Covenant and Hope: Christian and Jewish Reflections

Introduction

Eugene B. Korn

This volume celebrates the original research developed by the fellows of the Institute for Theological Inquiry’s theology project conducted between 2008 and 2010. Over those years, ITI fellows met in America and Israel to conceptualize, draft, and finely hone the ideas presented in this book. The scholars also benefited from the insights of the faculties of the Yale Divinity School and the Yale Judaic Studies Program as well as the research fellows of the Van Leer Jerusalem Institute, whose institutions graciously co-sponsored conferences in New Haven and Jerusalem centered on the research.

As an ongoing enterprise, ITI is the theological division of the Center for Jewish-Christian Understanding and Cooperation in Efrat and Jerusalem, Israel, founded in 2008. Both ITI and CJCUC are profoundly grateful to Roger Hertog, of New York, NY, whose vision and generosity have been critical to the launch and continuing success of both institutions. Without his support, this volume would not have been possible.

ITI’s American partner is the Witherspoon Institute of Princeton, New Jersey. Robert Jenson and I serve as ITI’s co-directors. The Institute invites world-class thinkers to break new theological ground in projects focusing on subjects critical to Judaism, Christianity, and world culture. Through its research, ITI aims to develop fresh constructive foundations for Jewish-Christian understanding and for spiritual and moral values that bear on contemporary religious, cultural, and political life. With the successful completion of the 2008-2010 project, ITI has planned future research projects centering around the topics of Judaism and Christianity: Single or Dual Covenants; Religion, Violence, and War; The Significance of the Jewish Return to Zion; Jewish and Christian Biblical Interpretation; Love and Death; Democracy and Religious Authority; Modern Messianism; Family, Children, and Fidelity; Election and the People of Israel; and Judaism and the Ministry of Jesus. It is ITI’s hope that the fruits of its research will be adapted and utilized as pedagogical tools in educational settings.

New constructive thinking on these topics is needed now that Christian-Jewish relations have passed from the era of polemics to one with the possibility of sympathetic understanding and partnership — on theological, moral, and political levels. There are many reasons for this fundamental transformation that began in the second half of the twentieth century, and perhaps the primary one is the Holocaust. The near success of Hitler’s Final Solution threw both Judaism and the Jewish people into an existential crisis and precipitated a deep spiritual crisis for Christian theology. The Nazi plan to exterminate the Jewish people found an all-too-ready acceptance in the heart of Christendom, and for the most part those who implemented the grisly plan were believing Christians. As the initial trauma of the Holocaust began to recede, both Christian and Jewish scholars found that the Christian Adversus Judaeos tradition had played a substantive role in Europe’s easy acceptance of the idea that Jews were subhumans deserving of extermination. Something in Christendom had gone horribly wrong, and after deep introspection many Christian theologians began to understand that Christian theology had to repair itself and the church had to reconcile with the Jewish people.

The Jewish people’s return to their historic homeland and the reality of the State of Israel also changed Jewish thinking profoundly. After the Holocaust and Israel’s struggle for survival, Jews in the second half of the twentieth century recognized perhaps as never before the perils of living without friends in a world that had lost the presence of the sacred and the reality of transcendent moral authority. Thus both thinking Christians and Jews came to understand that the old thinking about, and alienation from, each other had proved disastrous for the past, and that they could no longer be operative if Jews and Christians are to fashion a better future for themselves and humanity.

The papers in this volume center around two interrelated topics: Covenant, Mission, and Relation to the Other, and Hope and Responsibility for the Human Future. Both Jewish and Christian religious life is grounded in God’s covenant with Abraham and his descendants as it unfolds throughout human history. For Jews, this has meant primarily the revelation of Torah at Sinai and its interpretation by Jewish thinkers, as well as Jewish historical experience as God’s chosen people. For Christians, it has meant the fullness of the Jewish covenant through Jesus and its universal redemption for gentiles. The covenant thus mediates the texture of daily religious life for both Christians and Jews, as well as forming the foundations for their theological, moral, and eschatological aspirations. Fulfilling God’s covenant, as Christians and Jews respectively understand it, constitutes the mission of both Christian and Jewish life.

The directors of ITI selected a group of Jewish and Christian scholars headed by Robert Jenson and asked them to analyze their faith tradition’s concept of covenant, how it determines their religious commitments, behavior, and theology, and how their covenantal theology shapes their relations with people outside their religious community in general. The Christian scholars were asked to examine the implications of their covenantal theology for relations with Jews and Judaism, while Jews were asked to probe the covenantal implications for Jewish relations with Christians and Christianity.

I headed a second group of scholars, asking them to reflect on the possibility of hope and responsibility for the future. Conviction in the promise of the messianic era appears to commit Jews and Christians to the belief in the redemption of humanity and its moral progress over history. Normatively, the prophetic vision of a future messianic redemption obligates Jews and Christians to take responsibility for the human future. Yet an honest recognition of the tragic history of the twentieth century that includes mass murders, genocide, and nuclear warfare, when combined with the trajectory of events in the young twenty-first century (e.g., extreme wealth conjoined with extreme poverty, ascending extremism and violence, scarcity of life-sustaining resources, and unprecedented proliferation of war and lethal weaponry), discourages a rational belief in human progress. The scholars of ITI were asked to present their understanding of the grounds of religious hope and how belief in the future can be nourished, and to outline the nature of the philosophic and practical responsibility that could ensure the improvement of future human life and culture.

In What Kind of God Can Make a Covenant? Robert Jenson examines the difference between, to use the medieval poet Yehuda Halevi’s phrase, the God of the Bible and the God of the philosophers. He laments the long history of Christian theological discussion about whether God is impassible, insisting that this is a Greek philosophic conception of God that is ultimately incongruent with the God who strikes reciprocal covenants with his creatures and who relates to them with love and compassion, as delineated by Jewish and Christian Scriptures.

In his Covenant, Mission, and Relating to the Other, Gerald McDermott argues that according to Scripture, covenant is a differentiated plan of blessing in which God relates in different ways to gentiles and Jews, blessing the world universally through the particular Israel. The apostle Paul held to the Jewish covenant, and was neither anti-Torah nor a supersessionist Christian. Moreover, God’s covenant with Israel is not understood properly unless its promise of land is taken seriously. The notion of mission as bearing witness is fundamental to covenant, which was God’s choice of Israel to be a light to the nations (mission).

In Covenant and Mission, David Novak reflects on three questions: What should be the Jewish reaction to the missionary attempts of various Christian to proselytize Jews? Does Jewish exclusion of gentiles from the covenantal community imply that gentiles cannot become members of the community (and hence converting gentiles should be prohibited) or may gentiles become members of the community, so that proselytization of gentiles should be permitted? Ought gentiles to become members of the community by conversion, so that proselytization of them should be mandated? Novak finds no objection — moral or otherwise — to conversion attempts in a democratic pluralistic society as long as those attempts are honest and noncoercive.

Richard Sklba examines the covenantal theology of Josef Ratzinger, now Pope Benedict XVI, in Covenant Renewed: Josef Ratzinger, Theologian and Pastor, with a particular eye to what Ratzinger’s conception of the covenant implies for Jews and Judaism. Over the millennia this issue has long bedeviled relations between Jews and Christians, which were so often hostile due to the traditional Christian assumption that after Jesus, the biblical covenant with the Jewish people was transferred to the church and was no longer operative in the Jewish people. Is there a way to square the circle and assert the universality of the Christian covenant and still make room for a living Judaism?

In Three Forms of Otherness: Covenant, Mission, and Relation to the Other in Rabbinic Perspective, Naftali Rothenberg sees the Jewish covenant as a boundary-setting concept that precludes positive theological relations with gentiles in general and Christians in particular. He prefers to ground Jewish-gentile relations in the foundational principles of Jewish ethics that treat all human beings as creatures made in the image of God and therefore worthy of love and respect. From such a perspective, it seems that there is nothing distinctive about Jewish-Christian relations or theology. Jewish relations with Christians are governed by the same principles as those with Muslims, Hindus, or even secularists.

Shlomo Riskin, in Covenant and Conversion: The United Mission to Redeem the World, examines how Jewish rabbinic tradition regards God’s covenants with Abraham and later with the Jewish people at Sinai. He posits a third covenant, the one that God seals with the Jewish people on the plains of Moab before entering the Promised Land (Deuteronomy 27 and 28). Riskin insists that this third covenant has universal implications because, at a minimum, it obligates Jews to teach universal ethical values to all humanity. He also considers whether the Sinai covenant mandates the mission that Jews try to convert gentiles to the Mosaic covenant and commandments revealed at Sinai — what we now know as Judaism. He sees Christianity partially fulfilling the universal covenantal mandate and argues for future cooperation between Christians and Jews.

Michael Wyschogrod probes the political implications of covenantal society. In Judaism, the Political, and the Monarchy, he recommends that Israel establish a regent as a reminder of biblical monarchy. The regent would function only symbolically to stress that the new Jewish national political order in Israel has retained its Jewish and biblical connection. Wyschogrod contends that this would strengthen the faith of biblically oriented Jews and Christians and revive the biblical purpose of the Jewish people in the world and history.

In The People Israel, Christianity, and the Covenantal Responsibility to History, I argue that the telos of God’s biblical covenant with the Jewish people is that the Jewish people become a nation of priests throughout history, bringing the knowledge of God and divine moral authority to the nations of the world. Lacking Mosaic commandments, Abraham was a theological Noahide who shared the biblical mission later articulated to the Jewish people at Sinai. Although Jews cannot accept Christianity (and Christians) as part of, or heirs to, the Sinai covenant, they can rightly understand Christianity as part of Abraham’s biblical covenant and mission. I contend further that if we combine a number of modern rabbinic theological views sympathetic to Christianity with the contemporary Christian rejection of hard supersessionism, we create a logical opening for removing the impediments to a Jewish appreciation of Christianity. Because of these modern theological turns, Jews and Christians should cooperate with each other, bearing common witness to the spiritual center of human experience, the intrinsic sanctity of human life, and the necessity of moral values for human flourishing in the twenty-first century.

Russell Reno, in The Antinomian Threat to Human Flourishing, critiques modern culture, assessing it as fundamentally antinomian. The underlying metaphysical dream of our culture is to be an Empire of Desire, in which norms are justified solely by serving the goal of maximizing individual desires. This is exemplified best by Norman O. Brown, who rejected all norms of rational autonomy or authenticity, be they derived from Moses, Kant, or Wordsworth, and even Freud’s self-limiting imperatives of the Ego, in order to advocate living in the timeless immediacy of desire. Our age has become anticultural in Brown’s antinomian sense; hence moral ideals can only propagate themselves ineffectually. Reno believes that postmodern culture has morphed into a socially sanctified and rhetorically disguised expression of the material desires of the powerful. Despite their long argument over the validity of law, the Empire of Desire should unify Jews and Christians today. Christians and Jews must assert a pronomian picture of life and culture, a metaphysical dream at odds with postmodern antinomian fantasies. Both need to heed Moses’ plea in Deuteronomy to choose life, which requires the full commitment to obedience and moral norms. As articulated both by Pope John Paul II and Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik, Christians and Jews must revitalize the concept of law as a foundational category for realizing human flourishing.

Miroslav Volf reflects on hope, love, and accounts of reality in God, Hope, and Human Flourishing. He traces the narrowing of the idea of human flourishing, from its initial center around a transcendent, loving, cosmic God, to a humanistic or national imperative that entailed loving others, to personal satisfaction devoid of all reference to something higher for humans to love. In the end, only moral solipsism remains — ultimate concern for the self and its satisfaction. Love as the ability to transcend oneself has been lost. So too with hope, initially diminished from the vastness of God to the national ideal of a redeemer nation, and ultimately to the vanishing point of the self alone. Real hope has disappeared since it depends on the pursuit of an end greater than desire. Yet the concern for human flourishing — how to be successful at being human — is central to Christianity, Judaism, and Islam; essential to all these conceptions is each human being fitting into the larger cosmos and drama of human history. Malfunctions of faith, flourishing, and hope are rooted in a failure to love the God of love or a failure to love the neighbor. Today’s challenge to Christians — and all religious persons — is to love God and neighbor rightly. This means explicating God’s relation to human flourishing in light of concrete issues we face today (poverty, environmental degradation, war, sexuality) and more so, transforming our belief that God is fundamental to human flourishing into an active conviction that shapes the way we think, preach, write, behave, and live.

Douglas Knight, in Hope and Responsibility: The Assembly with the Promise of God, finds hope through the covenanted community of Israel. Because Israel covenanted with the God of all humanity, the covenant is simultaneously particular through Israel and also universal. Knight claims that God’s love for Israel heralds good news for all humankind, since Israel witnesses the truth of humanity with God. He understands the church as the second assembly called into being around Israel’s first assembly and thus he rejects supersessionism. Christianity is dependent on the witness of Israel, deferring to it rather than displacing it. When Christians speak or act against Israel, it is the pagan within speaking. God’s covenant is a metaphysics of promise. We flourish only as we know we are loved, which enables us to serve our neighbor. And because no generation is sufficient to itself and needs affirmation from another, we are required to pass on life and culture by which those after us can affirm life as good. Knight believes that Christianity is assessed by the extent that it ameliorates contemporary material culture. Once again it is only the assembly of Israel and the baptized gentiles added to her who can give this warning against cultural, political, and demographic crises — really the crisis of humanity in paralysis before the summons of God. Imbued with covenantal confidence, the assembly of God testifies that God invites us to find the divine image in each another, giving us hope for the future.

In Messianic Hope, Alan Mittleman explores the Jewish tradition of realist messianism as a locus of perennial Jewish hope. The realist tradition envisions that the Messianic Age will not differ from the present age in fantastic ways. The laws of nature will not change, but people in the Messianic Age will live peacefully. Goods will be sufficient for everyone’s consumption and poverty will be eliminated. This tradition has roots in the Bible and Talmud, but its most famous proponent was the medievalist, Maimonides. Mittleman focuses on three modern philosophers in this tradition, Hermann Cohen, Steven Schwarzschild, and Lenn Goodman, and considers the difficulties of domesticating an eschatological concept into a realistic portrayal of economic and political possibilities by explicating and critiquing these three thinkers.

In Moral Agency, Sin, and Grace: Prospects for Christian Hope and Responsibility, Darlene Fozard Weaver offers six theses about the character of Christian hope and responsibility, with occasional reference to Jewish conceptions of moral responsibility. The theses outline a theological and ethical argument about the scope of moral agency given the pervasive influence of structural violence and the power of grace. Noting that structural violence is a social construction, Weaver argues that social sin disorients the human will and blocks human transcendence. Yet in the end, it is a product of human freedom and therefore malleable. God empowers our moral self-transcendence, and it is God’s grace that reconciles us to the good of our being and incorporates us into a new economy of relations with others and the world. For Jews and Christians both, hope is principled because it rests on faith in God, nourished by the faith that God acted in history. Christian hope is grounded in Jesus Christ and that the Holy Spirit continues to act in our lives and the world, sanctifying us. Christian hope thus reckons with the bondage of freedom and disorientation of desire. In contrast to the modern understanding of responsibility, Christian responsibility is not about fixing completely a world that is broken, but rather about learning to share it in ways that permit God to heal it and us. In the end, hope bears fruit in just love for ourselves and our fellow creatures.

In Zionism as Jewish Hope and Responsibility, Deborah Weissman considers Zionism as a translation of the Jewish hope for redemption into human agency, for in Zionism the Jewish people assumed responsibility for their own destiny. Although most traditionalists initially opposed the Zionist movement because they believed one must wait passively for the Messiah, Weissman makes the case that human agency has always been part of the classical Jewish tradition. She views the classical themes of creation, revelation, and redemption as calling for a partnership between the divine and the human, and asks what religious meaning Zionism and the State of Israel can have for Jews. Established only three years after the end of the Holocaust, the State of Israel’s continued existence amidst a host of challenges and accomplishments can give us a sense of wonder and help us cope with despair — all without equating those accomplishments with the fulfillment of biblical or messianic prophecies.

When we conceived of this project, Robert Jenson and I hoped that the scholars of both groups would create a community of dialogue. This hope was realized as the fellowship gradually assumed synergy. The scholars often found common points of inquiry and analysis, and a significant topical overlap emerged from their reflections, even within those of different groups. For instance, Naftali Rothenberg, Richard Sklba, Shlomo Riskin, and I addressed and debated the implications (or lack thereof) of using covenant as a basis for relationship with the Other. Riskin, David Novak, and Gerald McDermott all addressed the implications that covenant and mission have for converting others. Douglas Knight, Miroslav Volf, Russell Reno, and Michael Wyschogrod reflected on the implications of faith for the political, moral, and social orders, as well as for human flourishing in light of contemporary cultural trends and values. Darlene Fozard Weaver and Alan Mittleman both reflected on the nature of religious ethics, while Alan and Michael Wyschogrod also touched on the idea of a messianic polity and its problems. Darlene Fozard Weaver and Deborah Weissman sought a basis for religious hope amidst the turbulence and moral confusion of modern culture and history.

The ITI scholars came from the varying disciplines of theology, ethics, philosophy, rabbinics, and political thought. When read as a collective, their research can be divided into secondary categories, such as Conversion and Mission (Gerald McDermott, Riskin, Novak, Sklba), Covenant and Hope (Mittleman, Jenson, Knight), Covenantal Ethics and the Other (Rothenberg, Korn, Sklba, Riskin), God and Human Flourishing (Volf, Reno, Mittleman), and Covenantal Ethics and Politics (Weaver, Wyschogrod, Weissman).

Robert Jenson and I share the hope that the continuing work of ITI and CJCUC will make vital contributions not only to the theology of contemporary Christians and Jews, but also to the living reality of Christians and Jews, their ever-growing appreciation for each other, and indeed to the entire human family and the values and world culture in which that family toils and thrives. Together, we may consider anew this God’s ancient yet still-inspiring call to Abraham and his descendants at the moment both our spiritual communities were born: Be a blessing. . . . Through you may all the nations of the earth be blessed (Gen. 12:2-3).

Covenant, Mission, and Relation to the Other

What Kind of God Can Make a Covenant?

Robert W. Jenson

I

The title of my essay presupposes that there are putative gods of more than one kind. To be sure, this supposition is disputed by some theorists, who hold that although different religions may appear to identify God or the gods differently, this appearance is superficial. Instead of arguing directly with this ideology let me simply ask: What leads us to attach the label god to a reality or aspect of reality in the first place? Let me propose: a particular community will use the word god or some equivalent to invoke whatever it is that this community relies on to survive moving from its past to its future — or perhaps we should say, from its future to its past. And there are many different and often irreconcilable ways in which communities specify that whatever.

The one ineluctable metaphysical experience is the passage of time. As Augustine in his Confessions¹ pondered that experience, he identified the threat posed by time’s passing: every moment of our lives seems to go immediately from the future into the past, from what we are not yet into what we no longer are. If this seeming is veridical, temporal creatures are finally nothing, and creation fails. Augustine was always haunted by the emptiness where the light of being runs out; with these reflections he found the location of that emptiness. As Greek myth dramatized it, Chronos eats his children.

Only if the moment between future and past is not in fact a merely passing moment, only if it dwells in some reality that transcends the abrupt difference between the future as it comes on and the past as it departs, can we live stories that are coherent through time, that is, can we live at all. Willy-nilly, we all bank our lives on some eternity or other — including those who think they do not and perhaps loudly proclaim it.

Let me insert a disclaiming excursus, lest it be supposed that I fully endorse Augustine’s analysis. His reflections on time have been a foundational blessing for Western thought, but it seems to me that he slips at two related points. First, he finds a more-than-passing present in a distentio animae, an expansion of the soul by anticipation and memory, which brings future and past together as an experienced present; then he describes eternity by analogy to this feature of human nature. In Augustine’s anxiety to avoid anthropomorphism when speaking of God, here as sometimes elsewhere he somersaults into it, for the biblical God has indeed a spiritus but surely no anima, not even analogously. Second, the human nature Augustine invokes is that of an individual, whereas it is first in communities that time is experienced and eternities are then invoked. It is as you, a person who differs from me, confront me, that I face the possibility of being other than I am, that is, that an actual future comes on for me. It is you and I together who experience time — or perhaps you and I with him/her. But that is a matter for another time.

Returning to the line of my argument, in analyzing the meaning of god/s we must indeed speak of some eternity or other. For even a brief acquaintance with religious history will discover that eternal is a portmanteau word, accommodating very different supposed bridges over the nothingness that threatens as the future becomes past. Indeed, there are as many kinds of supposed eternity as there are different communities to rely on them. There is, for example, the eternity of Plato’s still geometrical point at the center of time’s turning wheel; or there is, for a quite different example, the eternity of ancestors, the eternity of the dead who in their own way live but no longer change.

A god or pantheon is then the embodiment of some eternity. That is, a god or pantheon is an eternity insofar as it is available to a community, insofar as its community can pray or sacrifice to it, obey it, or perhaps merely contemplate or long for it. We might plunder Hegel and say that a god is the representation, the Vorstellung, of an eternity, if it is understood that, à la right-wing Hegelians, the representation is the actuality of the concept.

II

So there are supposed gods of various kinds and the way to my question is therefore free. I ask, What kind of God could make a covenant? What sort of eternity would such a God embody?

Let me suggest that making a covenant would take a very particular, indeed a quite odd kind of God — or at least odd by the standards of the main Western intellectual tradition. The high deity of the pagan Greek religious thinkers, who still rule our tradition, would not and indeed could not do anything so compromising as making a covenant with an other than itself — and it is the right pronoun. At a minimum, to make a covenant the covenant-maker must address the other, and to do that he must, again at a minimum, be interested in the other’s existence. But whether we think of Plato and his followers, of Aristotle and his, or directly of Parmenides’ great vision in which the God of the Greeks was primally revealed,² their God is God — truly, really God — precisely by the total absence of such concern.

Aristotle’s God is a sheer consciousness of itself as consciousness, which moves the worlds by lesser beings’ longing for such autonomy. The article with the first consciousness above is needed, for this God is included in the cosmos, and so is indeed a being with the other beings.³ Plato’s God is even more self-contained; and in his case we may dispense with the article. Plato’s vision of deity was first brought to fully coherent statement by his late disciple Plotinus, as the One, which is so sheerly oneness that even saying The One is, since this is a synthetic statement, diverts our intention ontologically down from the One.⁴ Within the inexorable logic of the Greek dream of deity, God is not . . ., with the ellipsis and with a stipulation against filling it, must be the final word — if indeed any word at all is possible, if an apophaticism to the limiting case is not the inevitable path.

It would be blasphemy to depict this deity negotiating with Abraham or dining with Israel’s elders on the mountain of his self-revelation. And as for Moses seeing the God of Sinai from behind, a greater offense to the Greek dream of deity can hardly be imagined. This is not to say that religion in the train of the pagan Greeks cannot be grand and ennobling, just that it cannot be a communication between God and others, and therefore cannot involve a covenant. Its highest expression had to be the unique drama we call tragedy, in which gods and humans alike are instruments/sports of impersonal and unseeing Necessity — Let us call no one happy, until he has died without disaster.

So what would a God be like who was not like the Unmoved or the One? Apart perhaps from inklings in so-called primitive religions, it is the Jewish and Christian Scriptures in which we hear of such a God. Thus my investigation must be a blend of exegesis and conceptual analysis.

We may start with the observation that a God who could make a covenant would be a God who creates, that is, who willingly instigates an actual other than himself. For if God is to make a covenant, there must be an other with whom to make it. And the being of this other cannot be independent of God, nor yet can God’s relation to that other be such as to mitigate or threaten either its reality or its otherness.

Humanity’s religions do not posit such a relation between the gods and their others. They may conceive what is other than the divine as a realm of darkness⁵ or illusion.⁶ Or they may posit the raw material of the cosmos as co-eternal with God⁷ or indeed identify the cosmos itself with God.⁸ Or, most often, they will in one way or another conceive what is other than the divine as emanating from it, in a fashion ambiguously envisioned as birth⁹ and as logical consequence;¹⁰ most actual construals appear somewhere on a spectrum between these poles. With either an opposed or co-eternal or precariously other as other than the god, there would be no space for a covenant.

So strict is the correlation of covenant and creation, that in Scripture the Lord’s creating is modeled on his covenant-making, and vice versa. As God made covenant with Israel by speaking, by saying, I will be your God and you will be my people, so God creates by speaking: Let there be . . . The God who can make a covenant must like the God who creates be a verbally able God: he must have a Word.¹¹

And as the people God established by speaking were just so to be good for something, were to know and follow his will and bring blessing to the nations, so in Genesis 1 it belongs to the act of creating that God affirms the purposefulness of the creature: . . . and God saw that it was good, where the Hebrew tov surely means good for. . . . God’s certification of the creature’s purposefulness is not an addendum to the act of creating; it is the form of the act — to break into medieval categories. Thus the God who can make a covenant must be in himself a God who does and so can prescribe moral purposes: he has, or is, a moral will.

Moreover, both Judaism and the church have claimed to know what it is that the creation is good for. For Judaism, 2 Esdras is often cited — at least by Christians — because of its bluntness: It was for us that you created the world.¹² And early Christian thought could simply appropriate the teaching, sometimes, to be sure, with a supersessionist twist. The second-century visionary Hermas is as blunt as 2 Esdras: The world was made for the church’s sake.¹³ Not only is creating modeled on covenant-making, covenant-making is the purpose of creating. As Karl Barth put it, with unprecedented clarity, creation is the outer basis of the covenant and the covenant is the inner basis of creation.¹⁴ The goal of all things is a holy community.

Moreover, the God who can make a covenant is not a Creator in the style of the Enlightenment, who instigates an other than himself and then maintains that otherness by himself remaining exterior to his other. At inconsistent best, such a God could act within the creation only by intervening from time to time; but making a covenant is not an intervention from outside history: it is an act within it. A good deal of intellectual energy was recently devoted by some Catholic and Reformed philosophers of traditional theological persuasion to the question: How can an eternal God act within time? The effort was mostly wasted, because it was assumed that eternal meant timeless, and when the question is set that way no answer is possible. It is all but obvious: a sheerly timeless God simply could not act within time. He could — again at incoherent best — only interfere with it from a distance.

Making covenant is initially a unilateral act by one party, but it inaugurates a future shared by both parties: I will be your God and you will be my people. The covenant-maker thus acquires a joint history with his other. Yet the covenant-making God remains nonetheless Creator of this other, and his joint history with it remains an act of grace. Thus a God who can make a covenant is a God who is, and so can be, as one and the same unique God, both the author of the history he makes with creatures and one or more of the dramatis personae of that history.

Israel’s Scriptures are rife with figures that are actors in the history determined by the Creator yet who turn out to be the same Creator God. Perhaps the most striking is the Angel of the Lord who appears so regularly in the Pentateuchal narrative and the Deuteronomic history. In each instance of his appearing he is initially identified as a messenger from the Lord, a reality distinguished from the Lord by the construct/genitive construction that makes his name. Yet as each such narrative continues, the Angel turns out to speak and act not for the Lord, but as the Lord, and indeed is rightly worshiped as the Lord.¹⁵ We find the same pattern in narratives about the Glory of the Lord¹⁶ or the Word of the Lord.¹⁷

One body of such narrative was perhaps most central to Israel’s theological experience, and provides a name for the general phenomenon. In the stories of Israel’s wilderness journey, the Angel of the Lord duly appears in the cloud and the pillar of fire.¹⁸ But the Tent was different: it was to be the place where the Lord dwells (the Hebrew verb form in Exodus is shakhan) among his people.¹⁹ For this Presence, the rabbis took a word from this same root. In both the Tent and later the Temple, the central holy place became the place of the Shekhinah, in the Temple the Lord’s usually but not always invisible presence above the cherubim-throne. Was God beyond his creation or was he in the created Tent and then in the created Temple? To be faithful to the texts we must say he was both: he is the one God as God ruling over his people’s history from beyond it, and he is the same God as one who in that history is himself among its carrying dramatis personae.

The God who can make a covenant is a God who indeed can do all of the above. That is to say, his own life somehow has an antecedently covenantal structure, as indeed does all personal life, made in the divine image. Now, of course, a God who has a life, or more precisely is a life, and whose being has personal structure, is no proper God at all by the standards of that part of our metaphysical tradition most indebted to the Greek theologians. We observed that at the start. He is not simple in the usual — and in my judgment disastrous — Christian-theological sense: his relation to creation in its temporality cannot be modeled by the relation of a point to a line or of a center to a circle.

Otherwise stated, a God who can make a covenant is indeed eternal, but not by sheerly lacking time, as was the God of the ancient Greeks or the God of some other sophisticated religions. A God who can be so involved with his creatures’ history as is the God of Scripture cannot in himself be merely timeless. Saying this need not infringe God’s eternity, for as we have seen, the real question is always "How does a particular alleged divinity transcend time?"

What then is the Lord’s particular eternity? A passage in Isaiah has always seemed to me something like a definition by parallel construction. At Isaiah 55:3 the Lord promises "a berit olam," an eternal covenant, which is then seen to be Davidic mercies faithfully kept. The eternity of the biblical God is his faithfulness. He is faithful in his history with us, here to his promises to or about David; and that he can be triumphantly faithful is the how of his eternity. Or we