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Forgiveness and Atonement Christ s Restorative Sacrifice
1st Edition Jonathan Curtis Rutledge Digital Instant
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Author(s): Jonathan Curtis Rutledge
ISBN(s): 9780367754778, 0367754770
Edition: 1
File Details: PDF, 18.56 MB
Year: 2022
Language: english
Routledge Studies in Analytic and Systematic Theology
FORGIVENESS AND ATONEMENT

CHRIST’S RESTORATIVE SACRIFICE
Jonathan C. Rutledge
“Millions of words have been devoted to analyzing the nature of for-
giveness; even more words have been devoted to offering an account of
the atonement that the New Testament declares to have been effected by
the life, death and resurrection of Jesus Christ. Anyone who undertakes
to add his own words to those millions must have something new to say
on these topics. Jonathan Rutledge does indeed have something new
to say; and he says it with lucid prose and compelling argumentation,
backed up by astounding acquaintance with the relevant interdiscipli-
nary literature.”
Nicholas Wolterstorff,
Yale University, USA
Forgiveness and Atonement
This book analyzes the relationship between forgiveness, atonement,

and reconciliation from a Christian theological perspective. Drawing on
both theological and philosophical literature, it addresses the problem of
whether atonement is required for forgiveness and considers important
related concepts such as sin and justice. The author develops a sacrificial
model of atonement that connects an understanding of Christian forgive-
ness with the biblical narrative of Christ’s sacrifice and makes reconciliation
between God and humanity possible. Offering a fresh and coherent argu-
ment, the book will be relevant to scholars of Christian theology, biblical
studies, and the philosophy of religion.
Jonathan C. Rutledge is a Research Fellow in the Center for Philosophy of

Religion at the University of Notre Dame, USA, and previously held a Post-
doctoral Research Fellowship at the Logos Institute for Analytic and Exeget-
ical Theology, University of St Andrews, UK. He has a Ph.D. in philosophy
from the University of Oklahoma and in divinity from the University of St
Andrews.
Routledge Studies in Analytic and Systematic Theology
Series editors: James Turner, Thomas McCall and
Jordan Wessling
Impeccability and Temptation

Understanding Christ’s Divine and Human Will
Edited by Johannes Grössl and Klaus von Stosch

Christ’s Restorative Sacrifice
For more information about this series, please visit: https://www.routledge.

com/Routledge-Studies-in-Analytic-and-Systematic-Theology/book-series/
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Christ’s Restorative Sacrifice
First published 2022
by Routledge
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Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa
business
© 2022 Jonathan C. Rutledge
The right of Jonathan C. Rutledge to be identified as author of this
work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or
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Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks
or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and
explanation without intent to infringe.
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
A catalog record for this title has been requested
ISBN: 978-0-367-74218-8 (hbk)

ISBN: 978-0-367-75479-2 (pbk)
ISBN: 978-0-367-75477-8 (ebk)
DOI: 10.4324/9780367754778
Typeset in Times New Roman

by KnowledgeWorks Global Ltd.
To Bethany, who I love and to whom I am ever
grateful.
Contents
Acknowledgmentsxii
Copyright Notexv
Introduction 1
Where Is Atonement in the Prodigal Son? 1
Reconciliation, Forgiveness, and Atonement 1
The Shape of the Project 3
Notes 4
Bibliography 4
1 Value-Driven Inquiry and Exegetically Engaged Analytic Theology 5

Can There Be Progress in Theology? 5
Value-Driven Inquiry in the Context of Theology 5
Analytic Theology as a Research Program 7
A Taxonomy of Value 8
The Value of Forgiveness 13
Theorizing Via the Deliverances of Intuition and Scripture 16
Reflective Equilibrium 18
Conclusion 20
Notes 21
Bibliography 23
2 Original Sin and the Biblical Witness Concerning Forgiveness 25

Introduction 25
Grace vs. Nature, the Fall, and the Noetic Effects of Sin 26
Scripture and the Nature of Forgiveness 31
Conclusion 53
Notes 53
Bibliography 58
x Contents
3 Forgiveness: A Christian Account 62
Introduction 62
The Context of Forgiveness 63
What Forgiveness Is Not 65
Philosophical Desiderata for a Definition of Forgiveness 68
The Many Definitions of Forgiveness 71
Functional Forgiveness 78
Some Final Thoughts on Functional Forgiveness 86
Notes 88
Bibliography 90
4 The Problem of Sin for Humanity and Its Members 94

Introduction 94
At-One-Ment: On Models, Mechanisms, and the Deposit
of Faith 95
The Logic of Reconciliation 97
The Problem of Sin 99
Some Reflections from the History of Hamartiology:
Mansfeld 103
Conclusion 105
Notes 105
Bibliography 107
5 Retribution and Restoration in the Narrative of Scripture 109

Introduction 109
Anselm: Assessing Retributive Satisfaction 110
Retributivism: Philosophical Considerations 112
Scripture: On the Hope for Restoration 116
Conclusion 128
Notes 129
Bibliography 133
6 On Non-Retributive Penal Substitution 136

Introduction 136
Penal Substitution – On the Definition of Punishment 137
On Non-Retributive Rationales for Punishment 142
Penal Substitution – A Restorative Model 146
Conclusion 156
Notes 157
Bibliography 160
Contents xi
7 What Should We Expect from an Explanation of Atonement? 163
Introduction 163
Explanations of Varying Strength 164
Evaluating Penal Substitution Explanations 167
Stories, Substitution, and Sacrifice 172
Notes 173
Bibliography 174
8 For Us, an Atoning Sacrifice 176

Introduction 176
The Elements of Hebraic Sacrifice 178
The Problem of Sin: A Redux 181
Connecting Sin and Sacrifice: Yom Kippur 182
Connecting Cross and the Covenant: Passover 187
Connecting the Flight of the Goat to Forgiveness: The Yom
Kippur Scapegoat 192
Notes 194
Bibliography 198
9 Forgiveness and Atonement: The Expanded Sacrificial Account 201

Introduction 201
What Is Left Undone 201
Expanding the Illustrative Sacrificial Explanation: Defeat
and Interpersonal Forgiveness 204
Conclusion 209
Notes 209
Bibliography 210
Index 212
Acknowledgments
Few things are truly as satisfying and enjoyable as reflecting on the many
and various people without whom this project might never have come to
fruition. Indeed, no academic endeavor truly materializes without accruing
an unrepayable debt to the community of scholars and non-scholars whose
insight and encouragement have been generously given. I beg the forgive-
ness of anyone whose name has eluded my memory, but I am grateful to
my colleagues (both students and faculty) at the University of St Andrews,
especially Michael Anderson, Robyn Boere, Katrin Bosse, Max Botner,
Katelynn Carver, Joel Clarkson, Joy Clarkson, George Corbett, Graydon
Cress, Rebekah Earnshaw, Caleb Froehlich, Euan Grant, Stephen Holmes,
Ethan Johnson, Karen McClain Kiefer, Ethan Knudsen, Tamara Knudsen,
T. J. Lang, King-Ho Leung, Jared Michelson, Madhavi Nevader, John Perry,
David Rathel, Christoph Schwöbel, Elizabeth Shively, Brett Speakman,
David Westfall, Matthew Wiseman, and Judith Wolfe.
Moreover, I’d like to single out David Moffitt for his exceptional patience
and generosity with me. Discussions with him over his work on the book of
Hebrews fundamentally redirected my project in its early stages and opened
my mind to thinking about Christ’s sacrifice in utterly new (i.e., new for me)
ways. Without his input, this would have been a very different book.
Throughout my writing and research, I have also had the opportunity
to interact with a wide range of scholars across philosophy, biblical stud-
ies, theology, and even a few sciences. I owe a great debt to such persons
as William J. Abraham, James Arcadi, Alex Arnold, Max Baker-Hytch,
Richard Bauckham, Jc Beall, Mike Beaty, Jeremy Begbie, Jewelle Bickel,
Joshua Blander, Sarah Broadie, Jessica Brown, Harry Bunting, Todd Buras,
Sarah Coakley, Aaron Cotnoir, William Lane Craig, Mike DeVito, Joshua
Farris, Kate Finley, Greg Ganssle, Simon Gathercole, Liz Gulliford, S.
Mark Hamilton, Layne Hancock, Scott Harrower, Bob Hartman, Richard
Hays, Yoram Hazony, Erin Heim, Daniel Hill, Liz Jackson, Malcolm
Jeeves, Alan Jones, Rob Koons, Jonathan Kvanvig, Lindsey Root Luna,
Blake McAllister, Derek McAllister, Tyler McNabb, Calum Miller, Hans
Moscicke, Mark Murphy, Gary Osmundsen, Meghan Page, Michelle
Acknowledgments xiii
Panchuk, Adam Pelser, Andrew Picard, Eric Priest, Burke Rea, Brandon
Rickabaugh, Joshua Seachris, Kegan Shaw, Wes Skolits, Ali Thornton,
Kevin Timpe, Greg Trickett, Greta Turnbull, JT Turner, Chris Tweedt,
Kevin Vanhoozer, Jordan Wessling, Andrea White, Ali Watson, Nicholas
Wolterstorff, David Worsely, Bill Wood, and Chris Woznicki.
Moreover, I spent the past several years on the beautiful greens of
St Andrews working with the Logos Institute for Analytic & Exegetical
Theology, an opportunity made possible by the generous support of the
Templeton Religion Trust. While there, I benefitted from outstanding col-
leagues whose friendships I deeply cherish. They include Justin Barrett,
David Bennett, Bruce Benson, Ryan Bollier, Katarina Bradford, Dennis
Bray, Vi Bui, Harvey Cawdron, Huan Yang Chang, Kevin Chow, Joshua
Cockayne, Hannah Craven, Scott Currie, Kevin Diller, Annie Dimond,
Justin Duff, C. Stephen Evans, Andy Everhart, Parker Haratine, Preston
Hill, Hannah James, Madeline Jackson, Dru Johnson, Matthew Joss,
Derek King, Kimberley Kroll, Joanna Leidenhag, Mikael Leidenhag,
Mitch Mallary, Trey Martin, Christa McKirland, Davis Meadors, Ryan T.
Mullins, Kevin Nordby, Stephanie Nordby, Eloise Orton, Devina Oswan,
Tim Pawl, Faith Pawl, Amy Peeler, Chip Racheter, Jeremy Rios, Kyungmin
Ro, Dani Ross, Christian Sanchez, Tom Savage, Katherine Schuessler,
Daniel Spencer, Jason Stigall, Eleonore Stump, Taylor Telford, Peter Van
Inwagen, Koert Verhagen, Jonathan Walton, Owen Weddle, Sam Williams,
and Chris Whyte.
I owe a special thanks to several of the Logos faculty who, on multiple
occasions (and, in some cases, multiple continents), created space in their
busy schedules to offer advice and encouragement. These include Oliver
Crisp, Tom McCall, Michael Rea, Andrew Torrance, and Tom “N.T.”
Wright. The magnitude of the blessing of time spent with these individ-
uals is not lost on me. They are each top-flight scholars in their areas of
expertise, but they are even better people. I hope that I can learn to manage
scholarship and Christ-likeness with a similar grace.
I’m also grateful for several dear friendships – ones destined to remain –
that formed while writing this book. They include (i) Joshua, Ellie, Judah,
Emmeline, and Zachary Cockayne, (ii) Kevin and Stephanie Nordby (along
with Digory, Lucy, and Eustace), (iii) Andrew, Julie, A. J., and James
Torrance, (iv) Koert, Diana, Everett, and Duncan Verhagen, and (v) our
Scotland traveling companions: Auria, Anna, and Andy “the legendary
DM” Everhart. Thank you for helping us survive the long winters and self-
lessly offering us wisdom and encouragement throughout this season.
The two people with the most profound influence on my work as a philos-
opher and theologian have been my two PhD supervisors, Linda Zagzebski
and Alan Torrance. Linda is undoubtedly one of the most important ana-
lytic philosophers working today, and I am endlessly flabbergasted by the
fact that not only is she an academic mentor but also a friend. She is my pri-
mary exemplar for intellectual virtue as practiced in philosophy, and I hope
xiv Acknowledgments
that this book can exhibit even half of the conscientiousness with which she
approaches her own work.
Alan Torrance, as I have mentioned on many occasions to those curi-
ous about Logos, is a force of nature. No one else I know has such passion
for theology and the church, and his endless supply of love and encourage-
ment for his students has achieved, for me, the status of the most compelling
argument for the existence of God. His enthusiasm is infectious, and it is
categorically undeniable that Philippians 2 is engraved on his heart. I can-
not express how grateful I am to know him and have his support.
I also want to thank my family (and their dogs) – Curtis and Debbie
Rutledge (and Rosy, the sweetest bichon frise/toy poodle to walk the earth),
Alison Rutledge and Chris Babayco (and Kenny!), Dan and Kathleen
Naberhaus (and Desi), and Ben, Kimberly, Caroline, Elizabeth, and Clara –
for long rambling conversations about my work and constant affirmation,
even amidst board game nights. They have had to deal with an ocean of
distance due to these pursuits, but their love for Bethany and I has been
powerfully felt.
Lastly, and most importantly, I am grateful to my wife, Bethany, whose
support from the time we made the decision to move to Scotland to our
decision to return to the US (with our two Scotland-born boys – Caspian
Daniel and Theodore Ronan – in tow) has been unwavering. I have asked
much of her; certainly more than is fair. I hope that the partial satisfac-
tion of wanderlust has helped, but in any case, she has continued to endure
my academic whims with the greatest of ease and finesse. She is my most
trusted confidant, the most brilliant and tenacious person I know. Thirteen
years ago, love for her seized me from my philosophical reflections. Since
then, she has taught (and retaught) me everything of real importance on the
topic of this book, and it is to her that it is dedicated.
Copyright Note
The early part of Chapter 2 is a revamped version of an essay originally

printed as “Original Sin, the Fall, and Epistemic Self-Trust.” Theologica: An
International Journal for Philosophy of Religion and Philosophical Theology,
Vol. 2, no. 1 (2018): 84–94. Printed with Permission.
Much of Chapter 5 is an expanded and revised version of my article
originally published as “Retributivism Rejected: A Restorative Hope for
Justice in the Age to Come.” In Being Saved: Explorations in Soteriology and
Human Ontology, edited by Marc Cortez, Joshua Ryan Farris, and S. Mark
Hamilton, 40–53. London: SCM Press, 2018. Printed with Permission.
Introduction
Where Is Atonement in the Prodigal Son?

“Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you; I am no longer wor-
thy to be called your son.”1 So spoke the prodigal son upon returning to his
Father’s home. Having squandered his belongings and finding himself with
no hope for advancement on his own terms, social or otherwise, the dejected
son received the embrace of a loving parent.
This familiar narrative from the gospel of Luke brings together themes
of forgiveness and reconciliation. Some theologians observe in the parable
a clear affirmation of unilateral (i.e., one-sided) forgiveness when the father,
having heard no repentance from his son, proceeds to embrace him without
concern.2 Some biblical scholars are dubious of such a reading, for they see
the prodigal, first, as a representation of Israel and, second, as proclaiming
Christ’s role in re-establishing the rule of Israel’s God over and against the
Roman rule of the day.3 For such scholars, it is the return of the prodigal
that signifies the faithfulness of Jesus as Israel’s representative, which brings
about, in bilateral fashion, forgiveness and subsequent reconciliation.
What is most curious about the prodigal story, however, is not whether it
advocates for a unilateral or bilateral understanding of forgiveness. Indeed,
it would be surprising to settle that debate on the basis of a parable alone.
Rather, what is striking is that reconciliation between father and son,
between God and God’s people, occurs without any mention of atonement
as theologians understand it today. Indeed, we might rightly wonder how
the father and son are reconciled without the son being punished, the father
being repaid, or God receiving a sin-offering on the prodigal son’s behalf.
Understanding atonement and how a combination of atonement and for-
giveness might bring about reconciliation on the model of the prodigal son
parable, then, proves baffling.
Reconciliation, Forgiveness, and Atonement

This book aims to analyze the relationship between forgiveness, atonement,
and reconciliation from an explicitly Christian theological perspective.
Thus, by the end of the book, I will have provided an explanation not only
DOI: 10.4324/9780367754778-1
2 Introduction
for why atonement is unnecessary for forgiveness in parables such as the
prodigal son but also, by contrast, why atonement is necessary for the full
forgiveness of the sins of humanity.
Someone might wonder whether anything new and helpful can be added
to the vast literature on forgiveness and atonement which has already accu-
mulated throughout the millennia. It is worth briefly reflecting, then, on the
current state of the art in theology concerning these questions.
First, much work on atonement in theology has proceeded without
sustained attention being devoted to the topic of forgiveness. This is particu-
larly unfortunate since, as we saw in the prodigal son, forgiveness appears
to be independent in some cases of any need for atonement. Interestingly,
contemporary moral philosophy has suffered from the reverse affliction
of focusing on forgiveness with little to no attention given to questions of
atonement. Indeed, where the two concepts do appear together a variety
of different relationships are assumed to hold without much argumentative
support. One theorist might claim that atonement is a means to forgiveness
while another treats it as something in addition to forgiveness. Still another
might demur with both options and deny that atonement is required for
either forgiveness or reconciliation. In this book, no such affliction is to be
found, for forgiveness and atonement receive independent treatment first,
insofar as that is possible, and are only combined after that independent
treatment has been fully completed.
Despite the mountains of work on questions concerning atonement and
forgiveness, there is much in this book that is new and worthy of consid-
eration. First, the arguments herein emerge from convictions grounded in
the need for analytic and exegetical tools to shape good theology. Such a
need, however, is particularly difficult to meet in light of the wide range of
expertise such tools require (e.g., facility with biblical languages, familiarity
with the bodies of literature in both biblical studies and the development
of doctrine, mastering the logical tools and appropriate uses of such tools
in analytic philosophy, etc.). The teaching and administrative demands
upon researchers make the development of these skills particularly difficult
and in many ways impractical. These facts, however, do not entail that an
analytically and exegetically informed book is either impossible to write or
unworthy of attempting. This book, then, is such an attempt.4
Second, because of my commitment to utilizing categories informed by
the best in biblical scholarship, my fundamental understandings of sin, jus-
tice, love, and the like, part ways with much in contemporary philosophical
and theological scholarship. It is commonplace, for instance, to treat the
category of sin as coextensive with the category of immorality. However,
on my account, while sin involves transgressing dimensions of objective
normativity, that normativity need not be only moral. In some instances,
transgressions of God’s holiness or of some objective aesthetic value might
also count as sin, and understanding sin under this description is part and
parcel of rightly interpreting much of the Christian scriptures. As a result, I
Introduction 3
shall take as at least one constraint on the adequacy of my project its ability
to make such recategorizations intelligible to those of us possessed of con-
siderably more modern sensibilities.
Third, as we turn to questions of atonement, the best explanations for
why Christ had to die appeal not only to abstract categories of love and
justice but also ground such categories in a clear scriptural background.
Many contemporary discussions of penal substitution models of atonement,
for instance, fail on precisely this point of connection with scripture (if,
for no other reason than that, they wrongly assume that sacrificial rites in
the Hebrew Scriptures are best understood as cases of punishment for sin
by animal proxy). More surprising, however, is that very few accounts of
atonement take as their primary concept of analysis the most prominent
metaphor scripture applies to the death, burial, resurrection, and ascension
of Christ: namely, his death as a sacrifice. Even those who are exceptions
to this observation fail to seriously wrestle with the nature and aims of dif-
ferent sacrifices as found in scripture. As a result, this book’s fundamental
response to the question, “Why did Christ have to die?” is that a sacrifice
was required to deal with both moral and nonmoral dimensions of sin in
order to bring about divine-human reconciliation. A large portion of the
book is dedicated, then, to expositing a theory of value that illuminates how
one might reasonably accept such a picture of atonement.
The Shape of the Project

The plan for this book is as follows. I begin with methodological questions
concerning value-driven inquiry (i.e., inquiry motivated by concerns about
which concepts are worth caring about) and analytic and exegetical theology.
Once this has been completed, I develop a theological definition of forgive-
ness; that is, a definition of forgiveness grounded in the things worth caring
about from a Christian theological perspective. Having defended this theo-
logical definition, I move to consider several concepts related in important
ways to both the notion of forgiveness and atonement: namely, sin, original
sin, justice (construed on either a retributive or consequential rationale),
representation, and substitution. After defending my restorative model of
justice and these related concepts, both exegetically and philosophically,
we then turn to the constructive project of building a sacrificial explanation
of atonement. In the final analysis, such a model of atonement takes for-
giveness of sin to be brought about by analogues to three different rituals
found in the Hebrew scriptures: namely, a new Passover offered on the cross
through which a new covenantal relationship between God and humanity is
inaugurated, a yom kippur sacrifice offered on the heavenly altar as depicted
in the letter to the Hebrews and by which that newly inaugurated covenant is
maintained, and a yom kippur scapegoat ritual that poignantly reaffirms the
reality of divine forgiveness for sin. Once that model has been sufficiently
constructed, I then expound again upon the understanding of forgiveness
4 Introduction
defended in the first part of the work and emphasize the importance of the
work of the Holy Spirit in sanctification to yield a theology which more fully
addresses the various problems of sin and illustrates a vision for divine-hu-
man reconciliation in the New Creation.
Notes
1. Luke 15:21 (NRSV).
2. Torrance, “Theological Grounds for Advocating Forgiveness.”
3. Wright, Jesus and the Victory of God, 125–144.
4. And, of course, we know writing such a book is not impossible in light of
some recent excellent contributions in this regard, such as Kvanvig, Faith and
Humility or McCall, Against God and Nature.
Bibliography
Kvanvig, Jonathan L. 2018. Faith and Humility. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
McCall, Thomas H. 2019. Against God and Nature: The Doctrine of Sin. Wheaton,
IL: Crossway.
Torrance, Alan J. 2006. “The Theological Grounds for Advocating Forgiveness and
Reconciliation in the Sociopolitical Realm.” In The Politics of Past Evil: Religion,
Reconciliation, and the Dilemmas of Transitional Justice, edited by Daniel Philpott,
45–85. South Bend, IN: University of Notre Dame Press.
Wright, N. T. 1996. Jesus and the Victory of God. Minneapolis: Fortress Press.
1 Value-Driven Inquiry and Exegetically
Engaged Analytic Theology
Can There Be Progress in Theology?

This book seeks to develop a distinctively Christian account of forgiveness,
which when wedded with a sacrificial model for the death of Christ, explains
how divine-human reconciliation might be achieved. Such a project is cer-
tainly a vast one, for the literature on these topics spans many academic
disciplines—biology, psychology, philosophy, religion, political theory,
anthropology, etc.—and has grown steadily since at least the beginning of the
common era. Indeed, due to the daunting scope of such a project, one might
rightly wonder whether we should expect anything new to be discovered.
As any academic understands, however, every area of study progresses,
even if such progress is difficult for an outsider to discern. Philosophers,
for instance, developed remarkable standards of logical rigor throughout
the twentieth century that have since found applications in areas of study
such as linguistics or computer science. And, of course, the hard sciences
have not ceased to progress in their own obvious ways including, but not
limited to, the development of quantum mechanics and continued work in
the nature of time.1 Such examples of progress in these disciplines indicate
that legitimately new terrain might plausibly be found for an understanding
of our topics concerning the nature of Christian forgiveness and a sacrificial
model of atonement.
Value-Driven Inquiry in the Context of Theology

As we narrow our focus to the question of defining forgiveness, however, it is
immediately worth asking why someone should care about defining forgive-
ness in the first place. After all, most of us seem to have an intuitive idea of
what forgiveness is, and thus, it seems unnecessary (perhaps a waste of time
even) to worry about finding a good definition.
To put the worry another way, someone might claim that trying to define
‘forgiveness’ is like trying to define ‘superhero’. Some people invested in
the world of comic books and cinematic experiences might care whether,
for instance, Batman could be rightly called a superhero (despite lacking
DOI: 10.4324/9780367754778-2
6 Value-Driven Inquiry
superhuman powers). But that some people care what the definition of
‘superhero’ is does not imply that they should care about the definition of
‘superhero’. Nor does it imply that anyone else should care about getting
the right definition of ‘superhero’, for no general agreement about how
‘superhero’ is defined is likely to matter for anything constituting human
flourishing. Thus, in at least some cases, whether or not we have a good
definition of a concept simply does not matter.
In other cases, however, getting agreement about a definition clearly does
matter. Consider, for instance, the recent case of Pluto’s demotion from
planethood (something which grated against the nostalgic sensibilities of at
least a few millennials). In this instance, Pluto failed to satisfy the definition
of a planet (i.e., a celestial body that primarily orbits the sun, possesses
sufficient mass to be roundish, is warmer than –220°C, and has cleared its
orbital path by either pulling nearby objects in or pushing them away) and
was demoted from planethood in virtue of that.2
Faced with the prospect of disappointing most of the inhabitants of the
world with the news that Pluto was not, by definition, a planet, scientists
might have been forgiven had they simply changed the definition of ‘planet’
to avoid the possibility of a backlash. Indeed, they could have done so quite
easily without entirely ruining the rest of the definition—which could have
required them to reclassify a whole slew of other objects—by simply adding
a new feature to the original definition of ‘planet’: namely, that something is
a planet if “it is a celestial body which primarily orbits the sun…has cleared
its orbital path by either pulling nearby objects in or pushing them away
(with the exception of Pluto).” Had they done this, Pluto could have retained
its status as a planet and the scientific community could have continued to
classify planets otherwise precisely as they currently do.
Of course, sticking with the original definition of ‘planet’ in this case
made, and still makes, more sense. But why did leaving the definition
untouched make more sense? Presumably, the reason resided in something
of value (i.e., something worth caring about) that was promoted by sticking
with the original definition of ‘planet’. In this case, that value was probably
something like this: the immense practical value of maintaining a well-de-
fined and constant definition of a technical concept for the sake of previous
and future research. That is, it would have been bad to change the definition
because it would add an unnecessary (not to mention annoying) practical
obstacle to anyone engaging in or reading about contemporary astronomy.
Thus, in order to better support future research, the scientific community
recognized that maintaining agreement about the definition of a planet was
a better course of action than altering that long-held definition.
The decision to use a particular definition of ‘planet’, then, was one under-
girded by the concerns of value-driven inquiry; that is, a type of inquiry
propelled by one’s axiology. Such inquiry proceeds on the assumption that
one need not claim of a given definition that it is the right concept of what-
ever one aims at (e.g., knowledge, planethood, or forgiveness). Instead, one
defends the claim that the concept one has picked out as relevant to the
Value-Driven Inquiry 7
inquiry at hand is valuable in some significant way and worth attending to
in the context under question. Thus, fundamental to such an approach is
first an identification of something that is of value (e.g., carrying on good
research or being grounded in scripture and tradition) followed by some
sort of argument that the relevant value is significantly promoted by the
concept one identifies (e.g., sticking with a particular definition of ‘planet’
or, in our context, opting for a specific understanding of ‘forgiveness’).
In our present theological context, then, to engage in theologically
value-driven inquiry concerning a definition of ‘forgiveness’ requires that
we identify a theological value, which is promoted or serves as a precondi-
tion for the definition of ‘forgiveness’ we are after. That theological value
is this: a concept is better (or more valuable) insofar as it is informed by
both the Christian scriptures and the history of the development of doctrine
within the Christian tradition. Thus, whenever one’s definition of forgive-
ness conflicts with either of those things (i.e., the deliverances of revelation
in scripture or tradition), one’s definition is to some extent and in some
respect inferior to another definition which does not conflict in that way.
Indeed, this methodological theme of theologically value-driven inquiry is
a recurring theme throughout this text.
Analytic Theology as a Research Program

In addition to situating this investigation within a value-driven paradigm,
we also proceed from within the analytic theological tradition. Though
there are currently no uncontroversial and substantive characterizations of
the recent research project known as analytic theology, the following puta-
tive definition of the analytic tradition is helpful:
Analytic theology applies analytic (though not exclusively analytic)

concepts and methods to theological issues and applies theological
concepts and insights to issues that have traditionally been of interest
to analytic philosophers. Although the analytic concepts and methods
under question are wide-ranging, they include the utilization of logical
and linguistic analysis and are read typically, though not essentially,
against a background philosophical literature roughly beginning with
the likes of Frege, Russell, Moore, and Wittgenstein. Moreover, analytic
theology recognizes the importance of (i) allowing its practitioners to
include both nonpropositional items in the set of theological data and
groups as possible subjects of discourse, as well as (ii) accommodating
the social construction of a number of concepts that are important to
the theological task with some notable exceptions such as the concepts
of truth, objectivity, rationality, justice, and the good.3
According to the above definition, analytic theology is characterized by certain

methods utilized by those who fall within the analytic tradition of philoso-
phy, but it cannot be done in isolation from what might be called nonanalytic
theology. The reason for this is that all theologians, whether analytic or not,
are committed to a common theological task, and insofar as the object of theo-
logical study—i.e., God and everything in relation to God4 —might resist some
of the analytic tools currently in vogue, analytic theologians must be prepared
to venture outside of stereotypically analytic boundaries if and whenever the
object of their study demands it. In other words, analytic theology is best prac-
ticed when it is done both within a community of scholars diverse enough
to include those who might powerfully challenge certain aspects of analytic
methodology and in a way, which is sensitive to the fact that its object is
a person (in the Christian tradition) rather than an inert scientific substance.
Although the above definition of analytic theology is helpful in many
ways, those unfamiliar with typical analytic writings will likely find it
insufficiently enlightening. As a supplement, then, analytic theology is char-
acterized by the methods of logical argumentation, the construction and
deployment of logical systems (deductive, inductive, and abductive), and the
ability to draw upon a wide body of literature in philosophy when consid-
ering questions saliently connected to philosophy’s various subdisciplines:
epistemology, ethics, aesthetics, metaphysics, philosophy of language, value
theory, language, and logic. Such methods have proven extremely fruitful
both within philosophy and when applied to specifically theological topics
(e.g., Trinity or Incarnation).5
Having situated our discussion within the context of value-driven inquiry
and analytic theology, let us begin with a discussion of the value of for-
giveness generally. Such a discussion, however, benefits significantly if one
provides a taxonomic background, which distinguishes different types of
value from one another (e.g., intrinsic or instrumental value). Consequently,
significant space is reserved for constructing such a taxonomy, but once that
taxonomy is in place, we then consider the ways in which forgiveness appears
to have value. Second, we turn to a brief consideration of reflective equilib-
rium, that is, the method characterizing the interplay between our intuitions
concerning value, the comparative weights of our epistemic authorities, and
the background theories we bring to such things. It is in this section that I
address the idea of an exegetically engaged analytic theology since an appre-
ciation of one’s epistemic authorities is central to it. Upon completing this
foray into value theory, we then turn, in the next chapter, to a thorough
survey of the biblical texts concerning forgiveness in order to ascertain what
sorts of constraints on a definition of forgiveness might be required of us if,
as I have been emphasizing, we desire a theologically value-driven account
of forgiveness. Let us, then, turn to questions of the nature of value.
A Taxonomy of Value
In turning to a discussion of value, one might be inclined to think that we
have entered the moral realm; however, the realm of value consists of far
more than solely moral values. Despite, the fact that the realm of value
encompasses more than the moral realm, why might someone be inclined to
restrict the value to the moral alone?
I cannot hope to give a complete psychological explanation for why some-
one might be inclined to reduce all questions of value to questions about
morality, but we can begin to see some such motivation by reflecting on our
uses of the word ‘ought’. ‘Ought’ is a word that signals a shift to a context
of normativity; that is, a context in which we want to know what should be
done or how the world should be rather than to know what people will do or
how the world is. That is, to employ the language of ‘ought’ carries with it a
tacit commitment to comparative value, that one way of being is better than
some alternative.
But the most existentially pressing contexts in which we ask questions
about what we ought to do involve primarily moral considerations. Classic
trolley problems in which you are asked to choose between pulling a lever to
change the tracks of a trolley such that only one person is killed rather than
five illustrate this superficially, but we face complex moral situations rou-
tinely. For instance, you might ask yourself whether you should always be
driving your car to work given the ill effects your chosen mode of travel will
have on the environment. Or perhaps you are unsure whether eating meat
is permissible given systematic issues surrounding factory farming and ani-
mal welfare.6 These questions rivet us because we desire to be moral beings,
but it is a mistake to treat the riveting nature of such questions as evidence
that moral values exhaust the realm of value.
What other types of value are there? Things of value (i.e., things about
which we care, to which we commit ourselves, or which are good for us)
might be best explained in terms of their relation to any number of epis-
temic, aesthetic, practical, or psychological goods (to name just a few).
Assuming that our valuing something for any of these nonmoral reasons is
sometimes fitting, then it follows that there are types of value which fall into
the category of the nonmoral.
As an example of a nonmoral value, we could consider something as
mundane as a toaster. For a toaster can rightly be called ‘good’ qua toaster
in virtue of possessing the property heats-bread-evenly. This property
is clearly not a property concerned with moral value. Rather, it concerns
practical value, and thus, any toaster in possession of the property heats-
bread-evenly would be practically valuable given the use to which a toaster
is normally put.
Consider also the practical value of positive self-talk. For instance, it is
a part of the lore of baseball that if a player believes they are likely to get
a hit at their next at bat, then they increase their likelihood of getting a hit
to some extent. However, even the best hitters in all of baseball fail to get a
hit most of the time, and thus, the belief that they are likely to get a hit in
their next at bat is neither true nor, if they are aware of the statistics, epis-
temically justified. But unjustified false beliefs, plausibly, have no epistemic
value, so why does the baseball lore encourage players to form such beliefs?
Clearly, the practical value of having such beliefs, given the goals of playing
baseball, outweighs the epistemic disvalue of forming a false belief in one’s
likelihood to get a hit. And what is significant about such a case is that it
reveals that we can weigh values against one another even in cases where
moral value never emerges.
So, some values are not moral values. Yet someone might further wonder
what sort of object serves as the most proper object to which value might be
ascribed. There is no need, however, to settle this question in any way for
our discussion for it appears quite reasonable to simply allow that value can
be rightly ascribed to character traits, persons, objects, actions, or states of
affairs insofar as they are rightly called ‘good’ in some respect. Indeed, the
linguistic appropriateness of calling many different sorts of things ‘good’
seems to be strong evidence that goodness or value belongs to several differ-
ent types of things.
This implies, then, that pluralism about the sorts of things to which we
ascribe value is quite plausible. Yet there are alternative ways of dividing up
the evaluative landscape that allow us to provide a picture of the value of
forgiveness. Let us turn, then, to one useful way of doing so by separating
value into the following subcategories: (i) instrumental value, (ii) value as
an end, (iii) intrinsic value, and (iv) extrinsic value. We consider these cate-
gories in turn.
Something has instrumental value if, and only if, (a) at least some of its
value derives from the value of an end, and (b) it is a means to that end.
Suppose, for instance, that Lydia has formed a desire to experience the
pleasure of delicious ice cream. The desire to eat ice cream cannot be sat-
isfied immediately, for as anyone knows, Lydia needs to take some steps to
obtain ice cream first. Suppose Lydia chooses to walk to the ice cream shop.
Does her walk possess any value? It does, and the sort of value it possesses
is instrumental, for the walk Lydia takes is a means to the satisfaction of
her desire to experience the pleasure of delicious ice cream. If we further
suppose, as we ought, that the experience of delicious ice cream is valuable
as an end, then Lydia’s walk to the ice cream shop possesses instrumental
value which is parasitic on the value of the eating of her chosen ice cream.
This explanation of instrumental value, however, presupposes that there
is an intelligible construal of something having value as an end, and thus,
to fully grasp instrumental value, one must have some prior grasp of the
notion of value as an end. As a first pass, then, something has value as an
end if, and only if, it is good for the agent to pursue as an end. The pleasure
of eating ice cream serves well as an example here also, for, after all, eating
ice cream is, all things being equal, perfectly appropriate and good for an
agent (perhaps with respect to mental health).
But not all instances of pursuing pleasure seem clearly good. Consider,
for instance, a masochist’s pursuit of pleasure by violent and (sometimes)
self-directed means. In such a case, the masochist derives pleasure through
self-harm, and thus, insofar as pleasure is valuable, however that pleasure
might be manifested, there may be some modicum of instrumental value in
pursuing it by even masochistic means. Nevertheless, self-harm is not good
on the whole for the masochist. Given that the masochist is human, harming
himself appears to be, all things being equal, at odds with his flourishing.
Thus, that which explains the difference between the appropriateness of
seeking pleasure as an end in one’s pursuit of ice cream as opposed to the
masochist’s pursuit of self-harm is information concerning what is good
for humans and their proper function. In other words, when the pursuit of
something as an end countermands proper function or comes from dysfunc-
tion, then it is, to some degree, disvaluable with reference to its final value
(i.e., value as an end). For the pursuit of something valuable as an end, on
the other hand, is for it to be either irrelevant to or supportive of proper
function.7
Confusingly, the concept of value as an end has been often conflated
with the concept of intrinsic value. Indeed, one witnesses this in reading
Aristotle who appears to either ignore intrinsic value altogether or conflate
it with value as an end when in the Nicomachean Ethics, he identifies “the
good as what everything seeks.”8 But the notion of intrinsic value, as I use it
here, primarily indicates a value, which is basic (i.e., nonderivative). Thus,
if there exists anything that possesses value as an end but for which none of
that value is basic in the relevant sense, then that thing is an example of a
nonintrinsic, but still final, value.
For many Christian theologians, there is only one intrinsically valuable
thing, namely, God. Moreover, for such theologians, it also follows that
everything else that possesses value possesses it in virtue of its relationship
to God. That category of derivative value into which the goodness of the
created realm falls is extrinsic value. Thus, for the Christian, everything of
value will fall into one or the other category of intrinsic or extrinsic value,
such that anything valuable as an end will also belong to one or the other
category.
From the above reflections, then, it becomes quite obvious how some-
thing might possess nonintrinsic value as an end: namely, it would do so by
depending on God for its value. In such a case, take any good in the created
order at which you have properly aimed (e.g., the satisfaction of a sweet
tooth or the safety of one’s children). Such things simultaneously possess
both extrinsic value and value as an end. As a result, once the distinction
between intrinsic and extrinsic goods is recognized, the conflation between
intrinsic value and value as an end can be easily mitigated.9
Now that we have these four distinct categories of value, before moving
on it is worth briefly commenting on some further features of these dis-
tinctions. First, there is no reason that we should assume that something’s
having extrinsic value entails that it is highly valuable. For instance, intu-
itively there is some degree of extrinsic value in any instance of knowledge
whatsoever, including, for example, knowledge of how many grains of sand
are on Daytona Beach. Such knowledge, however, does not appear to have
any significant instrumental value, so whatever value it possesses is best
explained as extrinsic.10 Nevertheless, the amount of value possessed by
knowledge of how many grains of sand are on Daytona Beach is extremely
small, despite its being extrinsic.
Admittedly, the above distinction may appear less problematic to some
readers due to the language of extrinsic value employed as opposed to
the more common practice of privileging the language of intrinsic value.
Human beings use the language of extrinsic value so rarely that there are
very few connotations strongly associated with that language that might
lead us to infer that something’s having extrinsic value would guarantee its
also having a great amount of value altogether.
Switching (mistakenly) to the language of intrinsic value, on the other
hand, changes the expected implications of the language. If someone were
to say that human beings have intrinsic value for instance, one would nat-
urally infer that the speaker also intended to communicate that human
beings have great value. And although in this instance, what one would nat-
urally infer is true, it is not true merely in virtue of humans having intrinsic
value. That is, the fact that human beings have great value is independent
of the kind of value they possess, whether intrinsic, extrinsic, instrumental,
or value as ends. Thus, one should not infer from the claim that something
possesses either intrinsic or extrinsic value that it is also of great value.
The second feature of these distinctions is that there appear to be cer-
tain goods which, while possessed of some extrinsic value, are nevertheless
improper in some sense to pursue as ends. Sometimes pleasure fits this
model well, especially when one has short-term pleasure in one’s sights. For
if one aims at pleasure in certain contexts, such as having another glass of
wine despite the fact that it would result in a rough morning the following
day, one aims at something with some extrinsic value despite its counter-
manding one’s proper function (i.e., its being bad for you). In such a case,
the pleasure at which one aims is on the whole disvaluable as an end despite
its having extrinsic value.
Third, one further distinction concerning different ways in which an item
might possess value as an end remains: namely, a distinction between some-
thing’s being valuable as an end objectively—i.e., in terms of its supporting
proper function—or subjectively—i.e., in terms of its being the object of
an agent’s desires. The subjective notion of value as an end, then, is a case
where, by desiring that end, an agent confers value upon it. Consider, for
instance, a student, Lillian, who chooses to attend law school rather than
medical school after receiving her undergraduate degree. Suppose we also
stipulate, for the sake of the example, that Lillian would have been able
to flourish had she chosen to go to medical school rather than law school.
From this stipulation, then, it follows that attending law school is not neces-
sary for Lillian’s flourishing; that is, attending law school does not possess
significant objective value as an end for Lillian. Nevertheless, attending law
school does possess significant value as an end. It is just not in virtue of the
objective dimension of such value that attending law school is so significant
for Lillian. It is, rather, Lillian’s choice to orient her life around the project
of becoming a lawyer that explains why it is significantly valuable, and it
is in this sense that in choosing to attend law school, Lillian confers value
upon that end.11 It is the fact that the value depends upon an agent’s desires
that makes the label ‘subjective’ appropriate for such value, and it plausibly
follows that every end pursued by an agent possesses at least some degree of
subjective value as an end.12
Fourth, whether or not something is valuable on the whole is a function
of all the relevant types of value rightly ascribed to it rather than merely a
function of a single type of value. That is, if one wishes to know whether
or not pursuing some action might be good on the whole, then they must
account for each applicable category of value. To see how this is helpful,
consider again the case of the masochist.
Perhaps someone might defend the masochist’s indulging in self-harm by
claiming that for them, activities involving self-harm are valuable. After all,
why would they naturally aim at pleasure in these circumstances were there
no positive value to be had?
This objector is actually correct, on my account, when they claim that
there is some positive value associated with the masochist’s action. First,
the satisfaction of a desire, regardless of what a desire is for, is itself extrin-
sically good. This is not to say that the satisfaction of a desire has great
value, but just that it has some (perhaps only a miniscule) degree of extrin-
sic value. Second, the acquisition of pleasure, as was suggested above, is
itself the acquisition of something with some degree of extrinsic value as
well. Consequently, insofar as the masochist’s actions are means to these
two extrinsic values, then they possess some degree of positive instrumental
value.
Nevertheless, the masochist’s self-harming activities are not valuable
all-things-considered, for the value or disvalue of pursuing something
as an end, objectively speaking, must also inform one’s determination of
all-things-considered value in this case. And, of course, the masochist’s
self-harm is disvaluable as an end to a great extent. Indeed, it may be so
disvaluable that the all-things-considered value of masochistic activity
lands in the negative (i.e., is disvaluable) even after factoring in the values of
desire-satisfaction and attainment of pleasure.
In light of all of this, then, let us turn to a discussion of the value of for-
giveness, which, if the above taxonomy is correct, will come in the form of
either intrinsic value, extrinsic value, instrumental value, or value as an end.
The Value of Forgiveness

Forgiveness is valuable insofar as it possesses the value of the intrinsic,
extrinsic, instrumental sorts, or value as an end. Let us break down its rela-
tion to these different sorts of value in order.
First, because God, by assumption, is the only thing of intrinsic value,
then forgiveness in general does not have intrinsic value essentially. This is
because the forgiveness between created persons would only have extrinsic
value. But to have something essentially is to not possibly fail to have it.
Thus, given that forgiveness between human persons fails to have intrinsic
value, then intrinsic value is not essential to all acts of forgiveness.
Nevertheless, God’s forgiveness does have intrinsic value insofar as the
goodness of God’s forgiveness does not depend on anything else (i.e., it
is nonderivative).13 Thus, even if forgiveness does not have intrinsic value
essentially, it can possess it whenever someone is being forgiven by God.
But if forgiveness has any noninstrumental value outside of divine con-
texts, then that value must be extrinsic since whatever goodness it has would
depend in some way on the goodness of God. And indeed, forgiveness does
appear intuitively to have some extrinsic value, for even if forgiveness does
not bring about reconciliation (i.e., the characteristic telos of forgiveness)
in some instances, many wrongdoers seem grateful to have received it
nonetheless.14
Consider, for instance, a variation on the biography of Albert Speer.15
Historically, Speer was enabled to write his book, Inside the Third Reich, in
virtue of the considerable support of Rudolf Wolters. However, because of
Wolters’ continued commitment to Hitler, Speer thought it best to forego
any references to Wolters in his writing, i.e., something which hurt Wolters
deeply. Suppose, then, contrary to fact, that Speer had sincerely apologized
to and been forgiven by Wolters for, in essence, denying their friendship.
Would the two have been reconciled? Given the still divergent attitudes
characterizing both men’s relationship to the Third Reich, it appears that
significant reconciliation would be out of the question, even then. Yet, it
also appears understandable, even reasonable, for Speer, who perhaps still
cared for Wolters despite the horrendous views he held, to desire forgiveness
in full knowledge of the practical impossibility of reconciliation. If this is
correct, then it appears that there is something valuable extrinsically about
forgiveness itself, even independent of its connections to reconciliation.16
Thus, it appears that forgiveness is valuable extrinsically. Moreover,
insofar as the above story of Speer is coherent, it appears that forgiveness
can rightly be sought as an end in itself, in which case, given that anything
sought as an end by some agent possesses some degree of subjective value
as an end, then forgiveness is likewise possessed of such subjective value on
some occasions as well.
But someone might also wonder whether forgiveness could have any
objective value as an end; that is, they might wonder in what ways forgive-
ness promotes or supports human flourishing. One significant way in which
this seems to be the case is that forgiving well is constitutive of the virtue of
forgivingness.
Now, as I understand virtues, they are, at the very least, excellent charac-
ter traits; or rather, dispositions to act well. Thus, so long as one thinks that
different people can be better or worse at forgiving, then it will be reasona-
ble also to think that those who forgive best possess a virtue of forgiveness,
which we might call, as I have already suggested, ‘forgivingness’.17
It is worth drawing attention to the fact that any good act of forgiveness
possesses, because of its relationships to the virtue of forgivingness, both
objective value as an end—since good instances of forgiveness are extrin-
sically valuable insofar as they are in accordance with forgivingness—and
instrumental value—since forgiving well is a means to, or cultivation of,
the virtue. Thus, the existence of forgivingness implies that, at least when
forgiveness is distributed rightly, such instances of forgiveness have a degree
of objective value as an end as well as instrumental value.
From a specifically theological perspective, however, more can be said.
For according to the Judeo-Christian tradition, humans bear the image of
God in some important sense, and at least for the Christian, Jesus Christ
provides the perfect example of bearing that image (in addition to being
the image of God) as well. But part of Jesus’ perfectly bearing God’s image
consisted in his possessing various human virtues, and so, insofar as human
agents act in accordance with or acquire such virtues, they also come to be
more at one with the divine person of Jesus. Assuming that being at one
with a divine person is of some value, then forgiveness accrues instrumental
value insofar as it contributes to this state.18
This brief foray into Christian eschatology makes possible at least one
particularly interesting instance of instrumental value with respect to for-
giveness: namely, that subsequent reflections upon one’s status as being
virtuously forgiven by another can themselves have value. Such reflections
might be extrinsically valuable to begin with, but they might also increase
a wrongdoer’s degree of gratitude, love, or many other possible individual
and social virtues, and in so doing, incur a degree of significant further
instrumental value as well. If one were to account for the unending nature of
the Christian afterlife of the saints, then, the instrumental value of a single
instance of forgiveness would be potentially infinite in some sense. And if
this is correct, then forgiveness is of clearly indisputable significance and
value.19
Lastly, reconciliation between two agents is a good state of affairs, and
as has been mentioned in passing more than once, reconciliation naturally
appears to be that thing at which forgiveness aims. Sadly, on the account
of forgiveness eventually to be offered, forgiveness is not sufficient for
reconciliation. The case of Speer and Wolters was one where forgiveness
appeared insufficient for full reconciliation, and variations on a doctrine of
Hell sometimes build this feature (i.e., of forgiveness being insufficient for
reconciliation) into the relationship between God and an eternally resistant
sinner. As a result, we have some reason to think forgiveness does not guar-
antee the reconciliation at which it aims.
But whenever forgiveness does achieve the end of reconciliation, then that
instance of forgiveness seems to, in retrospect, have been instrumentally
valuable in virtue of being a means to that reconciliation. Despite forgive-
ness not guaranteeing reconciliation, however, forgiveness often still makes
reconciliation possible, or perhaps more likely, in a way, previously, it was
not possible or likely. Thus, even in cases where forgiveness does not lead to
reconciliation, if we understand opening up the possibility of reconciliation
or increasing the likelihood of reconciliation to be valuable in itself, then
forgiveness will still inherit some degree of instrumental value in virtue of
bringing about those valuable ends.
Why might someone pursue forgiveness if they knew it would only
increase the likelihood of reconciliation without actually bringing about
full reconciliation? One reason is that it might be valuable to remove as
many obstacles to reconciliation between two people as is possible in order
to promote at least some sort of partial reconciliation. Another reason to
pursue forgiveness in such a case might be that one hopes to prevent fur-
ther disintegration of the relationship by offering forgiveness.20 In other
words, someone might have good reason to think not pursuing forgiveness
would lead to a greater distance between themselves and the one by which
they have been wronged, even if positively pursuing forgiveness would not
decrease that distance. In that case, it is the prevention of greater disun-
ion between two individuals that renders intelligible someone’s pursuit of
forgiveness.
Let us briefly summarize, then, this foray into the value of forgiveness.
Forgiveness acquires instrumental value due to its connection with recon-
ciliation as well as the possibility of subsequent and grateful reflections on
one’s past cases of being forgiven by others. Moreover, God’s forgiveness
possesses intrinsic value and all other instances of forgiveness plausibly
have at least some degree of extrinsic value as well. But forgiveness is also
sometimes properly sought as an end due to its connection with the virtue
of forgivingness, which is constitutive of human flourishing and bearing the
image of God well. As a result, were anyone to have had any doubts whether
forgiveness was a worthy topic of consideration, such doubts should be put
to rest for the time being.
Theorizing Via the Deliverances of Intuition and Scripture

In the above discussion of the value of forgiveness, I tacitly assume that
some degree of epistemic merit can rightly be ascribed to such things as
the theological tradition and our intuitions regarding the realm of values.
For instance, my claim that the existence of the saints in the eschaton is
unending is a theological commitment, and I heavily rely on intuition in
determining how to account for the disparate values apparently operative
in the Speer-Wolters case.
When I say that intuitions and the theological tradition have epistemic
merit, I mean at least that they are legitimate sources of evidence or reasons
to affirm a proposition. That is, I tacitly assume something akin to the com-
mon sense idea that (where ‘p’ stands for any proposition),
if it seems to someone that p, then they have at least a pro tanto reason to
affirm p,
or the theological tradition variant of it which states that,
if p is a part of the theological tradition, then one has at least a pro tanto
reason to affirm p.21
In other words, I assume throughout the pages of this book that theological
tradition and our own intuitions concerning the world of value are trust-
worthy guides to forming beliefs (or other relevant epistemic states) about
the world itself.
When the language of a theological tradition comes up, however, some-
one is likely to ask the question, “What theological tradition do you have
in mind (since there is no clear referent one might call the theological tra-
dition)?” This question is fair and something with which everyone must
wrestle at some point or another.
For the purposes of this project, I take the relevant materials of tradition,
which provide us with reasons to affirm various propositions, to include
(in order of descending degree of epistemic authority) the Protestant canon
(understood in their relevant historical and social contexts, whether Ancient
Near Eastern, Second Temple, etc.), the seven ecumenical councils, and the
teachings or widespread beliefs of the Church Fathers.
In accordance with the Protestant spirit, then, I treat Holy Scripture as
the norma normans, that is, the highest authority for determining what to
believe with respect to the deliverances of the tradition.22 But determining
what is taught by scripture, whether one focuses on the beliefs/claims of the
human authors as opposed to the divine author, is not always a straight-
forward task. Even setting aside the inevitable theological series one must
traverse from the claim that “the human author teaches p” to “God teaches
p” to “p is true,” one must begin by reckoning with the fact that the human
authors and redactors involved in the canon are many, and they hail from
different ages, each with its own peculiar artistic, philosophical, and cosmo-
logical ways of thinking.23 And sometimes, the differences between authors
regarding how they think of various things (e.g., whether humans survive
death in some sense or whether the stars are gods in some sense) makes a
difference for what we should understand as the teaching of a text. Thus, if
one is to treat Holy Scripture as the norma normans, then one would do well
to engage with people whose business it is to expertly uncover its teachings.
It is for this reason that I have framed this book as an exercise in exe-
getically engaged analytic theology. To be exegetically engaged is, at the
very least, to be doing the characteristic work of the exegete and doing it
in conversation with exegetes themselves. Such an exercise is to be distin-
guished from merely finding a biblical scholar who defends one’s preferred
reading of a scriptural passage and stopping there. What matters, at bot-
tom, is whether the arguments in support of some interpretation of scripture
are plausible, and to responsibly assess such arguments, one needs to cast
their exegetical net more widely.24
Reflective Equilibrium
With a provisional answer in hand concerning which epistemic authorities
govern our discussion, we can now consider the further question of how we
should go about balancing the deliverances of those epistemic authorities.
Suppose, for instance, that one were to conclude that scripture or tradition
teaches that there exist objective but nonmoral norms the violation of which
admits of forgiveness. Additionally, suppose that the idea of forgiving some-
one for nonmoral reasons appears to one as absolute nonsense.25 How, then,
should one proceed to reconcile the conflict between what one judges to be
the deliverances of the theological tradition and one’s intuitive judgment
concerning the nature of forgiveness?
To answer this question, it is helpful to think via an analogy of the devel-
opment of an ethical theory.26 Suppose, for instance, that you are trying to
select an ethical theory according to which you will order your life, and sup-
pose for simplicity’s sake that you are only considering utilitarianism27 and
Kantian deontology, with the second formulation of the categorical impera-
tive as your primary guide (i.e., to always treat others as ends in themselves,
and not merely as means).28
One promising approach to such a dilemma is to think of ethical theo-
ries as maps; that is, maps of the world of value. Now, just as normal maps
organize information in a way that makes that information more accessible
and usable to us, so ethical theories help us organize the features of various
situations in which we find ourselves in a way that allows us to determine
what is right, wrong, good, or bad in such situations. And, moreover, just
as we would judge the adequacy of a map by looking to see how closely it
matched the geography for which it was drawn, so too we can judge the ade-
quacy of an ethical theory by seeing how closely it matches the data of our
moral intuitions (i.e., a sort of ethical geography).29
In light of this analogy, then, return to the thought experiment of choos-
ing between Kantian deontology and utilitarianism. Now suppose that you
consider whether it would be right to frame an innocent person for a crime
that would eventuate in their death at your hands. And suppose further that
this action would be guaranteed to set the minds of your populace at ease
and prevent riots that would themselves, were they to occur, certainly result
in at least twenty deaths of innocent persons. The utilitarian theory, on the
one hand, tells you that you should surely bring about this state of affairs
on the assumption that it results in the greatest overall balance of good for
the greatest number. Kantian deontology, on the other hand, would cat-
egorically rule out such an action since to murder an innocent person to
achieve some end would surely be an instance of treating that person as a
mere means and not an end in themselves. But suppose now that after deter-
mining the deliverances of utilitarianism and Kantian deontology for this
act, you consult your own intuitions about the case. The idea of punishing
an innocent person seems to you as always morally unjustified, even if it
leads to exceedingly positive consequences. Thus, you find yourself with an
intuition that conflicts with the truth of utilitarianism. What is the proper
procedure from here?
One option is to trust your intuition more than the theory of utilitarian-
ism and become a deontologist. A second option is to reconsider whether
your intuitions are themselves reliable and modify them (insofar as this is
psychologically viable) in favor of the implications of a Utilitarian ethical
theory. Either option might be permissible in this instance, and both options
characterize how we proceed in our ethical theorizing at different moments
of our cognitive development.
This process of weighing one’s ethical options and sometimes modifying
our ethical intuitions while at other times modifying our ethical theories is
part of an attempt to arrive at reflective equilibrium; that is, some degree of
coherence between one’s intuitions and theoretical commitments.30 Indeed,
the direction of influence concerning our intuitions and the ethical theories
to which we most closely align ourselves is not straightforward. We often
modify in both directions on different occasions, and plausibly do so regu-
larly both consciously and unconsciously. I propose that this same method
be the one by which we arrive at a working understanding of the nature of
forgiveness. That is, I propose that we seek a coherent balance—i.e., a reflec-
tive equilibrium—between our intuitions of what cases count as genuine
cases of forgiveness and the various definitions of forgiveness we consider.
These definitions will break down into constituents often in the form of
necessary conditions for something to count as forgiveness.
With the method of reflective equilibrium in mind, then, how would one
resolve the conflict mentioned at the beginning of this section? That is,
how would one sort the competing reasons for and against believing that
there exist objective but nonmoral norms the violation of which admits of
forgiveness?
To put the issue more plainly, consider the following passage from
Leviticus 5, which states,
2If anyone touches an unclean thing, whether a carcass of an unclean

wild animal or a carcass of unclean livestock or a carcass of unclean
swarming things, and it is hidden from him and he has become unclean,
and he realizes his guilt…5 when he realizes his guilt in any of these and
confesses the sin he has committed,6 he shall [make a sin-offering by
which he shall be forgiven].
In the above scriptural passage, one is told that for the Israelite, unwit-
tingly touching the carcass of an unclean wild animal is something for
which one merits guilt. Then, upon realizing their guilt31, they are expected
to present a sin-offering to be forgiven. Such a command presupposes that
the unwitting touching of a wild animal carcass is indeed something for
which a person could be forgiven, despite such an offense seeming clearly
nonmoral (i.e., assuming one would call it an offense in the first place).
Thus, it appears that one deliverance of this particular passage is that an
offense that falls outside of the moral sphere is an appropriate object of
forgiveness.
Despite the scriptural support for such a claim32, it faces considerable
intuitive resistance. Indeed, given the unintended and practically unavoida-
ble nature of the sort of offense described in the Levitical text, no one would
assign blame to a person who had committed the offense. But anyone in
need of forgiveness would also be an appropriate subject of blame. After
all, if such a person was not blameworthy, then for what should they be for-
given? We have, then, a conflict between the deliverances of moral intuition
and scripture concerning the appropriate understanding of the nature of
forgiveness.
Just as one’s response to the prospect of punishing an innocent person for
either Kantian or Utilitarian reasons was governed by one’s own re-evalu-
ation of the weight of intuitions and theories in deciding what to believe,
one’s response to this conflict concerning the nature of forgiveness cannot
escape the difficult demands of the egocentric predicament. That is, one
must simply assess and reassess for oneself the competing reasons for believ-
ing or disbelieving that there are nonmoral but objective offenses for which
forgiveness would be an appropriate response. And, indeed, one could plau-
sibly go either way (i.e., side with one’s reading of scripture or one’s moral
intuitions) without committing oneself to some sort of irrational reflective
procedure. As we proceed, then, where there is conflict between the deliv-
erances of multiple epistemically authoritative sources, our goal is to keep
these sorts of tensions front and center in service of the full transparency of
argument.
Conclusion
In this chapter, I have presented the methodology assumed for our task:
namely, a theologically value-driven inquiry within an exegetically engaged
analytic theology proceeding via the method of reflective equilibrium to
sort through conflicting values and evidence where necessary. In keeping
with such a methodology, we considered why one should care about the
nature of forgiveness in the first place, and we saw that at least one reason
to care was that forgiveness possesses substantial value for human agents,
and potentially infinite value when theological premises are admitted into
the analysis of forgiveness’s value.
Up to this point, little has been said about the nature of atonement, and
that trend will continue until Chapter 4. In the meantime, however, we focus
on developing a theologically informed account of the nature of forgive-
ness, which comes to full fruition in Chapter 3. On the way to the fuller
account, Chapter 2 serves to determine the witness of the Christian scrip-
tures concerning the nature of forgiveness and to ward off some theological
concerns about our ability (or inability) to gather scriptural evidence in light
of the doctrine of the Fall. To these theologically treacherous waters we
now turn.
Notes
1. Cf. Hobson, Tales of the Quantum and Rovelli, The Order of Time.
2. Ricon, “Why is Pluto No Longer a Planet?”
3. Rutledge, “Analyzing the Muddles of ‘Analysis’”.
4. Webster, God Without Measure, 213.
5. See, for instance, McCall, Which Trinity? Whose Monotheism? and Pawl, In
Defense of Conciliar Christology.
6. Cf. Chignell, Philosophy Comes to Dinner or Linzey, Why Animal Suffering
Matters.
7. The distinction between a pursuit’s being irrelevant to or supporting proper
function might seem odd at first glance. However, the reason for making the
distinction is this: if an agent treats something as an end, there is a degree of
subjective value conferred to the object of desire, whether or not there is any
nonsubjective value that we could rightly ascribe to that object. Thus, even if
there is an end that is irrelevant to proper function, so long as it does not coun-
termand proper function, it will accrue a degree of subjective value in virtue
of being an end and be on-balance valuable.
8. Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics, 1. Zagzebski, Divine Motivation Theory, 82–83
makes this same point. Her discussion of the intrinsic/extrinsic distinction
largely informs my understanding of the landscape of value.
9. In what follows, I consciously talk about extrinsic value in place of intrinsic
value where many thinkers, even theologically oriented ones, choose to ignore
the distinction in their writing.
10. I take the value of knowledge to be largely parasitic on the value of truth, so
this example could be reconfigured in terms of true beliefs to still make the
point.
11. The language of conferring value upon an end is borrowed from Korsgaard,
“Two Distinctions in Goodness”, 181.
12. I have learned much from Eleonore Stump’s discussion of the desires of the
heart in delineating the distinction between the subjective and objective value
of ends (cf. Stump, Wandering in Darkness, 10–11 & 418–450). It is worth not-
ing that both in Lillian’s case and anyone’s case in general, no life can be called
good without there being some projects around which that life is oriented.
Thus, there is a connection between one’s desires and flourishing (and, hence,
a connection between desires and the objective value of ends), but that con-
nection is at a more general level than one needs it to be in order to explain
all the value possessed of Lillian’s particular project of becoming a lawyer (or
anyone else’s particular projects as well).
13. Questions of divine simplicity and the identification of what sorts of depend-
ence are fundamentally of issue in distinguishing intrinsic and extrinsic value
are obviously related to this point, but we can set them aside for the sake of
our discussion. Cf. (i) McCall, “Trinity Doctrine Plain and Simple” and (ii)
Fowler, “Simplicity or Priority”.
14. E.g., Roberts, “Forgivingness” uses this language of reconciliation as the telos
of forgiveness.
15. This case is from Stump, Atonement, 60.
16. Someone might wonder whether Speer did anything wrong by excluding ref-
erences to Wolters on the grounds of Wolters’s morally horrendous views.
I think, however, if we are careful in how we articulate Speer’s reasons for
excluding these references to Wolters (e.g., that Speer acted in part for reasons
of self-interest in full knowledge that it would deeply offend his friend), we
can recognize that there is a forgivable offense, even if overall we would treat
Speer’s action as morally permissible. That is, if we allow that Speer acts for
multiple reasons, some good and some bad, then the bad dimensions of the
action could still merit forgiveness.
17. See Roberts, “Forgivingness” for a discussion of this virtue.
18. Someone might worry about a semi-Pelagianism possibly afflicting this value
claim. However, nothing has been claimed about the source of forgiveness.
Thus, there is no presumption that human agents are sources of the good of
forgiveness absent divine influence.
19. A suggestion similar to this reflection on the aggregation of values over time
can be found in Collins, “The Connection-Building Theodicy”.
20. I am intentionally stating this in terms of forgiveness that are consistent with
either a unilateral (i.e., one-sided) or bilateral (i.e., two-sided) definition of
forgiveness. On my actual account, the act of forgiveness ends up unilateral
even though the conditions that govern when it is best to forgive sometimes
require an agent to put off forgiveness for a time (i.e., due to reasons of love for
the wrongdoer).
21. This is a principle typically attributed to commonsense epistemology (cf.
Huemer, Skepticism and the Veil of Perception).
22. While questions of divine inspiration are important, they would take us
too far afield for the purposes of this text. For further reflection, I suggest:
Abraham, The Divine Inspiration of Holy Scripture & Vanhoozer, Biblical
Authority After Babel.
23. I am not here reducing the purpose of scripture (or the larger deposit of
faith) to teaching some set of propositions. Christianity involves much more
than propositions, and at a more fundamental level—i.e., the level of faith—
Christianity involves allegiance to the Christian God. Cf. (i) Kvanvig, Faith
and Humility; (ii) Abraham, Canon and Criterion in Christian Theology; and
(iii) Webster, Holy Scripture.
24. These claims must be governed with some sort of all-things-being-equal
clause since it is too much to demand of someone that they be simultaneously
a top-flight philosopher, theologian, biblical scholar, historian, etc. The gen-
eral assessment of one’s scholarship need not turn negative if one fails to sat-
isfy such a high standard. And yet, there is little harm in aiming high.
25. Many authors (e.g., Murphy and Hampton, Forgiveness and Mercy, 14–19 or
Wolterstorff, Justice in Love, 165–171) define forgiveness in such a way that it
can only be bestowed for moral offenses.
26. Much of what follows is taken from the first section of Rutledge, “Original
Sin, the Fall, and Epistemic Self-Trust”.
27. See Mill, “What Utilitarianism Is” as well as Smart and Williams, Utilitarianism:
For and Against.
28. “The subject of ends (i.e., the rational being itself) must be made the basis
of every maxim of action and thus be treated never as a mere means but as
the supreme limiting condition in the use of all means—i.e., also as an end”
(Kant, The Groundwork of the Metaphysics of Morals, 35).
29. See Zagzebski, “Exemplarist Virtue Theory”, 43 for my inspiration for this
map analogy. She develops the analogy further in chapter one of Zagzebski,
Exemplarist Moral Theory.
30. Rawls, A Theory of Justice is the work in which this method of reflective equi-
librium was coined. It was originally published in 1971.
31. The nature of the evidence to which such a person would have access after
committing the offense under question is a bit fuzzy. Some authors suggest
that, for Leviticus, undergoing a wide range of sufferings provides one with
evidence that one has unwittingly committed one of these offenses against
God. For reflections on the options for understanding the nature of this evi-
dence in Leviticus, see Sklar, Sin, Impurity, Sacrifice, Atonement.
32. And there are other plausible scriptural texts that one might give in support of
such a view; e.g., Luke 23:34.
Bibliography
Abraham, William J. 1981. The Divine Inspiration of Holy Scripture. Oxford: Oxford
University Press.
. 1998. Canon and Criterion in Christian Theology. Oxford: Oxford University
Press.
Aristotle. 1999. Nicomachean Ethics. Translated by Terence Irwin. Indianapolis:
Hackett Publishing.
Chignell, Andrew. 2016. Philosophy Comes to Dinner: Arguments About the Ethics of
Eating. New York, NY: Routledge Publishing.
Collins, Robin. 2014. “The Connection-Building Theodicy.” In The Blackwell
Companion to the Problem of Evil, edited by Daniel Howard, Justin P. Snyder and
McBrayer, 222–235. Malden, MA: John Wiley & Sons.
Fowler, Gregory. 2015. “Simplicity or Priority.” In Oxford Studies in Philosophy
of Religion, Volume 6, edited by Jonathan L. Kvanvig, 114–138. Oxford: Oxford
University Press.
Heumer, Michael. 2001. Skepticism and the Veil of Perception. New York, NY:
Rowman and Littlefield Publishers.
Hobson, Art. 2017. Tales of the Quantum: Understanding Physics’ Most Fundamental
Theory. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Kant, Immanuel. The Groundwork of the Metaphysics of Morals, in the version by
Jonathan Bennett presented at www.earlymoderntexts.com.
Korsgaard, Christine. “Two Distinctions in Goodness.” The Philosophical Review
Vol. 92, no. 2 (1983): 169–195.
Kvanvig, Jonathan L. 2018. Faith and Humility. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Lindzey, Andrew. 2009. Why Animal Suffering Matters. Oxford: Oxford University
Press.
McCall, Thomas H. 2010. Which Trinity? Whose Monotheism? Philosophical and
Systematic Theologians on the Metaphysics of Trinitarian Theology. Grand
Rapids, MI: Eerdmans.
. 2014. “Trinity Doctrine Plain and Simple.” In Advancing Trinitarian
Theology, edited by Crisp, Oliver D. and Fred Sanders, 49–59. Grand Rapids, MI:
Zondervan.
Mill, John Stuart. 1979. “What Utilitarianism Is.” In Utilitarianism and the 1868
Speech on Capital Punishment, edited by George Sher, 6–26. Indianapolis:
Hackett Publishing.
Murphy, Jeffrie G. and Jean Hampton. 1988. Forgiveness and Mercy. Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press.
Pawl, Timothy. 2016. In Defense of Conciliar Christology. Oxford: Oxford University
Press.
Rawls, John. 1999. A Theory of Justice, 2nd Edition. Cambridge, MA: Harvard
University Press.
Ricon, Paul. 2015. “Why is Pluto No Longer a Planet?” BBC News: https://www.
bbc.co.uk/news/science-environment-33462184
Roberts, Robert C. “Forgivingness.” American Philosophical Quarterly Vol. 32, no.
4 (1995): 289–306.
Rovelli, Carlo. 2018. The Order of Time. London: Allen Lane.
Rutledge, Jonathan Curtis. “Original Sin, the Fall, and Epistemic Self-Trust.”
TheoLogica: An International Journal for Philosophy of Religion and Philosophical
Theology Vol. 2, no. 1 (2018): 84–94.
. “Analyzing the Muddles of ‘Analysis’.” Modern Theology Vol. 36, no. 3
(2020): 569–581.
Sklar, Jay. 2015. Sin, Impurity, Sacrifice, Atonement: The Priestly Conceptions.
Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix Press.
Smart, J. J. C. and Bernard Williams. 1973. Utilitarianism: For and Against.
Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Stump, Eleonore. 2010. Wandering in Darkness: Narrative and the Problem of
Suffering. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
. 2018. Atonement. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Vanhoozer, Kevin. 2016. Biblical Authority After Babel: Retrieving the Solas in the
Spirit of Mere Protestant Christianity. Grand Rapids, MI: Baker.
Webster, John. 2003. Holy Scripture: A Dogmatic Sketch. Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press.
. 2016. God Without Measure: Working Papers in Christian Theology (Volume
I: God and the Works of God). London: Bloomsbury T&T Clark.
Wolterstorff, Nicholas. 2011. Justice in Love. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans.
Zagzebski, Linda Trinkaus. 2004. Divine Motivation Theory. Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press.
. “Exemplarist Virtue Theory.” Metaphilosophy Vol. 41, no. 1–2 (2010): 41–57.
. 2017. Exemplarist Moral Theory. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
2 Original Sin and the Biblical
Witness Concerning Forgiveness
Introduction
At the end of the previous chapter, I presented the method of reflective equi-
librium and declared that it would characterize this project. Although the
method of reflective equilibrium is not particularly controversial within phi-
losophy, there is some theological reason to be concerned about it: namely,
someone might object that such a method is theologically naïve about the
natural capacities of human agents post-Fall.
This chapter, then, proceeds in two parts. First, I address these important
theological concerns regarding the implications of the Fall for our trustwor-
thiness when deliberating via reflective equilibrium. Then, only after that
method has proved itself beyond theological reproach, I turn in the second
part of the chapter to consider the deliverances of the biblical witness con-
cerning the nature of forgiveness.
A second charge of naiveté might be thought to apply to the idea that we
can reasonably speak of “the deliverances of the biblical witness” concerning
a concept such as forgiveness. Consequently, it is worth briefly commenting
on what that survey aims to accomplish. First, I make no assumptions that
all the biblical authors share precisely the same concept of forgiveness, for
those same authors are separated by centuries in time and inhabit vastly
different cultures. Differences in time, space, and culture could easily result
in differences concerning how authors writing from within those contexts
might think about forgiveness. Nevertheless, there are clear connections to
be made between the various uses of the concept of forgiveness throughout
the scriptures, and these connections inform our theological definition of
forgiveness posed in the chapter which follows. Second, it is worth keeping
distinct the notions of divine forgiveness and interpersonal human forgive-
ness. Granted, there is a sense in which the biblical authors presuppose that
the same word for forgiveness rightly characterizes both divine and human
actions (cf. Matthew 6:14–15 where the gospel writer ascribes forgiveness to
both humans and God in parallel). Nevertheless, it might turn out that what
it looks like for God to forgive is importantly different from what it looks
like for us to forgive, despite there being some modicum of univocal content
DOI: 10.4324/9780367754778-3
26 Original Sin and the Biblical Witness
which applies in both the human and the divine case. And our definition of
forgiveness will be better insofar as it allows for the requisite flexibility.
With those caveats in mind, then, let us begin with our discussion of the
implications of original sin for the natural cognitive capacities of human
agents in a postlapsarian context.
Grace vs. Nature, the Fall, and the Noetic Effects of Sin1
Within 20th-century theology, the well-known Barth-Brunner debate estab-
lished that the project of natural theology was a project one engaged in at
one’s own peril.2 Karl Barth, in particular, emphasized that his interloc-
utor’s position, which advanced a Thomistic natural theology of sorts,
could not avoid affirming the existence of a natural capacity within human
nature itself by which individual humans could attain to knowledge of
God. But to claim that knowledge of God was attainable by something of
which the human being was naturally and essentially composed amounted,
thought Barth, to semi-Pelagianism; that is, the view that human beings
could merit some of those goods which, on the orthodox view, ought to
instead be attainable only as unconditioned gifts from God. Barth’s diag-
nosis of Brunner’s theoretical ailment was this: that putting human nature
explanatorily prior to divine grace would imply, perhaps even entail, semi-
Pelagianism.
There is no need for us to weigh in on the question of who won this debate
between Barth and Brunner. It is sufficient instead to note that if Barth is
correct—i.e., that knowledge of God cannot be obtained by the natural rea-
soning capacities of human agents—then someone might object that the
method of reflective equilibrium outlined in the previous chapter appears
possessed of an incipient, albeit covert, semi-Pelagianism. And since many
a contemporary theologian could indeed consider Barth’s concerns here
apt, it is worth explaining how the objection does not apply to the method
as I have outlined it.
But the Barth-Brunner debate is not the only theological source from
which someone might object to the utilization of reflective equilibrium
as a method. For the doctrine of the Fall along with all its tragic impli-
cations—i.e., which lie behind Barth’s own objections to Brunner—also
presents an obstacle to the idea that it is reasonable to trust one’s epistemic
capacities. Indeed, historically speaking, a number of theologians have
interpreted the Fall narrative in such a way that it threatens to seriously
undermine the reasonability of epistemic trust in oneself.
In light of this, then, let us briefly consider the Genesis narrative, and
the concept of the image of God bound up with it, to determine the precise
worry that one might have for crediting our moral and theological intuitions
with epistemic and evidential value. First, here is the Genesis 1 text:
Then God said, “Let us make humankind in our image, according to

26
our likeness; and let them have dominion over the fish of the sea, and
Original Sin and the Biblical Witness 27
over the birds of the air, and over the cattle, and over all the wild animals
of the earth, and over every creeping thing that creeps upon the earth.”
27So God created humankind in his image,

in the image of God he created them;
male and female he created them.3
What constitutes the image of God, as it is understood in this passage, has

been fairly controversial. Some theologians claim that the image of God in
humanity is constituted by certain capacities humans share with the divine,4
capacities which are presumably lacked to some significant degree by other
creatures (e.g., rationality, imagination, or an ability to lovingly respond to
God5). Although it seems unlikely that such a view of the image of God quite
reflects the original understanding of the Genesis text,6 at least the potential
for the possession of certain intellectual capacities is, in some important
way, related to human possession or implementation of the image of God.
For instance, if to be in the image of God just is to be one of God’s rep-
resentatives to the rest of creation, then insofar as one needs rationality,
freedom, or a capacity for love to represent God well, being in the image
entails having such things. But the fact that such capacities are entailed by
what one identifies as the imago dei does not commit one to including those
capacities within the definition of the imago dei. Nor, similarly, does the fact
that being human entails being a featherless biped commit one to defining
humanity as featherless bipeds.7 To be human is not fundamentally about
being a featherless biped. And neither is bearing the image of God funda-
mentally about possessing some set of capacities.
Nevertheless, wherever one lands in one’s definition of the image of God,
for our purposes here, all that is required is a recognition of human cogni-
tive capacities as part (or necessary concomitants) of the image of God. For
so long as our cognitive capacities are among the things which are damaged
in the Fall, worries concerning the extent to which we can trust those cog-
nitive capacities in our postlapsarian context may arise. Consider, then, the
following enlightening passage from John Calvin:
Original sin…may be defined as the hereditary corruption and deprav-

ity of our nature. This reaches every part of the soul, makes us abhor-
rent to God’s wrath and produces in us what Scripture calls works of
the flesh… Our nature is not only completely empty of goodness, but so
full of every kind of wrong that it is always active. Those who call it lust
use an apt word, provided it is also stated…that everything which is in
man, from the intellect to the will, from the soul to the body, is defiled
and imbued with this lust. To put it briefly, the whole man is in himself
nothing but lust.8
According to Calvin, all humanity has inherited a sort of disease known as

original sin. As he describes this malady, every part of the soul, including
28 Original Sin and the Biblical Witness
both the intellect and will is “defiled” and “completely empty of goodness”.
This language concerning the problem of sin is strong indeed, and it might
lead us to wonder whether or not an intellect that fits such a description is
worthy of the high epistemic status I have attributed to it. After all, I have
claimed that we can consult our intuitions—i.e., the deliverances of our cog-
nitive capacities—and perhaps rely on them in determining what to believe
about the nature of forgiveness, even where that might lead to a prima facie
conflict with our other epistemic authorities such as scripture. But suppose
that Calvin is right and original sin has afflicted our intellect as to make it
in fact unreliable. What would this imply about the epistemic propriety of
trusting the deliverances of our cognitive faculties?9
Perhaps contrary to expectations, very little is implied. Or at least, very
little is implied for anyone trying to reason through these difficult questions
from the inescapable first-person perspective (i.e., “the egocentric predic-
ament”10) in which human agents find themselves. To understand why we
should not be bothered by the potential implications of the doctrine of the
Fall for our implementation of reflective equilibrium, consider the following
bit of reasoning through which an agent might proceed; that is, an agent
who comes to believe that there is a real possibility that her cognitive facul-
ties are unreliable due to the debilitating noetic effects of sin:
Sally has always trusted herself generally when it comes to her intel-
lectual activities. That is, she has always considered herself generally
(though not infallibly) trustworthy concerning the gathering of evi-
dence and the evaluation of that evidence. However, upon reading John
Calvin’s Institutes, she comes to believe that there is a real possibility
that her intellectual activities are in some significant way unreliable due
to the corruption of sin. As a result, she acquires a reason to doubt
that her cognitive faculties are generally reliable. This is an unfortunate
thing, for now Sally is unsure whether or not she can trust the particu-
lar deliverances of her intellectual activities in the future. And what is
worse, it seems that the reason Sally has for distrusting her intellectual
self in general is a reason she only gains by way of an act of trusting
those very cognitive capacities being called into question. That is, she
gains a reason for ceasing to trust her epistemic self with an act of trust-
ing her epistemic self. Puzzled about the implications for her cognitive
life, Sally wonders how to move forward.11
Perhaps this thought experiment seems a bit misleading as an interpretation

of Calvin, but let us leave proper interpretation aside. For the interpretation
I have suggested is a worst-case scenario understanding of the Fall, and
if it can be shown that there is room for Sally to trust her epistemic facul-
ties even in a worst-case scenario, then it will plausibly follow that in any
better-case scenario, she again will be within her epistemic rights to trust
her intellectual activities.
Exploring the Variety of Random
Documents with Different Content
and each time he heard its nearing cry he prayed, crying out that he had not
come to harm its young, but to ask its aid. And at last the whitehead seemed to
understand, for after the fourth fierce rush, it slowly sailed around and settled
on the edge of the nest.
“Hai-yu,” Pi-waṕ-ōk cried, “be you male or female, father or mother of these
young birds, as you love them, pity me.”
“I am their mother,” the bird replied, “and, since you have called upon me in
their name, say what is in your mind; I will help you if I can.”
Then the blind one told of his affliction, and how through great danger and sore
distress of mind he had climbed the cliff, hoping the great bird might cure him.
“Alas,” said the whitehead when he had finished, “what you ask is beyond my
power; nor could my husband, who is away hunting, help you. None of my kind
could make you see again, for we have never had occasion to treat the eyes. We
live to great age, but our eyes remain strong and clear to the very end.”
Pi-waṕ-ōk wept. “Alas!” he cried, “how [155]my hopes have fallen. This long and
dangerous climb, after all, brings no relief.”
“Not so,” said the bird. “I cannot give you sight, but in other ways I can do
much for you. Here is a feather from my tail; take it, and keep it carefully, and
you shall live to old age. And since you are helpless in your blindness, I will do
more. I will teach you many wonderful things, and will give you power to heal
the sick. Then you will not sit sad and idle in your lodge. The people will keep
coming for you to go here and there to heal them and to practise your
mysterious rites, and you will be so busy that you will forget your blindness.”
Then the bird began, and through the long morning taught Pi-waṕ-ōk, showing
him the secret of many wonderful things, telling him how and what to use for
certain ailments. It took a long time to explain it all, and just as the bird
finished, the blind one fell asleep.
After a little he awoke. “Put out your hand and feel,” the whitehead said. He did
so and found he was lying on grassy ground.
“You are on the prairie at the top of the cliff,” the bird continued; “your friend is
sitting [156]away over there on a point. Rise up and motion him to come, for I
must leave you now.”
When the young man saw him beckoning, he came running with all his might.
“Ah!” he cried, as he came near, “you are cured.”
“No,” Pi-waṕ-ōk replied. “I am still as blind as ever.”
“Then how came you here? How could you climb that awful cliff and still be
blind?”
“I do not know,” said Pi-waṕ-ōk. “I was asleep in the whitehead’s nest, and
when I awoke I was here.”
The way home was easy, for they followed the rim of the valley to a point
beyond the cliff, and then descended a sloping hill. And when they had arrived
at camp the people came crowding around to hear all that had happened.
As the whitehead had said, Pi-waṕ-ōk became a great medicine man and healer
of the sick, and, through the secret power that the bird gave him, he was able
to do many strange things. He and his wife, Í-kai-si, lived to a great age. He
was the greatest healer the Bloods have ever had. [157]
[Contents]
Ragged Head
[159]
M
any years ago there was a Nez Percé Indian whose name was
Ragged Head. He wore the long hair on the front of his head tied up
in a bunch, and the ends hanging over were ragged and of different
lengths. This was why they gave him this name. This man was a
great warrior. He could not be killed. When he was a young man his dream
helper had come to him in his sleep and had spoken to him, saying:
“My son, you are a man who need not fear to go into battle, for neither arrow
nor bullet nor lance nor knife can hurt you. You may rush into the very midst of
the enemy, and they will all run away from you. Take courage, therefore, take
great courage.” Then his dream helper smoked with him.
But when the dream helper had spoken to [160]him in his sleep, and had told
him that he need not be afraid of his enemies, and had smoked with him, it had
said further:
“My son, some day you must die, and it may be that you will be killed by your
enemy, for there is one thing that can hurt you. Only one thing, but of this you
must be careful. If you should be shot with a ramrod, it will pierce your flesh
and you will die.”
After Ragged Head had returned to the camp, he told this part of his dream to
no one, except to two of his close friends, for he did not wish it to be known
and talked about. None of these three men thought much about it, nor felt
afraid, for every one knows that people when they are in battle and are trying to
kill their enemies, do not shoot ramrods at them, but bullets.
When this man went to war he did not carry a gun, nor arrows, nor a lance. His
weapon was a great war-club, made from the butt of an elk antler. With this he
used to beat down his enemies. In the end of the club he had put a lash, and he
used it also as a riding quirt.
Every summer Ragged Head used to cross the mountains from his country to
the plains, [161]to hunt buffalo and to make war on the Piegans. When he saw a
party of his enemies, he would charge down upon them, shaking his war-club
and shouting out the war-cry; and when the Piegans saw who it was that was
coming they all tried to get out of his way, for they knew that he could not be
killed, and that they could not do anything to hurt him. So he killed many of his
enemies, and had great fame among his own people and among those against
whom he fought. He was a leader of war-parties and always successful.
Everybody was afraid of him, for all people knew that he had strong spiritual
power, and that he could not be killed.
It was early summer. The grass had started. The snow was melting on the
mountains. Already the streams were high. It was time to go to war.
From their camp on the plains a party of Piegans set out on the war-path to
cross the mountains and take horses from their enemies on the other side—
Snakes, Flat Heads, or Nez Percés. On foot they made their way along the lower
hills, climbed up through the narrow pass, and at length stood on the top of the
mountain range, from which they could look [162]out over the lower country to
the west. There, in the wide gray plain before them, they could trace the
winding courses of many streams, and from some of them rose smokes which
showed that people were camped there, and they knew that these people were
their enemies.
While they were stopping here, overlooking the country, the leader of the war-
party said to his young men:
“Now, here we will separate and go off in small parties to see what we can
discover, and after ten nights we will all meet again at the Round Butte at the
foot of this mountain, and return to our camp together.”
So here the party divided, going off by twos and threes to try to find the camps
of their enemies.
There were two young Piegans who went off together. The younger of the two
carried a bow and arrows, and the other had an old shot-gun the barrels of
which had been cut off short, so that he could carry it under his robe without its
being seen. The tube which had held the ramrod in its place had been broken
off, and there was no way to carry the rod except in [163]the barrel of the gun.
When the boy was shooting, he held the ramrod in his hand.
After a few days’ travel these young men found a trail where people had passed
not long before, and following this trail, they saw a camp, and hid themselves
near by to wait for night and then to go to it and take horses. This was the
camp of the Nez Percés, and Ragged Head was its chief.
In the night, after it was dark and the camp had become quiet, the young men
crept down to the river, close to the lodges, to see what they might do. The
older boy said to his companion, “I will go first into the camp and see how
things are there, and perhaps take a horse or two, and then I will come back
here and tell you, and we can both go back and take more horses if all goes
well.” The other said, “It is good; I will wait for you here.”
The older boy crossed the stream and crept into the camp and looked about.
The people were sleeping; it was all quiet, and in front of the lodges were tied
many fine horses. He found two that he liked, and cut the ropes that held them,
and led them back across the stream to where he had left his friend; but when
he [164]reached the place his friend was not waiting there. So the young man led
the horses into the brush and tied them, and crossed the stream again for more.
As he was wading through the water, carrying his gun muzzle up so that the
ramrod should not fall out, and when he was near the other bank, he saw a
man standing there, and thought it was his friend.
When he came close to him he said: “Why did you not wait for me on the other
side, as you said you would?” The person did not answer, but stretched out his
left hand and caught the boy by the hair, pulled him forward, and raised a great
club, as if to strike him.
Then the young Piegan was frightened. He put up his left hand to ward off the
blow, and with his right he pushed the muzzle of his shot-gun against the
person’s body and pulled both triggers. The gun went off. The man fell, and the
young Piegan quickly ran away.
At the sound of the shot all the Nez Percés rushed out of their lodges and up
and down the stream to learn what had happened. On the river-bank they found
Ragged Head dead. In his body was the splintered ramrod. [165]
[Contents]
Nothing Child
[167]
A
long time ago there lived in the Blackfoot camp a young man who did
not like company. He preferred to be alone. He had a wife but no
children, and one young brother who lived with him. This was his
only close relation. This man had a tame bear, which he had caught
when it was a little cub. During the day he went hunting, and set traps and
snares for game, and at night, when he returned to the camp, he did not go
about visiting at the other lodges, but stayed at home by himself.
One day he thought he would move away from the village and camp alone—just
his own lodge. They started, the man and his wife, and the young brother and
the bear. They went up towards the mountains, and camped in the timber. The
man hunted and killed plenty of game, and they stayed there for a long time.
[168]While the older brother was hunting, the younger one used to stay at home,
making arrows and shooting with them, and at length he became a very good
shot.
After a time the younger brother had grown big, and he was a handsome boy,
and the woman fell in love with him, but he took no notice of her.
One day, while the young brother was sitting in the lodge making arrows, and
the woman was outside tanning a hide, she called to him and said, “Oh, brother,
come out and kill this pretty bird that is here,” but the boy was busy smoothing
his arrows, and paid no attention. Pretty soon she asked him again, and then a
third time, and when she called him the fourth time he got up and went outside
and killed the bird and gave it to her, and then went into the lodge again and
kept on working at his arrows. He did not stop and talk with her. Pretty soon the
boy went off into the timber to try his arrows. The bear was lying by the door of
the lodge.
The woman was angry at the boy because he took no notice of her, and she
made up her mind that she would be revenged on him. So [169]while he was
gone she scratched and bruised her face and tore her hair.
At night her husband came home, and when he looked at his wife he saw that
her face was scratched and swollen and her hair all pulled about. He sent out
his young brother to hang up the meat that he had brought in, and the boy
went leaving arrows lying by the fire to dry. While he was gone the woman said
to her husband, “Your brother has beaten me because I asked him to shoot a
pretty bird for me.” She showed her husband the scratches and bruises she had
made on herself, and said, “See how he has used me.”
When the man heard this he was angry, but he said nothing. When the boy
came back from hanging up the meat, he looked for his arrows but did not see
them. Then he asked, “Where have you put my arrows?” but no one answered,
and at length he saw the ends of them among the ashes, for his brother had
thrown them into the fire. When the boy saw that his arrows had been burned
he cried, and taking his robe and his bow and what arrows he had left, he went
out of the lodge. He made up his mind that he could not live here with his
brother [170]any longer, and decided to go away. The bear, which all this time
had been lying by the door of the lodge, listening, was angry at the lies the
woman had told, and at what her husband had done, and he got up and went
out and followed the boy. They travelled for a while and then slept, and the next
day went on again, going towards the mountains.
For two days they travelled, and on the third day, as they were going along, the
boy saw sitting in a tree-top a bird that was white as snow, and different from
any bird that he had seen before. He took an arrow from his quiver and shot the
bird, and as it fell, it caught among the branches and lodged there. He threw
sticks at it, but could not knock it down, so he made up his mind that he would
climb the tree and get the bird and his arrow. When he had tightened his belt
and was just about to climb the tree, the bear spoke to him and said: “You had
better not do this. If you go up there something bad may happen. It will be
better to let the things go.” But the boy was very anxious to get that bird and
his arrow, and would not listen to the bear’s words, but began to climb the tree.
[171]
He reached the branch where the arrow was, but when he stretched out his
hand to take it it moved up a little higher, just beyond his fingers. So he climbed
higher and again reached for the arrow, and again it moved up a little higher. He
kept climbing and climbing, with the arrow always moving in front of him, until
at last he climbed out of sight.
For the rest of the day the bear stood at the foot of the tree, looking upward
and whining and moaning for his friend, but he saw nothing of him. About
sundown all the boy’s clothing came tumbling down together, but nothing was
seen of the boy. The bear would not leave the tree. He waited there, hoping to
see what had become of the boy, but that was the last of him. He saw him no
more.
After the boy and the bear had left the camp, the older brother kept thinking of
what had taken place. When they did not come back he felt lonesome and sad,
and began to fear that something would happen to his young brother, and at
last he made up his mind that he would start out and learn what had become of
him. He left his lodge and set out in the direction the two had taken. He found
their [172]trail and followed it, and after two days came to the tree and there
saw the bear, standing on his hind feet and resting his paws against the tree.
The man asked the bear what had become of the boy, but the bear would not
reply to him. He asked him the same question again, and a third and a fourth
time, and then the bear answered and said: “All this trouble has come upon us
through your fault, because you listened to the lies your woman told you. Your
brother has climbed this tree and has gone out of sight, and now for three days
I have stood here, waiting for him to come down. His clothing has fallen down
from up above, but he does not return.” They waited by the tree longer, but the
boy did not come down, and at length the man said to the bear: “My brother is
gone. He will never come back. We had better go back to the camp where we
can live.” The bear went back with him.
On their way the bear told the man how it really had been, and that it was not
the boy who had hurt the woman, but that she had done it herself, and in this
way had caused his brother to lose his life. Then the man was angry, and when
they came near to the lodge [173]he took an arrow from his quiver and shot his
wife, and her shadow went to the sand-hills.
That night the man said to the bear, “Well, we are only two now, and for myself,
I have decided to stay here and starve to death, and as for you, you had better
leave me and go your way and make your living as all bears do.” So the bear
went away and did not return.
One night while the man was lying asleep, he dreamed of the bear; and the
bear spoke to him and said: “My brother, listen to the words that I speak to you,
and do now what I tell you to. Go back to the old camp of your people, to the
cliff where they drive the buffalo, the piś kun, and wait there. A camp of your
people is moving towards that place. They are very poor and have but little to
eat. It may be that you can help them. Be sure to do exactly as I tell you from
this time on, and in the days to come you will be unhappy no longer, but will
have plenty of everything and will have full life. Now I wish you to-morrow,
when you awake, to eat up your lodge and everything that is in it. This seems to
you like a hard thing, something that cannot be done, [174]but, by the power
that I give you, you will be able to do it.”
When the man awoke, in the morning, he thought for a long time over what the
bear had said to him in his sleep, and how it had said that in the time to come
he would be poor no longer, but would have full life, and how it had said that it
would give him that power, and he made up his mind to do as the bear had told
him. He tore down his lodge and began to eat it, and found that this was not a
hard thing to do. He ate the lodge and the lining, his clothing, his wife’s things—
everything that he could find in the lodge, and then took his bow and arrows
and started to go to the cliff as the bear had told him to.
Now since the bear had left, the man had had no food to eat, and on his
journey he found himself getting weak and growing smaller. When he reached
the cliff there was no camp there, so he waited, and all the time he kept getting
weaker, and smaller and smaller, until he was no bigger than a year-old child. He
thought now that he would surely die, and hid himself under a bunch of rye
grass.
The next day the people moved in and camped [175]at this place. An old woman
went out to get some grass for her bed, and while she was gathering it, she
heard a sound as if a little child were crying. She went in the direction of the
sound, and under a bunch of rye grass she found a little child. She carried him
into the camp and took good care of him. When the chief of the camp heard of
how she had found the child, he said to the old woman, “Take good care of that
child; he was put there for some good purpose.”
As time passed the child grew fatter and stronger, and the old woman grew fond
and proud of him. They called him Kiś tap i pokau (Nothing Child.)
Near this camp stood a tree, and every day an eagle came and alighted in the
tree. The chief had tried many times to kill this eagle, and so had other men,
but no one could kill it. When they found that no one could kill it, they wanted it
all the more. The chief had two very pretty daughters, and at length he said
that he would give his daughters to any one who would kill this eagle. When this
was called out through the camp by the old crier, all the young men came out to
try to kill the eagle, [176]but no one could do it. At last Nothing Child said to the
old woman, “Grandmother, make me some arrows so that I can kill the eagle.”
The old woman laughed when he asked her this, but she was very fond of him,
so she tied a string to a deer’s rib for a bow and made him some little arrows,
and he set out to kill the eagle. When the young men who had been shooting at
the eagle saw the child coming with the tiny bow, they laughed and made fun of
him, but Nothing Child fitted a little arrow on the string of his bow, and shot and
killed the eagle. Then all who were standing by were astonished, but they said,
“It must have been a chance shot.” The eagle was taken to the chief’s lodge,
and they told him it had been killed by the Nothing Child. So he told his
daughters to go and marry the found boy.
But the young men were not satisfied with this decision. They said that it was
not fair, that the boy had made a chance shot, and they asked the chief to try
their skill in some other way. So the chief told the young men that they might
again try their luck for the young girls, and that whoever killed a white wolf with
a black tail should have his daughters. All the [177]men went out from the camp
and built their wooden traps, and Nothing Child also went out and made a
wooden trap. The next morning they all went out to visit their traps, and in
almost all the traps they found something—wolves, foxes, badgers, and other
animals. Some of the wolves were white all over, and some were white with gray
tails, but no one had a white wolf with a black tail. The Nothing Child, with his
grandmother, went out from the camp to his trap in a different direction from
the rest, and in their trap they found a white wolf with a black tail. They took it
into camp and to the chief’s lodge, and when he saw it he said that this was the
wolf he wanted.
Now all the young men in the camp were jealous of the Nothing Child, for it was
certain that he would get the chief’s daughters for his wives. So they went to
the chief and asked him to try his people once more, that they thought that the
Nothing Child had not killed the wolf fairly. So the chief now said: “Whoever will
bring me a white fox with a black-tipped tail shall have my daughters. This will
be the last trial, and after this no one need complain.” [178]
The young men set their traps all over the prairie, but Nothing Child asked his
grandmother to go with him, and he went to a place far from all the others and
there set his trap. The next morning the young men all went out to look at their
traps. Some had foxes and some had other animals, but when Nothing Child
went to his trap, he found in it a white fox with a black-tipped tail, and when it
was taken to the chief’s lodge he said that this was the fox he meant, and he
told his daughters to get ready and go and marry the Nothing Child. The
youngest girl was willing to do what her father ordered, but the elder was not.
They put on their finest clothing and left their father’s lodge and started for
Nothing Child’s home. As they walked along, the elder girl said to her sister, “I
am not going to marry this child, to be laughed at by everybody.” The younger
sister said, “I am going to do what my father told me to. It is better to do so.
Besides that, the Nothing Child must be a very powerful person. See how many
wonderful things he has done.” The elder girl said, “Well, I am not going to his
lodge. I am going to marry Masto pau (Raven Arrow).” This [179]was a young
man who had the power to turn himself into a raven whenever he wished. So
the elder girl went her way to Raven Arrow, but the younger kept on towards
Nothing Child’s lodge.
When the girl came to the lodge and went in, the old woman told her to sit
down. Nothing Child was playing at the back of the lodge. The girl said, “My
father sent me to sit beside the person who killed the eagle, the white wolf with
the black tail, and the white fox with the black-tipped tail.” Nothing Child said, “I
am the person who did that, but I do not want any woman to sit beside me.”
The girl answered: “My father sent me to sit beside you, and I shall stay here. I
am not going home any more.” When the boy saw that the girl was resolved to
stay, he said, “Very well, you shall be my wife.” So she stayed, and was pleasant
and nice with the boy and played with him, and he liked her. She saw that he
was very poor, but she seemed to take no notice of that.
At this time the camp was very short of food. The young men scouted far and
near over the prairie, but could find no buffalo. It was a [180]hard time;
everybody was hungry. One day Nothing Child said to his wife: “Now you stay
here for a while. I am going away for a time. I am going to try to find a band of
buffalo and bring them into camp.” He made ready for his journey and started.
After he had travelled a long way he came to a wet, marshy place near the
mountains, where in summer many buffalo had been. Here he gathered up
buffalo chips, and made great piles of them in a row, and when he had finished,
he went back some way, and then came running and shouting towards the piles
of chips. When he got close to them he stopped, and then went back again, and
again came running and shouting upon the chips, but nothing happened. He
repeated this a third and a fourth time, and the fourth time, when he got near
the piles, the chips turned into buffaloes and rushed off over the prairie, and
Nothing Child ran them towards the camp and drove them over the cliff into the
piś kun, so that once more the camp was supplied with meat.
The next day Nothing Child told his wife to go to her father’s lodge for the day,
and not to return until night. After the girl had gone [181]he spoke to his
grandmother and said: “Grandmother, you have seen what strange things I have
done, and you can see that I have some power. That power which I have was
given to me by a bear that has helped me, and because I have done just what
he told me to I have been able to accomplish the things that you have seen me
do. I do not know the secret of my power, but I know that I have it. Now,
Grandmother, I want you to do something for me. I want you to take a rope and
tie me by the feet to the lodge poles, so that I may hang head downward from
the poles. I am little, and you can easily hold me up.” The old woman did as he
had told her, and he hung there head downward. Pretty soon he opened his
mouth, and a little piece of cowskin stuck out. Nothing Child took hold of this
and began to pull on it, and more and more came out, and at last he had pulled
out the whole of his old lodge, and then he pulled out the lining, and afterwards
many of his old belongings. When he had eaten all these things they had been
old, but now they were new and white, and finely ornamented. The lodge was
painted, the woman’s clothing was beautifully worked [182]with porcupine quills;
there was a new full set of war clothing for himself—all very fine.
After he had done this Nothing Child asked the old woman to untie him, and
when he was on his feet again it was seen that he was no longer a child, but a
full-grown man, very handsome. He told the old woman to set up the new
lodge, and she did so. When his wife returned she was surprised to see all the
new things. They looked strange to her. Also her husband, who, when she last
saw him, was a small boy and rather ugly, was now a big, fine-looking man. The
girl was pleased with the change, and now they lived together for a long time
very happily.
After a time Raven Arrow became jealous of Nothing Child because of his power,
but Nothing Child did not notice this, and, because Raven Arrow was poor, he
asked him to come and live with him in his lodge. He did so, and they lived
together for some time, and now the elder daughter of the chief was sorry that
she had not done as her father had told her to.
One day, in the early summer, Nothing Child’s wife said to him, “Oh, how much I
would like some fresh berries to eat!” He said [183]to her: “Do you want some
fresh berries? Well, now, go out and gather a lot of sarvis berry branches and
bring them to me here in the lodge.” The woman did as he had told her, and
brought in the bushes and threw them down on the floor of the lodge. Then
Nothing Child took a tanned elk-skin and covered the bushes with it. In a short
time he told his wife to take the skin off the brush, and when she did so she
was astonished, for she found the twigs loaded with fine ripe berries, as though
they were growing.
Now, when Raven Arrow’s wife saw this she felt that she too would like some
berries, and she asked her husband if he could do this. But he said: “No. It is
useless for me to try to do things that I know I cannot do. I can change myself
into a raven and can do many other things, but I cannot make ripe berries grow
in the spring, nor can I do many other things that Nothing Child does.”
After some time it happened that food again became scarce in the camp, and
the chief sent word to his son-in-law, asking him if he could not again bring the
buffalo into the camp, as he had done before. The hunters had been out
[184]and had travelled far over the prairie, but they could see nothing. Nothing
Child sent word back that this was a hard thing he was asked to do; he feared
he could not do it, but he would try.
He made ready for his journey and started, travelling a long way looking for the
buffalo, but he found none. He then went to the marsh where he had made
buffalo before, and again made many little piles of buffalo chips in rows, and
again went back some distance and then came charging down on the piles
running and shouting. And the fourth time he did this the piles of chips changed
into real buffalo and started running. And Nothing Child ran the herd over the
cliff, as he had done before, and again the camp was supplied with meat. In this
herd was one white buffalo. His wife met him at the cliff, and he told her that
this white buffalo was hers. That she must be careful of the skin when she had
taken it off.
His wife told her husband that Raven Arrow had changed himself into a raven,
and had flown away to look for buffalo, saying that if he found any he was going
to drive them out of the country. This made Nothing Child [185]angry, but he said
nothing and waited. One day, as he was sitting by the fire, Raven Arrow, in the
shape of a white raven, flew into the lodge and lit on the ground by him. When
Nothing Child saw him he seized him and tied him by the feet to a lodge pole
high up in the smoke and kept him there until he was nearly dead from the
smoke. At last Nothing Child asked him if he would promise never again to drive
the buffalo away from the people. Raven Arrow promised that he would never
again do so, and Nothing Child untied him and let him down, when he changed
into a man again. Up to that time ravens had always been white, but ever since
the smoking that this raven got they have been black.
Nothing Child and his wife lived to full age and always had plenty of everything.
[187]
[Contents]
Shield Quiver’s Wife
[189]
T
here were two young men growing up in the Blackfoot camp. They
were both good warriors and were making great names for
themselves. One was lucky in taking horses. His name was Shield
Quiver. The other was fortunate in killing enemies when he went to
war. He was called Bearhead. When either of the two went to war, he always
had a big party to follow him. Bearhead was jealous of Shield Quiver, because
he always brought in horses.
One time the Blackfeet were camped at the Bear Paw Mountains, when Shield
Quiver made up his mind that he would go off on the war-path. When he said
that he was going, a large party intended to go with him.
Before he started the chief of the camp sent for him to come to his lodge,
saying that he wished to speak with him. When Shield Quiver [190]had come to
the lodge the chief said: “Here, my young man, now that you are going to war,
take my daughter with you, for you are the man that ought to have her. But you
will have to be on your guard against Bearhead. He wants my daughter, and for
a long time has been trying to get her, but I cannot let him have her. He has a
bad disposition. He has had many wives, but, after living with them for a short
time, he has got angry with them and killed them. I am afraid that if I give him
my daughter he might kill her.”
Shield Quiver thought for a little while, and then said: “Very well; I will go to
war, and I will take your daughter with me, but if I go with a woman I cannot let
men go with me. I shall have to go alone.”
The chief said: “I cannot say anything about that. You will do what you think
best. I cannot advise you.”
So Shield Quiver took the chief’s daughter for his wife. He said to his followers:
“Now I am going to war, but you men cannot come with me. I shall be gone two
moons, and then I will come back. I am going alone.”
He started with his young wife, and they [191]went towards the Snake Country.
They travelled for a good many days, until they came to a range of mountains
and crossed it. Then they went on towards the head waters of a stream that
they could see a long way off. When they reached this stream they found that
the Snakes had been camped there, and had moved away that day. The fires
were still burning in the camp.
When Shield Quiver found that the Snakes had only just moved from there, he
said to his wife: “Here, let us get back in the brush. These people are not far
from here. They may see us. We must hide ourselves.” They went back into the
brush and hid.
While they were waiting in the brush a dark cloud came up in the west, and it
looked as if they were going to have a storm. Shield Quiver said to his wife:
“While we have to wait, I will fix up a little shelter of brush here, so that we may
keep dry; but to-night we will go to the camp and take horses.”
“Very well,” said his wife, “while you are fixing the place, I will go around the
point and into the old camp and will see if I can find anything there that has
been left behind.” [192]For often something may be forgotten and left in the
camp.
That day the Snakes had left this camp, and had moved over to another creek.
The head chief of the Snakes had but one son, a fine-looking young man—the
handsomest in all the Snake camp. That morning, before they moved, he had
painted himself and had dressed himself finely, and after he had finished he
handed his mother his sack of paints to pack. While his mother was packing, she
put down the paints in a little patch of brush, near the lodge, and then went
away and forgot them.
When the young man came into camp that evening he said to his mother,
“Mother, where are my paints?” Then his mother remembered that she had left
them in the camp they had just come from. She said, “Oh, my son, I forgot the
sack, and left it in a little patch of brush just back of where the lodge stood.”
The young man caught up a horse and went back to get it that same evening.
When he rode into the old camp, and came to where the lodge had been, he
saw there on her knees a woman with an elk robe over her head, and in her
hands his paints, which she [193]was looking at. When he rode up to her, and
when she looked up at him, he saw that she was very pretty, and he liked her as
soon as he looked at her; and she, when she saw him, so handsome and finely
dressed and painted, liked him.
He made signs to her, saying, “Who are you, and what tribe do you belong to?”
She signed back to him that she was a Blackfoot. Then she asked him, “Who
and what are you?” He answered, “A Snake.” He asked her by signs, “Where is
the party that you are with?” She said, “There are only two of us.” He said,
“Come, get on my horse behind me here, and let us go to my camp.” She
answered: “No, there are some things that I have here that I want to get. Then
I will go with you.” Then she thought a little and said: “The only other person
here is my husband. Why do you not kill him? I will help you.” The Snake said:
“It is good. I will do it.” The girl said to him: “I will go to him, and do you creep
through the brush, and as soon as I see you I will throw my robe around him
and hold him, and you can kill him with your lance.” [194]
She went back to the camping-place, and when she got there her husband was
stooping down hobbling the horses. The Snake was right behind her, creeping
through the brush. She walked up to her husband and threw herself down over
him, and kissed him while he was hobbling the horses. He looked up at her and
laughed. He thought she was only playing with him. In a minute he heard the
footsteps of some one coming, running, and he said, “Look out! here comes
somebody,” and he tried to throw her off, but he could not. He raised himself up
while she clung to him, and the Snake made a pass at him with the lance, but
he was afraid of killing the woman, and he missed the man, and Shield Quiver
caught hold of the lance. He kept calling to his wife: “Let go of me. This man is
trying to kill me. He will kill us both. Let us try to save ourselves.”
Shield Quiver and the Snake wrestled and tugged backward and forward to see
who should get the lance. They were both strong men, and at length the shaft
broke, and Shield Quiver held the piece on which was the head. Then he
jumped back and shook off his wife, and [195]rushed at the Snake and thrust the
lance into his breast, and so killed him with his own lance.
Then he turned to his wife and said: “Now, woman, I have killed this man that
you have tried to help, and I would like to have you tell me what is the reason
that you acted as you did, and tried to help him to kill me.”
Then the woman explained her reasons, and said: “When I left you I went into
the camp and found this sack of paint, and while I was looking at it he came up
and asked me to go to his camp with him, and I liked him, and thought that I
would go with him. So we laid a plan to kill you before we went to camp.”
Shield Quiver said to her: “Now, woman, listen. Bearhead wanted you. He has
had a good many women, and he has killed all that he had. Through pity I took
you. I never expected to take a wife. I will not do anything to you for what you
have done to me, but will take good care of you and will give you back to your
father.”
He scalped the Snake and took everything that he had. The woman was crying
hard. He asked her what she was crying about, and she [196]answered: “I am
crying for my lover, who is dead.” He said: “Saddle up your horse. We will go
home.”
They started, and after many days’ travel reached the Blackfoot camp. It was in
the night. The next morning Shield Quiver said to his wife: “Put on your best
clothing. I told you I was going to give you back to your father, and I am going
to take you there this morning. So get ready to go.”
The woman put on her best clothes, and painted herself up nicely, and they
started off to the old chief’s lodge. The old chief was glad to see his son-in-law
and his daughter back again. No one knew that Shield Quiver had killed a
Snake. He had not spoken of it to any one. After they had sat down the young
man reached down into his belt and drew out the scalp and said: “Here, old
man, here is all I have done on this journey. I have taken no horses, but I have
killed a Snake. I have killed your daughter’s lover. It is only by the help and the
power of the Sun that you see me here to-day. Your daughter tried to kill me on
this trip, while I was fighting with this Snake Indian. I am afraid to live with her,
[197]and have brought her back to you again. This is the best I can do, to give
you this scalp and your daughter back again.” When Shield Quiver had said this
he got up and walked out of the lodge, and went back to his own home. The old
man said nothing.
The girl had two brothers, and both were sitting in the lodge while Shield Quiver
was speaking; and when they had heard the story told, and had thought about
it, they got up, and each took hold of one of the girl’s arms, and they led her
out of the lodge. Then they said to her: “You cannot live here with us. You had
better go and join your dead Snake lover.”
So they killed her there. [199]

[Contents]
The Beaver Stick
[201]
I
n ancient times, long before the people had found horses and used
them instead of dogs to bear burdens and drag lodge poles, there
lived Man-yan—New Robe—an orphan.
New Robe’s parents had died when he was a little child, and he was
brought up by an old woman who also died before he grew up to be a man. His
parents, hopeful for his future, had given their son a good name, but in all his
life up to the time he was seventeen or eighteen years old, he had never worn a
new robe or any other new article of clothing. The cast-off garments of the well-
to-do were thought good enough for him. He was always dirty and ragged, and
his matted and tangled hair hung low over his forehead, and almost hid his sore
red eyes. Somewhere he had picked up an old bow, but it had no strength; and
even if it had been [202]strong and full of quick spring, the broken-pointed flint
heads of his arrows would not have pierced the flesh of any large animal. He
had an old flint knife, but its edge was so ragged and blunted that it would
scarcely cut a piece of boiled meat.
Yet New Robe lived along contentedly enough, for he knew nothing better than
all this. He never thought that he was different from other young men, until one
day he chanced to overhear the conversation of some young women. He was
lying half asleep in a patch of willows when the girls came along, and, stopping
near him, sat down and kept on talking.
“Well,” said one, “you have each told your choice, but you have not spoken of
the very handsomest and nicest of all the young men. Why have you forgotten
New Robe?”
They all shrieked with laughter—she who had spoken most of all—and then
began to jest about him, and New Robe’s face grew hot as he heard the many
unkind things they said about his appearance and his poverty. One of the girls,
however, had a better heart.
“It is wrong,” she said, “for us to talk in [203]this way about the young man. He
cannot help being poor, and I am sorry for him. I must say, though, that he
might be cleaner and neater than he is. I wish I could talk to him; I would like
to tell him some things that would be for his good.”
“Why, you must be in love with him,” one of the girls exclaimed, laughing.
“Well,” replied the other, “I pity the poor young man, and, if my father would
allow me, I would marry him and make a man of him. All he needs to change
his ways is kindness and teaching.”
In the evening New Robe met this girl, Mas-tah ki—Raven Woman—as she was
coming from the river with a skin of water. Already he had combed out his hair
and washed himself, and she stared at him in surprise.
“Ah,” he said, stopping her in the path. “To-day I heard your kind words, and
have taken them to my heart. I am going away to try to earn a name, to try to
become a chief. Pray for me; ask the Sun to help me.”
“I will pray for you every day,” said the girl.
“And if I return such a man that no one [204]need be ashamed of me,” he asked,
“will you be my wife?”
“Yes, gladly,” she replied. “And now go; people are looking at us.”
The next morning New Robe left the camp. He did not know where to go, nor
what he was going to do. Something seemed to tell him to push forward, and
that somehow, in some way, he would be fortunate. He had but little food, only
some tough, dried meat, and his weapons were poor and of little use; yet he did
not fear that he would starve, or suffer any harm from the animals or from the
enemy.
It was late in the fall, and the nights were very cold. One evening, after a long
day’s tramp, he came to the edge of a broad beaver pond. Tall, thick grass grew
on the dam, and he pulled armfuls of this and heaped it up, and then crawled
under the pile to pass the night. It was a warm, soft nest, and he was already
almost asleep when some one called his name. He lifted his head and looked
out from under the grass, and saw standing near by a handsome young man,
very beautifully dressed.
“Come,” said the stranger, “this is a cold [205]and cheerless place. My father’s
lodge is close by, and he asks you to be his guest.”
New Robe arose and shook the grass from his robe. “It is strange,” he said,
“that I did not see your camp. Before I descended into the valley from the
prairie I looked carefully over it, up and down.”
“It is very near here,” the stranger replied. “Come, let us go in. My father waits
for us, and the night is cold.”
He started, and led the way out over the ice, which had frozen from the shore
for some distance out into the pond. New Robe followed, wondering why they
should take that course. Presently they reached the edge of the ice; just
beyond, a large beaver house rose above the water.
“That is our home,” said the stranger. “Now, I am going to dive, and you must
follow me. Just shut your eyes, and do not be afraid.”
With a great splash he disappeared in the water, and New Robe, after hesitating
a little and praying to the Sun for aid in this strange adventure, closed his eyes
and pitched headlong into the place where his companion had disappeared.
After swimming a few strokes, he felt [206]the pressure of the water suddenly
give way, and, opening his eyes, found that he was in a great circular lodge.
From the doorway a pool of water extended into the centre of it, and between
its edge and the walls were beds of soft and beautiful robes. On the one at the
back sat a kind-looking old man, who spoke pleasantly to him and bade him
take a seat by his side; and as New Robe stepped out of the pool he found that
he was perfectly dry—no part of his clothing or person had been wet by the
water he had passed through. Near the old man sat his wife, a handsome old
woman, and on other beds reclined their two sons, one of whom had guided
New Robe to the place. They all wore clothing of beautiful material and fashion,
but he now noticed that the skin of each of these persons, wherever it could be
seen—even their faces—was covered with fine fur, that of the two sons being
pure white.
“You are welcome, my son,” said the old man—“welcome to the lodge of the
Beaver Chief. One of my sons saw you creeping into your nest of grass, and I
bade him invite you in. These nights are cold for one to be without shelter.” [207]
“Yes,” added his wife, “and no doubt the poor young man is hungry; he seems
to be lean and pinched.”
“Oh! Ai! To be sure,” said the old man; “of course he is hungry: just give me a
dish, and I will prepare some food for him.”
New Robe looked in astonishment at what the Beaver Chief was doing. He took
a large buffalo chip and placed it in the dish, and began to break it up into fine
pieces, singing, as he did so, a strange song. The hard, dry stuff turned into rich
pemmican, and when the last bit of the chip had been broken up the bowl was
passed to him. His wonder increased when he found that the food tasted as
good as it looked.
“Our only food,” said the old man, “is the bark of the trees; for, after all, you
know, we are actually beavers, although we have the power to change our
bodies into the form of any living thing. But there are many secret and
wonderful things that we have learned through much prayer and through the
search for different medicines. Stay with us for a time, and perhaps you may
learn something of them. Just look about you and see how many we have
gathered in our time.” [208]
Indeed, there were more than one could count. They hung on the walls and
from the roof, enclosed in beautiful pouches and sacks of strange shape. New
Robe wondered what they were, and wished he could open each one and
examine it.
The pool in the centre of the lodge was never still; the current coming in from
the door whirled slowly around and around. On its surface floated a short piece
of beaver cutting which seemed very old and quite water-soaked; yet it did not
sink, nor, like other pieces of wood, finally float out on the current constantly
entering and going out of the doorway. Night and day it whirled slowly around
the circumference of the pool. Although there was no fire in the lodge, it was
warm enough, and not colder at night than in the daytime: thus little covering
was needed when its occupants went to bed.
New Robe was awakened from his first night’s rest in the strange place by the
old man calling him to arise and eat. He had scarcely begun to taste a fresh dish
of the strangely made pemmican, when the water in the pool began to heave
and rise, and then again sank to its level as one of the sons arose from its
depths and [209]stepped over to his couch, not a drop of water clinging to him or
his garments. “Our pond is frozen over,” he said. “Not even an air-hole remains
open.”
“Hai!” the old man exclaimed. “Is it so? Well, winter has come, and,” turning to
New Robe, “now you cannot leave us until spring comes and melts the ice. But
do not be uneasy; we will treat you well, and try to make your life here
pleasant.”
So New Robe spent the winter in the beaver’s lodge. The days came and went,
one after another, and easy contentment marked their flight. Most of the waking
hours were passed by the beavers in praying to their medicines and in singing
their sacred songs, and the young man, listening, learned much of their secret
wisdom.
The months passed, and one morning the water in the whirling pool was seen to
be a little muddy. The next day, one of the sons reported that in places the ice
had melted. The old man and the two sons went out to look about and inspect
the dam, leaving New Robe and the old woman inside.
“Kyi,” she said, “summer is now come, and [210]you will soon leave us. Before
you go the old man will make you a present; he will give you your choice of all
his medicines. Choose that stick whirling about there in the pool, for it is the
strongest of them all. He will try to make you believe it is worthless, but insist
on having it, and finally he will give it to you.”
Presently the others returned. “Well,” said the old man to New Robe, “spring has
really come, and I know that you wish to return to your people. I am going to
give you something to take back with you. Look about you, my son. See all
these beautiful medicines hanging on the walls. Choose the one you fancy, and
it is yours.”
“Give me that,” said New Robe, pointing to the floating stick.
“O-e-ai!” the old man exclaimed, in a surprised and pained tone. “O-e-ai! What?
That old stick? Surely, my son, you must be crazy. Look about you; open your
eyes and choose one of these beautiful medicines.”
“Give me the stick,” New Robe repeated.

“Come, come. Surely you do not know what you ask for. Now let me explain to
you,” [211]and the old man began to point out the different medicines and to tell
what they were, explaining the wonderful and mysterious power of each.
“There, you see,” he concluded, “how unreasonable was your choice. Now I
have explained them all, tell me which will you have?”
New Robe considered; he wondered if the old woman had not been mistaken in
advising him to choose the old beaver cutting, but he caught her eye, and,
assured by her meaning glance, replied as before, “Give me the stick.”
Once more the old man tried with all his power to persuade him to make a
different choice, and the sweat rolled from his brow as he entreated the young
man to select something else, and once more New Robe said, “I want the stick.”
“O-e-ai!” cried the old man in despair. “Four times you have asked for the old
cutting, and when that sacred number is reached I cannot refuse. Take the
cutting, my son. It is the most valuable and powerful of all my medicines. It is
really a beaver which, at will, you can change to the simple cutting as it appears
to be.” [212]
New Robe was pleased, and when he learned how powerful the medicine was
that he had chosen he knew that he had not left the home of his people in vain.
He was now obliged to put off his departure, for he had to learn the hundred
songs and the many prayers that went with his gift. But at last he knew them all
by heart, and the old man gave him some parting advice.
“You must not look back,” he said, “when you leave us, not even once, or the
medicine will leave you and return to me. Also, you must always carry it
concealed beneath your shirt, hanging by the string I have tied to it. Never let
any one see it, or your power will be broken.”
Then they all bade him good-bye, and he dived into the pool, and presently rose
to the surface of the pond. When he reached the shore he knelt down in the
grass and cried, cried long and bitterly, for he felt very sad to leave the kind
beavers. It was all he could do to keep from looking back for one last glimpse of
them. But after a time he rose and walked on, out of the valley, up over the dry,
wide plain. After a little he came to a river, [213]swollen and swift with the
melted snows. He placed a little cutting in the water, and it changed at once into
a large, pure white beaver.
“Little brother,” said New Robe, “the stream is high and dangerous. Cut me
some logs so that I may make a raft on which to cross it safely.”
At once the beaver began to fell some trees, and, as fast as he cut them into
lengths, New Robe bound them together. In a little while there were enough to
bear his weight, and he crossed to the other side in safety. Then, lifting the
beaver up, it changed into the stick again, and, putting it safely in his bosom, he
journeyed on.
One morning he came in sight of the camp, and sat down on a neighboring hill,
prepared to do just as the old man had instructed him.
Pretty soon two or three young men approached, looking with wonder at the
strange and beautiful robe he wore. When they had come near enough to hear
his voice—for he kept his face covered—he told them to stand where they were,
and asked them to go and tell the father of Raven Woman that he was New
Robe, [214]returned from strange adventures, and with a powerful medicine.
“Ask him,” he said, “to have four sweat lodges built for me, in a row from east to
west, and when the stones are heated to let me know.”
The young men returned to the camp, and in a little while came back to say that
all was ready. New Robe told them to walk ahead and warn the people to keep
away from him, and, as they all stood in a big crowd on each side of his path,
he came to the first sweat lodge and entered it. Sprinkling the water on the hot
stones, he began the sacred songs that the old man beaver had taught him,
and, as he sang, some of the fur with which his body had been gradually
covered during the winter fell to the ground. Soon he left this sweat lodge and
went into the next one, and the people crowded around the one he had left,
looking with wonder at the little heap of shed fur. So he went into the four
sweat lodges, one after the other.
When he came out of the fourth sweat lodge, New Robe had shed the last of his
beaver fur, and was so changed that no one recognized him. He was a beautiful,
clear-eyed, long-haired young man. He went straight to Raven [215]Woman, who
was standing near, and took her hand. They were both so happy they could not
speak. The girl’s father pointed to his lodge. “It is yours,” he said, “and
everything it contains. Go and live happily, my children.”
New Robe became a great chief. By the aid of his medicine he was able not only
to cure sickness, but he became a great warrior. No river or lake could stop his
way, and he was able to kill many of the enemy who were encamped by the
shores of any water, for, whenever he asked it of his medicine, it took him safely
down under the surface of the water, wherever he wished to go. [217]
[Contents]
Little Friend Coyote
[219]
I
t was in the summer, when the Blackfoot and Piegan tribes were
camped together, that the Blackfoot Front Wolf first noticed Su-yé-
sai-pi, a Piegan girl, and liked her, and determined to make her his
wife. She was young and handsome and of good family, and her
parents were well-to-do, for her father was a leading warrior of his tribe. Front
Wolf was himself a noted warrior, and had grown rich from his forays on the
camps of the enemy, so when he asked for the young woman her parents were
pleased—pleased to give their daughter to such a strong young man, and
pleased to accept the thirty horses he sent them with the request.
In those days, in the long ago, such inter-tribal marriages were common, for the
two great camps often travelled together in quest of the buffalo, sometimes for
a whole winter and [220]summer, and thus the young people became acquainted
with each other. Again they would be separated by hundreds of miles of rolling
plain.
After their marriage the young couple continued to live in the Piegan camp, for
Front Wolf had many friends there of his own age, who begged him to remain
with them. They liked to go on raids under his leadership better than with any
one else. It seemed to his wife as if he were always away on some expedition,
so seldom was he at home, and as she had learned to respect and love him, she
was very lonely during these long absences. One summer, only two or three
days after his return from a successful war-journey against the Crows, he said to
his wife: “It is a long time since I have seen my parents. Now I think it time for
me to visit them and give them some horses. If you have any little things you
wish to send them, hurry and make them ready, so that I may take them.”
“I have some pretty moccasins for your father,” said Su-yé-sai-pi, “and a fine
buckskin dress for your mother; but I am not going to send them. I want to go
with you and present [221]them myself. It seems as if you do not care at all for
me. Here you are just home from a long journey, and yet you would start right
out again, without thinking about me at all.”
“No,” Front Wolf replied, “it is not that I do not love you; you may go with me if
you insist on it. I did not like to ask you to make the trip, for the distance is
great, and there is danger on the way.”
Su-yé-sai-pi was happy. She began her preparations at once, and only laughed
at her parents when they urged her to remain with them, telling her that the
plains swarmed with war parties in search of scalps and plunder, and that she
would surely be killed.
At this time the Piegans were hunting on the Lower Milk River, but the morning
that Front Wolf and his wife started away the whole camp moved too, for the
chiefs wished to pass the hot season along the foot-hills of the great mountains.
At the last moment five young Blackfeet, visitors in the camp, decided that they
too would return home, so they set forth with the couple, and helped drive the
little herd of horses that Front Wolf intended to give his relatives. The northern
tribe was [222]thought to be summering on the Red Deer River, and a course was
roughly taken for the place where it joins the Saskatchewan. This brought the
little party, after three or four days’ travel, to the Cypress Hills, or, as they were
named by the Indians, the Gap-in-the-Middle Hills. They reached the southern
slopes of the low buttes one morning, after being without water all the
preceding day, and prepared to camp and rest at the edge of a little grove, close
to which a large, clear spring bubbled up from a pile of sunken bowlders. They
did not know that a large camp of Kutenais was just behind the hills where they
stopped, and that one of their hunters, seeing them coming, had hurried home
and spread the news. Su-yé-sai-pi had scarcely started a fire when the warriors
from the camp were seen to be approaching the little party from all directions,
completely hemming them in. Although these two tribes, the Blackfeet and
Kutenais, had once been very friendly to each other, they were now at war.
When the strangers approached, one of them, the chief, who had learned
Blackfoot in other days, called out, “Don’t fire; we are friends; we will not harm
you.” [223]
Front Wolf and his friends had drawn the covers from their guns, prepared to
fight and to sell their lives dearly, but when Front Wolf heard this, and saw that
the strangers made no motions to shoot, he lowered his rifle and said: “They
intend to make peace with us; I guess they are tired of being at war with our
people. Do not be afraid; they will not harm us.”

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FORGIVENESS AND ATONEMENT

This book analyzes the relationship between forgiveness, atonement,

Jonathan C. Rutledge is a Research Fellow in the Center for Philosophy of

Impeccability and Temptation

Forgiveness and Atonement

For more information about this series, please visit: https://www.routledge.

ISBN: 978-0-367-74218-8 (hbk)

Typeset in Times New Roman

1 Value-Driven Inquiry and Exegetically Engaged Analytic Theology 5

2 Original Sin and the Biblical Witness Concerning Forgiveness 25

4 The Problem of Sin for Humanity and Its Members 94

5 Retribution and Restoration in the Narrative of Scripture 109

6 On Non-Retributive Penal Substitution 136

8 For Us, an Atoning Sacrifice 176

9 Forgiveness and Atonement: The Expanded Sacrificial Account 201

The early part of Chapter 2 is a revamped version of an essay originally

Where Is Atonement in the Prodigal Son?

Reconciliation, Forgiveness, and Atonement

The Shape of the Project

Can There Be Progress in Theology?

Value-Driven Inquiry in the Context of Theology

Analytic Theology as a Research Program

Analytic theology applies analytic (though not exclusively analytic)

According to the above definition, analytic theology is characterized by certain

The Value of Forgiveness

Theorizing Via the Deliverances of Intuition and Scripture

or the theological tradition variant of it which states that,

2If anyone touches an unclean thing, whether a carcass of an unclean

Then God said, “Let us make humankind in our image, according to

27So God created humankind in his image,

What constitutes the image of God, as it is understood in this passage, has

Original sin…may be defined as the hereditary corruption and deprav-

According to Calvin, all humanity has inherited a sort of disease known as

Perhaps this thought experiment seems a bit misleading as an interpretation

“No,” Pi-waṕ-ōk replied. “I am still as blind as ever.”

So they killed her there. [199]

“I will pray for you every day,” said the girl.

“Give me that,” said New Robe, pointing to the floating stick.

“Give me the stick,” New Robe repeated.

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1 Value-Driven Inquiry and Exegetically Engaged Analytic Theology 5

2 Original Sin and the Biblical Witness Concerning Forgiveness 25

4 The Problem of Sin for Humanity and Its Members 94

5 Retribution and Restoration in the Narrative of Scripture 109

6 On Non-Retributive Penal Substitution 136

8 For Us, an Atoning Sacrifice 176

9 Forgiveness and Atonement: The Expanded Sacrificial Account 201