Commentary from the Yale edition.
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Parallelism—the repetition of syntactical patterns and structures of thought—is also a major device in Edwards' rhetorical repertory. In the case of parallelism, as in so many other instances, one need not look far for precedents and influences: "… the versification of the Bible is of a kind totally unlike that which prevails in English literature.… Its underlying principle is found to be the symmetry of clauses in a verse, which has come to be called 'Parallelism.'" R. G. Moulton, The Literary Study of the Bible (New York, 1899), p. 46.
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Inasmuch
as Edwards' Bible's verse was printed as prose, and he seems not to have differentiated between the prose and verse in the Bible, I suppose that he took the apparent form of the verse as a model for his own highly rhythmical prose, for Edwards' sermons display a remarkable number of variations on parallelism, several of which are recognized as conventional forms in biblical verse.
Coordination, the simplest form of parallelism, is the dominant structure in Edwardsean syntax. In the unpunctuated sermon manuscripts, the exposition characteristically evolves through a succession of declarative statements and ampersands. Unedited excerpts from a sermon on Psalms 108:4 give the flavor:
This metaphor [God's mercy is great above the heavens] very naturally signifies in the general a superlative inexpressible & Incomprehensible Greatness & Excellency of the mercy of G. the Expanse of the Heavens is the Greatest & most Extensive thing that we have in view or that we have any notice of by our senses & the height thereof is Immeasurable & Inconceivable
In G. Infinite Greatness & Infinite Goodness & mercy are joined together the mercy of G. is like a sea or like a deluge noahs flood was so great that it was above the tops of the mountains but the mercy that is in the Heart of G. is greater it is above the heavens and overtops our sins that are like great mountains that are grown up to Heaven
The remarkable thing is that it is as clear as it is, and it is that clear because of the inexorable forward movement of the agglutinative syntax. The formula is essentially that of the ancient storyteller: "and then, and then, and then," although other elements make the total impression far from simple. In this manner of expression, the listeners are given the impression of being led, ever outward and onward, from the point of departure to some unrevealed destination. Or, if one thinks of the auditory as receiving facts, ideas, and experiences, the impression of weight and massiveness is enhanced by the sustained sequence of coordinated units of thought. It is a most simple, yet forceful syntax.
Beyond the fundamental level of coordination, Edwards employs parallelism for various rhetorical effects. One of the more effective devices is the doublet, a pair of words, roughly synonymous, which connotatively supplement each other and, together, enhance a point
with the emphasis of concise parallelism. A fine example of the technique occurs in "The Nakedness of Job":
We have an instance in this chapter of one of the greatest men in the world, in the most prosperous worldly estate and condition, brought to be externally one of the meanest of men… a most remarkable instance of the vanity of worldly honors, riches and prosperity. How soon is it gone and lost; how many hundred, yea, thousands of accidents may deprive the most prosperous of all in a little time, and make him most miserable and forlorn?
In addition to emphasizing the point indicated by each doublet, the pairs of words parallel the other pairs, of course, and thus call attention to a pattern of thought: worldly condition-riches-loss-misery.
Edwards frequently employs a more insistent, reduplicative parallelism when he wishes to emphasize a major point, the simple structure enabling him to put forward the maximum number of ideas per word. In Luke 17:9, he insists that God is under no obligation to man, and that "obedience and labors and prayers and tears" do not compromise God's essential freedom:
This [that God is under no obligation] is certainly plain reason, and if it be, then God don't owe salvation, nor pity, nor pardon, nor the answer of prayers, nor the mitigation of punishment, nor converting, nor assisting grace for any thing that we do in religion, because as we have showed already, he owes us nothing at all, not the least benefit anyway.
With incantatory power, the succession of negations represents so many slamming doors to those who are looking for an easy way out. A comparable use of parallelism occurs in "A Warning to Professors," involving a long series of similarly structured queries, though here the effect is that of a probing surgeon's knife. Works, Worcester rev. ed., 4, 535. In both examples, however, the essential effect of the parallelism is to advance the argument at such a rate that the auditor is fully occupied in taking it in, and has little pause to rationalize or reply. It is a rhetoric of brute power.
There is, in all the examples cited above, a kind of rhythmic progression, and all of Edwards' parallel constructions give some sense of crescendo—if only through the impression of rapidly increasing
mass. Some of his most dramatic perorations, however, are achieved through the combination of parallelism and the periodic sentence structure, as in 2 Kings 7:3–4.
If you are so wicked that you are like a dead man; yea, if you are so wicked that you are not only dead, but rotten; yea, if you have been dead so long that your bones are dried, yet God can bring you up out of your grave and bring you into the land of Israel.
The gradually altered idea, plus the repeated construction, make this a kind of "incremental parallelism." Such magniloquence is generally reserved for the conclusion of a head or sermon, though less emphatic variants of the pattern, often involving several sentences, may be found whenever Edwards is making a summary within his argument.
Other complex forms of parallelism are employed by Edwards to facilitate juxtaposition, antithesis, and contrast of ideas. Among these is the sustained juxtaposition of two antithetical alternatives, as illustrated in "The Unreasonableness of Indetermination in Religion. "Works, Worcester rev. ed., 4, 342.
And there are but two states in this world, a state of sin, and a state of holiness, a natural state, and a converted state.…
There are but two masters, to one of which we must be reputed the servants, Baal and Jehovah, God and mammon.
There are but two competitors for the possession of us, Christ and the devil.
There are but two paths, in one of which you are to travel, either in the strait and narrow way which leadeth unto life, or the broad way which leadeth unto destruction.
The sheer weight of the rhetoric and the vivid simplicity of statement make a passage such as this much more powerful than one with a more varied structure. Edwards frequently employs this formula, particularly when concluding a phase of his argument. An expanded version of this juxtaposition through parallelism appears in the "dialogue" passages, the traditional Objection-Answer formula as improved through Edwards' keen sense of verisimilitude and his dramatic flair. One of the better instances of this technique occurs in "Great Guilt No Obstacle to the Pardon of the Returning Sinner," where the minister appears carrying on a realistic debate with an imaginary sinner. Works, Worcester rev. ed., 4, 426–28.
Whether in the briefer or more expanded form, the movement of this type of parallelism strongly suggests the "characteristically Hebrew" Pendulum Figure that is found throughout the Bible. For a discussion of the Pendulum Figure and its importance as a mode of Hebrew thought and expression, see Moulton, pp. 58–59, et passim.
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The figure in Edwards' sermons sets up the same rhythms of thought and emotion as are found in the Bible. Moreover, one can easily see in the sustained or expanded parallelism a significant source of structure. Already, in passages from Job 18:15 (p. 215), Daniel 4:35 (p. 238), and Ecclesiastes 11:2 (pp. 241–42), statements have been presented that reiterate the opening idea more or less in parallel form at the conclusion, making an envelope figure which structures the passage as a unit. The significance of the Envelope Figure in the Bible is discussed in Moulton, pp. 56–58, 543. Between the sustained parallelism and envelope figures, a prime source of internal structure in Edwards' prose is defined.
[Note: Moulton describes chiasmus on p. 56 and gives an example, but doesn't use that term.
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Syntactical parallelism, whether simple or complex, brief or sustained, is simply the outward form of a parallelism of ideas, for Edwards, again following the tradition of the Bible, thought in terms of parallels: God and man, heaven and hell, salvation and damnation, conversion and reprobation, and on and on. For every concept, there is its parallel: God the king of the universe, man the king of the world; heaven the city of light, hell the city of darkness; salvation the end of the true saints, damnation the end of the unregenerate, and so forth. Moreover, between the extremes cited here, there are hierarchies of parallels between the Scripture and life, the divine and the mundane, Christ and the church, and so on to men and worms, or possibly spiders.
Thus the structures of parallelism in Edwards' sermons are more than rhetorical structures for his theological arguments; the rhetorical gesture of parallelism is itself a theological argument. "Christ, the Light of the World" presents a veritable symphony of parallelism—simple and complex, brief and sustained—as well as a synthesis of most of the techniques and devices that have been discussed thus far in this chapter.
In his lyrical celebration of Christ, Edwards harmonizes the idiom of the Scripture, images, similes, metaphors, types, repetition, and parallelism in an exuberant style characteristic of the sermons of the twenties. The doctrine of this sermon is, "Jesus Christ is the light of the world;" I quote from the third Observation under the second Proposition of the Doctrine.
Third. And lastly, light is of a quickening, reviving, and refreshing nature. It revives one that hath been long in darkness again to behold the light; so Christ Jesus revives the souls that come unto him by faith. Here you may run a parallel between the sun and Jesus Christ, the Sun of Righteousness.
1. As the sun, when it rises, all things are thereby revived and awakened out of sleep and silence, so when Jesus Christ shines into the souls of men, they are revived out of their deep and dead sleep of sin. When the sun arises, the world that before was all still and silent, and seemed to be dead, now is revived and raised up by the light thereof, and all things begin to stir and move: things seem to have new life put into them; man rises out of his sleep and sets about his business; the husbandman goeth forth to his labor, the beasts come out of their dens, the birds begin to sing and chant forth their notes, and the world is again put into motion. So it is in spiritual matters with respect to Christ. Before he shines into men's souls, they are dead and dull in a deep sleep, are not diligent at their work, but lie still and sleep and do nothing respecting their souls. All their affections are dead, dull and lifeless; their understandings are darkened with the dark shades of spiritual night, and there is nothing but spiritual sleep and death in their souls.
But when Christ arises upon them, then all things begin to revive, the will and affections begin to move, and they set about the work they have to do. They are now awakened out of their sleep: whereas they were still before, now they begin to be diligent and industrious; whereas they were silent before, now they begin to sing forth God's praises. Their graces now begin to be put into exercise, as flowers send forth a fragrancy when the sun shines upon them.
2. As the sun by his returning influences causes clouds and storms and cold to fly before it, so doth Jesus Christ, the cold, tempests, and clouds of the soul. In the winter season, the heavens are frequently overcast with clouds that hide the pleasing light of the sun; the air is disturbed with winds, storms and tempests, and all things are chilled with frost and cold. The rivers and streams are shut up with ice, the earth is covered with snow, and all things look dreadful, but when the sun returns with its warming influences, the heavens are cleared of dark clouds and the air stilled from tempests, the ice and snow and cold are fled. So the souls
-- 249 -- of men in their natural state are like winter, perpetually disturbed with the storms of lust and vice, and a raging conscience; their souls are all beclouded with sin and spiritual darkness. But when Christ comes with his warming influences, things are far otherwise: their minds are calm and serene, warmed with holiness and religion, and the clear sunshine of spiritual comfort.
3. As when the sun returns in the spring, the frozen earth is opened, mollified and softened, so by the beams of the Sun of Righteousness the stony, rocky, adamantine hearts of men are thawed, mellowed, and softened, and made fit to receive the seeds of grace. In the winter, the face of the earth is closed and shut up as a stone, unfit for any thing to be sown in it, but is loosened in the spring by the warm beams of the sun; so [is] the heart in its natural state frozen and like the stony ground, so that the seeds of God's Word take no rooting in it, but it is as if we should cast seed upon the bare rock. But when Christ melts the heart by shining upon it, the seed then sinks into it and takes root and begins to germinate and spring forth.
4. As the sun revives the plants and trees and fruits of the earth, so Christ Jesus by his spiritual light revives the soul and causes it to bring forth fruit. In the winter, the trees are stripped of their leaves and fruit, and stand naked, cease growing, and seem to be dead; the grass and herbs are killed, and all things have the appearance of death upon them. But when the sun returns, then all things have the appearance of a resurrection: things revive again, the trees and fields put on their green livery and begin to bud forth, anew, and flourish and grow. The grass and herbs begin to peep forth out of the ground, and all things look green and flourishing: the fields, meadows, and woods seem to rejoice, and the birds sing a welcome to the returning spring. The fields and trees are adorned with beautiful and fragrant flowers.
Just such an alteration is made in the soul at conversion by Jesus Christ, only far more glorious:
My beloved spake, and said unto me, Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away. For, lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone; the flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land; the fig tree putteth forth her green figs, and the vines with the tender grape give a good smell. Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away (Canticles 2:10–13).
-- 250 -- In conversion, graces do spring forth in the soul which are like the sweet flowers that adorn the face of the earth in the spring, and like the sweet melody of singing birds. The soul of one upon whom Christ has shined differs as much from the souls of the wicked as the earth, beautified with the vernal sunbeams, and, when covered with ice and snow, and vexed with storms in the dead of winter.
To chronicle the varieties of parallelism, alone, in this excerpt—leaving out the synthetic scriptural idiom; the nature imagery from the Connecticut Valley; the similes, metaphors, and symbols; the puns, alliteration, and assonance—would constitute a kind of academic parlor game. Nevertheless, taken as a total impression, the passage offers the prepared reader an authentic representation of the mind and rhetorical manner of the young preacher.
Here is his great theme, his central imagery, and his characteristic diction—before the "chastisement of the trope," the years of refining and disciplining metaphors in "Shadows," and the acquisition of that cool self-possession and incisive precision which mark the years of his stylistic mastery. Lacking the focus of an adequate tonic word, or the centripetal cohesion of philosophically systematized imagery, the passage seems to explode in all directions, the constraints of the sermon's numbered divisions and the power of the central metaphor notwithstanding. But it is a joyous, effervescent explosion, and in its final configuration depicts a mind reveling in the very plenitude of parallels (analogies) between the Word and life, the Deity and nature, and finally, its own ideas and its sensations. This is the mind and the style that underlay all the homiletical experiments and developments in Edwards' subsequent career.
In concluding this study of the primary rhetorical and literary resources of Edwards' sermons, it is necessary to consider three techniques which, while not of such importance as those already discussed, are nevertheless worthy of consideration: Edwards' use of the a fortiori construction, his "rhetoric of logic," and his manipulation of point of view.
The a fortiori or "all the more reason" construction—originally indicating increasing necessity in a logical proof—is employed by Edwards as his primary supplement to simile and metaphor in developing analogical bridges between the seen and the unseen, or in suggesting the plausible route between the present state of sensation
and a different state at some point in the future. The apparent reason for Edwards' wanting to supplement metaphors and similitudes is that they have a certain static or self-contained quality that might prevent the less imaginative members of his congregation from having a truly sensible impression of them.
To say that God in heaven is "like the sun" supplies a vivid image, but it leaves a considerable amount of the imaginative responsibility of interpretation to the auditory, and some might not be able to meet the challenge. Moreover, because of his adherence to Scripture precedent and the use of familiar images in forming his metaphors, there was always the danger that a similitude would lose its impact through overuse.
Thus, in an effort to "open up" the metaphor and give it freshness, Edwards dramatizes the process of the mind's apprehension and interpretation of it through the "what is more" formula.
If the natural sun of this lower world be so bright and glorious, how glorious is the sun of the heavenly world, in comparison of which this world is but a dark dungeon? And if the very inhabitants that are enlightened there by the rays of Christ's glory do themselves shine as the sun, how brightly then does he shine who is a sun to them, and does as much exceed them in glory as the sun exceeds our bodies? (Psalms 24:7–10.)
In the same way, Edwards labored to bring new life into the notoriously dead metaphors related to the brevity of life and the nature of eternal punishment.
Consider that if you do go to hell, hell is certainly near. How near, you can't tell, but in the general that it is near you may be certain. If you should live fifty years longer, how soon will they be gone! How soon is the revolution of the year finished, and how soon are fifty of them numbered! It would terrify you if you knew you was to burn at the stake, or [be] roasted to death by the Indians fifty years hence. It would appear near to you; you would be ready to count the months and the days. But what is that to the being cast into hell, into that place of extreme torment that we have been telling you of, at the end of fifty years?
Consider how dreadful it will be to suffer such an extremity forever. It is dreadful beyond expression to suffer it half an hour—the misery, the tribulation, and anguish that is endured. Do therefore but consider what it would be to suffer day after-- 252 -- day, to have no rest day nor night for thousands, for millions, of years; yea, forever and ever.
They will despair of ever being delivered; that despair will double their torment, yea, more than double it. If a person had the headache or toothache, or any other such pain, and knew he was to have it all his lifetime, and not have a moment's rest, it would more than double the affliction; it would magnify it exceedingly. How much more are pains increased when the subject of them knows he shall endure them to all eternity. If a person knew they were to endure a pain all his lifetime, that would not be despair because there is an end, but there is utter despair accompanies the torments of the damned. (Luke 16:24.)
Filling the mind with particulars, and controlling the process of imagined sensation, Edwards guides his audience inexorably along the narrow way from the "reality of here" to the "reality of there." Though tropes and symbolism might indicate the way and illumine the goal, only the painstaking and reiterative a fortiori could drive a lazy or reluctant imagination to the goal, dramatizing the mind's quest for a sensible knowledge of spiritual truth and reality in the process.
Indeed, when one considers many of Edwards' series of parallel constructions, and particularly his "lists," there is often more than a suggestion of the upward (or downward) movement of the a fortiori construction: "the meanest object of their lusts is set higher than [God]. He has less respect shown him than a few shillings, or than a morsel of meat, or a draught of strong drink, or a little brutish pleasure with a harlot" (Malachi 1:8).
In this way, Edwards intensifies the rhetorical and ideational rhythms of his prose, keeping a highly reiterative style free of dull, dead levels. Obvious and subtle by turns, this theoretically simple device fulfills a variety of essential tasks in Edwards' writings. For a fine example of variations on a fortiori, see the sermon on Luke 22:44 printed in Dwight, Works, 8, 159–94 (particularly the concluding two or three pages).
The "rhetoric of logic" sounds self-contradictory since rhetoric and logic are conventionally differentiated as disciplines. It should be observed, however, that classic homiletical manuals such as William Chappell's The Preacher, or the Art and Method of Preaching (London, 1656) effectively conflate rhetoric and logic in presenting student preachers with strategies of argument. Nor do I contend that logic is anything but logic. What I would insist, however, is that Edwards' mastery of deductive logic, and his various uses of it
in the sermons, have quite notable rhetorical consequences. Edwards himself was never immune to the aesthetic qualities of logic:
One reason why at first, before I knew other logic, I used to be mightily pleased with the study of the old logic, was because it was very pleasant to see my thoughts, that before lay in my mind jumbled without any distinction, ranged into order…"The Mind," Works, 6, 345.
And there is no evidence that this aesthetic appreciation of logic, or the old joy in playing with it, departed when Edwards switched to the newer, more "useful" logic. For that matter, JE's near obsession with parallels, juxtapositions, images and shadows, types and antitypes, and so forth, suggests that his mind always bore an impression of the early Ramean stamp. Indeed, most of his sermons, including the imprecatory ones, contain at least a few passages of fine logical argumentation, and many sermons contain displays of logical brilliance that do not always seem to be mere utilitarian tools.
From the rhetorical point of view, Edwards' logical mastery is that which enabled him to give adequate form to passages of massed images and heavily particularized sensations, perceptions, and conceptions. Moreover, it enabled him to keep his rhetorical balance when weaving a network of parallels and juxtapositions between the divine and mundane worlds. All in all, Edwards' peculiar density of style would be little more than a massing of particulars were it not for the remarkable logical discipline of his analytic imagination.
In the final analysis, "logic is logic," and perhaps Edwards' logic is rhetorically most impressive when it is presented as logic, specifically, in the "rational proof" of the Doctrine where he argues not only a positive proof, but first eliminates alternatives in a negative proof. In many such negative-to-positive proofs, Edwards moves grandly through the whole range of evident possibilities until the espoused principle is left standing alone and dominant.
A representative example would be the first proposition of the Doctrine in A Divine and Supernatural Light, Works, Worcester rev. ed., 4, 439–43. The dramatic gesture of such logic—suggesting a metaphysical plow that moves slowly and methodically, yet inexorably and effortlessly to the goal, clearing away all obstacles in its passage—establishes a most commanding "presence" for the preacher, however humble his professions or general tone. Edwards, as a connoisseur of logic, would not be the last to appreciate the power and beauty, or the purely aesthetic qualities, of the grand syllogistic gesture.
With so much of every sermon being formal, symmetrical, and systematic, it seems that Edwards felt the need for a maverick element, an implement of shock and surprise. He found such a device in the manipulation of the point of view. As indicated by the personal pronouns used, the point of view in the "average" Edwards sermon has certain basic patterns. Thus, in the Opening of the Text, the unity of the minister and congregation is emphasized by references to the first person plural: "we are told"; "in this passage the apostle says (to us)," and so forth.
In the Doctrine, and sometimes in the Application, references to the saved and the damned are usually in the third person, emphasizing their status as objects of contemplation by the group comprising the preacher and congregation: "they glorify God," or "they writhe in pain," as the case may be.
In the Application, however, and particularly in the uses of exhortation, the point of view is radically altered by shifting to the second person. The preacher separates himself from the congregation, as if leaving them to stand alone under the light of the Word: "if you do not, you will surely suffer"; "[you] come to the waiting arms," and so on.
Sometimes, Edwards not only isolates the congregation before God, but calls attention to their standing in the world-suggesting that he knew well which was probably the more immediate concern of a Yankee congregation. For instance, in a sermon (Nehemiah 2:20; 1738) preached not long before the publication of A Faithful Narrative in Boston, he suddenly turns the klieg light of public opinion upon his people in the Use of Self-examination:
… There has a great deal been done among us at one time or other since the like remarkable pouring out of the Spirit of God upon us to pull down the city of God. God has set us high as a city set upon an hill and very great has been the fame of us throughout this land, and also in the other England. Great notice has been taken of the great work that was here wrought and the profession we make; the account that was sent over to London of it has already had two impressions there. The first impression was soon dispensed and it has been printed there a second time, and they have lately sent over to enquire how things are amongst us now.
And this work has often been spoken of in pulpits abroad; it has been twice mentioned in election sermons in Boston that were, as it were, preached before the whole country.
There are congregations I have been informed of where the-- 255 -- whole account as printed in London has been read at length, and you know persons from time to time have come hither to see what remaining fruits there are of this work. And the narrative that has been twice printed in London is now printing again in Boston.
Was there ever a town in New England so much set up to public view in religious aspects—as a city that can't be hid—and was there ever a town in the country on whose holy and Christian conversation, honor and influence of religion did so much depend, and whose good behavior would tend so much to build up the city of God, and that ill behavior tend so much to pull it down? But have there not been many things amongst us that have tended to pull it down?
Suddenly, his congregation is thrust before the tribunal of the world and history. One can imagine the turning of heads.
Particularly in imprecatory sermons, Edwards may at any moment alter the point of view, giving the shock of a sudden new perspective. Thus, he may develop an image, say, of a "muck worm," crawling and slithering through the barnyard, apt to be trodden under foot at any moment—all in all a contemptible object—in a third person (objective) narration.
Just as the congregation has become fascinated in contemplating the despicable object from the point of view of an attentive human observer, Edwards is likely to assert, "you are that miserable worm!" and then continue the development of the image, but from the worm's point of view, enumerating in detail the heat and stench of the worm's surroundings, the threatening hooves overhead, and so forth.
In the same way, Edwards is fond of first delineating experiences and ideas from the human point of view, and then—with little or no transition—suddenly re-envisioning them from a divine point of view. The combinations and permutations of the manipulated point of view yield effects ranging from the thrill of Miltonic cosmic perspectives to vertiginous transits in time and space, from the sense of liberation to the sense of unbearable confinement and oppression.
Certainly, as it is sometimes employed, the manipulated point of view seems to constitute the necessary element of madness in Edwards' method.
