In the last post I raised the question about whether Bebbington-style evangelicals who are egalitarian, and who aggressively resist the label "evangelical," should be called "evangelical."

But might I be exaggerating the case here? Because Bonnie Kristian makes the claim in In Defense of Evangelicalism: A Response to Its Cultured Despisers that most evangelicals are, in fact, egalitarian.

Now, I'll admit I did a double take when I read that claim. Here's the relevant passage from the book:

But most evangelicals today are egalitarian like me…As the political scientist Ryan Burge has found, a strong majority of evangelicals believe women can preach—and not only to children or other women, as complementarians tend to allow. To everyone. From the pulpit. “Nearly three quarters of evangelicals agree that a properly trained and certified woman can preach on Sunday morning,” Burge reported, citing national survey data.

This is a poll of self-identified evangelicals, but crucially, that pattern held across generations, church attendance rates, and views of Scripture. “Even among those who say that the Bible is literally true and attend church every week, 74 percent are in favor of women preaching,” Burge wrote. “The data is basically unequivocal on this point: A majority of evangelicals favor women serving in any and all capacities in their church."

The claim I want to interrogate is this: "most evangelicals today are egalitarian." I find that claim very hard to believe.

A lot, again, depends upon what we mean by "evangelical." Recall, Episcopalians, who ordain women priests, can be described as Bebbington-style evangelical. And my church, which is egalitarian, is also Bebbington-style evangelical. But these egalitarian churches don't self-identify as evangelical, and aren't the referent when people use the word "evangelical." 

The data point Bonnie cites is a survey conducted by Ryan Burge, the results of which he published at his Substack: Should Women Preach? Huge Majorities of Evangelicals Think They Should. 

In March of 2020 Ryan sent out a survey and did an analysis of this data upon "those who self-identify as evangelical." One of the questions asked was this:

Assuming the women in question have appropriate training and certification please indicate how much you agree or disagree with the following statements.

The options provided were:

• Teach Sunday School
• Lead Worship
• Preach at a Women's Conference
• Preach on Sunday Morning

The three response options were "Disagree," "Neither," "Agree."

According to the survey, 73% of self-identified evangelicals picked "Agree" that a woman with "appropriate training and certification" could "preach on a Sunday Morning." The finding held even among evangelicals who agree that the Bible was "literally true" and the "inspired word of God."

Based upon this data, Ryan drew his conclusion, the one Bonnie cited:

The data is basically unequivocal on this point: A majority of evangelicals favor women serving in any and all capacities in their church.

Let me set aside the issue of who "self-identified evangelicals" might be. Given that the percentage didn't change among those who endorse the Bible as "literally true" and the "inspired word of God," I'm happy to concede that the self-identified evangelicals on the survey are, indeed, the evangelicals in question.

So, my first impression of this data? It's great news! It definitely challenges some of my assumptions. The data makes me hopeful.

That said, here's my concern. And it's a concern I raised with both Bonnie and Ryan. 

Here's what I shared with both of them. Does this data support the conclusion that "most evangelicals today are egalitarian"? I don't think it does. More, I think Ryan's conclusion, especially how it is deployed in the book, is a bit murky. Here's what he said: "A majority of evangelicals favor women serving in any and all capacities in their church." 

Here's the problem: The survey didn't inquire about "any and all" capacities in churches. Crucially, being a "lead pastor" or the "teaching pastor" or an "elder" at a church wasn't on the list. Any and all capacities were not, in fact, assessed.

Let me give you an example from my own church about why this matters. For years, my church allowed occasional preaching from women. We would have answered Ryan's survey in the affirmative: Women can preach! And yet, women were prohibited from serving as our lead pastor or as an elder. (In the Churches of Christ, elders are the true "leaders" of the church, holding power even over the lead pastor/preacher.) Women could preach at our church, but we were not fully egalitarian. Also, when we finally moved to an egalitarian life, our church lost about 30%-50% of our members. Relatedly, in my town there are four large Churches of Christ. Some of these would allow a woman to preach. Or if she was co-preaching with a man. But of these larger churches, only our church is egalitarian. Basically, women can be found in pulpits within the Churches of Christ, but that does not mean these churches are egalitarian.

In short, this is a real difference—women allowed to preach versus women in full leadership—that is not captured in Ryan's data. Simply put, allowing occasional preaching from women, as long as they have "appropriate training and certification," is not an appropriate operational definition for egalitarianism. In psychometric terms, there is a question of criterion validity here. 

Again, not that the data we do have here isn't good and very hopeful news. But the strong claim Bonnie makes, "most evangelicals today are egalitarian," is based solely and wholly upon this single data point. And this is important because the claim "most evangelicals today are egalitarian" does a lot of defensive work in Bonnie's book.

Here's why allowing women to preach isn't a good operational definition for egalitarianism. True, there are forms of strict patriarchalism that would wholly prohibit a woman from preaching from the pulpit. And given Ryan's data, about 25% of evangelical churches operate with those strict prohibitions. But even where evangelical churches allow women to preach or co-preach, that preaching is granted under a patriarchal "permission" structure, allowed and supervised solely by male leadership. Male "headship" is still operative even as she preaches. And if you think this is a difference that doesn't really make a difference, you didn't sit with the women in my church who had to endure this type of permission-giving for years. The pain, tears, and humiliation of those years is hard to describe. There is a suffering here that I think is being missed.

And finally, this whole question of evangelicalism and egalitarianism brings us to Bonnie’s question: What would I recommend to evangelicals that would help them change without simply asking them to become progressives? 

Here is the paradox: the very change I would recommend—becoming fully egalitarian—is precisely the change that many evangelicals experience as becoming progressive! I’m confident in saying this because I’ve walked with my own church through that change. When our church became egalitarian, about half the congregation left, and those who left rejected egalitarianism precisely because they experienced it as a move toward progressivism—as though we were opening a hermeneutical Pandora’s box. To be sure, there are evangelical churches that are fully egalitarian: they not only permit women to preach occasionally but also have women serving as lead pastors, leaders, and elders. But for a non-egalitarian evangelical church, asking it to become fully egalitarian is, from its own perspective, asking it to “become progressive.” And that is the problem with Bonnie’s question. The reform I would recommend as a way for evangelicalism to become better without simply becoming progressive is the very reform that many evangelicals believe would make them progressive. In other words, while I can distinguish egalitarianism from progressivism conceptually, many if not most evangelicals experience the move from non-egalitarianism to egalitarianism as precisely the move from evangelicalism toward progressivism. 

To conclude. Bonnie claims that most evangelicals are egalitarian. I find that very hard to believe. And looking around my town, I’m profoundly skeptical. But truthfully, based solely on Ryan’s single survey question, I don’t know. Neither does Ryan (I asked him). And neither does Bonnie. So I think it’s a claim, as a defense of evangelicalism, that needs to get taken off the table.

Bonnie Kristian, in In Defense of Evangelicalism: A Response to Its Cultured Despisers, rightly understands the definitional conundrum posed by “evangelical.”

What do we mean by “evangelical”?

Goodness, what an onion to peel.

We could approach the definition historically, and Bonnie does, by tracing the emergence of “evangelicalism” from the fundamentalist–evangelical split in the 1940s. The label “evangelical” was an attempt to distinguish an emerging coalition of conservative Protestants from fundamentalism’s dogmatic separatism and cultural withdrawal. Evangelicals wanted to be much more engaged with and influential in American cultural and political life. And yet, this historical approach quickly gets murky. Those who identified themselves under the “evangelical” banner were a diverse lot and did not all share the same theology, ecclesiology, politics, or cultural commitments. “Evangelicalism” was never a denomination. It was more of a coalition than a church, and its boundaries were fuzzy from the beginning. They remain so to this day.

We could, then, try to define evangelicalism theologically. The most famous attempt is David Bebbington’s “quadrilateral,” which identifies four characteristic convictions of evangelical Christianity: conversionism, activism, biblicism, and crucicentrism. Bebbington’s quadrilateral has been influential because it allows us to speak about “evangelicalism” without reducing it to a particular denomination, institution, or political constituency. But Bebbington’s quadrilateral also illustrates the problem I will shortly focus on. Specifically, while Bebbington’s definition gives us a way of identifying a broad collection of Christians who share certain characteristics, I don’t think it creates a single evangelical “family.”

This matters because Bonnie, as I read her, connects these two things. Bonnie appeals to Bebbington’s inclusive definition of evangelicalism and then makes everyone who fits that definition a member of the evangelical “family” who constitute “my people.” The “my people” identification does important work for Bonnie’s argument. For example, families disagree, sometimes profoundly, but family members are called to charity, forbearance, loyalty, and generosity toward one another. And to be very clear, I wholly agree with the call to charity. What I’m raising a question about is whether the Bebbington group is actually a family.

For example, as I noted above, the historical, theological, ecclesial, political, and lived diversity within the Bebbington category makes the family metaphor difficult to sustain. “Evangelicalism” may be a useful sociological classification of Christians who share overlapping commitments. But a family, those who are “my people,” is something much more intimate and organic than a group of people who happen to share four characteristics. Similarity is not kinship.

Consider my situation. I teach at Abilene Christian University, historically associated with the Churches of Christ, which emerged from the American Restoration Movement. ACU would never describe itself as evangelical. My denomination, the Churches of Christ, would never describe itself as evangelical. My church, Highland Church of Christ, would never describe itself as evangelical. And I would never describe myself as evangelical. And yet, according to Bebbington’s criteria, we can all be rightly described as “evangelical.”

As a sociological classification, I can live with the label “evangelical.” But I would strenuously object to viewing, say, the Southern Baptist Convention as “family.” Nor would I ever view someone like Doug Wilson, James Dobson, or Charlie Kirk as “family.” We’re not “family,” they are not “my people,” though all of us would be described as Bebbington-style “evangelicals.” Resemblance does not imply relationship.

A related example. My church is fully egalitarian. We have women serving as elders and women preaching. And yet, given Bebbington, we would be placed in the same evangelical “family” as churches that would regard our practices as deeply unbiblical and would consider our ecclesiology to be a grave and rupturous departure from Christian orthodoxy. And for our part, as I said above, my church would never describe itself as evangelical.

The examples here can multiply. Egalitarians can be evangelical. Pacifists can be evangelical. LGBTQ Christians, including affirming Christians, can be evangelical. Pro-choice Christians can be evangelical. And, oddly, Christians who strenuously reject the label “evangelical” can be evangelical.

And at some point, it seems to me, the family metaphor is becoming too strained to be useful. The quadrilateral can draw a circle around a population but it cannot tell us if the people inside that circle regard themselves as a community.

Consider, also, Bonnie’s own position. Bonnie identifies as an egalitarian and writes, “I think there’s strong biblical warrant for women to preach and pastor and for husbands and wives to live as peers, and I would not raise my children in a church that taught otherwise.” But it raises an obvious question: Why not? What is the harm that makes the difference important enough that Bonnie would not entrust the formation of her children to a non-egalitarian church?

Whatever Bonnie’s answer to that question might be, I think it matters for the family metaphor. If there are differences within evangelicalism that are consequential to the degree that Bonnie would not raise her children in a church on one side of the disagreement, then perhaps there is something more here than a “family quarrel.”

To be clear, this doesn’t mean that patriarchal Christians are to be demonized. Bonnie is right about that. We can disagree with our fellow Christians while still treating each other with generosity, humility, and love. But Christian charity does not demand that we manufacture a familial identity where one does not meaningfully exist. And this is especially true if we feel called to prophetic indictment about harms we believe are being perpetrated in evangelical spaces. We don’t have to say “those are my people” when, historically, theologically, and ecclesially, they are not.

Stepping back, I think this question about definitions is important for Bonnie’s project. If “evangelicalism” means everyone captured by the Bebbington quadrilateral, then Bonnie is defending an extraordinarily diverse population, including many Christians who don’t consider themselves evangelical and who would resist being described as evangelical. Which, I think, should give us pause. If you tell someone they belong to your family and they respond, “No, I don’t,” perhaps the family metaphor has reached its limit. Simply put, the broader you make the definition of evangelicalism, the harder it becomes to sustain the family metaphor. Something, it seems to me, has to give. Either the definition or the metaphor.

To be very, very clear, I think Bonnie is spot on about our need for charity. But using Bebbington to name all evangelicals as “my people,” I think, goes too far. The historical, theological, and ecclesial boundaries are too porous and contested. To say nothing about the issue of self-identification.

In short, I feel like I’ve been adopted into a family against my will.

And while I am called to love evangelicals, I don’t think we’re related.

On Substack Notes, I shared that I had read Bonnie Kristian's In Defense of Evangelicalism: A Response to Its Cultured Despisers. My assessment was that, while Bonnie had written a good and needed book, I wasn't, in the end, persuaded away from my very negative view of American evangelicalism.

That said, I don't want my criticism to be taken as despising evangelicals as human beings. I don't want to participate in what Bonnie rightly calls the "monstering" of evangelicalism. Especially since I've written a book with a chapter about this very psychology of monstering.

I don't write about evangelicalism very often because evangelicals aren't really my audience, though there are progressive-curious, or at least Richard Beck-curious, evangelicals who do follow me. My steady conviction is that if you criticize people outside of your readership, you're malforming yourself and your audience. You're just marinating in contempt, and that poisons your heart.

And so, I spend most of my time criticizing progressive Christians, as that's who most of my audience is. I do this so much that I expect many readers tire of being poked at so often and wish I'd stop and say some critical things about the other side. Yeah, progressive Christians are a mess. But what about those evangelicals and Trump supporters?

Well, dear progressive reader, if you've ever felt that way, here's a series for you!

After I shared my comment on Notes, Bonnie was kind enough to respond and ask me for some clarifications. Was I talking about evangelicals or evangelicalism? And what, concretely, would I recommend to evangelicals by way of improvement that wouldn't simply be asking them to become progressives?

I'd like to take this series to try to answer those questions by way of sharing my thoughts about Bonnie's book.

Since sharing my original Note, I had a clarifying conversation about Bonnie's book that helped me understand more clearly what I was looking for and what Bonnie is actually doing.

As I shared in a follow-up Note, I think Bonnie's book works best as an intervention in virtue ethics. How are we to engage in criticism, polemics, and prophetic indictment virtuously? Bonnie's book is excellent at helping describe and cast a vision for what virtue would look like in criticism, polemics, and prophetic indictment of evangelicalism.

What I wanted from Bonnie's book, however, was an engagement with mainstream evangelical beliefs. And that's not what she provides—a defense of mainstream evangelical beliefs. For example, to be concrete, Bonnie doesn't defend patriarchal beliefs. She does, however, defend evangelicals for holding patriarchal beliefs, as holding those beliefs with integrity and as a good-faith attempt to honor both God and the Bible. Which, again, isn't quite the defense readers like me would have wanted. And in Bonnie's defense, this is a frustrating thing many authors face: people reacting negatively toward your book because it's not the book they wanted you to write.

In short, this contrast between defending evangelicals and defending evangelicalism is important to understanding the book, as I now read it. I love evangelicals because God calls us to universal charity. But I do have a ferocious and aggressive posture toward many mainstream evangelical beliefs.

To be sure, it's hard to keep prophetic denunciation free of dehumanization. But this is the place where I find myself.

Let me make that distinction explicit. My original Substack Note wasn't about evangelicals as human beings. Evangelicals are made in the image of God and deserve all of my care and concern. And this is a live issue for me. Definitionally speaking—more on this in the next post—I work at an evangelical university, and I'm an elder at an evangelical church. And living as I do in West Texas, most of my neighbors are evangelical.

And I love them all.

And it's precisely here where I think Bonnie's book shines. Yes, evangelicalism has been implicated in and accused of many noxious things in American life, sometimes fairly and sometimes unfairly. But evangelicals are a large and diverse group. So we shouldn't despise this entire class of people. If you're a follower of Jesus, despising is not an option.

I'd also like to highlight a weird phenomenon among evangelicals, what Bonnie describes as a sort of "inverse hypocrisy." If regular hypocrisy is people saying good things while committing bad acts, evangelicals often say bad things but act in loving ways. I bear witness to that truth all the time. There are people I know, evangelicals, who espouse beliefs, political and religious, that I find wholly antithetical to Christianity. And yet, these same people are often the very first people to show up in the city to lend a helping hand. It really is the most perplexing and paradoxical thing about so many evangelical people. And I applaud Bonnie for drawing attention to the kindness and compassion of the so-called "deplorables."

That said, I find evangelicalism, as a Christian movement, to be a dumpster fire.

When it comes to prophetic indictment—and this is relevant to Bonnie's book—it is noteworthy that it is directed at institutions and nations rather than at individual persons. Collectives are called out. As with evangelicalism today, there were many pious and faithful Jews when Jesus declared the temple desolate. I feel that the movement of evangelicalism is deserving of the same sort of prophetic speech.

So while Bonnie's book isn't a defense of evangelical beliefs, there were two places where I felt her defense of evangelicals shaded into, or leaned upon, beliefs. These beliefs concerned gender roles and the beliefs that have shaped, and I believe malformed, evangelical politics. The issue of beliefs also raised questions about who, exactly, qualifies as "evangelical."

So, what follows are three posts reflecting on Bonnie's book. The first post concerns questions I had about definitions. Specifically, I think Bonnie's definition of "evangelical" is too broad, and thereby makes her defense easier. Next, I turn to how Bonnie describes gender roles within egalitarianism and how I think she's mischaracterized the situation in a way that aids her defense. And finally, I turn to how evangelicals have engaged in politics and how I think Bonnie's defense of evangelicals in the political realm is missing something crucial.

"And I was full mery"

Since Chapter 16 Julian has been meditating upon Christ's passion. That prolonged meditation reaches a climax and turning point in Chapter 21.

In Chapter 21 we finally reach the moment of Christ's death. But instead of great sorrow and lament there is a sudden vision of joy:

And I laked after the departing with al my myght and wet have seen the body al ded, but I saw Hym not so. And ryth in the same tyme that methowte, be semyng, the life myght ne lenger lesten and the shewyng of the end behovyd nedis to be, sodenly, I beholdyng in the same Crosse, He chongyd His blissfull chere. The chongyng of His blisful chere chongyd myn, and I was as glad and mery as it was possible. Than browte our Lord merily to my mynde, Where is now ony poynte of the peyne or of thin agreefe? And I was full mery. 

Translation: 

And I longed after the departing with all my might and would have seen the body all dead, but I saw Him not so. And right in the same time that it seemed to me, by seeming, the life might no longer last and the showing of the end needed necessarily to be, suddenly, I beholding in the same Cross, He changed His blissful expression. The changing of His blissful expression changed mine, and I was as glad and merry as it was possible. Then brought our Lord merrily to my mind, "Where is now any point of the pain or of your grief?" And I was full merry.

At the moment of death, Christ's painful expression suddenly turns toward joy. And as Christ's face beams, Julian's sorrow is transformed. She hears the voice of Christ merrily ask: "Where is now any point of the pain or of your grief?" In response to the vision, Julian becomes "full merry."

As Julian contemplates this change from sorrow to joy she draws out these conclusions:

I understode that we be now, in our Lords menyng, in His Crosse with Hym in our peynys and our passion, deyng. And we wilfully abydyng in the same Cross with His helpe and His grace into the last poynte, sodenly He shall change His chere to us, and we shal be with Hym in Hevyn. Betwix that one and that other shal be no tyme, and than shal al be browte to joy, and so mente He in this shewyng, Where is now ony poynt of thy peyne or thyn agreefe? And we shal be full blissid. 

Translation:

I understood that we are now, in our Lord's meaning, on His Cross with Him in our pains and our passion, dying. And if we willingly abide in the same Cross with His help and His grace until the last point, suddenly He shall change His appearance toward us, and we shall be with Him in Heaven.

Between that one and that other shall be no passage of time, and then shall all be brought to joy. And so meant He in this showing, “Where is now any point of your pain or your grief?” And we shall be fully blissful.

Stepping back, this showing will prove pivotal for Julian’s reflections going forward. As Julian wrestles with the darkness of the world—and her world was very dark, due to both suffering and sin—this sudden vision of joy in heaven allows her to claim, “All shall be well” in the end. As Christ asks Julian, “Where is now any point of your pain or your grief?” For in heaven, “we shall be fully blissful.” And this vision makes Julian “full merry.”

The thing I want to underline here is how Julian’s famous “all shall be well” is an expression of eschatological hope. It flows out of this vision of the bliss of heaven. And it’s here, I think, where many modern readers of Julian experience a pinch. Specifically, I think many modern readers of Julian, especially progressive readers, are not convinced that the joys and bliss of heaven are sufficient to console us in the face of the pains, sufferings, and griefs of life. 

And yet, it is precisely this eschatological consolation and hope that undergirds Julian’s “all shall be well” optimism.

This will be my last post reflecting upon Jordan Hillebert's reading of Henri de Lubac in his book Henri de Lubac and the Drama of Human Existence and how de Lubac navigated between the views Hillebert calls intrinsicism and extrinsicism.

Again, as I've described over the last three posts, what struck me about Hillebert's reflections on de Lubac is how closely they mirrored my own theological development and where I've landed on some key issues. One of those issues is how I think about the atonement.

Many of the chapters in The Book of Love simply share the rich insights of biblical scholars. All I do is make those insights accessible to a general audience. But there are a few chapters that are more creative and represent independent reflections of my own. (Not that there is anything new under the sun.) One of those is my discussion of the atonement in the chapter "Loved from the Foundation of the World."

As regular readers know, one of the things I’ve been working on in this space is how classical theism contradicts popular understandings of penal substitutionary atonement. Specifically, according to classical theism, God does not undergo change. Nor does God experience psychological conflict between competing impulses within himself. Nor does God suffer under any necessity (like the necessity of a sacrifice in order to forgive). And finally, God does not experience time as a serial temporal sequence. There is no “before” and “after” in the life of God. 

That is a lot for accounts of penal substitutionary atonement to overcome, particularly an account of the atonement that:

1. Posits a posture toward humanity that changes from wrath to mercy.
2. Describes a conflict within God between His justice/holiness and mercy/love.
3. Demands that God can only forgive through the shedding of blood.
4. Describes the atonement as an event in the life of God, where prior wrath is followed by mercy.

In short, most accounts of penal substitutionary atonement simply cannot be true. If God doesn't experience change, then nothing we witness on the cross of Jesus effects or reflects a change in God's affections toward us. Nor does the cross mark a "before" and "after" in God's relation to the world. Neither does the cross help God "reconcile" within himself the competing demands of his love and mercy with his justice and holiness. And lastly, God didn't and doesn't need a sacrifice, of any kind, to forgive us. What classical theism insists upon, therefore, is that what we witness on the cross of Christ is how God has always and eternally felt about us. As I describe it in The Book of Love, the cross is a theophany of God's love that has loved us, per the chapter title, from the foundation of the world.

Now, this vision of the cross, especially in the way it rebuts penal substitutionary atonement, tips me toward intrinsicism. We have been loved from eternity. God didn't need to "do anything" to forgive us. Our sin wasn't a problem God had to solve.

All of that sounds very liberal and progressive. The theophany of the cross communicates unconditional affirmation. And it does! As Paul very clearly says, Christ died for us while we were yet sinners. God forgives us while we were his enemies. Jesus looks upon his murderers and prays, "Father, forgive them."

And yet, as I continue in The Book of Love, the theophany of the cross is a bloody, gruesome spectacle. If God simply wanted to communicate unconditional affirmation, he could have done that by sending a Cosmic Valentine, writing "I Love You" in the clouds. Instead, we are confronted with a tortured corpse. Why is this hideous display necessary for what should have been a big warm hug?

The answer is the same one de Lubac articulated over against intrinsicist views of humanity. Humans are loved, but the reality of sin intrudes. Consequently, the cross is both mercy and indictment, compassion and crisis. We have been loved from the foundation of the world, but our journey toward God can only pass through the cross. The theophany of the cross is grievous because sin is grievous, and we are called to metanoia as we behold the tortured body of Jesus.

In short, as I recently described in this space, the cross is a bivalent symbol, a Stop and a Go. The Go is the communication of unconditional love, mercy, grace, and pardon. But if this Go were all that was communicated on the cross, it would collapse into what Dietrich Bonhoeffer called "cheap grace," the gospel reduced to a message of affirmational niceness. But the cross also communicates a Stop, a message of prophetic indictment, where our sin is exposed and confronted and where we face the evangelical demand of conversion. Conversely, if the cross is reduced to the Stop, its message becomes a harsh, judgmental "sinners in the hands of an angry God" sermon.

Following de Lubac, the cross stands between intrinsicism and extrinsicism. All Go and no Stop becomes the cheap grace of intrinsicism, the gospel as a message of affirmation incapable of confronting sin. All Stop and no Go becomes the guilt-inducing damnation of extrinsicism, the gospel as a message of wrathful condemnation. In short, the vision of the atonement I try to articulate in The Book of Love attempts, as de Lubac did, to navigate between two false visions of the atonement—one progressive and the other conservative—to articulate something more complex, more paradoxical, and, I would argue, more truthful.

As I described in the last post, I resonate with Jordan Hillebert's reading of Henri de Lubac in his book Henri de Lubac and the Drama of Human Existence because it confirms how I have attempted to navigate between the views Hillebert calls intrinsicism and extrinsicism.

For several years now I've been calling myself a "post-progressive" Christian. I know many people dislike the constant proliferation of labels in online Christian discourse. But I've found this label helpful in locating myself within the Christian landscape. If you're a new reader and aren't sure what "post-progressive Christian" means, it simply means that I formerly identified as a "progressive Christian," with all that implies by way of beliefs and politics, but have since become disillusioned with progressive Christianity. Not in the sense of a wholesale rejection, but because of growing concerns about many of progressive Christianity's reductionisms, blind spots, hypocrisies, heresies, and ailments. My stance, then, is not anti-progressive but one that has moved through progressivism, retaining much within that worldview to arrive at something different. Post-progressive. Or perhaps we could simply say after-progressive.

I bring this up because much of what de Lubac attempted in navigating between intrinsicism and extrinsicism is exactly the same navigation I'm trying to capture with the label "post-progressive."

Very much like de Lubac, I rejected the extrinsicism I observed on the Christian right, the pessimistic conviction that humanity is totally depraved and devoid of grace. I gravitated toward and embraced the generous and inclusive humanism found on the progressive side of Christianity. Over against "original sin" there is "original blessing," the conviction that creation is good and that humanity is very good. I also appreciate the conviction that, within the Wesleyan Quadrilateral, human experience carries as much weight as--if not more weight than--Scripture and Tradition.

And yet, as I traveled with the progressive tribe, I began to notice the problems with the intrinsicism that I've described throughout this series. Specifically, an already-and-always graced humanity has no need of a Savior. Sin, judgment, and atonement are set aside. Christ comes to us as a guru of enlightenment rather than as the Lamb who takes away the sins of the world. And because of the reductive and totalizing intrinsicism found in many progressive spaces, large portions of the Bible are dismissed as "problematic."

Thus, still very much like de Lubac, I began to push back against the intrinsicism espoused by progressive Christianity. But not in order to embrace its opposite, the pessimistic extrinsicism of conservative Christianity. Following de Lubac, the goal is to navigate between these two distortions. We must reject the pessimistic view of humanity found within evangelical spaces. Human beings are good and touched by grace. But at the same time we must reject the affirmational humanism found in many progressive Christian spaces that refuses to speak of sin and sidelines the atoning work of Christ. 

This is the de Lubacian balance I'm trying to capture with the label "post-progressive Christianity."

We've taken a slow walk through Jordan Hillebert's reading of Henri de Lubac in his book Henri de Lubac and the Drama of Human Existence. The reason I have done so is because I deeply resonate with de Lubac's navigation between intrinsicism and extrinsicism. In many ways, de Lubac solves many of the issues and tensions I have wrestled with over the years. So when I read Hillebert's book, I said, "Yes, here it is. This is the way." In the next few posts I'd like to share why.

To start, de Lubac's "natural desire for the supernatural," which is a "longing born of lack," sits behind much of Hunting Magic Eels and The Shape of Joy.

First, in Hunting Magic Eels I move away from extrinsicism to connect nature with grace. Because we exist, we are connected to God. Everything is spiritual. Nature is tethered to and oriented toward God. Thus, de Lubac's "natural desire for the supernatural" describes and becomes a resource for re-enchantment. Nature is touched, infused, and filled with grace.

And yet, as with de Lubac, our relation to grace is a "longing born of lack." In writing Hunting Magic Eels I was alert to the temptations of a totalizing intrinsicism, from both Christianity and neopaganism. On the Christian side, as I've described in this series, you see things within liberal and progressive Christian spaces that set aside the economy of salvation for a gnostic vision of affirmational enlightenment. From the neopagan direction, you see a pantheistic sacralization and consecration of nature. All we have to do is recognize nature's always-already blessedness.

But I resist intrinsicism in both Hunting Magic Eels and The Shape of Joy. I call our longing born of lack "the Ache" in Hunting Magic Eels. Human flourishing flounders when God goes missing from our lives. And in The Shape of Joy I describe how our happiness is ordered toward a transcendent, supernatural finality. We become sick when we turn toward ourselves for our beatitude. At the core of our being is an Augustinian restlessness that can only find rest in God. 

The point I'm making here is that de Lubac's navigation between intrinsicism and extrinsicism maps onto my own investigations concerning nature and grace. With de Lubac, against extrinsicism I want to embrace nature as graced, enchanted, and intrinsically ordered to a supernatural finality. But also with de Lubac, I push against intrinsicist views of nature, from both Christian and neopagan perspectives, by describing our desire for the supernatural as a longing born of lack. 

One more post before I turn to some of my own reflections, continuing to share Jordan Hillebert's reading of Henri de Lubac in his book Henri de Lubac and the Drama of Human Existence.

To recap, Hillebert argues that de Lubac attempted to navigate between intrinsicism and extrinsicism. De Lubac's initial concern in writing Surnaturel was to reject the reigning extrinsicist views concerning nature and grace found in "two-tiered" Thomism. De Lubac did this by positing an organic connection between nature and grace through the "natural desire for the supernatural." But in his writings after Surnaturel, Hillebert argues that de Lubac took care to clarify that his views regarding the "natural desire for the supernatural" did not imply intrinsicism. De Lubac did so for two reasons, one ontological and the other evangelical. Regarding the ontological, our desire for God is a "longing born of lack." Human nature cannot, on its own, actualize its supernatural telos. And beyond this ontological insufficiency there is the evangelical demand for metanoia, the need for conversion as we move toward union with God.

In short, de Lubac articulated a balance between intrinsicism and extrinsicism.

Another way to describe this balance, following Hillebert, is through de Lubac's appropriation of the patristic contrast between image and likeness in Genesis 1:

Then God said, "Let us make man in our image, after our likeness."

Most readers of Genesis 1 tend to treat "image" and "likeness" in the creation account as synonyms. But some of the church fathers, like Irenaeus, Origen, and Clement of Alexandria, saw a contrast here. In this view, image and likeness are not the same. Broadly speaking, among the early fathers who worked with this contrast, image referred to the created capacities conferred upon human nature, ontological gifts like rationality that made humans human. Likeness referred to what humans are called to become. In the Fall of Genesis 3, the image was retained—humans remained human—but the likeness was damaged and lost. Thus, while we possess the image of God as humans, our likeness to God has become an eschatological task. We possess the image of God but have yet to become like God. Theosis, in this view, is achieved when likeness is fully restored.

De Lubac saw something generative in the patristic contrast between image and likeness. As described by Hillebert, de Lubac articulated what he called a "mysticism of likeness." De Lubac describes it this way: "'God, who is completely present everywhere, does not, however, dwell in everyone.' In other words, the divine image is inalienable in every human being, but union with God is 'a union of likeness.'" As Hillebert points out, de Lubac is deploying here, in his account of mysticism, "a particular reading of the biblical creation narrative in which God created human beings in his image (εἰκών) in view of ultimately leading them to his likeness (ὁμοίωσις)."

This contrast introduces an eschatological and evangelical element into the ontological account. As Hillebert observes, while the fathers differed in how they contrasted image and likeness, they agreed that "the likeness can only be attained within the economy of God's salvific dealings with humanity." De Lubac picks up this point. He writes, "The divine resemblance is something to be realized through the action of the Holy Spirit, by man's dependence on the redeeming Incarnation."

Stepping back, we can see how de Lubac's use of the patristic contrast between image and likeness allowed him to position his views between intrinsicism and extrinsicism. Against extrinsicism, humans possess the image of God. Human nature is graced and connected to the supernatural. And yet, because of sin, human nature has lost its likeness to God. The economy of salvation is concerned with restoring this likeness. Thus, whereas image is ontological and creational, likeness is evangelical and eschatological. Nature is intrinsically graced (image), but the achievement of likeness demands repentance and conversion.

"the love of Hym was so strong whych He hath to our soule"

In Chapter 20 of Julian's Revelations, she turns back to a consideration of Christ's pains. We're still here with the eighth  showing, that of Christ's suffering and dying, which goes from Chapters 16-21. 

At the end of Chapter 20 Julian describes Christ's joy in undergoing the Passion.

And I, beholdyng al this be His grace, saw that the love of Hym was so strong whych He hath to our soule, that wilfully He ches it with gret desyr and myldly He suffrid it with wel payeyng. For the soule that beholdyth it thus, whan it is touchid be grace, he shal veryly se that the peynys of Crists passion passen al peynys; that is to sey, which peynys shal be turnyd into everlestyng passyng joyes by the vertue of Crists passion.

Translation:

And I, beholding all this by His grace, saw that the love of Him was so strong which He has toward our soul, that willingly He chose it with great desire, and meekly He suffered it with much satisfaction.

For the soul that beholds it thus, when it is touched by grace, it shall truly see that the pains of Christ's Passion surpass all pains; that is to say, which pains shall be turned into everlasting surpassing joys by the virtue of Christ's Passion.

The love of Christ was "so strong" "toward our soul" that he "willingly chose" the sufferings of the cross "with great desire" and "much satisfaction." 

We're put in mind here of Hebrews 12:2 which describes Jesus this way, "who for the joy that was set before him endured the cross." Hebrews doesn't explain why or how Christ felt joy when he suffered on the cross. Julian, though, fills in the critical piece. Christ felt joy in his suffering because "the love of Him was so strong which He has toward our soul, that willingly He chose it with great desire, and meekly He suffered it with much satisfaction." 

This will be a theme that Julian will return to:

Love was the reason.

In the last post we described Jordan Hillebert's reading of Henri de Lubac in his book Henri de Lubac and the Drama of Human Existence. Specifically, Hillebert argues that de Lubac did not endorse intrinsicism, the notion that nature is already and wholly graced. Rather, de Lubac attempted to navigate between intrinsicism and extrinsicism.

According to de Lubac, the integral connection between nature and grace is our natural desire for a supernatural end. This tips de Lubac toward intrinsicism. But de Lubac resists collapsing grace wholly into nature by describing how our natural desire for God is a longing born of lack. Human nature cannot, all on its own, actualize its supernatural finality. Our desire for God is born out of an ontological insufficiency. Our longing for God exists as a capacity for receptivity rather than potency.

But there is more to de Lubac's case against a totalizing intrinsicism. The issue isn't just about capacity and incapacity. There is also the question of our conscious posture toward God. Specifically, as the human person makes their way toward God, toward their supernatural end, there comes a moment in this journey where the person must confront their sin and God's call upon their life. There comes a moment of faith, conversion, confession, trust, and repentance. Otherwise, we stall, and sin keeps us from moving forward. For de Lubac, this is our confrontation with and passage through the cross. He writes, "it is the same for Humanity, taken as a whole, as for each individual...[We] cannot reach completion without...a turning around of the whole being, a mysterious passage through death, a revival and a recasting that are nothing other than the evangelical metanoia." 

When grace meets nature, writes de Lubac, there is a clash of realities: "Between sinful human nature and divine grace we have not only a dissimilarity, a heterogeneity between two orders of being, an infinite distance that man alone cannot bridge. There is an antagonism, violent conflict." He continues, "the call of grace is no longer an invitation to a simple 'elevation,'...in a more radical fashion it is a summons to a 'total upheaval,' to a 'conversion' (of the 'heart,' i.e., of all one's being)." We're reminded here of the evangelical message from Bonhoeffer's Cost of Discipleship: "When Christ calls a man, he bids him come and die."

The point here is that intrinsicism is resisted in two different ways, ontologically and evangelically. Ontologically, human nature cannot actualize, all on its own, its supernatural end. And evangelically, to reach its supernatural end, human nature must face and undergo a conversion. Reaching God requires metanoia, a decisive turning toward God.

As I mentioned at the end of the last post, in attempting to push back upon the extrinsicism he saw at work in "two-tiered" Thomism, de Lubac has generally been viewed as an apostle of intrinsicism, the view that nature is "always already" graced.

As we've noted in this series, such a view dispenses with soteriological understandings of grace and, consequently, much of the biblical narrative. The entire economy of salvation is set aside.

A related concern here is how intrinsicism seems to undermine our view of grace as a gratuitous, super-added gift. Simply put, if nature already has grace, then grace is no longer a gift that comes to nature as, to borrow from Tolkien, a eucatastrophic surprise. Relatedly, if nature is already graced, then nature has a power unto itself that it can actualize toward its supernatural end. Such a striving would marginalize our need for God's super-added help. We cannot get to God under our own power.

Insofar as de Lubac has been taken to be supportive of intrinsicism, these are the sorts of concerns that have been raised about his "natural desire for the supernatural." And in fact, as described by Jordan Hillebert, many modern readers of de Lubac read him as arguing for intrinsicism. But as Jordan Hillebert argues in his book Henri de Lubac and the Drama of Human Existence, this very influential reading of de Lubac isn't accurate.

According to Hillebert, and I find his analysis convincing, while de Lubac resisted extrinsicist accounts of grace, he did not fold grace wholly into nature. As Hillebert describes it, de Lubac articulated a "paradoxical" account that navigated between the reductive accounts of extrinsicism on the one side and intrinsicism on the other.

At the heart of this paradoxical account regarding the relationship between nature and grace is de Lubac's description of how the "natural desire for the supernatural" is a "longing born of lack." That is, our desire for God is born out of our ontological insufficiency. Human nature cannot, on its own, actualize its desire for its supernatural end. This tracks with how Thomas Aquinas described our longing for God: "The nature that can attain perfect good, although it needs help from without in order to attain it, is of more noble condition than a nature which cannot attain perfect good, but attains some imperfect good, although it need no help from without in order to attain it." That is to say, human nature cannot, on its own, realize its perfect good in God. Due to this ontological lack, human nature needs outside assistance, "help from without," in order for us to attain union with God. But this lack, this need for assistance, doesn't mean human nature is defective. While it needs outside help to achieve its good, human nature is "more noble" than animal natures that can achieve their natural ends without supernatural aid, simply because human destiny in God infinitely surpasses any purely earthly good. But the key point to observe here in Thomas is the notion that humans cannot achieve their perfect end without the participation of grace.

Again, Hillebert points out that, for de Lubac, our desire for God is "a longing born of lack," a restlessness for our supernatural end that we cannot satisfy on our own. As de Lubac observes, "The fact that the nature of spiritual being...is not conceived as an order destined to close in finally upon itself, but [is] in a sense open to an inevitably supernatural end, does not mean that it already has in itself, or as a part of its basis, the smallest positively supernatural element. It does not mean that this nature, 'as nature, and by nature' is elevated." The reason for this, again, is the ontological insufficiency of nature to realize a supernatural end. As de Lubac puts it, between nature and grace "the distance is as great, the difference is as radical, as that between non-being and being." While human nature is marked by the supernatural, this mark is, in its essence, a capacity for receptivity within nature rather than a power or potency. Nature is naturally ordered to and open to the supernatural, but it has to await the gift of grace.

In short, while we have a natural desire for the supernatural, it is a longing born of lack.

To recap, in his book Henri de Lubac and the Drama of Human Existence Jordan Hillebert describes two problematic views concerning the relationship between nature and grace. On the one side is extrinsicism, the view of a graceless nature, a nature devoid of grace. Extrinsicism is generally found in conservative Christian spaces and sits behind pessimistic views of “totally depraved” human nature. On the other side is intrinsicism, the view that nature is “always already” graced. Intrinsicism tends to be found in liberal and progressive Christian spaces, which promote a more optimistic view of human nature, a view so affirmational that we no longer need saving.

One way I have described the contrast between extrinsicism and intrinsicism is how creation theology and soteriology can be weighted against each other. According to extrinsicism, the fall caused creation to lose all contact with grace. Grace, therefore, has to come wholly from soteriology, a gift completely exterior to, outside of, beyond, and extrinsic from the fallen created order. Intrinsicism, by contrast, shifts grace toward creation. Existence simply is grace, wholly and completely. Creation does not need saving. Thus, soteriology becomes unnecessary. The work of Jesus, in this view, is simply to communicate to nature its graced and saved existence. Salvation becomes a form of enlightenment, a realization of one’s intrinsically graced existence.

When Henri de Lubac wrote Surnaturel, he was pushing back against the extrinsicism found within the reigning “two-tiered” Thomism in Catholic theological circles. At the time, this was a debate about how best to read Thomas Aquinas regarding the possibility of pure nature. It is a debate that continues to this day, largely because Thomas was not wholly consistent across his voluminous writings. For our purposes, however, we can set this debate aside. Our concern is how to think about the relationship between nature and grace, rather than how best to read the Angelic Doctor.

As I have described, in Surnaturel de Lubac rejected extrinsicism by arguing for an intrinsic and organic connection between nature and grace. The connection was our “natural desire for the supernatural.” 

The tricky part in this formulation is the notion of "natural desire." An extrinsicist view of our desire for God would hold that such a desire must be supernaturally implanted into nature from the outside. An example would be the Calvinist doctrine of election, in which God implants a desire for Himself into our hearts, wills, and minds. Thus, the desire for God is treated as a supernatural, super-added gift, something inserted into nature.

De Lubac, by contrast, says that the desire for God is natural. The desire for God is not implanted or inserted into nature at some later point, downstream of our coming into existence. Our desire for God is a constitutive part of our nature, an intrinsic endowment of our natural existence. Simply put, our desire for God does not have to be super-added to our nature, because it is already there.

As Jordan Hillebert points out, according to de Lubac, human nature, being spirit, simply is the desire for God. Because humans are spiritual beings, our desires are teleologically ordered toward a supernatural finality. This is simply what it means to exist as a spiritual being. The desire for God is, therefore, our nature. As Augustine put it, our hearts are restless until they rest in God. Or, as Thomas put it, “Final and perfect happiness can consist in nothing else than the vision of the Divine Essence.”

As you can see, de Lubac’s “natural desire for the supernatural” pushes back against the view that nature is wholly severed from relation to God. A longing for God is, rather, simply what it means to be human. Our desires are directed and ordered toward God. Our ultimate happiness and fulfillment can only be found in a supernatural end and finality.

But there are controversies here. As I noted above, a Calvinist would reject de Lubac’s view, arguing that the supernatural desire for God must be extrinsically implanted in fallen human nature. For my part, I reject the Calvinist view. I side with de Lubac, Augustine, and Thomas: humans have a natural longing for God, and as spiritual beings, human happiness can only be found in God. Human flourishing is ordered toward a supernatural end.

But the more pressing controversies concern the temptations we have observed in intrinsicist perspectives, the view that nature is “always already” graced. As Jordan Hillebert describes, de Lubac has often been regarded as a pioneer of modern intrinsicist theological developments. And because of this, de Lubac has been sharply criticized for allegedly undermining the view of grace as a gratuitous gift rather than as a “natural endowment.” For my purposes, these questions are the more pressing criticisms of de Lubac, so we will turn to them next.

In his book Henri de Lubac and the Drama of Human Existence, Jordan Hillebert describes Henri de Lubac's vision of the relation between nature and grace as an attempt to "avoid both the Scylla of extrinsicism and the Charybdis of intrinsicism."

In the last post, we described the problems with extrinsicism, the view of a "graceless nature." First, a vision of "pure nature" suggests that humans can flourish without God. Second, if nature lacks an intrinsic relation to grace, the supernatural arrives as a "kind of violence," negating or overriding, rather than perfecting, nature. Lastly, visions of "graceless nature" inevitably lead to dark and pessimistic views of human persons, people who are totally depraved.

But seeing nature as "always and already" graced has its own problems, a view Hillebert calls intrinsicism.

What do we mean by nature as "always and already" graced? Intrinsicism, says Hillebert, is the view that "human nature always already participates in the supernatural that fulfills it." In such a view, the "supernatural perfection of human being is no longer seen as coming 'from without' (exothen) but is rather envisaged as the culmination of a movement intrinsic to the (always already graced) dynamism of human existence."

Simply put, if nature is "always and already graced," then nature doesn't need saving "from the outside," from something beyond itself. In contrast to the pessimistic anthropologies associated with extrinsicism, intrinsicist views of human nature are optimistic. These are the views you tend to find in liberal and progressive Christian spaces, a baptized humanism that doesn't need salvation because human beings are "always and already graced" simply by being human. Crudely put, humans are saved just because they exist.

The problems with intrinsicism should be obvious. If everything is always and already graced, if everyone is already saved, then the entire economy of salvation history is set aside, and with it pretty much the whole of the biblical narrative. For Christianity is, as you know, a salvation religion. We're an Exodus and Easter people. The gospel of intrinsicism, by contrast, is a form of enlightenment, a gnostic religion, a journey of discovering and recognizing your always and already graced and Christ-like nature.

Intrinsicism is why many liberal and progressive Christians abandon the gospel for the affirmational, exchanging salvation for gnosticism. The drama of salvation is replaced with a psychology of awakening. The cross becomes unnecessary. To say nothing about the cosmic vindication of justice. What remains is a therapeutic spirituality that celebrates human potential while ignoring the uncomfortable truth that humanity is in need of saving.

And beyond the moral there is also the ontological predicament of finitude, death and our drift into non-existence. Waxing romantic about finite existence being "always and already graced" will come as a shock to those who experience the desolations of death and decay. Such rosy optimism is quickly dispelled by a walk through an emergency room, a cancer ward, or senior care facility. There is much in nature and the created order that is blessed and good—I like sunsets as much as anyone—but I also await the eucatastrophe.

"in whych God assignyth no blame"

As I said last Friday, we're staying in Chapter 19 of Julian's Revelations this week because I want to draw attention to Julian's first description of her distinctive anthropology. 

Recall from last week Julian is tempted to look away from the cross toward heaven. But Julian resists this temptation by choosing Jesus as her heaven. She then concludes Chapter 19 with a reflection upon this temptation, the struggle between her flesh (which wanted to escape the suffering of cross) and her soul (which chose Jesus, who is on the cross, as her heaven). And in describing this relation between her flesh and soul Julian begins to unfold her antropological vision:

Thus was I lerid to chose Jesus to my Hevyn, whome I saw only in payne at that tyme. Me lekyd no other Hevyn than Jesus, which shal be my blisse whan I come there, and this hath ever be a comfort to me, that I chase Jesus to my Hevyn be His grace in al this tyme of passion and sorow. And that hat be a lernyng to me that I should evermor done so - chesyn only Jesus to my Hevyn in wele and wo. And thow I as a wretch had repentid me - I sayd aforn if I had wiste what peyne it had be, me had be loth to have prayed - here saw I sothly that it was grutching and darning of the flesh without assent of the soule, in whych God assignyth no blame. Repenting and wilful choys be two contrarys which I felte both in one at that tyme, and tho be two parties, that one outward, that other inward. The outeward party is our dedely fleshede which is now in peyne and wo, and shal be in this life, whereof I felt mech in this tyme, and that party was that repentid. The inward party is an high blisfull life, which is al in pece and in love, and this was more privily felte, and this party is in which, mightyly, wysly, and wilfully, I chase Jesus to my Hevyn. And in this I saw sothly that the inward party is master and soverayn to the outeward, and not charging ne takyng hede to the will of that, but al the entent and will is sett endlesly to be onyd into our Lord Jesus. That the outeward part should draw the inward to assent was not shewid to me, but that the inward drawith the outeward by grace and bothe shal be onyd in blisse without end be the vertue of Criste - this was shewid. 

Translation:

Thus I learned to choose Jesus as my Heaven, whom I saw only in pain at that time. I liked no other Heaven than Jesus, which shall be my bliss when I come there, and this has ever been a comfort to me, that I chose Jesus to be my Heaven by his grace in all this time of passion and sorrow.

And that is something I learned, that I should evermore do so — choosing only Jesus to be my Heaven in well and woe.

And though I, as a wretch, had repented me — I said before, if I had known what pain it had been, I would have been loath to have prayed — here saw I truly that it was grumbling and dreading of the flesh without assent of the soul, in which God assigns no blame.

Repenting and willing choice are two contraries, which I felt both in one at that time, and they are two parties, the one outward, the other inward.

The outward party is our deadly flesh, which is now in pain and woe, and shall be in this life, whereof I felt much in this time, and that party was that which repented.

The inward party is a high, blissful life, which is all in peace and in love, and this was more privately felt, and this party is in which, mightily, wisely, and willingly, I chose Jesus to be my Heaven.

And in this I saw truly that the inward party is master and sovereign to the outward, and not charging nor taking heed to the will of that, but all the intent and will is set endlessly to be united into our Lord Jesus.

That the outward part should draw the inward to assent was not shown to me, but that the inward draws the outward by grace, and both shall be united in bliss without end by the virtue of Christ — this was shown.

Going forward, Julian will have much more to say about the "inward part" of the soul and its relation to the "outward part" of the flesh. In this life, as Julian points out, these parts come into conflict. But through the grace of God the inward part will, one day, draw the outward part into a blissful union. There will come a harmony.

But the thing I want to draw your attention to is Julian's observation that God "assigns no blame" to the soul. This seems to be because the soul does not "assent" to what the flesh is feeling and doing. The soul exists apart from the flesh in a "high, blissful life, which is all in peace and in love." 

Julian seems to be echoing Paul's description of the conflict between spirit and flesh in Romans 7. 

For we know that the law is spiritual, but I am of the flesh, sold as a slave under sin. For I do not understand what I am doing, because I do not practice what I want to do, but I do what I hate. Now if I do what I do not want to do, I agree with the law that it is good. So now I am no longer the one doing it, but it is sin living in me. For I know that nothing good lives in me, that is, in my flesh. For the desire to do what is good is with me, but there is no ability to do it. For I do not do the good that I want to do, but I practice the evil that I do not want to do. Now if I do what I do not want, I am no longer the one that does it, but it is the sin that lives in me. 

Notice a couple of things here. Because Paul doesn’t inwardly assent to his sinful actions then Paul isn’t the one sinning. He says this clearly: “Now if I do what I do not want, I am no longer the one that does it.” Got that? I sin, but I am not the one doing it. Julian seems to adopt this idea. Because the innermost self does not consent to sin the soul is blameless before God.

About this blamelessness Julian will have much more to say.