The first theology book I ever read cover to cover was On Being a Theologian of the Cross, by Gerhard Forde. This was the fall semester of my first year of seminary, and the book was assigned by Paul Zahl in a class (ironically?) titled “Spiritual Formation.” It’s fair to say, I haven’t been the same since. Once the class ended, I set off to read everything Forde had ever written. The irony of an Episcopalian reading more Forde than most Lutherans was not lost on me. Throughout these very formative years, I would be introduced to theological ideas that would animate my faith, scholarship, and ministry: the un-free will, the proper distinction between law and gospel, the theology of the cross, and a radical Christology. Themes that the astute Mbird reader will readily recognize!
Had he not died in 2005, yesterday would have been Gerhard Forde’s 99th birthday. So I thought that it might be fun to revive from the depths of the MBird archive our occasional “Forde Friday” column periodically throughout the year, leading up to the big 100! And what better place to start than where it all began (for me, at least). So without further ado, here are pages 15–19 from the introduction to On Being a Theologian of the Cross [emphasis added].
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The theologian of glory searches endlessly for escape hatches, for a way to glory enticing enough to attract the free will (or what is left of it) of the seeker. I use the analogy of addiction throughout the book in the attempt to demonstrate the difference between the theologian of glory and the theologian of the cross. The theologian of glory is like one who considers curing addiction by optimistic exhortation. The theologian of the cross knows that the cure is much more drastic. Luther virtually invites this analogy of addiction in the proof for thesis 22 of the Disputation, when he likens the theology of glory to the thirst for money, or wisdom, or power, and so forth and declares that the soul’s insatiable “thirst for glory is not ended by satisfying it but rather by extinguishing it.” A theologian of glory attempts to cure those addicted to glory by optimistic appeals, that is, by the law. But what happens thereby is only a reinforcement of one’s illusions about oneself. The supposed optimism of the theology of glory turns against itself. When the addict discovers the impossibility of quitting, self-esteem plummets. The addict tries to hide the addiction and puts on a false front. Superficial optimism breeds ultimate despair.
A theology of glory works like that. It operates on the assumption that what we need is optimistic encouragement, some flattery, some positive thinking, some support to build our self-esteem. Theologically speaking it operates on the assumption that we are not seriously addicted to sin, and that our improvement is both necessary and possible. We need a little boost in our desire to do good works. Of course our theologian of glory may well grant that we need the help of grace. The only dispute, usually, will be about the degree of grace needed. If we are a “liberal,” we will opt for less grace and tend to define it as some kind of moral persuasion or spiritual encouragement. If we are more “conservative” and speak even of the depth of human sin, we will tend to escalate the degree of grace needed to the utmost. But the hallmark of a theology of glory is that it will always consider grace as something of a supplement to whatever is left of human will and power. It will always, in the end, hold out for some free will. Theology then becomes the business of making theological explanations attractive to the will. Sooner or later a disastrous erosion of the language sets in. It must constantly be adjusted to be made appealing. Gradually it sinks to the level of maudlin sentimentality.
Theologians of the cross, however, operate quite differently. They operate on the assumption that there must be — to use the language of treatment for addicts — a “bottoming out” or an “intervention.” That is to say, there is no cure for the addict on his own. In theological terms, we must come to confess that we are addicted to sin, addicted to self, whatever form that may take, pious or impious. So theologians of the cross know that we can’t be helped by optimistic appeals to glory, strength, wisdom, positive thinking, and so forth because those things are themselves the problem. The truth must be spoken. To repeat Luther again, the thirst for glory or power or wisdom is never satisfied even by the acquisition of it. We always want more — precisely so that we can declare independence from God. The thirst is for the absolute independence of the self, and that is sin. Thus again Luther’s statement of the radical cure in his proof for thesis 22: “The remedy for curing desire does not lie in satisfying it, but in extinguishing it.” The cross does the extinguishing. The cross is the death of sin, and the sinner. The cross does the “bottoming out.” The cross is the “intervention.” The addict/sinner is not coddled by false optimism but is put to death so that a new life can begin. The theologian of the cross “says what a thing is” (thesis 21). The theologian of the cross preaches to convict of sin. The addict is not deceived by theological marshmallows but is told the truth so that he might at last learn to confess, to say, “I am an addict,” “I am an alcoholic,” and never to stop saying it. Theologically and more universally all must learn to say, “I am a sinner,” and likewise never to stop saying it until Christ’s return makes it no longer true.
The theology of the cross is the true and ultimate source of human optimism because it always presupposes the resurrection. We should always bear in mind in pondering texts like the Heidelberg Disputation that resurrection is always taken together with the cross. The fundamental question of the Disputation is how to arrive at that righteousness that will enable us to stand before God. It is about resurrection, finally, even when the word is not explicitly spoken. Indeed, it is not possible to have a theology of the cross without resurrection. The powerful attacks launched against even the best of human works that put the sinner to death would simply not be possible if the resurrection were not presupposed. Some theologians of the cross seem afraid to bring in talk of resurrection because they apparently fear it will mitigate the unrelieved “tragedy” of the cross and its attack. But the opposite is the case. Without the resurrection theologians will always be tempted to tone down the attack in order to leave room for at least some optimism, some hope for the survival of the old self. They end by telling sweet lies, calling the bad good and the good bad. Without the resurrection theologians cannot speak the truth about the human condition, and without hearing and confessing such truth we have no hope, no resurrection. For a resurrection to happen, there must first be a death. The truth must be heard and confessed; then there is hope. A new life can begin, and with it a new sense of self-worth can blossom. That is the ultimate aim of the Heidelberg Disputation. For in the end we arrive, as we shall see, at the love of God, which creates anew out of nothing.
