Anthony Flood

Christ Crucified, the death penalty, and the abolition of death

“Saint Dismas the Good Thief.” Icônes arabes : art chrétien du Levant, France: Institut du monde arabe (Public domain)

One of the criminals alongside whom Jesus was crucified said that while He had done nothing to deserve capital punishment, they had. That malefactor said they had received it justly (δικαίως, dikaiōs) and prayed He would remember him when He comes into His kingdom, implying that He is a King.

Jesus then spent what little energy He had left to promise the penitent one life in that Kingdom—but not to correct his penology (Luke 23:39-43). He had no reason to. As God (אֱלֹהִ֔ים, Elohim) warned Noah, “Whoever sheds the blood of man, by man shall his blood be shed, for God made man in his own image” (Genesis 9:6).

This imperative is honored in many places in the Law of Moses, which He came to fulfill. “Do not think that I have come to abolish the Law or the Prophets; I have not come to abolish (καταλῦσαι, katalysai) them but to fulfill them” (Matthew 5:17). His dying, however, would abolish (καταργήσαντος, katargēsantos) death itself (2 Timothy 1:10).

This week especially, those of us who by His grace identify with the penitent malefactor embrace that truth.

A page-turner (or screen-swiper) on an endlessly fascinating subject

This review of James Heartfield, Unpatriotic History of the Second World War, London, Zer0 Books, 2012, a socialist’s deep dive into the real history of the Second World War appeared on Amazon today.—A.G.F

As an editor and bibliophile, I agree with the many critics of this book’s infelicities (typos, organizational issues, lack of index, and so forth). Nevertheless, I thank God James Heartfield wrote it, that he spilled his cornucopia of insights out of his head and onto paper. Let some publisher step forward to polish its contents so it passes conventional muster. Until then, however, students of this endlessly fascinating subject should benefit from the author’s vast knowledge of how things hung together eighty and ninety years ago—I say this even though the underlying worldview is not mine.

At odd moments, I’d pull out my phone on which this book’s Kindle version resides and say, “Okay, I have ten minutes.” An hour later, I’d see that I couldn’t stick to that budget but had continued swiping left, page after page.

The author of other meaty historical tomes (for example, Britain’s Empires: A History, 1600–2020, 2022; The Blood-Stained Poppy: A critique of the politics of commemoration, 2019; and The British and Foreign Anti-Slavery Society, 2016—to cite a few), Heartfield gives off no whiff of the Olympian stuffiness of many academics, as we expect of the lecturer we find on YouTube. I recommend watching his 2016 talk on C.L.R. James and the Left’s opposition to taking sides in the Second World War and the ethical issues that opposition posed. Heartfield’s reference (on page 151) to James’s 1940 penny-pamphlet “My Friends” A Fireside Chat on the War—written under the pseudonym “Native Son” (which momentarily confused me, since in 1940 Native Son’s author, Richard Wright, was still a “The Yanks Aren’t Coming” Stalinist)—led me happily to the tattered copy available on archive.org.

United Auto Workers strikers and picketers demonstrate in front of the Ford plant in Windsor, Ontario, 1945. (AFP via Getty Images)

Capitalist pig that I am, I found myself delightfully caught up in Heartfield’s retailing of the dialectic of industrial and military labor: the strike threat versus the Nazi threat—even if opportunities to avoid global conflagration were missed. Brits at the battlefront, Heartfield notes, well understood why those on the home front might withhold their labor from their industrial employers to wrangle out of them more favorable terms. (I’m just not crazy about commandeering the property of others to prevent equally hungry workers from taking the strikers’ place. Nor about the dehumanization of the would-be replacements as “scabs,” but we can’t debate that here.)

I was trained in philosophy, but it has been the historians I’ve known, not the philosophers, who have struck me as “omniscient.” (I first got this impression when working for—don’t laugh—Herbert Aptheker. Feel free to search <Anthony Flood C. L. R. James Herbert Aptheker>.) Historians can talk seemingly non-stop about events from centuries ago as if they were current. And that’s how Heartfield’s grasp of his material strikes me.

I’m not used to socialists making me review my grasp of history, but always happy to praise those who do that. Heartfield is one of them.

When Aptheker dissed James, revisited. (No April Fool’s joke.)

On the tenth anniversary of my old (but extant) site anthonyflood.com (NB: no middle initial), I celebrated the publication of my Aptheker-James article in the C. L. R. James Journal. (It forms chapter 2 of my 2019 book, Herbert Aptheker: Studies in Willful Blindness, a second, expanded edition of which I’m trying to finance.) Those familiar with this story may skip this “old news,” although I believe its historical “feel” sets it apart from accounts posted elsewhere on this site, as does my digression into metaphilosophy. (A search for <James Aptheker> will return all of them.) There are, of course, always those who are hearing about this for the first time. I’d be happy to hear from either class of visitors.

Marking a Decade (January 17, 2014)

On the occasion of the tenth anniversary of this site, I am pleased to report the publication of my article “C. L. R. James: Herbert Aptheker’s Invisible Man,” in the Fall 2013 issue of the CLR James Journal. It arrived in the mail two days ago, and I purchased access to the online version of my essay this morning (sort of an anniversary present to myself). Hazily aware for four decades of C. L. R. James (1901-1989), author of The Black Jacobins: Toussaint L’Ouverture and the San Domingo Revolution, the umpteenth sighting of his name in my reading material (this time it was in a piece by Dwight Macdonald) over the course of a few months in 2012 triggered an odd reverie and query. (In the late thirties and early forties Macdonald and James’s circles partly overlapped.)

Herbert Aptheker (1915-2003), once one of the leading intellectuals in the Communist Party of the United States of America (CPUSA), was a ground-breaking Marxist historian of American slave revolts. So why hadn’t James’s work figured into his writings (virtually all of which I had read before I was twenty)? Why hadn’t James’s name ever crossed Aptheker’s lips during our many conversations about the early years while I served as one of his research assistants in the early seventies? After some research, I concluded that Aptheker’s neglect of James was deliberate. Continue reading “When Aptheker dissed James, revisited. (No April Fool’s joke.)”

Clarity is not enough.

“Not enough for what?” To philosophize aright. I swiped this post’s title from a collection of essays by critics of the philosophical school of linguistic analysis that dominated 20th-century academic philosophy.[1] Standard encyclopedia definitions, however, have a different emphasis. Wikipedia’s article on “philosophy,” for example, reads in part:

Philosophy is a systematic study of general and fundamental questions concerning topics like existence, reason, knowledge, value, mind, and language. It is a rational and critical inquiry that reflects on its methods and assumptions.

But is philosophy simply a systematic study? Etymologically, philosophy is the love (philia) of wisdom (sophia). How far may a self-identifying philosopher responsibly stray from that root? As Brand Blanshard, a contributor to the above-referenced anthology, wrote in his entry for the 1967 The Encyclopedia of Philosophy, wisdom

may be accompanied by a broad range of knowledge, by intellectual acuteness, and by speculative depth, but it is not to be identified with any of these and may appear in their absence. It involves intellectual grasp or insight, but it is concerned not so much with the ascertainment of fact or the elaboration of theories as with the means and ends of practical life.[2]

Continue reading “Clarity is not enough.”

The preeminence of Christ over all things requires distinguishing Philosophy AFTER Christ from Philosophy BEFORE Christ

How is philosophy after Christ (κατὰ Χριστόν, kata Christon) related to philosophy after some other principle? (See Colossians 2:8.) Say, how does it related to philosophy before Christ?

In Philosophy after Christ[1], I explain that by “after,” I don’t mean “later than” (i.e., chronologically after). I mean “in the manner of,” as an artist might paint “after Picasso.” The preposition “after” translates κατὰ (kata).

Likewise, when Yahweh—whose incarnation Yeshua HaMashiach (Jesus Christ) is—used the Hebrew equivalent of “before” in expressing the First Commandment, He said that no one who calls Him Lord shall put anything before Him in priority or reverence, thereby risking idolatry: “You shall have no other gods before (עַל, al) me” (Exodus 20:3). Continue reading “The preeminence of Christ over all things requires distinguishing Philosophy AFTER Christ from Philosophy BEFORE Christ”

There are no “brute facts”: here’s why.

In one of Bill Vallicella’s recent posts on his journey through philosophical theology, he engaged the effort of Reformed apologist R. C. Sproul (1939-2017). Sproul preferred “classical apologetics” to the “presuppositional” approach of Cornelius Van Til against which he co-authored a book.[1] Questioning Sproul’s putative theistic proof and reviewing four possibilities, Bill the theist writes (as an atheist might):

Sproul needs to explain why the cosmos, physical world, nature cannot just exist. Why must it have an efficient cause or a reason/purpose (final cause)? Why can’t its existence be a brute fact? That is a (fifth) epistemic possibility he does not, as far as I can see, consider.[2]

What follows is essentially the comment I posted on his blog in answer to his question, except I’ve converted my address to Bill in the second person to the third.

As Bill may know, I first encountered the notion of “brute fact” in Bernard Lonergan’s 1957 Insight. There couldn’t be a brute fact, he held, because being is completely intelligible . . . and therefore, God exists! (Okay, there are about two dozen steps in between.[3])

I’ve argued elsewhere (here and here ) that Lonergan had it backwards: there are no brute facts (for God or anyone else) because God exists. “There are no brute facts” is another way of saying “Being is completely intelligible.”

Continue reading “There are no “brute facts”: here’s why.”

Joe Sobran’s encomia for Murray Rothbard

Anent yesterday’s reminisence, I rediscovered two clippings from early 1995 on which I foolishly failed to note where they appeared. (I know roughly when, but not whence.)

Murray Rothbard had died on January 7th; obits followed soon thereafter, including several from the eloquent American conservative commentator Joseph Sobran, the traditionalist Roman Catholic who “anarched” under Murray’s influence.[1]

I believe one clipping was snipped from The Wanderer, the Catholic newspaper to which Joe contributed; the other, The Rothbard-Rockwell Report. I could be wrong about either or both; I invite readers to correct my memory or render my account more precise, if any of you can.

Having no wish to infringe on copyright, which I believe is held by the Fitzgerald Griffin Foundation, I can only provide excerpts (which I will take down if FGF believes I exceeded fair use). Joe, a careful writer, was not given to hyperbole, but since what he said about my friend and intellectual hero squares with my experience, I’m happy to give you a glimpse of it. It’s much more impressive coming from him.

Continue reading “Joe Sobran’s encomia for Murray Rothbard”

“What did I do to deserve a friend like Murray?”

Murray banging out an article or chapter in his and Joey’s second-floor, West 88th Street apartment.

That was the title of my tribute, which went undelivered, for the “Service of Thanksgiving for the Life of Murray N. Rothbard” on March 24, 1995, at his widow JoAnn‘s church, Madison Avenue Presbyterian (at 73rd Street), three weeks after what would have been his 69th birthday. (I still have her handwritten invitation to Gloria and me.) Next March 2nd will mark the centenary of his birth, so the text of my inadequate salute to Murray must serve as a belated notice of his 99th birthday. I hope you’ll consider marking the occasion by having a look nine Rothbard-related posts appended to this one.—A.G.F.

“What did I do to deserve a friend like Murray?”

What friend of Murray’s has not asked that question? I asked it regularly over the last twelve years. After all, unlike many of Murray’s other friends, I had no accomplishments, literary or otherwise, that he could associate me with when I introduced myself. It took some doing for me one night a dozen years ago, after having recently read his The Ethics of Liberty [I am mentioned on the copyright page of the second edition.—A.G.F.], to look up his phone number and call him. I was ready to apologize for the intrusion, keep my questions brief and few, resist the urge to prolong the conversation, and then, after about twenty minutes, thank him for his time.

Ninety minutes into our talk, however, I noticed that he was enjoying the exchange as much as I was! His showing as much curiosity about my interests as I did about his ideas surprised me utterly. As I was being drawn into the vortex of his ideas for the first time, I wondered for a moment if there was something else I should have been doing. But only for a moment. Continue reading ““What did I do to deserve a friend like Murray?””

Every Wind of Doctrine: A Former Captive of Philosophy and Vain Deceit Remembers

Yesterday, I thought out loud about this question; bit by bit, I’ll begin to answer it: How did an Irish-Italian Catholic kid from the Bronx break with the world of Marvel comics in the 1960s, discover philosophy, come under the influence of a notable communist, and a few years later follow an obscure dispensationalist Bible teacher and then a leading anarcho-capitalist theoretician—all while studying guitar theory under a jazz giant, working as Folk City’s doorman and later for a world-class architect?

A day later, I can think of at least a dozen major influences that I mercifully omitted from that already intolerably overlong sentence.

Sixty years ago, I could not ask, let alone answer, such a question for the simple reason that I was unself-conscious. It’s hard to recall what unself-consciousness felt like because memory tends to impose mature, reflective categories onto what we selectively remember. Yet, I must make the effort. There is a transition from directly experiencing what we enjoy to reflecting on how we might shape our lives and the world around us.

I had a notion that there were struggles, but also that they were all “settled” by authority—parental, ecclesiastical, social, or governmental. That made my world full of interest but, more importantly, safe. Dangers existed, but they were manageable. Unmanageable dangers belonged to movies and comic books.

That romantic sense of safety was hard to maintain after the assassination of John F. Kennedy, followed within five years (from my 10^th to my 15th year) by the murders of Malcolm X, Martin Luther King Jr., and Robert F. Kennedy. It was bewildering for a pre-teen and teenager to live through. And what I found confusing or unsettling, I put out of my mind. The world as mediated by movies and television was my norm. I vaguely sensed that reality could be different, but I couldn’t work up enough interest to pursue the idea. My unself-consciousness was a blissful state, one I subconsciously knew better than to disturb. It rarely, if ever, occurred to me that one day I would have to make my way in a world beyond the television or movie screen. Continue reading “Every Wind of Doctrine: A Former Captive of Philosophy and Vain Deceit Remembers”

The Challenge of Autobiography

When you write about your life, you have to connect the particular people, places, and events that shaped you to strangers who will view those particulars through the lens of their experiences. For that, there’s no guidebook. To you, they are abstractions: you don’t know them; they don’t know you. All you have in common is your humanity.

You’re not writing to make them care about you. They care about themselves—and about your story only to the extent that it illuminates theirs: their lives, struggles, and fears.

So if I ask, “How did an Irish-Italian Catholic kid from the Bronx break with the world of Marvel comics in the 1960s, discover philosophy, come under the influence of a notable communist, and a few years later follow an obscure dispensationalist Bible teacher and then a leading anarcho-capitalist theoretician—all while studying guitar theory under a jazz giant, working as Folk City’s doorman and later for a world-class architect?,” the likely response is, “Who cares?” or “Sounds like a very confused kid!”

But if the narrator frames his story as a key to unlocking history that they’re curious about—or, even better, lived through—and hints at answers to questions they’ve long asked themselves, then he won’t just attract an audience. He’ll hold them. And if he delivers, they won’t just stay. They’ll bring others to the fire.

[To be continued]

Posts with autobiographical content: