Category Archive: History
One of Lewis’s female friends (and yes, he did have some!) was the poet Ruth Pitter. Largely unknown today, Pitter was the first woman to win the Queen’s Medal for Poetry. She and Lewis met on occasion and exchanged a number of letters. I expect that she found it rather tiresome, after Lewis’s death, to have quoted to her and to be asked about what Lewis allegedly said to his friend Hugo Dyson: “I am not a man for marriage; but if I were, I would ask R.P.”
She writes about one meeting with Lewis and his brother, Major “Warnie” Lewis. Pitter had asked if she “might query him about the first of his children’s books,” and Lewis consented. She reports that the conversation went like this (Ruth Pitter, “Poet to Poet,” in In Search of C. S. Lewis, ed. Stephen Schofield, 113):
PITTER: In the land of Narnia, the witch makes it always winter and never Christmas?
PITTER: Does she allow any foreign trade?
LEWIS: She does not.
PITTER: Am I allowed to postulate on the lines of Santa Claus with the tea tray?
LEWIS: You are not.
PITTER: Then where did all the materials for the good dinner the beavers gave came from?
LEWIS: The beavers caught fish through holes in the ice.
PITTER: Yes, the potatoes to go with them, the flour and sugar and oranges and milk for the children?
LEWIS: I must refer you to a further study of the text.
MAJOR LEWIS: Nonsense, Jack! You’re stumped. And you know it.
When you think of C. S. Lewis, do you think of a somewhat crusty bachelor who would, of course, have little experience of women, let alone of children, least of all of female children? If your image of Lewis comes from the movie Shadowlands, you might be forgiven for thinking that Lewis had no friends. There isn’t a Coghill, a Williams, a Tolkien, a Barfield, or even a Warnie hanging out with Lewis in that film. He’s a loner until the Joy Davidman character appears.
Even in his life, Lewis had something of a reputation as a misogynist, it seems. In a really rather awful interview with Stephen Schofield, who actually eggs him on, Malcolm Muggeridge proposes that there is some mystery about Lewis, something to do “with his attitude toward women and sex,” and Schofield responds by saying that he was told that “whenever a woman came on the College grounds, Lewis would run as fast as his legs would take him to his room and lock the door” (Schofield, ed., In Search of C. S. Lewis, 128). Sheldon Vanauken responded to this interview when it was first published and calls this a “rather silly story,” refuting it by pointing to Lewis’s female students (Schofield 164-165), but, while including Vanauken’s response, Schofield still seems to have thought highly enough of the original interview to publish it unedited, thereby perpetuating the legend of Lewis’s dislike of women.
If you read Lewis’s letters, however, you get a very different picture. Though Lewis did spend weeknights at the College, his weekends were spent at his house, The Kilns. And what a crowded house that must have been. For most of his life, Lewis lived with an older woman, the mother of one of Lewis’s army friends who died in World War I. Lewis regarded her as a sort of surrogate mother and called her his mother in his letters. He also cared for her teenaged daughter, providing for her education out of his own salary. His brother Warnie also lived in that house. And during the war, when children and young people were evacuated from London, several of them stayed at the Kilns.
While I disapprove of Schofield’s interview with Muggeridge, I most heartily approve of his including material from a couple of these girls. Patricia Heidelberger describes living at Lewis’s house with another evacuee, Marie Jose Bosc. She says that they were “extremely lively, noisy and giggly. He never reproached us” (53). Lewis helped them with their homework, encouraged Patricia to go to Oxford. She says, he “coached me in Latin, and even taught me a little Greek” (54). And then he provided financial assistance to both girls to help Patricia with her university dues and Marie with the costs of her nurses training.
June Flewett (better known as Jill Freud) also lived for about two years at Lewis’s house. She says that Lewis loaned her books. “He told me to go to Blackwell’s Bookshop in Oxford, anytime, and buy any book I wanted on his account” (57). She writes:
Lewis was the first person who made me believe that I was an intelligent human being and the whole of the time I was there he built up my confidence in myself and in my ability to think and understand. He never put me down. He never made me feel foolish, no matter how small my contribution towards any conversation might be (57).
She recalls Lewis’s attempts to help the houseboy:
For some months we had a young man living at the Kilns. He worked as a houseboy and general helper. He was probably introduced by the Social Services Department, and he was what we would now call educationally subnormal. He had the mentality of a child of eight. Every evening Jack Lewis taught him to read. Lewis made drawings and letter cards for him; he went through the alphabet with him and tried to teach him small words, and so on. I don’t think he had a great deal of success because the young man found it hard to retain anything. But for more than two months Jack Lewis went through the alphabet with him every evening (57-58).
Misogynist? Freud quotes the poem Lewis wrote in her copy of The Screwtape Letters (59):
Beauty and brains and virtue never dwell
Together in one place, the critics say.
Yet we have known a case
You must not ask her name
But seek it ‘twixt July and May.
As for female students, Rosamond Cowan, who was one of the first two women students Lewis had, writes,
At first we were a bit frightened as he had a reputation of being a “man’s man.” We rather thought he would be a bit down on women. Actually he was delightful. He told me I reminded him of a Shakespearean heroine — a compliment I’ve always cherished. He certainly treated me like one (62).
At the beginning of chapter 14 of Lewis’s Preface to Paradise Lost, he credits a Miss Muriel Bentley for the thoughts he develops in that chapter. Who was she? A Milton scholar? No, says Schofield. “She was nothing of the sort. She was a student, aged twenty-one, of Somerville College” (74), which means she didn’t study under Lewis or write anything for him, nor had she even published an essay on Paradise Lost. “All he had from me,” she says, “were examination papers” (74). That’s all — and yet Lewis gave her credit for an insight that opened his eyes to something he might otherwise not have noticed.
Far from the loner-Lewis stuck in a lot of people’s imaginations, then, the real Lewis had a full household — brother, surrogate mother (often and increasingly sick), and a bunch of young women, to say nothing of a houseboy — all of whom he tried to help in various ways. Far from being a woman-hater, the real Lewis, who may indeed have preferred the company of men to that of women, gave himself courteously in service to a great number of women in his household and in his classes and, as a glance at his letters reveals, in his correspondence.
A couple of weeks ago, I summarized Jean-Pierre Vernant’s thoughts on the “hope” (elpis: anticipation, expectation) left in Pandora’s jar when all the evils flew out. While some have presented the safekeeping of elpis in the jar as if it means that, in spite of all the evils in the world, man still has hope, Vernant sees the elpis as something closely associated with the emergence of the evils, something ambiguous. As he explains in his essay “The Myth of Prometheus in Hesiod” (in Myth and Society in Ancient Greece):
If in the Golden Age, human life held nothing but good things, if all the evils were still far away, shut up inside the jar (Works, 115-16), there would be no grounds to hope for anything different from what one has. If life was delivered up entirely and irremediably to evil and misfortune (Works, 200-1), there would be no place even for Elpis. But since the evils are henceforth inextricably intermingled with the good things (Theog., 603-10; Works, 178, to be compared with Works, 102) and it is impossible for us to foresee exactly how tomorrow will turn out for us, we are always hoping for the best. If men possessed the infallible foreknowledge of Zeus, they would have no use for Elpis. And if their lives were confined to the present with no knowledge or concern at all regarding the future, they would equally know nothing of Elpis. However, caught between the lucid forethought of Prometheus and the thoughtless blindness of Epimetheus, oscillating between the two without ever being able to separate them, they know in advance that suffering, sickness, and death is bound to be their lot, and, being ignorant of the form their misfortune will take, they only recognize it too late when it has already struck them.
Whoever is immortal, as the gods are, has no need of Elpis. Nor is there any Elpis for those who, like the beasts, are ignorant of their mortality. If man who is mortal like the beasts could foresee the whole future as the gods can, if he was altogether like Prometheus, he would no longer have the strength to go on living, for he could not bear to contemplate his own death directly. But, knowing himself to be mortal, though ignorant of when and how he will die, hope, which is a kind of foresight, although a blind one (Aeschylus, Prometheus, 250; cf. also Plato, Gorgias, 523d ae), and blessed illusion, both a good and a bad thing at one and the same time–hope alone makes it possible for him to live out this ambiguous, two-sided life. Henceforward, there is a reverse aspect to everything: Contact can only be made with the gods through sacrifice, which at the same time consecrates the impassable barrier between mortals and immortals; there can be no happiness without unhappiness, no birth without death, no abundance without toil, no Prometheus without Epimetheus–in a word, no Man without Pandora (200-201).
That’s Vernant’s view. Elpis is not a purely good thing; it is ambiguous, both the anticipation of good and the certain knowledge that–somehow, sometime–evil will come.
But what surprises me is that Vernant, at least in what I’ve read, doesn’t seem to see the elpis in Pandora’s jar in connection with the other parallels he so carefully works out in Hesiod’s accounts of Prometheus’s rivalry with Zeus:
* Prometheus tricks Zeus into accepting the worse part of the sacrifices and letting man have the best. He does so by taking the bones of the sacrifice and covering them up with lovely white fat. When Zeus sees them, he thinks they’re going to be especially delicious and so he chooses them as his portion, leaving man with the good meat, the better part, as his portion of the sacrifices.
* Zeus responds by refusing to let man have fire and by hiding man’s life (bios, here a reference to grain) in the ground so that now man has to work hard to get it. Bones hidden in fat correspond to bios hidden in the ground.
* Prometheus steals fire from Zeus and gives it to man.
* Zeus responds by making a “beautiful evil” (kalon kakon) for man that corresponds in some way to fire, namely, woman. In the Theogony, the woman isn’t named but is described as being the equivalent of drones who eat the honey the worker bees produce. A woman has a beautiful face and figure, but it hides a hungry stomach that gobbles up all a man’s earnings. In Works, Hesiod describes the woman, now called Pandora, as a beautiful woman who has a jar which, when opened, disperses evils among men. Once again, however, there is a correspondence: bones hidden in fat to look attractive to Zeus correspond, not only to grain hidden in the ground, but also now to an evil heart and a hungry stomach hidden inside a beautiful face and figure.
But right here I expected Vernant to say something about elpis. He notes that in the Theogony, “men are presented with a choice: either not to marry, and to enjoy a sufficiency of grain (since the female gaster [belly] does not take it from them) but not to have any children (since a female gaster is necessary to give birth) — the evil thus counterbalancing the good; or to marry and, even with a good wife, the evil again counterbalances the good” (Myth and Society 187). Elsewhere, Vernant puts it this way:
This is the dilemma now: If a man marries, his life will pretty certainly be hell, unless he happens on a very good wife, which is extremely rare. Conjugal life is thus an inferno–misery after misery. On the other hand, if a man does not marry, his life could be a happy one: He would have his fill of everything, he would never lack for anything–but at this death, who will get his accumulated wealth? It will be scattered, into the hands of relatives for whom he has no particular affection. If he marries it is a catastrophe, and if he doesn’t, it’s another kind of catastrophe.
Woman is two different things at once: She is the paunch, the belly devouring everything her husband has laboriously gathered at the cost of his effort, his toil, his fatigue; but that belly is also the only one that can produce the thing that extends a man’s life–a child (The Universe, the Gods, and Men 61-62).
Now we can put it together: It is only in Works that Hesiod tells us about Pandora’s jar; in Theogony, the “beautiful evil” is the woman herself. In fact, we could put it this way: woman herself is Pandora’s jar, a nice-looking vessel full of all kinds of evils. She is Zeus’s victory in his rivalry with Prometheus. She is the source of all evils in a man’s life, and in Works, she is the gift Prometheus warned Epimetheus not to accept from Zeus.
And yet, though the evils rush out from her, still elpis (hope, expectation, anticipation of the future) resides inside her. From the woman evils come into man’s life, but in the woman is the only hope the man has for the future, the hope of an heir–assuming that her all-devouring belly is also a fruitful belly and that the fruit it bears is a male child who lives and grows up to inherit a man’s property. And so the ambiguity of elpis that Vernant points out is maintained: a man gets married in the hope of an heir, and yet that hope is blind and uncertain (will she be fruitful? will she have a male heir?), so that elpis is both good and bad.
In the Greek myth of Pandora, she opens the jar and all the evils that were in it rush out into the world. By the time she gets the stopper back in, only one thing is left inside: elpis, which is often translated “hope.” And so, as the story is sometimes told, even though there are all kinds of evils and hardships in the world, we still always have hope. It’s kind of a positive ending to a sad story.
Or is it?
After all, what was this jar full of? Evils. Not evils and one good thing (hope). It was full of evils, full down to that last drop, elpis.
But how could hope be an evil?
In his essay “At Man’s Table,” Jean-Pierre Vernant takes a stab at an explanation. In Hesiod’s view, man has undergone a change from the way things used to be. Where men used to eat in fellowship with the gods, now there is sacrifice which not only provides some communion with the gods but also emphasizes the distance between them. Where food used to be free for the taking and the least effort could get you a year’s supply, now Zeus has hidden bios (life = grain) in the ground and you have to sweat to get it. Where there once were only men, now there are women (“beautiful evils,” as Hesiod describes them), who are like drones and dogs, gobbling up all that men produce and bring home. And where once everything was the same, day after day, now there is change.
And with change comes elpis: not hope (which for us is always positive) but, more broadly, expectation or anticipation. A man labors to plant his field and he cherishes the expectation (hope) of a good harvest. He labors during harvest in the expectation (hope) that he will have enough grain saved up that he and his family will be able to eat all winter and have enough to plant in the spring. His life is full of that sort of elpis, but he has that elpis only because he also knows that misfortune is coming. It’s not just that trouble might come: bad weather might destroy his crops; a fire might destroy his barn and all the grain he saved. Rather, it’s that he knows trouble is coming. Pandora let those evils out into the world and they’re roaming around, alighting on one person after another. You never know what’s coming. You never know when it’s going to be your turn. But you know one thing for certain: While things might go well for you for a while, trouble is coming. That’s elpis, and unlike those other evils that roam the world, striking here and there, elpis stays in the jar at home, because it’s something you have every day, all day long. It’s your constant but blind expectation: While you’re always hoping for good, evil will come and you never know when or how.
What did the ancient Greeks think about women?
Jean-Pierre Vernant, in a brilliant essay on Hesiod’s Theogony, explains. According to Hesiod, Zeus created the first woman to be a “beautiful evil” (kalon kakon) to afflict men. She would be a trap from which men could not escape. Though she appears beautiful on the outside, on the inside she has “the spirit of a bitch and the temperament of a thief” (kuneon te noon kai epiklopon ethos). You might be able to find a good wife, Hesiod admits, but even so, in and through her, “evil will come to balance out the good” (kakon esthloi antipherizei).
Women, according to Hesiod, are like drones: the men do all the work, and women sit at home and feed on the honey. Women are like flaming fire, burning and consuming but never satisfied. Women are stomachs, disguised by outward beauty, gulping down the food the man works so hard to provide. Women are like dogs, gobbling up the scraps.
That’s not just Hesiod. Vernant compares two passages in Homer’s Odyssey: “Is there anything more like a dog than the odious belly?” asks Odysseus, when he’s hungry. Elsewhere, Agamemnon says the same thing, but changes one word: “Is there anything more like a dog than a woman?”
Nevertheless, for the ancient Greeks, men are now stuck having to get married to women. On the one hand, they consume everything you’ve earned. On the other, you need them in order to have a (male) heir. They’re a trap, but one you can’t do without.
It is no wonder, then, that this first woman — whose name Hesiod gives in his Works and Days as Pandora — is the one who opens the jar that contains all the evils in the world and releases them on mankind (on males, that is).
What a difference there is when you turn from the ancient Greeks to the Bible, where the woman, far from being a “beautiful evil” is called “glory,” where the blame for the sin that brought death and misery into the world is attributed to Adam, even though Eve ate the forbidden fruit first, and where men are called, as co-heirs with them of glory, to show honor to their wives.
We take it for granted, perhaps, that families ought to eat together. The rule may be more honored in the breach than in the observance these days, but it still seems to be understood as the norm. But it certainly wasn’t always that way. The family meal wasn’t a feature of Roman society.
Wives and children were not necessarily excluded from every meal, but their involvement — if they were involved at all — was certainly secondary. Keith Bradley explains:
The overriding impression … which the sources leave — the prevailing ideology one might say — is that no matter whether modest or elaborate, dinner was a meal about which the individual male made an individual decision — to entertain, to eat alone, to respond to an invitation — in a world in which ties of amicitia and hospitium were paramount. Other household members, wives for example, responded to such decisions as appropriate. Dinner was not a meal at which the company of family members was automatically and invariably assumed essential or even desirable. Within innumerable elite households, therefore, many wives and children must have eaten completely apart, in time and place, from their husbands and fathers, and from one another … and when husbands, wives and children did dine together, they did so in ways that continually reinscribed the subordination of the two latter to the former (“The Roman Family at Dinner,” in Inge Nielsen and Hanne Sigismund Nielsen, Meals in a Social Context: Aspects of the Communal Meal in the Hellenistic and Roman World [Aarhus University Press, 1998], 49).
As he puts it elsewhere, “The fact is that for the Roman family at dinner, there was no common table” (48). Hanne Sigismund Nielsen agrees: “It is … evident from the literature that meals with spouses and children were of no importance or at least of minor importance…. There is no evidence that the common meal of parents and children played any role at all in constituting them as a family group, a nuclear family in our sense of the word” (“Roman Children at Mealtimes,” 58, 59).
As with mothers nursing their own children instead of giving them to wet nurses (see here), the family meal appears to be another fruit of the gospel in Roman society. Augustine writes about Psalm 127 (“Like newly planted olives your sons sit around the table”), one passage in Scripture where we see the idea of the family together at a meal. Nielsen says, “In his commentaries on the Psalms of David, Augustine makes mention of the family dinner table even though this is not referred to in the text on which he is commenting” (62).
Nielsen sums up his findings: “In pagan Latin literature it is difficult to find any mention of children at mealtimes. Children begin to be mentioned in early Christian literature, and it was not before that time that the ideal of the parents and children unit became established and cherished” (63).
In Imperial Rome, mothers rarely breastfed their own children. According to Hanne Sigismund Nielsen,
The persons mainly responsible for infants and minor children in Imperial Rome were their wet-nurses. There is reason to believe that most children of almost all status groups spent more than the two first years of their life with their nurse (“Roman Children at Mealtimes,” in Inge Nielsen and Hanne Sigismund Nielsen, Meals in a Social Context: Aspects of the Communal Meal in the Hellenistic and Roman World [Aarhus University Press, 1998], 66n30).
Among Christians, however, Nielsen claims, things changed. Augustine “mentions the fact that mothers nursed their children themselves.” In his commentary on Psalm 130, Augustine says that “a mother feeds her infant child with her own milk which is nothing but meat and bread from the dinner table changed in the mother’s body to a substance more suitable for an infant than meat and bread” (62). In his Sermon 117, he says something similar: “Was there no food on the table? Yes, but the infant was not able to share it with the others. So what does the mother do?” (cited 62). The family is eating together — something that is itself a huge change from typical Roman culture! — and the mother nurses her child so that the child can share in the family meal.
Nielsen cites an epigram from Rome in which
a Christian woman, Turtura, is commemorated by her husband. He describes her as deo serviens, unice fidei, amica pacis, castis moribus ornata, communis fidelibus amicis, familiae grata, nutrix natorum et numquam amara marito (“serving God, being of unique faith, a friend of peace, embellished with chastity, unpretentious towards all the faithful, agreeable to her household. She nursed her own children and was never unpleasant to her husband”) (62).
In short, it appears that as the gospel took hold on Roman society Christian mothers began to nurse their own babies instead of giving them to wet nurses to feed and raise.
Perhaps I’m beating a dead horse here, but here’s the flipside of what I wrote earlier about Beza’s claim that thousands of baptized children end up perishing eternally (“How would he know?”): Where does Beza get the idea that a baptized child is probably (but only probably) one of God’s children?
A couple comes to you, their pastor, with a serious question. A few weeks ago, their four-month old daughter died. You had baptized her when she was a week old, and now they want to know what value that baptism had. “Pastor, is our daughter in heaven?”
From Beza’s perspective, I suppose your answer is “Probably.”
“Probably?” they say. “But you’re not sure?”
“Well,” you respond. “I can’t say for sure. It’s not as if baptism gives you that sort of guarantee. Nor does being born in a Christian home. Nor do all the prayers you’ve prayed or the prayers we prayed at baptism….”
“So there’s a chance our little girl…?”
“Well, yes,” you say. “Um … many thousands of baptized children are never regenerated, but perish eternally.”
“So our little girl might have too?”
“Perhaps. Yes, that is possible. But again, my answer to your question — is our daughter in heaven? — is probably. Probably God loved her. Probably she was one of God’s children. Probably she was adopted into his family. Probably.”
“But … on what basis can you say that, Pastor? Given that many thousands of children just like our little daughter do perish — that’s what you said — what makes it probably that ours didn’t?”
And I have no idea what you, if you were following Beza, would say. What would make it probable? That baptism engrafts a person into God’s church and covenant? But in the Old Covenant, we certainly see many covenant members who were apostate. Perhaps one might say that the New Covenant is so much more powerful and efficacious, and yet we still know of many members of Christ’s church who fall away.
Would it be more probable if the couple asking were strong Christians and less probable if they were weak Christians or if they were living in rebellion, unrepentant, but not yet excommunicated at the time of the baptism? Is the probability grounded on the parents’ faith? On the faith of the pastor? On the godliness of the church?
But Beza doesn’t go this route. He doesn’t say “Some are more likely God’s children because of this or that and some are less likely.” He says of all baptized children that they are probably God’s children. But … on what basis? In the end, this “probably” seems like wishful thinking, leaving a grieving parent thinking only “… but possibly not.” And that’s no comfort at all.
In his debate with Jacob Andreae, as reported by Jill Raitt, Theodore Beza often began to bring up predestination. When he did, Andreae cut him off, telling him that they were dealing with baptism and would come to predestination some other time. To Andreae, these were clearly two very different subjects. But from the fact that he kept bringing it up, it seems clear that to Beza it was impossible to discuss the efficacy of baptism without reference to predestination.
That’s worth thinking about. At the risk of oversimplifying things, it would appear that for Beza baptism is efficacious (at least, to the fullest degree) only for those who are predestined to eternal glory with Christ. Others who are baptized are included in the covenant, whatever that means exactly, given that Beza distinguishes being in the covenant from being in God’s family. But they cannot really draw any comfort or assurance from their baptism per se, nor can they have that comfort for their children who are baptized. At most, they can know that those children are “probably” loved and adopted by God, though they might be among the thousands that perish.
But can you imagine an Israelite wondering if his circumcision really meant that he belonged to Israel, God’s holy nation, God’s chosen people, God’s royal priesthood? Of course he belonged. That’s just what circumcision was. He didn’t need to have any doubt about it. Instead, he could be confident about it, completely assured that he was the object of God’s love — and then he could, and should, act on the basis of it.
After all, circumcision wasn’t one of the secret things. In Deuteronomy 29, Moses says, “The secret things belong to Yahweh our God, but those things which are revealed belong to us and to our children forever, that we may do all the words of this law” (29:29). God gave Israel an obvious ritual, a cutting in the flesh, that marked them out and made them into members of the holy nation because he wanted them to live in terms of their circumcision. Circumcision wasn’t a secret thing that belonged to Yahweh; it was a thing which was revealed so that Israel could do what she ought to.
And so with baptism. If we tie the comfort and assurance of baptism to predestination, as Beza did, so that only those who are predestined to eternal glory with Christ can have any comfort, any assurance that they are God’s beloved children, we turn baptism itself — a public, open act — into a “secret thing.” God knows who is really baptized, who really belongs to his family, but we don’t — and so we cannot live in terms of our baptisms, cannot really look to them for comfort and assurance. At most, we can live on an entirely speculative “probably.”
But predestination is a secret thing. Baptism isn’t, and therefore we can — and must — live on the basis of it. “There should be no doubt that when a child is baptized, it enters into God’s adoption and love, said Andreae. There should be no ‘probably,’ but rather assurance” (Raitt, 167).
The longer I think about Beza’s position expressed at the Colloquy of Montbéliard, the more puzzling it becomes. Beza “affirmed that many thousands of baptized children are never regenerated, but perish eternally.” But … how would he know?
These aren’t people who were baptized as children and then grew up and apostatized. Andreae would have granted that apostates perish and wouldn’t have been at all shocked that Beza affirmed that they did. No, Beza must be speaking of children who die in infancy or at least in early youth, so that we cannot say of these children “They were clearly unbelievers.” They were baptized; they did not apostatize (at least, that we know of!); and yet Beza is sure that thousands of them perish.
I’ve wracked my brain trying to think of reasons why Beza would assert such a thing, but I haven’t been able to come up with anything really plausible. Did Beza perhaps think that any child who is baptized but who has ungodly parents is bound to perish in spite of his baptism? Would Beza include in that number any child baptized in a Roman Catholic church, which Beza would likely regard as a false and apostate church. Is that the reasoning behind Beza’s strong — and, to Andreae, shocking — affirmation? If so, isn’t this close to Donatism, where the efficacy of the sacrament is thought to depend on the godliness of the one administering it? I find it hard to believe that Beza would hold such a view.
Or is Beza reasoning backwards from the fact that many thousands who are baptized do end up apostate and perish to the idea that there must be many thousands of children who are baptized but who also perish? Or …?
I really have no idea what could have prompted his claim. Anyone out there have a suggestion?
As I mentioned in the previous blog entry, at the Colloquy of Montbéliard, Beza “affirmed that many thousands of baptized children are never regenerated, but perish eternally” — prompting Andreae, in shock, to write a marginal note: “Horrenda vox.”
It appears that in some circles, though, this view was identified as the Reformed view. But it is certainly not the view expressed in the Reformed confessional documents. The Canons of Dort, in the First Head of Doctrine, Article 17, declare something quite the opposite of what Beza affirms:
We must judge concerning will of God from His Word, which declares that the children of believers are holy, not by nature but in virtue of the covenant of grace, in which they are included with their parents. Therefore, God-fearing parents ought not to doubt the election and salvation of their children whom God calls out of this life in their infancy.
“Ought not to doubt” means that, according to the Canons, it is wrong for such parents to doubt that their children, who die in infancy, are elect and saved. “Don’t do it!” say the Canons. “Don’t doubt, but believe that your children are among God’s elect and that they are saved from their sin and from death — and believe it because that’s what God’s Word declares.”
But that’s not the only statement about the matter in the Canons of Dort. In the Conclusion of the Canons, the Synod talks about how some people have tried to “persuade the public” that the Reformed churches teach various things, including that
Many innocent children of believers are torn from their mothers’ breasts and tyrannically thrown into hell, so that neither the blood of Christ nor their baptism nor the prayers of the church at their baptism can be of any help to them.
That seems to be what Beza thought, when he “affirmed that many thousands of baptized children are never regenerated, but perish eternally.” But the Canons say of this view that it is something “which the Reformed churches not only do not confess but even detest wholeheartedly” (emphasis added). The Canons, then, agree here with Andreae against Beza: “Horrenda vox!”
Sometimes when I read about a debate in the past, I find myself frustrated with both parties. So it was with Jill Raitt’s summary of the debate between Jacob Andreae and Theodore Beza about baptism at the Colloquy of Montbéliard (“Probably They Are God’s Children: Theodore Beza’s Doctrine of Baptism” in Humanism and Reform [Blackwell, 1991]). At times, I find myself appreciating a point Beza makes; at other times, Andreae seems to have the upper hand — and at times, the whole debate becomes frustrating.
But perhaps most troubling is what Raitt puts into the title of her essay: Beza’s use of the word “probably.” Beza “said that infants also probably receive remission of original sin and the fruits of adoption, as long as they do not repudiate these benefits as adults” (159). Raitt notes that Beza “had always taught, as had Calvin, that the children of believers are probably elect” (159). But as it turns out, if they did grow up and “repudiate these benefits as adults,” Beza would say that they had never really received the benefits at all. As Raitt points out,
Were they to repudiate their baptism, they would evidently be reprobate from the beginning. In that case, they did not receive any benefits from baptism, something that could not be known at the time since, in Reformed theology, the action of the Holy Spirit is God’s secret and cannot be commanded by human actions, even sacramental actions” (159-160).
So, for Beza, “Baptism is … a probable, not a certain, sign that baptized children receive the fruit of adoption. To say otherwise would be to make God’s choice dependent upon human actions” (164). In fact, later on Beza went further and “affirmed that many thousands of baptized children are never regenerated, but perish eternally” (167) — prompting Andreae, in shock, to write a marginal note: “Horrenda vox.”
Andreae rightly noted that Beza’s approach undermines any comfort we might receive from baptism and, in fact, in grounding assurance on our experience of faith and on feeling “the motion of the Holy Spirit testifying that one is truly regenerated and adopted as a child of God,” Beza was reducing “assurance to subjective feeling” (166). “Andreae objected that the sacraments would not be sources of comfort if they were merely sources of probability rather than certainty” (164).
In contrast, “There should be no doubt that when a child is baptized, it enters into God’s adoption and love, said Andreae. There should be no ‘probably,’ but rather assurance” (167).
One does not have to agree with all the details of Andreae’s theology of baptism to grant his main point: Baptism ought to be a comfort, and that comfort is undermined if we add the word “probably” to it. If baptism only “probably” means that we belong to God, if we are only “probably” baptized into Christ, if our children are only “probably” included in God’s love but could, if they die in infancy, end up perishing, then baptism can no longer function to give — or even to buttress — our assurance and we will end up looking elsewhere. As history has shown, that “elsewhere” usually turns out to be our own subjective feelings, our own sense that our faith is strong enough, which in the end leads to what Raitt terms a “psychological morass” (168).