Aristotelian Gleanings on Theological Retrieval
This week, I’ve been mulling over the idea of “theological retrieval” after seeing several threads pop up on my X/Twitter feed. I’m not sure if I missed a controversy or if the idea of “retrieval” has at last entered the cultural zeitgeist, but here we are.
I was particularly interested in Scott Swain’s observation about “reactionary retrieval,” which he says happens “when you get mad about some contemporary position in theology and strip mine the tradition for quotes contrary to that position [without] carefully grasping the inner logic of the tradition.” I’m well-acquainted with the kind of thing Swain refers to here. In fact, I’m almost certain that I’ve done it a time or two—and I can think of several apropos examples from the 2016–2017 Trinity Debates within evangelicalism.
How do we avoid being the kind of reactionary retrievalists Swain describes? Is there a method to the madness, or is all of historical theology an exercise in copy-and-pasting public domain translations of earlier sources to fit an agenda?
One thing that I think could help would be conceptualizing historical theology (or theology in general) as a kind of technê, especially in the senses Plato and Aristotle would have understood.
Technê as productive knowledge
In Aristotle’s Eudemian Ethics, he articulates the difference between producing and acting through the lens of craftsmanship:
Craftsmanship [technê], then, as has been said, is a fixed condition [hexis] of production guided by true rationality [logos], and lack of craftsmanship, its contrary, is a fixed condition of production guided by false reasoning. Both are concerned with what can be otherwise.[1]
For our sake, there are two important parts to notice about the definition: logos and hexis.
Crucial to this idea of developing craftsmanship (or technical skill) is the ability to understand the logic, rationality, or principles of truth (logos) that undergirds a craft, a procedure, or a thing.[2] Understanding why something works is distinct from observing or experiencing that something works.
Let’s use an illustration. Let’s say, for example, you went to IKEA to pick up their new STAGYRÄ bookshelf.[3] You take it home, you assemble it, and you put your books on it. Congrats, you didn’t even break the particleboard while putting it together! There would be a considerable difference in knowledge between you and the IKEA employee who engineered the STAGYRÄ line of furniture. While you may have the life experience of following the instruction sheet, you wouldn’t have the knowledge of why each component is made of its respective materials, the physics of why its structure offers a better foundation than other bookshelves, or how the STAGYRÄ manufacturing process is more efficient than producing other models. This is kind of like comparing the craftsman to the producer without craftsmanship. It highlights the difference between understanding the logos and not understanding it.
Notice how in Aristotle’s definition is not enough to simply obtain knowledge of the logos; this knowledge must be brought into stability. Technical skill or craftsmanship presumes a posture of habituation. It doesn’t entail merely going through the motions or living a certain experience. Instead, it involves the cultivation of a fixed state or condition [hexis]. The craftsman is the one who is a “fixed producer,” we could say.
This is why Rachel Barney calls technê “a social practice marked by discursive rationality: one that can be reliably taught, learned, systematized and explained.”[4] It is from this fixed disposition of knowing and articulating the logos that one may be rightly called a craftsman—and, therefore, be able to teach others the tools of the trade.
Using technê to deceive the eye
Clement of Alexandria talks about technê in Stromata 6, seemingly using this Aristotelian framework to indict the philosophers who misguide their hearers:
Strom 6.7.56.1: πλέον γοῦν τοῦ ἱκόσμου τούτου οὐκ ἴσασιν οὐδέν. καὶ μὴν ὡς ἡ γεωμετρία περὶ μέτρα καὶ μεγέθη καὶ σχήματα πραγματευομένη διὰ τῆς ἐν τοῖς ἐπιπέδοις καταγραφῆς ἥ τε ζωγραφία τὸν ὀπτικὸν ὅλον τόπον ἐπὶ τῶν σκηνογραφουμένων φαίνεται παραλαμβάνουσα, ταύτῃ δὲ ψευδογραφεῖ τὴν ὄψιν, τοῖς κατὰ προσβολὴν τῶν ὄπτικῶν γραμμῶν σημεὶοις χρωμένη κατὰ τὸ τεχνικόν (ἐντεῦθεν ἐπιφάσεις καὶ ὑποφάσεις καὶ φάσεις σῴζονται, καὶ τὰ μὲν δοκεῖ προὒχειν, τὰ δὲ εἰσέχειν, τὰ δ’ ἄλλως πως φαντάζεσθαι ἐν τῷ ὁμαλῷ καὶ λείῳ), οὕτω δὲ καὶ οἱ φιλόσοφοι ζωγραφὶας δίκην ἀπομιμοῦνται τὴν ἀλήθειαν.
Translation: Indeed, they know nothing beyond this world. And just as geometry, dealing with measures, magnitudes, and forms, works out diagrams on the plane, and the art of painting appears to adopt the whole field of view in its scene-painting—but in doing so, deceives the eye, using points according to the incidence of visual lines according to the technical skills of the craft (hence highlights and shadows and appearances are preserved, and some things appear in the foreground, others in the background, and others to appear differently, on a flat and smooth surface)—in the same way, philosophers imitate the truth in the custom of painting.
We could restate Clement’s point here as follows. In the same way the geometer and the painter manipulate their representations of objects on a plane or pictures on a canvas via technical skills [technê], philosophers merely imitate [apomimeomai] the proliferation of truth by “mastering” the technical skills of philosophy without grasping the true logosundergirding it. In doing so, they effectively disguise truth rather than reveal it, misguiding their listeners. They, like the geometer and painter, end up distorting the picture. Thus, they offer a poor imitation of the truth because they are merely performing mimetic philosophical exercises rather than articulating the philosophical craft's logos. Even though they wield the "technical skills of the craft," they end up missing the mark because they have not truly developed the technê of the craftsman. Or, to put it more bluntly, they have exchanged true philosophy for that which only appears to be philosophy. It is a logos-less rhetorical exercise, not something that actually leads to true knowledge.
This describes something like the “reactionary retrieval” Swain posted about—and it is a timely warning for those of us interested in theological retrieval. If we try to pantomime the practice of theological retrieval without actually taking the time to learn the fundamentals of the tradition's rationale, we do what Clement describes: using the "rules" of the craft to deceive the eye and make things appear differently than they truly are. There are a few points of application we can take away for the practice of theological retrieval:
We should take time to actually learn the philosophical, linguistic, discursive, and polemical contexts that we engage. We truly do “theological retrieval” only if we fully understand the logos of the operative theological jargon, authorial decisions, or exegetical maneuvers before applying them constructively for ourselves. You can’t microwave historical theology—or, rather, you can’t microwave good historical theology. It is a slow, tedious, and frustrating grind, but familiarity with all the inner mechanics is what qualifies us as craftsmen of the trade (at least according to Aristotle). As I have written elsewhere, this is absolutely necessary for understanding the theological consensuses that emerge throughout the Christian tradition. This idea is similar to Quinten Skinner’s notion of understanding the “interlocutory force” or intention of an utterance. In addition to saying something, theological speech inherently does something, and it’s up to us to determine what is being done and why.
We should not only seek proper theological positions; we should also seek healthy theological postures.Theologians throughout history have emphasized that the theological task requires intentionality and fittingness on the part of the theologian. One of my favorite quotations in all of patristic literature comes from Gregory of Nazianzus’s Oration 27.3. It’s lengthy, but it’s worth putting here in full: “We need actually ‘to be still’ in order to know God, and when we receive the opportunity, ‘to judge rightly’ in theology. Who should listen to discussions of theology? Those for whom it is a serious undertaking, not just another subject like any other for entertaining small-talk, after the races, the theater, songs, food, and sex: for there are people who count chatter and theology and clever deployment of arguments as one of their amusements.” As we consider what it means to do “theological retrieval,” we should be certain that we are retrieving both theological insights and the posture of humility found throughout the Christian tradition. Augustine actually suggests that it is this very sense of humility that was lacking in the Platonic tradition: “None of this is in the Platonist books. Those pages do not contain the face of this devotion, tears of confession, your sacrifice, a troubled spirit, a contrite and humble spirit, the salvation of your people, the espoused city, the guarantee of your Holy Spirit, the cup of our redemption” (Confessions 7.27). Philosophical (or theological) acumen is only worth its measure of virtue, humility, sanctification, or spiritual development.
Theology makes for a really bad weapon but really good wound-dressing. Using theological discourse as a way to “own” your theological opponents is a rather cheap move—one that I admit even the fathers occasionally used. But when we think about ecclesial disputes, interpretive disagreements, or disfellowship from one another, it is more fruitful and God-honoring to use our theological development as wound-dressing rather than weapon. Recognizing the high stakes of Christian theology means that disagreements are often important and passionate, but we don’t have to abandon the fruits of the Spirit, the love for our brothers and sisters, or the habit of building one another up in the process of dialogue. Whether there are methodological, exegetical, theological, or interdisciplinary differences, we can recognize that a gracious and merciful God deserves gracious and merciful theological discourse. When we react to theological trajectories or patterns, let us do so in a way that is defined by being constructive rather than purely reactionary.
I am, of course, no expert in these things. But I do think understanding the philosophical idea of technê, placing it in conversation with the discipline of historical theology, and recognizing the demands of healthy “theological retrieval” will raise the tides of all our theological disciplines alike.
[1] EE 1140a22–24: ἡ μὲν οὖν τέχνη, ὥσπερ εἴρηται, ἕξις τις μετὰ λόγου ἀληθοῦς ποιητική ἐστιν, ἡ δ’ ἀτεχνία τοὐναντίον μετὰ λόγου ψευδοῦς ποιητικὴ ἕξις, περὶ τὸ ἐνδεχόμενον ἄλλως ἔχειν. I am following Jonathan Barnes recent inclusion of the “common books” with Aristotle’s EE rather than the NE.
[2] As Thomas Kjeller Johansen describes it, “It is the ability to give an account (logos) that primarily singles out technê as a form of knowledge for both Plato and Aristotle. As Aristotle explains in Metaphysics 1.1 (991a21–30), drawing on the Gorgias, the merely experienced can often be as successful as the craftsman, but it is the latter’s grasp of why the procedure is successful that shows his possession of a technê.” See Thomas Kjeller Johansen, Productive Knowledge in Ancient Philosophy: The Concept of Technê (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2021), 7.
[3] I hope one of you is as proud of this pun as I am.
[4] Rachel Barney, “Technê as a Model for Virtue in Plato,” in Productive Knowledge in Ancient Philosophy, 62–85, at 63.