What do you think?
Rate this book


232 pages, Hardcover
First published September 24, 2019
Hart’s question how could a good God (“the Good itself”) be rejected by man—insofar as “to see the good and know it truly is to desire it insatiably” (p. 79) finds a surprising answer by one of Hart’s intellectual allies, Origen. Origen’s answer is boredom (κόρος, De Principiis, II, 8.2). The answer is surprising because it is neither ontological or epistemological—the only two possibilities for Greek metaphysics grounded upon the twin pillars of knowledge and being. Rather the answer is—recalling that Origen’s boredom is what we would call today ennui—existential. Indeed, Origen seems to warn Hart that, even if you know the good and even if you desire it, you could still reject it, for man can do and often does what he doesn’t want and therefore he does not have to follow what he desires (see Romans 7:15-20). . . .
Neither opprobrium nor approbation is always explained. In certain instances, the reasons of Hart's pronouncements are entirely mystifying as, for example, when the author declares Gregory of Nyssa to be the “more comprehensive, more coherent,” and “more rigorously faithful” reader of the New Testament than any other exegete of the Scriptures. Or, even more so, when the author assures us that the New Testament, “read in light of the proper tradition,” contains nothing that would support the notion of an eternal hell. One is left to wonder which mortal can claim for himself that extraordinary authority (historically restricted only to synodal proclamations of the Church) of knowing the proper and improper readings of the Scriptures and so to be able to judge which of the Church Fathers read it faithfully or not? And yet, is the author himself a faithful reader of those classical texts that he invokes in support of his arguments? . . .
Even though Hart is convinced that all shall be saved and, therefore, there is no hell, he graciously entertains the possibility of some kind of hell, but only on the condition that such a hell should not be understood as eternal. As Hart explains, the Greek adjective aionios comes from aeon which, in its classical Greek understanding, does not signify what we understand today as “eternity” and, thus, to translate aionios as “eternal” is misleading. . . . the author concludes that an aeon “persists only so long,” and that it is possible to conceive that “one heavenly Age will succeed another.” What such a succession of aeons, however, would be if not a form of change—that is, that very characteristic which is supposed to differentiate it from chronos?
. . . Hart fails to raise that single most important question upon which the entire discussion of eschatology rests (as he himself, unknowingly perhaps, admits), namely the question of protology. Why is there any difference between temporal or historical time, between the end and the beginning? That is, why is there time? David Bentley Hart’s God, who rushes to proclaim that all is good now, that we all shall be saved, and who, in his unfathomable generosity, has decided not to punish us anymore, is a God who does too little too late. Am I supposed to burst in praise for that God because he doesn’t punish me in eternity after he has punished me, or allowed me to be punished, in life? Why doesn’t God save us all at the beginning? Why didn’t he confer upon us whatever perfection eschatological salvation implies when he created us? Why the wait, God? It is usually at this point that one begins to mumble the trite excuse of human freedom, agency, and free will. But Hart does not allow us recourse to this, as he writes, “God can so order all conditions, circumstances, and contingencies among created things as to bring about everything he wills for his creatures while still not in any way violating the autonomy of secondary causality...including free will.” If he could, and he is not impeded by anything, he ought to have already done so.