moment in human history in which God dwelt among us in the flesh. “In the traditional picture, the incarnation of God occurs at one point and one point only in the world—in the man Jesus. God is not everywhere all the time, for apart from creating the world, God enters it just once.”24 The organic imagery of the ecological economic model suggests Christ is the chief exemplar of a divine-human interrelation that permeates all of creation. “By bringing God into the realm of the body, of matter, nature is included within the divine reach. This inclusion, however, is possible only if incarnation is understood in a broad, not a narrow fashion; that is, if Jesus as the incarnate Logos, Wisdom, or Spirit of God is paradigmatic of what is evident everywhere else as well.”25

The life of Christian discipleship arising from the understanding of the God-world relationship and the nature of Christ takes different forms when viewed from the lens of each economic model. Individual rights and freedom from governmental intrusion are hallmarks of the neoclassical economic model, and solidarity and the common good are central themes in the ecological economic model. The views of the life of discipleship follow suit. “In the neoclassical model, the individual, freed from his or her sins by Christ, is expected to live a moral life, being generous to the poor and a good steward of the natural resources that we need . . . In the ecological model, human life is basically communal—sin is therefore a relational matter, being out of appropriate relations with God and neighbor (which includes non-human neighbors).”26

In short, each view offers a different vision of what constitutes “the abundant life.” While it is commonly associated with an individual’s luxurious lifestyle, the abundant life for McFague is the state in which all planetary life flourishes—“it is a vision of abundance that will include each and every creature, especially the most vulnerable and oppressed.”27

The Revitalization of the Image of the Six-Day Creation

At the outset of our study of Basil, Ambrose, and McFague, we posed a series of questions regarding the image of the six-day creation story. Can the image of the six-day creation still inform the theology, spirituality, and morality of a Christian community that no longer shares Basil and Ambrose’s understanding of the universe, their theory of the origins of species or their acceptance of the Mosaic authorship of the text? Can the six-day creation story still speak to Christians who are deeply troubled about the state of the environment and the role that humans have played in causing it? Is it possible to ground a theological position in Scripture, to critically engage the work of esteemed thinkers within the Christian tradition, and to respond in a way that is credible and meaningful to contemporary Christians? At first glance, given the many theological differences between Basil and Ambrose on the one hand and McFague on other, the prospects for revitalizing the image of the six-day creation seem dim. However, upon closer examination we discover a consensus in their thinking that makes it possible for us to forge several strategies that incorporate the theological insights of all three theologians.

This common ground centers on a cluster of artistic images concerning God, the world, and humanity. Ambrose praises the excellence of the “divine Artist and Craftsman” (I.6.22). Basil describes the world as “a work of art, set before all for contemplation, so that through it the wisdom of Him who created it should be known” (I.7). McFague observes, “Just as artists feel that they are embodied in their work, that who they are is expressed in their creations, so also God’s glory is reflected in each and every creature, from the mite to the whale, from the acorn to the mountain, and in each one of us human beings.”28 As McFague observes, the interpretive lens through which we view these three realities produces a different understanding of the interrelationship among them. Viewed aesthetically, the God who creates is the source of all beauty; the world becomes an artistic expression, and we humans are seen as its caretakers, or perhaps even apprentices who complete the work begun by the master.

Ambrose, Basil, and McFague all seek to engender in their audience an overwhelming sense of awe and gratitude when considering the beauty of the natural world. For example, Ambrose’s prose grows flowery when he considers the beauty of the sun. “It is true that it is the eye of the world, the joy of the day, the beauty of the heavens, the charm of nature and the most conspicuous object in creation. When you behold it, reflect on its Author. When you admire it, give praise to its Creator (IV.1.2). Basil likewise exhorts his listeners, “I want the marvel of creation to gain such complete acceptance from you that, wherever you may be found and whatever kind of plants you may chance upon, you may receive a clear reminder of the Creator” (V.2). McFague encourages a similar response when we consider that “love (and not indifference or malevolence) is at the heart of reality . . . The sanctus is our response: the deepest religious emotions are awe and thanksgiving. If God is not a being or even just being-itself, but reality as good, then our astonishment and gratitude knows no bounds.”29

As we have seen, Basil and Ambrose both speak of the natural world in terms of musical analogies. Basil describes a “general chorus of creation” that “harmoniously sings a hymn of praise to the Creator” (III.9). Given Ambrose’s reputation as “the father of hymnody,” it is not surprising that musical images abound in the Hexameron.30 In the worshipping community “we hear the voice of people singing in harmony the praises of God” (Ambrose, III.1.5). Nature itself lends its voice to the song of praise, from the sweet song of the nightingale to the summer serenade of the cicada. “How sweet is the chant from the tiny throat of a cicada! In the heart of midsummer ‘they rend the thickets’ with their songs. The greater the heat at midday, the more musical become their songs . . . ” (Ambrose, V.22.76).

The many dimensions of music provide a number of possible uses for the image in contemporary theology. Different facets of musical composition, performance, and enjoyment resonate with each of the four theological approaches surveyed earlier. Those favoring the path of orthodoxy would appreciate the theologian Hans Urs von Balthasar’s image of God’s revelation as a symphony. “In his revelation, God performs a symphony, and it is impossible to say which is richer: the seamless genius of his composition or the polyphonous orchestra of Creation that has prepared to play it.”31 This insight dovetails nicely with Basil’s vision of the Word of God moving throughout all of human history. “Consider the word of God moving through all creation, having begun at that time, active up to the present, and efficacious until the end, even to the consummation of the world” (IX. 2). The six-day creation is the opening movement in this divine symphony, and the natural world provides the instruments whose melodic sounds echo throughout time.

The liberal tradition, which regards religious statements as expressions of depth-experiences, sees in music the potent articulation of the yearnings of the human spirit. The civil rights leader Andrew Young relates the story of the time police had blocked protesters from marching to the Birmingham jail.

When we go about two blocks from the jail, the police had blocked the street with the dogs and the fire trucks. When we got there, they said, “You can’t go to the jail.” And so everybody got down on their knees and started praying. And when people are in that kind of situation, it’s not a verbal prayer, it’s more a moan. And when the emotional, scared, religious people start moaning, something happens. And something happened not only to us but to the police.

And somebody jumped up. A lady said, “God is with this movement. We’re going on to the jail.” And we started walking directly at the police and the dogs. And all of a sudden, the dogs weren’t barking, and we started singing, “I want Jesus to walk with me.” And when you get through and you looked back, you saw all of these fire trucks blocking the street. And some good little sister hollered, “Great God Almighty done parted the Red Sea one more time!”32

The spiritual, “I Want Jesus to Walk With Me” not only expressed the protesters’ faith, but also impacted the police who had barred their way. The theological challenge for those in the liberal tradition is to capture Basil, Ambrose, and McFague’s sense of awe and wonderment at the beauty of the natural world and express it in a way that inspires people to break through barriers.

Postliberal theologians emphasize the power of language to shape experience and reinforce communal identity in a fragmented world. The postliberal ethicist Stanley Hauerwas speaks of the power of art to shape our vision of the world. “Art, whether representational or not, reveals to us aspects of our world that we are usually too dependent on conventionality and fantasy to be able to see. Art shows us how difficult it is to be objective by showing us how different the world can look.”33 Just as Basil refers to the world as “a training place for rational souls” (I.6), Hauerwas regards the church as the training ground for acquiring the skills necessary to see the world as described in the Christian narrative. The church’s songs, prayers and liturgical practices play an indispensable role in shaping the members’ vision of the world. As Ambrose recognized, the Christian practice of baptizing and breaking bread only makes sense within the narrative world of the Bible in which creation, redemption, and sanctification are inextricably linked. The postliberal strategy for revitalizing the image of the six-day creation would be to highlight the connections between the practices of the Christian community (e.g., blessings) and the biblical narrative’s depiction of the natural world as a contingent reality that owes its very existence to the love and will of God.

Postmodern thinkers, who are deeply suspicious of all definitive claims about truth, find in the improvisation of jazz musicians a fitting image of contemporary theology. In his recent work, Theology as Improvisation, the theologian Nathan Crawford writes, “My thesis is that theology is improvisation. I claim this because improvisation offers a way of thinking that is inherently open.”34 Crawford contends that improvisation requires being “rooted in a tradition” while at the same time remaining open to “reorienting and transforming the tradition.”35 The task of the theologian is to assemble the fragments of our highly pluralistic world into a coherent pattern without succumbing to the temptation of thinking that this coherence amounts to an all-encompassing account of truth. “The theologian needs a way of bringing the fragments together that does not seek to systematize or totalize them, but give them a certain coherence (although, this is, at times, quite loose) by thinking their similarities-in-difference.”36 Postmodern theologians bring the voices of criticism to bear on the attitudes and behaviors of Christians that have contributed to the environmental crisis, while at the same time, constructing what the postmodern Scripture scholar Walter Brueggemann calls a “counterworld of evangelical imagination.” According to Brueggemann, “Creation faith is a doxological response to the wonder that I/we/the world exist. It pushes the reason for one’s existence out beyond one’s self to find that reason in an inexplicable, inscrutable, loving generosity that redefines all our modes of reasonableness.”37 The springboard into this “counterworld of evangelical imagination” is the six-day creation story. Whether it be a symphony, a spiritual, a hymn, or a jazz performance, musical expression in all its forms has the potential to revitalize the image of the six-day creation in the lives of Christians who see the beauty of God’s creation, but fear for its long-term survival.

Discussion Questions

1. What features of the six-day creation story do you find most striking? What questions do contemporary Christians have in terms of the story?

2. Which theological approach do you find most compelling: orthodoxy, liberalism, postliberalism, or postmodernism? Why?

3. How would you describe Basil and Ambrose’s vision of the natural world?

4. Do you find the allegorical approach to biblical interpretation appealing or unappealing? Why?

5. How would you describe your own “relative absolute” in theology?

6. Do you agree or disagree with McFague’s understanding of the relationship between God and the world?

7. How might music provide a helpful way for thinking about theology, creation, or the Christian life?