James Luther Adams: On the Theological Significance of Unbelief

Jared Sparks

James Luther Adams was required to retire from Harvard Divinity School in 1968 at the ripe young age of 67. He had been at Harvard since 1957, but it seemed much longer since, by the mid-sixties, he was the most famous theologian in America and the unanointed successor of the social justice prophet Reinhold Niebuhr, who died in 1971.

Harvard had a way of making theologians who had spent years labouring in the vineyards of Chicago or (in the case of Paul Tillich) Union Theological Seminary “famous,” or at least obvious and quotable. Unlike the fully academic Tillich, Niebuhr and Adams used the pulpit as often as the classroom as their pied a terre for prophetic discourse on social ethics and reflection on the role (and limits) of the church in society.

I was thinking about Adams yesterday after re-reading Chris Hedges’s much undervalued book I Don’t Belief in Atheists. Chris, like me, was at HDS at the end of the Adams era and probably would not mind calling himself an Adams disciple. In fact, if you were in Cambridge in those days, you almost had to be: Adams was everywhere. He continued to teach at Andover Newton but maintained an office on Francis Avenue, strolled the corridors, talked with students, preached often, and lectured frequently. So frequently that many of us who never received credit for an Adams course still counted him our teacher, and perhaps the most profound influence in the development of our ethical theory. He had the most welcoming face in the world, the sort of man who without saying a word invited you to stop and chat–chats that became half-hour conversations. His colleagues almost always referred to him as “our dear Jim” or “our beloved friend.” I heard no other faculty member referred to with the same natural deference.

Divinity Hall: Site of Emerson's Divinity School Address

In 1976, Harvard was transitioning from being an incubator for Unitarian and liberal religious thought to a school where socially progressive ideas were born, selected, cultivated, and exported. What Union Theological Seminary had been in the 1950’s and 1960’s, Harvard was by 1975. The Divinity School (always underfunded and predestined to produce a class of alumni who could never compete with the high-earning graduates of Harvard Law or Harvard Business), existed as the conscience of the world’s richest university and America’s most influential educational factory.

Like many of the progressive theologians of his day Adams was deeply immersed in German scholarship and thus in German politics and Kultur. During his time at Chicago, where he taught at Meadville Lombard, the Unitarian seminary of the Federated Theological Faculty, he tried to persuade students that the same forces that resulted in the rise of Hitler were nascent in all societies, even within American democracy. For him, the biblical account of evil was “true” in the sense that it was natural: it summarized the craving for what injures the human spirit and causes our separation from the sources of human good.

Similar ideas were being promoted by Bonhoeffer, Karl Barth and the “Barmen Theologians” who resisted Nazi influence over the German churches. In 1935, during a period of leave from teaching Adams was interrogated by the Gestapo and narrowly avoided imprisonment as a result of his engagement with the Underground Church movement. Using a home movie camera, he filmed Karl Barth, Albert Schweitzer and others, including those who were involved in clandestine, church-related resistance groups, as well as pro-Nazi leaders of the so-called German Christian Church. Adams returned to the United States persuaded that the tendency of religious liberals to be theologically content with vague slogans and platitudes about open-mindedness could only render liberal churches irrelevant and impotent in face of the world’s evils.

His world-view, a phrase he would have detested, could be traced to Kierkegaard’s dissatisfaction with the comfortable protestantism of his own day. The role of the church was to proclaim freedom to captives, light in the darkness of political corruption, salvation (which almost always meant economic or social amelioration) to the afflicted. When it stopped doing this–when it lost sight of its prophetic mission–the church became an arm of the state, complicit in the sins of the state, as officially it was in Germany and long before during the Dark Ages. The church could only fulfill its role in a completely secular context where its freedom to stand apart from the institutions of government was guaranteed; where it existed on a strictly voluntary basis, expressing the same freedom of choice that mythically the apostles had in choosing to follow Jesus–the freedom to be a living witness that the state does not exhaust the perquisites of human liberty and personhood. The Declaration of Independence, he never tired of reminding his classes, has no legal force: it invokes rights that every religious woman and man knew to be self-evident. It does not define them. “The pursuit of Happiness,” in particular, was not just a rejection of Locke’s use of the word “property” in his 1693 Essay Concerning Human Understanding but a call for the good life–the pursuit of morality and conscience, informed by religion.

Peale's Jefferson, 1791

But I was also thinking of James Luther Adams in conjunction with what he thought about the role of atheism in American society. A certain accommodation to unbelief is at the foundation of the Unitarian tradition in the eighteenth century; it’s part of the mortise and tenon of Harvard. It deeply influenced Jefferson and Franklin, neither Harvard proper, though Franklin received honorary doctorates from Harvard, Yale, and Oxford before the Revolution, and Jefferson fell under the Unitarian spell of Harvard’s president, Jared Sparks and to a lesser degree the religious ideas of John Adams, a devout Unitarian. And later it was formative in the thought of Emerson and Thoreau, neither of whom professed a decisive unbelief but held up their disbelief in church doctrine as an essential element of religious freedom. For James Luther Adams, as for his predecessors, the freedom to believe entailed the freedom to disbelieve as a logical complement. Neither option was worth much if it was compelled. Christianity would lose its soul to the state, as it had to the Nazi regime. Atheism would lose its intellectual integrity, as it had to the socialists.

But atheism served an additional purpose, Adams thought: it could be prophetic. It could expose the hypocrisy and inauthenticity of religion in a society that expects religion only to mouth words of comfort: “An authentic prophet is one who prophesies in fashion that does not comfort people, but actually calls them to make some new sacrifices. That’s an authentic prophet, whether one speaks in the name of God or not. A great deal of authentic prophetism in the modern world is to be found in nonreligious terms and in nonchurch configurations, often even hostile to the church. The churches themselves have broadly failed in the prophetic function. Therefore a good deal of so-called atheism is itself, from my point of view, theologically significant. It is the working of God in history, and judgment upon the pious. An authentic prophet can and should be a radical critic of spurious piety, of sham spirituality.”

It’s true, of course, that atheists who find their own position comfortable and self-authenticating will hardly find it thrilling that their core position is useful chiefly as a means of keeping religion faithful to its mission. But that is because atheists of a certain sort do not mean by religion what Adams meant. A “religion” whose dimensions extend only from Christian fundamentalism to Islamic terrorism–the unevolved parody of religion that new atheists have made their quarry–Adams with a typical Harvard reliance on common sense, leaves for history to sort out. But the elements of religion that transcend the emotional, the pedantic, and the irrational–what he took to be especially the ethical elements of the Christian gospel, had to be protected from social respectability, from living the comfortable life of country club Presbyterians. Atheism is there to wake the Church up, to call its cherished assumptions, including its claim to possess the unvarnished and final truth, into question. And in the process of challenging the Church to say what it believes, atheism is called upon to define and explain what truths it holds to be “self-evident.”

5 thoughts on “James Luther Adams: On the Theological Significance of Unbelief

  1. Joe,
    As recent as October 24th in Letting Go of Jesus you wrote: “- – if they (historical Jesus scholars) announce to an unsuspecting and credulous public that they have found ‘new historical materials,’ better ‘gospels,’ the ‘real story’ or the bone boxes of Jesus and his wife and family, they simply prove the axiom: Jesus may not save, but he sells. It has been a long time since theology’s dirty little secrete was first whispered: ‘The quest for the historical Jesus leads to the door of the church.” But that is still where it leads. We leave him there,’ as Schweitzer lamented, ‘as one unknown.'”
    Now, by sharp conrtast, we have Jemes Luther Adams who wrote: “Jesus reveals to us in his life and teaching that there is a soverign, universal moral law, a nonmanipulable reality, worthy alone of ultimate loyality, and the source of peace and human fulfillment”(that kind of God).
    One cannot avoid the implication that you now may be recovering something crucial which you missed during your student day associations with Adams.

    • Hmmm. I think the Jesus question and the ethical Jesus of theology are not incompatible. How much of Socrates is Plato? Whatever the case with Jesus, I don’t think the evangelists simply created the love and justice ethic ex nihilo; it must have been shaped by community perceptions. I confess to being a bit of a chauvinist this way, in terms of thinking that however the gospel arose its essential features are occasionally sublime, and when you see jesuine “teaching” reflected in the life and work of a man like Adams it enhances the moral force of the new creation. So, enigmatic in historical particulars–sure, but dynamic and almost unique in moral vision.

      • I am compelled to revisit your comment.

        “I think (1) the Jesus question and (2) the ethical Jesus of theology are not incompatable” in my overview of your thought (1) questions if he really was, while (2) says even if he was, the sayings tradition “must have been shaped by community perceptions”. Thus “whem you see jesuine ‘teaching’ reflected in a man like Adams, it is ethics which must have been shaped by community perceptions – enignatic in historical particulars – sure, but dynamic and almost unique in moral vision”. Thank god for at least such a community — Jesus is left at the door of the church – as one unknown”.

        (Even when you see jesuine “teaching” reflected in a man like Adams” one must ask, how can such a man be so misguided?)

  2. I did not intend to begin a debate, however I must attempt one reply:
    “The Jesus question and the ethical Jesus of theology” seem to be compatable in the sense that the former was: did he really exist? while the latter is saying: even if he did the “jesuine teaching” was “shaped by community perceptions”. I confess, both notions may be derived from the problematic of the writings of the NT. Your “once intelectual hero” Schubert Ogden, since you let go of him, has made the most straight forward explanation of the problematic that I am aware of: “None of the writings of the NT are apostolic witness to Jesus – all of them depend on sources earlier than themselves and hence are not the original and originating witness the early church mistook them to be. The apostolic witness is located in the earliest layer of the Synoptic tradition.” My March 24th, 2009 letter tries to makes this explicit. The truly authentic scholars across the centuries consistently were quite able to make this distinction between apostolic witness and tradition.
    Imagine confronting a man like Adams: Professor (or Jim), I honor your high moral life and work, however how can you know that your beliefs derive from a man named Jesus? Might he not at least think: man what is your problem?

  3. James Luther Adams was, at the same time, a giant of a man and the humblest of men. “Do you like toasted peanut butter sandwiches?” he asked at Harvard Divinity School’s weekly sherry hour. “Come by next Wednesday and we’ll get acquainted and talk about Paul Tillich.” I did. And the memory of Tillich’s friend and advocate remains with me to this day. He was genuine. Brilliant. And incensed by Tillich’s critic’s sultry assaults of his dear friend Paul.

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