Hooker in the Bedroom? Law, Liberty, and Things Indifferent

Reformed evangelical pastor Mark Driscoll recently sent shockwaves through the evangelical world with the publication of his book Real Marriage.  Of course, sending shockwaves is what Driscoll does best, and most often, the scandals have something to do with unapologetic exaltation of masculinity and politically incorrect pronouncements on gender roles—he’s too much of a fundamentalist, in short.  But this time around, much of the scandal was about libertinism, not fundamentalism.  The chief culprit was chapter 10 of the book, “Can We ____?” in which the Driscolls (he co-wrote the book with his wife) methodically and unblushingly work their way through a range of sexual practices and ask whether or not they are appropriate within a Christian marriage.

They begin by proposing to use 1 Corinthians 6:12 as a rubric: “All things are lawful for me, but all things are not helpful.  All things are lawful for me, but I will not be brought under the power of any.”  From this, they propose a threefold rubric for Christian sexual morality: 1) Is it lawful?^[1] 2) Is it helpful? 3) Is it enslaving?

They answer the first question by determining whether either Scripture or the laws of your country anywhere explicitly prohibit a practice.  If not, it’s OK in principle.^[2]  Of course, while they are happy to take biblical silence as a rubber-stamp, they are also eager to find some kind of Biblical precedent whenever possible, to prove that it’s permitted.^[3]  By mining for precedents and contenting themselves with silence when they aren’t available, they determine that almost anything within the bounds of a heterosexual marriage is fair game in principle, and it’s up to each couple to decide whether they find that it works for them.  Without going into the dirty details, this leaves them with a much more permissive posture than most conservative Christians are happy with.^[4]

Certainly, they are right to stress Christian liberty and the criterion of mutual helpfulness in the case of those things that are lawful.  But how do we determine what is “lawful,” or what is, in the terminology of the Reformation, adiaphora, “indifferent”—neither forbidden nor required?

The Driscolls’ difficulty on this point is one endemic to North American Christianity, exhibiting the unstable polarity of moral law and Christian liberty in much American fundamentalism and evangelicalism.

From the outside, these two groups are often confused with one another, and yet they view one another with considerable hostility—with evangelicals seeing fundamentalists as legalistic, and fundamentalists seeing evangelicals as loosey-goosey and libertine.  Both sides of this polarity, I will suggest, stem from the same root pathology, which is often called “biblicism”—the determination to use nothing but Scripture (and usually a highly literal reading of it) in framing their worldview.  But we might summarize the difference between these two groups as one between an emphasis on the Biblical center or its periphery.  Evangelicals tend to focus on the basic proclamation of the Gospel—Jesus, the cross, the call for repentance, the promise of individual salvation, etc.—but to the point of marginalizing or dismissing all other issues as unimportant and not worth getting hung up about.  This includes the realm of ethics, where evangelicals tend to loudly sound the theme of Christian liberty—“all things are lawful”—and to be exceedingly sensitive to the spectre of legalism.  Sure, they have a few hard-and-fast boundaries—adultery, abortion, and homosexuality being the main ones—but beyond these, they have little interest in drawing ethical lines that might distract from the gracious, no-strings-attached gospel.  Evangelicals, in short, are strong on the center but weak on the periphery.

Fundamentalists, on the other hand, fearful of how readily the Christian identity can be lost in a hostile culture, have felt the need to erect a large network of bulwarks, defining with increasing precision the lines that Christians must not cross in order to be faithful followers of Christ.  An insistent Biblical literalism serves them in this task, as they isolate moral commands and warnings throughout Scripture and draw them up into a new law code of sorts.^[5]  Fundamentalists, then, are strong on the periphery but weak on the center.

With regard to the moral life, therefore, these two groups are both the heirs, in different ways, of the Reformation doctrine of Christian liberty.  This states that Christians, having been justified by faith, can stand before God confidently liberated from any law-righteousness, so that their consciences cannot be bound in adiaphora, or “things indifferent,” that is, things neither required nor forbidden by God.^[6]  Both in the sixteenth century and among modern evangelicals, this doctrine could be misunderstood to imply a kind of antinomianism.  After all, if justification by faith is all  that is necessary, as the early Luther seemed to say, then perhaps everything else—the whole realm of ethics—can be considered indifferent.^[7]  However, fundamentalism too can trace its roots to the Christian liberty doctrine, believe it or not.  For we might say rather that Scripture determines adiaphora—whatsoever is not required nor forbidden in Scripture is indifferent.

Once we have said this, a troubling twist is possible, one that particularly took form among certain English Puritans.  The Puritans were, in contrast to Luther, quite interested in merely external actions, and were eager to make sure that Scripture is scrupulously followed in them.  With this as their focus, and Scripture as their only rule of moral action, these Puritans felt compelled to make Scripture speak on matters of clear moral importance on which Scripture appears to be silent, subjecting it to interrogation until it yielded an ethical answer.  In some cases, this could mean going so far as to insist that Scripture must explicitly permit something (rather than merely not forbidding it) in order for it to be considered indifferent.  So, for instance, Thomas Cartwright would argue that the observance of saints’ days could not be considered adiaphora without clear Scriptural permission; as it is, we must assume that God, by commanding one day in seven’s rest, meant thereby to preclude any other days of rest or liturgical celebration.^[8]

Now, rightly qualified, both definitions of adiaphora we have seen here— “not necessary for salvation” or “not commanded or forbidden in Scripture”—clearly have a legitimate place in a Protestant ethics; the danger is that they can be invoked in a totalizing way, mistaking “indifference” within a particular context for ethical indifference generally, and leaving out of consideration the other criteria that might establish the rightness or wrongness of an action.

It was this, I suggest, that Richard Hooker observed in the Puritans of his day, simultaneously critiquing their legalism and libertinism.^[9]  Hooker’s extensive engagement with the concept of adiaphora in his Lawes of Ecclesiasticall Politie, and his systematic account of the basis of moral and political law, invite us to differentiate between three different contexts for the term adiaphora: moral, epistemological, and soteriological.

First, we could use this concept in the context of moral philosophy, to determine what sorts of human actions were intrinsically good or evil, which were good or evil depending on intention, circumstance, and object, and which were absolutely indifferent considered in themselves.  One might also distinguish between actions so good that we are morally obliged to perform them, and goods that are merely recommended, not required, treating the latter as in some sense adiaphorous.  (This distinction, with its sense of “things necessary” and “things accessory,” can, in a theological context, relate to the soteriological dimensions to be explored below.)

Second, the Christian can use the concept in an epistemological context, to distinguish how we know right and wrong: between those things we know to be right and wrong by virtue of special revelation, and those which we do not.  Where Scripture commands or forbids, we have direct knowledge of the good and are obliged to act accordingly; where Scripture does not speak, however, the good has been left underdetermined, and it is up to us to discern and apply it as we see fit.  Of course, we may be aided in this discernment by natural law or other sources of moral authority, but from the standpoint of special revelation at least we can speak of “indifference.”  Obviously, this second sense only partially overlaps with the first sense, as many actions otherwise morally indifferent are commanded or forbidden in Scripture (particularly in the ceremonial code of the Old Testament), and indeed, many things Scripturally indifferent are not necessarily morally indifferent.

Finally, for the Reformers, the concept of adiaphora played a specifically soteriological role.  Following from Luther’s assertion of justification by faith, and of the “two kingdoms” of Christian existence, Protestant theologians could distinguish between the salvific “spiritual kingdom” of Christian existence coram Deo and the indifferent “temporal kingdom” coram hominibus.  The former contained those things “necessary to salvation”; the latter contained those things “accessory to salvation” and thus ultimately indifferent for a Christian soul.^[10]  Again, important as this way of putting things was for supporting the Protestant edifice of justification by faith, it sat somewhat uncomfortably with the other dimensions of the adiaphora concept.  After all, lying to your brother may not exclude you from salvation, but that doesn’t make it morally indifferent (or Scripturally indifferent, for that matter); and though feeding the hungry cannot win heaven for you, there is still moral virtue in such a deed (and indeed, it is Scripturally commanded).

Clearly, these three are distinct, and yet Protestants were not always careful to preserve these distinctions.  If we make too much of the Scriptural criterion of indifference, as some Puritans did, and allow it to eclipse the moral criterion, then Scripture becomes the only rule to determine the moral goodness of an action—as Hooker summarizes, “That the Scripture of God is in such sort the rule of humaine actions, that simply whatsoever we doe, and are not by it directed thereunto, the same is sinne” (LEP II.1.1).^[11]  By virtue of this confusion, Scripture alone was deemed sufficient for the moral and political life; there was no need for any other moral-philosophical criterion of good or evil.  Indirectly, this Puritan emphasis also tended to obscure the soteriological dimension, so that now matters formerly considered “accessory,” such as church polity, were taken to be commanded in Scripture and therefore morally obligatory, and thus “matters of faith and salvation.”  This has its analogy in the modern fundamentalist who cannot but worry about the eternal destiny of anyone who smokes or drinks.

Alternatively, in the sixteenth century, those who made too much of the soteriological criterion, such as some of the Puritans’ conformist interlocutors, found themselves advocating a sort of quietism and fatalism. If only a very few things were necessary to salvation, then everything else was essentially free for human authority to devise as it thought best—even where Scripture addressed other subjects, its commands were not to be taken as permanently binding, since these matters were adiaphorous and changeable.^[12]  So Tudor apologist Thomas Starkey could argue that that the English people should concern themselves with little more than the Apostles’ Creed; whatever else the authorities might see fit to legislate for the Church of England, subjects should happily accept.^[13]  Nowadays, of course, we are more likely to say that since these matters are adiaphorous and changeable, no human authority should worry about making any rules for them—every man should do what is right in his own eyes.

Hooker accordingly attempts to distinguish these three conceptions rightly, and to synthesize them within an overarching account of the proper role of Scripture in moral theology.

While remaining thoroughly within the Protestant consensus of sola Scriptura, he denied that Scripture was the only rule for any kind of moral action.  Hooker first of all seeks to clarify the basis for epistemological indifference, repudiating the Puritans’ tendency to argue that it is not enough for Scripture to be silent about something for it to be indifferent, but that Scripture must explicitly permit it: “it is not the Scripture’s setting downe such things as indifferent, but their not setting down as necessarie that doth make them to be indifferent” (LEP II.4.5).  Moreover, he ridicules the Puritan determination to wring moral guidance out of Scripture, whether or not it appeared to offer any:

As for those mervelous discourses wherby they adventure to argue that God must needs have done the thing which they imagine was to be done, I must confesse I have often wondered at their exceeding boldnes herein.  When the question is whether God have delivered in scripture (as they affirme he hath) a complet particular immutable forme of Church-politie, why take they that other both presumptuous and superfluous labour to prove he should have done it, there being no way in this case to prove the deede of God saving only by producing that evidence wherein he hath done it? (III.11.21)

Sometimes Scripture just doesn’t tell us, says Hooker, and that is fine.  It is fine because this Scriptural silence need not imply moral indifference.  “All actions of men endued with the use of reason are generallie eyther good or evill,” he says, critiquing the Puritan restriction of the criterion of moral goodness to the criterion of Scriptural command.  Instead, he suggests that natural reason can judge moral action:

Wherefore the naturall measure wherby to judge our doings, is the sentence of reason, determining and setting downe what is good to be done.  Which sentence is either mandatory, shewing what must be doone; or els permissive, declaring onely what may bee done; or thirdly admonitorie, opening what is the most convenient for us to doe. (I.8.8)

The first operates when there is absolute good on one side, evil on the other; the second when among diverse evils, we must choose the least; the third when among diverse goods, we must choose which is best.  Although this realm of natural reason is not detached from Scripture, and Hooker will go on to assert that “The scripture is fraught even with lawes of nature” (I.12.1), he will continue to insist they do not gain their moral authority from the fact that they are in Scripture, but have it antecedently by virtue of creation.

How then does this not detract from the authority of Scripture?  Why is it that Scripture should provide thorough direction on some matters, and leave others to our discretion?  This answer involves bringing in the soteriological criterion.

Hooker repeatedly insists against the Puritans on “the sufficiencie of scripture unto the end for which it was instituted.”  Although Scripture contains many things, “the principal intent of scripture is to deliver the lawes of duties supernaturall” (I.14.1), which he goes on to define as things “necessary to salvation.”  After a series of arguments rebutting the Puritans’ over-large construal of the scope of Scriptural authority, he turns to offer a systematic “declaration what the truth is in this matter,” synthesizing the moral-philosophical, epistemological, and soteriological elements of adiaphora.

Having established that “all actions of men indued with the use of reason are generally either good or evill,” he proceeds to outline three different kinds of morally good action.  First, although all actions are in some sense either good are evil, there are some things that are almost absolutely indifferent: “Some things are good, yet in so meane a degree of goodnes, that men are only not disproved or disalowed of God for them. . . . In actions of this sorte the very light of nature alone may discover that which is so far forth in the sight of God allowable” (II.8.2).  These are adiaphorous in the epistemological and soteriological senses, and speaking loosely, even in the moral sense.  On the other extreme,

Some thinges in such sorte are allowed that they be also required as necessarie unto salvation, by way of direct immediate and proper necessitie finall, so that without performance of them we cannot by ordinarie course be saved. . . . In actions of this kinde our cheifest direction is from scripture, for nature is no sufficient teacher what we shoulde doe that we may attaine unto life everlasting. (II.8.3)

Things in this second category are not adiaphorous in any sense.  But in between these two fall the majority of moral choices we must make:

Finally some things although not so required of necessitie that to leave them undone excludeth from salvation, are notwithstanding of so great dignitie and acceptation with God, that most ample reward in heaven is laid up for them.  [As an example, he gives the sharing of possessions in Acts 2-4.]  Hereof wee have no commandement either in nature or scripture which doth exact them at our handes: yet those motives there are in both which drawe most effectually our mindes unto them (II.8.4).

Things in this third category are adiaphorous soteriologically, certainly not adiaphorous morally, and may or may not be adiaphorous epistemologically—Scripture may well speak of them, but with more provisionality and less perspicuity.

The soteriological criterion is decisive, then, for Hooker, for it provides for us a hermeneutic of how to approach Scripture.  In the second category, then, Scripture is completely and solely authoritative and sufficient.  If anything is necessary for salvation, we may be sure that it is included in Scripture, and indeed, must be included in Scripture, and reason will play no more than an instrumental role.  But there are many things useful for ordering the Church and our Christian lives of which Scripture tells us nothing clearly, and there are many things within Scripture that, while important, are not indispensable or universally binding to us.  These matters of the first and third categories are matters “accessorie unto salvation”—these are natural, not supernatural duties, and thus there is no reason why we may not here be guided by nature’s law, “which is an infallible knowledge imprinted in the mindes of all the children of men, whereby both generall principles for directing of humaine actions are comprehended, and conclusions derived from them, upon which conclusions groweth in particularitie the choise of good and evill in the daylie affaires of this life.” (II.8.6).  We may well be able to deduce these duties from Scripture, but we need not always attempt to, since such is the law of nature’s harmony with Scripture^[14] that if our actions are framed in accordance with the former, we may be sure that they “may be deduced by some kind of consequence” (II.1.2) from Scripture.  In such cases, Scripture can alert us if reason has led us astray, but it will not always provide us with an obvious answer.

Hooker thus invites us simultaneously to an appropriate evangelical minimalism, drawing our focus back to the gracious heart of the Gospel, and a robust but flexible Biblical maximalism, recognizing Scripture’s value as a storehouse of divine wisdom which He invites us to make use of in many areas of life.  On the one hand, he reminds us that redemption in Christ is the heart of Scripture, and that this is what is necessary, what is unchangeable, and here we may trust Scripture to speak to us clearly and adequately.  Beyond this, we should not necessarily expect a clear Scriptural answer to our questions, and should be willing to be flexible, and apply our rational discernment of the natural law to guide us.  On the other hand, it does still matter what we do in this realm of “things indifferent,” and we should eagerly seek to use our Christian freedom to pursue excellence in all areas of moral concern.  Since Hooker considers Scripture to be completely harmonious with the natural law, this will mean following out the implications of Scripture through a process of holistic moral reasoning informed by nature, rather than treating it merely as a compendium of moral rules.

To bring us back to where we began, the problem in the Driscolls’ reasoning is the hidden assumption in the question, “Is it lawful?”  Another Reformed evangelical leader, Douglas Wilson, identifies the problem for us, writing in response to Driscoll, “There are more words that we have to use in our evaluation than lawful, helpful, or enslaving. We should also consider natural, unnatural, honorable, dishonorable, shameful, and so on. . . . we need to have a hermeneutic of nature.”^[15]  Driscoll can think only in terms of positive law—human law or else divine law.  If neither the magistrate nor God has seen fit to prohibit it, then it must be lawful.  This does not follow for Hooker.   The legalist seeks to compensate for God’s silence by inventing his own rules and attempting to give them the force of divine sanction.  The libertine takes God’s silence as guaranteeing divine sanction for whatever he or she chooses to do.   But the godly Christian takes this silence as a summons, a summons to exercise judgment—fallible, human judgment, but judgment that does not take place in a void, for God has not been silent.  Prior to the promulgation of either divine law or human law, God has imbued us with a natural law, according to which we can judge some actions to be harmful and improper even without the express revelation of Scripture.

This abiding moral law does not neuter Christian liberty.  It does not mean that it is pointless or meaningless to designate something adiaphorous.  Far from it.  If something is adiaphorous, in the crucial soteriological sense that Hooker has privileged, this does liberate us.^[16]  It liberates our conscience from a burden of fear, since it means that if we do our best in good conscience, we are not condemned just because we decided wrong.  It liberates us from the burden of inflexibility, since it means that we recognise our judgments are provisional, and we can respect differing conclusions that other conscientious Christians may reach.  It liberates from the burden of ultimacy, since we know that there are often much more urgent serious and urgent matters that demand our moral attention and action, and if tending to these means we neglect the lesser matters, that’s OK.   But God’s “silence” on adiaphora is also an invitation to get to work—not burdened by fear, but empowered by love—and to seek what is good and acceptable and perfect.