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Leonhard Euler on the Creator and Mathematics
Quoted in S. Timoshenko’s History of Strength of Materials:
Since the fabric of the universe is most perfect, and is the work of a most wise Creator, nothing whatsoever takes place in the universe in which some relation of maximum and minimum does not appear. Wherefore there is absolutely no doubt that every effect in the universe can be explained as satisfactorily from final causes, by the aid of the method of maxima and minima, as it can from the effective causes themselves…Therefore two methods of studying effects in nature lie open to us, one by means of effective causes, which is commonly called the direct method, the other by means of final causes…One ought to make a special effort to see that both ways of approach to the solution of the problem be laid open; for this not only is one solution greatly strengthened by the other, but, more than that, from the agreement between the two solutions we secure the very highest satisfaction.
Very few people on the earth have contributed to the basics of mathematics and mechanics than Euler. Living in the “Age of Reason” Euler pushed science forward while remaining a Christian all of his life.
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What the Britons Thought of Pelagius and Grace
To be called a “Pelagian” is about the worst insult that a Calvinist can hurl at you. So who was Pelagius? And how did his contemporaries react to it? Specifically, Pelagius was from Roman Britain; what did they think of it?
Let’s start with this, from Peter Salway’s Roman Britain:
One incident, in which the indisputably historical St. Germanus of Auxerre appears in person, gives us a glimpse of influential Britons of the time. Already, possibly in 403, Victricius, bishop of Rouen, had visited Britain at the request of his fellow bishops in Gaul to restore peace among the clergy here: it has been suggested that this may have been due to controversy over the Pelagian heresy. Dr. J.N.L. Myres has pointed out the possible political overtones in this heresy (itself the creation of a Briton), which turned on the doctrine of Grace. Unfortunately the term gratia was only too well known in the context of the immense web of patronage and favour. Certainly by 429 Pelaginaism was a real issue in Britain, whether religious or political or both. In that year Germanus and his colleague, Lupus, Bishop of the neighbouring see of Troyes, were chosen, at a meeting of the bishops of Gaul which was influenced by the Pope, to visit Britain to combat the heresy. One may perhaps speculate that both of these bishops had had experience of dealing with difficult situations in regions on the fringe of direct Roman power. Their chief clerical opponent in Britain was a leading Pelagian named Agricola, himself the son of a bishop and clearly backed by a powerful party of local magnates.
I’ve noted elsewhere–and Salway did also–that the whole Roman system was driven by patronage. When Christianity broke out of its Jewish beginnings and became a Gentile religion, it came into a world where peoples’ mindset was geared in this direction. It was virtually impossible under those conditions that the whole idea of grace would not get tangled up with it.
Roman Britain had an interesting history, both a key part of the Roman world and aside from it at the same time. Reconstructing that history can be problematic, but the evidence shows that, by the end of the fourth century, brutal characters like Paul the Chain and the endless upheaval of revolting emperors and barbarian invasions were inspiring the local aristocracy to at least consider an alternative.
Between the first contact mentioned about in 403 and Germanus’ expedition in 429 came a momentous event in British history–the “independence” of Britain from Rome. This was partly due to the Emperor Honorius’ loss of control of the island around the time of Alaric’s sack of Rome in 410, and partly due to the fact that the Britons saw a clear way to the exit.
For those Roman officials whose loyalty remained with the Emperor, the results were, to put it mildly, unpleasant, as this passage from Fastidius’ De Vita Christiana attests:
We see before us plenty of examples of wicked men, the sum of their sins complete, who are at this present moment being judged, and denied this present life no less than the life to come…Those who have freely shed the blood of others are not being forced to spill their own…Some lie unburied, food for the beasts and birds of the air. Others…have been individually torn limb from limb…Their judgements have killed many husbands, widowed many women, orphaned many children. They made them beggars and left them bare…for they plundered the children of the men they killed. Now it their wives who are widows, their sons who are orphans, begging their daily bread from others.
In any case by the time Germanus met with the “best and brightest” of British aristocracy the latter very much “large and in charge” as Salway goes on to describe:
The confrontation between the Roman bishops and the Pelagians took place at a public meeting. The religious and political importance that was clearly attached locally to the issue is underlined by the huge crowd (immensa multitude) who came to hear the episcopal visitors. The Pelagian party at the meeting is described in words that make one think immediately of the proud, elegant Gallo-Roman nobility we have earlier noted. We are told that they were ‘conspicuous for riches, brilliant in dress, and surrounded by a fawning multitude’.’ That fawning multitude puts one in mind of the ancient Roman aristocratic tradition of the clientela. The conspicuous wealth is characteristic of the Roman world, perhaps particularly so in the fourth and fifth centuries. The brilliant costume reminds us of that period’s taste for splendid multicoloured dress, as seen for example on the fourth-century wall-paintings of the Lullingstone villa in Kent, and at its height in the imperial splendour of Justinian’s court portrayed in mosaic in San Vitale at Ravenna. We have already seen in the Gallic context how luxury and display among the Roman provincial nobility in the fifth century cannot be equated with the political system under which they were at any particular moment living. It is at least clear that here in Britain in 429 we are observing not a ruined class living in bondage to savage barbarian masters, nor even a few fortunate survivors, but a substantial body of men of influence who carry weight both with their personal following and the community at large. The pride of the Pelagian party, moreover, is underlined by a rescript from Honorius in 418 which, while it applies to the heretics of this persuasion at large, fits well with this picture from Britain. The emperor there accuses the Pelagians of ‘considering it a mark of common vulgarity to agree with opinions that everyone else holds’. The superciliousness and magnificence, to which the Latin word superbus was applied, will be met with again in examining the ruling elements of post-Roman Britain.
The Late Roman fancy for “bling” and gaudy display reflected their insecurity (sound familiar)? Although their adoption of Pelagian theology sprang from their aversion to the gratia of Roman patronage, I think there were other factors at work. Adoption of Pelagian theology differentiated the Britons from their Continental counterparts, which was especially important when connected with political independence. It was also an affirmation of the “hometown boy made good”.
By the time Germanus visited Britain, almost twenty years had passed since the break. The evidence indicates that breaking with the Emperor was, like the Act of Supremacy, first and foremost the moving of headship from an external source (Rome again)! to an internal one, not a major systemic change (at least not in the short term). With the break secure, did the British aristocracy consider it less necessary to differentiate themselves? In any case Germanus’ oratory was convincing enough that at least a major part of his audience swung back to a more Augustinian idea.
Unfortunately the subsequent course of post-Roman Britain wasn’t very inspiring. Still in a dangerous neighbourhood of barbarians, the British nobleman Vortigern got the bright idea of bringing in the Saxons to help defend the island. They turned on their patrons, devastated the island, and basically the history of Britain had to start over again.
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What Are the Theological Differences Between the 1928 and 1979 Book of Common Prayer?
Recently received the following in the “electronic mailbag”:
Is there an essay, site, or book that describes the theological differences between the 1928 and 1979 prayer books? I have found one reference, “How Episcopalians Were Deceived,” but not much else.
I was raised (and remain) a Methodist. I developed an interest in the history of the Church of England & Episcopal Church as a result of my studies as a lay reader (similar to a deacon) almost 20 years ago. I have copies of three prayer books (Church of England, 1928 Episcopal, 1979 Episcopal) and have found each of them to be useful. Yet I know that the growing Anglican movement in North America has very strong opinions on the subject.
Just curious. Thanks for the work you’ve done on your site. It is very interesting.
I certainly have some opinion on the subject, but I thought I’d put this out to the Anglican blogosphere; many of you are more knowledgeable on this than I am. Any takers?
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Preserving God's Reputation With the Heathen
This, from Peter Freuchen’s Book of the Seven Seas:
Hans Egede, that holy man who became the apostle of Greenland after some very immoral earlier adventures, tells how his prayers stilled a storm which took him to the faraway island in 1721. The wind was so fierce and the waves so strong that the crew gave themselves up for lost until Hans addressed the Lord with what strikes us as a surprisingly worldly argument.
The expedition was going to Greenland, Hans informed God, in His service to convert the Eskimos, and it would give Christianity a bad name if people could say that Heaven did not protect its own servants. Hans argued that he did not so much want to save his own life as to preserve God’s reputation with the heathen. This common-sense appeal, he said, was very effective, because the gale calmed at once, and the ship went on safely to Greenland.
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Egos Inflatable to Any Size: The ACNA-AMiA Fiasco
David Virtue lays the unpleasant mess out:
By any criteria, it has become one of the most disastrous and devastating ecclesiastical battles since the formation of the Anglican Mission in the Americas (AMIA) and the later birth of the Anglican Church in North America (ACNA). It may well be the greatest single spiritual blot on the emerging landscape of North American Anglicanism.
The genesis of this battle between Bishop Charles “Chuck” Murphy, leader of the AMIA, and the Most Rev. Robert Duncan, archbishop of the ACNA, goes back two years. It has escalated to the point that it now involves three African Anglican provinces (Rwanda, Kenya, Congo) and indirectly affects two Primates from the Church of the Province of South East Asia. As a result of the continuing war, positions have so hardened that reconciliation now seems virtually impossible.
I have covered this issue before; I find it very disturbing. Although such things are a part of human nature (Patristic students will think of Jerome and Rufinus, or to a lesser extent Jerome and Augustine) there are two factors specific to the situation that have turned a tricky situation into a real disaster.
The first is the metastable situation into which the ACNA was born to start with. American Anglicanism was formed under the apostolic umbrella of several Anglican provinces (mostly African) and putting them together, with all the positional and structural complexities that go with that, wasn’t going to be an easy job. It could have been accomplished–or at least done better–with patience and skilful negotiation.
But that leads to the second problem: Boomers are neither. Having made a mess out of our existing structures, be they political or otherwise, this generation has turned around and screwed up a fix to one of the sorriest legacies of their own revolt, the 1960’s and revisionist Main Line churches.
For me, a humorous way of looking at this is to recall a comedy routine in our own church by a Lee University faculty member (who is, BTW, now a part of a Charismatic Anglican church). He describes an “Inflatable Camp Meeting” which is like these inflatable playgrounds. It includes, of course, campground, chairs, and stage. On that stage are “general officials” who, in the routine, have “egos inflatable to any size”! (Little wonder he had to make an exit from the church! Long time readers will note that I have used this illustration before, in this situation and others).
Perhaps he’ll put together an “Inflatable Cathedral”. Sad to say, the egos will be there as well. They certainly have been up to now in the real thing.
It would be really funny if it weren’t so sad and destructive. Our generation has a lot to repent of; this is but one thing. But we are too full of ourselves to realise it.
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The Best Part of Being an Aggie
Although the “official” entry of Texas A&M to the SEC was 1 July, the “grand entrance” (and for a Palm Beacher, the importance of this cannot be understated) will be this Saturday, when the Florida Gators visit Kyle Field. One serious question, of course, is whether Kyle Field will stay, be remodelled, or built somewhere else, but that’s another story.
For Aggies living in Texas (and that’s most of them) entering the SEC wasn’t an obvious choice, and for some it was controversial. For those of us who live in SEC country, it was a dream come true. After years of being “in the wilderness” we’ve suddenly awoken to being a real part of the region. SEC team fans–and in these parts supporting a school is a primary or secondary religion, depending upon the person–haven’t grasped what having Texas A&M in the conference means just yet. But they will.
The subject of religion, however, brings up what is, for me, the best part of being an Aggie. Today Texas A&M is truly a world-class institution academically, and certainly in the scientific and engineering fields being an Aggie is a major plus. But beyond that my time at A&M was crowned not only by my academic accomplishments but more than that by the spiritual transformation that took place.
The backdrop to that transformation took place my last year in prep school, when I “swam the Tiber” and became a Roman Catholic. Doing that not only got me out of a church being taken over by revisionists; it also broke me out of the élite cocoon that Palm Beach Episcopalianism had me in. Both of these were crucial for what followed at Texas A&M.
Like everything else about the place, the set-up for Catholicism around Texas A&M was different. For one thing, the distinction between the outreach to the students–the Texas A&M Newman Association–and the community–St. Mary’s Parish–were very much intertwined. My first year I stayed out of Newman, but became a lector and got to vote in my first parish council election. The last was slightly hilarious because my Calculus I teacher, an ex-seminarian, was running, and my voting against him did not prevent his successful election.
The second year was another story. I decided to get involved in Newman. Newman had very strong group cohesion, one which was partly a product of the spiritual movement there and partly a by-product of Aggie culture. There I met people of my age who were serious Christians, something I had never done before. They challenged me in ways that I had not experienced before. They also introduced me to a coffeehouse ministry which, although a non-denominational counselling centre, had about a third of its staff as Roman Catholics.
My reaction to this was a combination of interest and reservations. The interest of course was in the strong Christian fellowship to which I was instinctively attracted to. That is what the New Testament had in mind, but up to then I had never seen it. It was also good to run with people who put God first.
The reservations were along two lines. The first was the distinctively anti-intellectual tendency of most of the Christians around me. That was part and parcel with a good deal of the “Jesus Movement” Christianity of the era, a reaction to what the liberals had done with the faith. But my intellectual interests were the opposite, primarily St. Thomas Aquinas. But that in turn ran counter to a good deal of post-Vatican II Catholicism.
The second was the gnawing feeling that a great deal that I was experiencing was unsustainable. I tend to spend too much time in the future; what would happen when the party was over? And, coming from where I did, I realised that there were many out there who would shut the party down if they had a chance. (The jury is still very much out on whether they will pull this off or not).
The result of this conflict was a year and a half internal tug of war, writing this in the middle of the thing. But in the end–with some help from my parish priest back home–I made the decision to “go with the flow” in the living water. The result was a grand last year at A&M, which offset my parents’ crumbling marriage back home and a challenging senior year in engineering.
I would be the first to admit that people in those times got into many strange things. But Aggies are a practical bunch. Most of the people I knew ended up in successful careers, stable marriages and families, and a continued commitment to God. That kind of practicality made it easier to avoid things like covenant communities or outright communes.
That’s the kind of thing you like to take away from your time at university. Texas A&M is more than an institution of higher learning; it is an experience, one like no other. For me, the core of that was the spiritual transformation. People say that an education cannot be taken away from you; in this case, the positive result is eternal.
Sailing the Last Voyage with Newton and Pascal
Positive Infinity 