Grace
Abounding:
Rediscovering
the
Graciousness
of God
.
by
Alister
McGrath
Having
had to read countless undergraduate essays on
the theme of 'the grace of God', I have
reluctantly come to the conclusion that it is
one of the most difficult Christian ideas to
handle. The importance of the notion seems to be
directly proportional to its complexity.
Exasperated by my insistence that he define the
idea, one of my students once retorted, "I may
not understand grace - but I believe in it
profoundly. What does that deceptively simple
word 'grace' actually mean? How are we to think
of it? How can we illustrate it? For the word
'grace' seems to denote something abstract and
impersonal, an ill-defined and abstruse concept
without any relation to the realities of human
life. It is perhaps the abstract quality of this
idea of grace that makes it so difficult to
discuss.
During the Middle Ages, grace tended to be
understood as a supernatural substance, infused
by God into the human soul in order to
facilitate redemption. One of the arguments
underlying this approach went like this: There
is a total and unbridgeable gap between God and
human nature. There is no way that human beings
can enter into a meaningful relation with God,
on account of this gap. Something is needed to
bridge this gap before we can be accepted by
God.
Grace was therefore understood as something
created within us by God, which acted as a
bridge between pure human nature and divine
nature a kind of middling species. The notion
of grace - or, more strictly, a created habit of
grace - was thus regarded as some sort of
bridgehead or middle ground, by which the
otherwise absolute gulf between God and humanity
could be bridged. Such ideas of grace had been
the subject of severe criticism before the
Reformation; by the beginning of the sixteenth
century, they had largely fallen into disrepute.
Nonetheless, the way was still open for this
notion to be conceived inadequately, in
impersonal and abstract terms. This potential
misunderstanding was eliminated by an
understanding of the relation of grace and the
action of the Holy Spirit which allowed grace to
be understood, not merely as the graciousness of
God, but as the dynamic and creative expression
of this graciousness in human existence.
Grace: An Idea Recovered
The reformers, sensitive to the meaning of the
Greek text of the New Testament, argued that the
fundamental meaning of 'grace' was nothing other
than the gracious favour of God towards us. It
did not denote a substance; it designated God's
personal attitude towards us. It did not refer
to something which, so to speak, could be
detached from God (such as a divine substance);
rather, it represented a crucial dynamic aspect
of the person of God. The strongly personal
connotations of grace were thus recovered by the
reformers. To speak of grace is to speak of the
graciousness of God, as expressed in his
dealings with us.
If I were to speak of a friend of mine as being
"kind', I would have to justify that statement
by pointing to actions on his or her part
illustrating that kindness. Kindness is not some
sort of disembodied idea, but a personal
attitude or quality which expresses itself in
the way in which we relate to other people.
Kindness, like grace, is something which
declares itself in life.
Grace designates a pattern of divine presence
and activity which we recognise as gracious.
Though we are sinners, God is willing to meet
us. Though we are deaf, God is willing to make
himself heard. Though we are far away from him,
God is willing to come to us, and bring us home
to him. Though Christ was rich, yet for our
sakes he became poor. Such themes recur
throughout the writings of the Reformation, as
its thinkers attempted to fathom and convey the
depths of the grace of God.
To illustrate this point, we may pick up
incidents in the lives of Luther, Calvin and
Zwingli (to note only three of the more
prominent representatives of the Reformation)
which were attributed to the grace of God. The
point we wish to make is the following: to speak
of grace is to speak of changed human lives.
Grace is known by its effects. God's attitude
towards us is expressed in his actions towards
us.
The young Luther was intensely aware of his
personal sinfulness. Born in 1483, Luther
entered the Augustinian monastery at the
university city of Erfurt in 1505. Although
meticulous in confession of his sins (which he
later related to be numerous), he felt
profoundly ill at ease within himself. His
conscience was severely troubled by these sins,
which he felt he was personally incapable of
overcoming. It seemed to him that he was trapped
in a sinful situation, from which there was no
escape. Like a narcotics addict, he was hooked.
There was no way he could break free from sin.
But how could a righteous God overlook such sin?
Luther had especial difficulties with the phrase
"the righteousness of God', particularly as it
was used by Paul. Indeed, at one point (Romans
1:16-17), Paul virtually equated the gospel with
the revelation of the righteousness of God. This
was beyond Luther's Comprehension. How could the
revelation of the righteousness of God be good
news for sinners? It seemed to Luther that the
gospel was good news for righteous persons - but
for sinners, such as himself, the gospel meant
one thing, and One thing Only. God in his
righteousness would punish and condemn sinners -
including Martin Luther. In a piece of writing
dating from 1545, the year before his death,
Luther recalled the spiritual agony which
gripped him during this early period.
I hated that phrase "the righteousness
of God' . . . by which God is righteous, and
punishes sinners. Although I lived an
irreproachable life as a monk, I felt that I
was a sinner, with an uneasy conscience in the
sight of God . . . I was angry with God,
saying to myself, "It's bad enough that
miserable sinners should be condemned for ever
by original sin, with all kinds of extra
burdens laid upon us by the Old Testament law
- and God makes things even worse through the
gospel.
Then
the situation was transformed. Probably about
the year 1515, Luther came to the realisation
that God was indeed able to forgive sins -
including his own. He began to read Scripture in
a completely new light. No longer did terms such
as "the righteousness of God cause him to panic.
They now resonated with the theme of the grace
of God. The righteousness of God was not the
righteousness by which God punished sinners, but
the righteousness which God gave to sinners as a
totally unmerited gift, in order that they might
find solace and peace in him. It was as if he
had entered into paradise, Luther later
recalled.
I began to understand that
'righteousness of God' as the righteousness by
which righteous people live by the gift of God
(in other words, faith), and the sentence "the
righteousness of God is revealed to mean a
passive righteousness, by which the merciful
God justifies us by faith. . . This
immediately made me feel as if I had been born
all Over again, and entered into paradise
through open gates. From that moment onwards,
the whole face of Scripture appeared to me in
a different light. . . And, where I had once
hated that phrase "the righteousness of God I
now began to love it and praise it as the
sweetest of words, so that this passage in
Paul became the very gate of paradise for me.
Grace,
for Luther, thus came to refer to a cluster of
related ideas, all with a direct relevance to
life. Above all, it referred to the astonishing
fact that God loves sinners. Our status before
God is something given, not something earned.
"Sinners are attractive because they are loved;
they are not loved because they are attractive.
The amazing grace of God is shown in that we are
loved before we are made lovable. To speak of
the grace of God is to proclaim the astonishing
insight that, despite the stranglehold which sin
has upon us, God is able to break its power and
purge its guilt - giving birth to a peaceful
conscience and peace of mind.
To speak about grace is thus to speak about its
effects in one's own life. God's gracious
attitude towards us expresses itself in his
gracious actions towards us. Grace cannot be
isolated from its effects in our spiritual
lives. A similar reflection can be detected in
the writings of Paul in the New Testament, where
the word 'grace' is often grounded in an account
of the practical Outworking of grace in his life
- such as his conversion. Much the same point is
made by John Bunyan, in his remarkable (and
significantly titled) autobiography Grace
Abounding.
A related note is struck by Huldrych Zwingli,
the reformer of the Swiss city of Zurich. Born
in 1484, Zwingli celebrated his thirty-fifth
birthday (1 January 1519) by taking up a new job
as people's priest (Leutpriest) at the
Great Minster at Zurich. Within weeks, he was
preaching a programme of reform which would
eventually have considerable impact in the
region. In addition to preaching, Zwingli also
took on regular pastoral duties within the city.
By the late summer of that year, Zwingli was
close to death.
The plague had struck Zurich that summer, and
Zwingli found himself heavily occupied with the
visiting and consolation of the dying. Perhaps
as many as a third of the population of the city
died during this period. By August, Zwingli
himself was seriously ill, and apparently was
not expected to live. He wrote a poem during
this period, in which he expressed his feeling
of total dependence upon God. Whether he lived
or died was a matter for God. It lay totally
beyond human control.
Zwingli recovered. For him, the word 'grace' now
resonated with tones of divine providence and
omnipotence. Grace referred to God's willingness
and ability to guide the course of human
existence, to intervene in situations which lay
beyond human control. If grace referred
primarily to finding favour in the sight of God,
it referred secondarily to the practical
outworking of this in human life (and Zwingli
had his preservation from the Zurich plague in
mind). Once more, we find the same pattern:
grace is about God's dynamic and creative
involvement in the lives of those towards whom
he is gracious.
John Calvin, born in 1509, may have had some
early ambition to become a Catholic priest. The
career possibilities open to were considerable:
his father was a prominent ecclesiastical
administrator at the cathedral city of Noyon,
and Calvin had developed Cordial relations with
the powerful de Hangest family, known locally
for their abundant powers of ecclesiastical
patronage. But by 1529, this possibility seemed
closed. Calvin's father had fallen out of favour
with the cathedral, apparently over some
financial disagreement. Calvin, who had by now
graduated from the university of Paris, decided
to study law instead of theology. Perhaps the
career prospects were better.
But although he successfully qualified as a
lawyer, Calvin began to develop an interest in
and sympathy with the new Evangelical ideas then
Sweeping through France. At some point, probably
in late 1533 or early 1534, Calvin underwent an
experience which he would later refer to as a
'sudden conversion'. He recalled how he seemed
to be set in his ways, firmly entrenched in the
familiar and consoling paths of the old
religion. And then something happened. He does
not explain precisely what, nor is he generous
with historical references, which might allow us
to establish precisely when all this took place.
But the basic patterns are clear. God intervened
in his life, enabling him to break with his old
religious ways, and setting him free for the
service of the gospel. He saw himself as a
stick-in-the-mud, whom God extricated from
dependence upon the old ways. God 'subdued him,
in much the same way as a horse might be tamed.
Calvin was aware of being called by God, to
serve him in the world. The nature of this
vocation was unclear - but the fact that he was
being called seemed beyond dispute. Grace thus
came to designate divine intervention in a
situation of sin and ignorance. It referred to
God's ability to turn people around, to
extricate them from the mire of sin, and to tame
those opposed to God - and Calvin included
himself and Paul among the number of those to
have experienced grace in this way.
But it came to mean more than being turned
inside out. Although Calvin clearly felt that he
had been called by God (as we have seen,
probably at some point in 1533 or 1534), it was
not clear in what capacity or at what location
he was meant to be serving. He had been called -
but to what? He busied himself with various
matters, including the writing of a book, later
to become one of the most important publications
of the sixteenth century - the Institutes of the
Christian Religion, published in March 1536. But
it was still not clear to him how his calling to
be a Christian would work itself out.
Finally, in July 1536 he decided to set out for
Strasbourg, and get on with some serious
academic studies. A war made the usual route
from Paris to Strasbourg impassable. He decided
to take another route, by-passing the war by
heading further south. He had to pause for a
night in a city. That city was Geneva, then in
the process of adopting the principles of the
Reformation. He was recognised, and asked to
stay. Guillaume Farel and Pierre Viret (the
reformers who had guided Geneva thus far in its
road to reformation) had basically one thing to
say to Calvin: you are needed here! As he later
related, in his Reply to Sadoleto, he had no
doubt that he was being called to stay and serve
in Geneva. As his later correspondence makes
clear, Calvin's sense of vocation was deeply
linked with Geneva. When he was temporarily
expelled from the city in 1538, he went through
a spiritual crisis, apparently believing for a
while that his vocation had been cancelled.
In part, this was precipitated by some letters
from Louis du Tillet, who had reverted to
Catholicism after showing some initial interest
in Evangelicalism. Du Tillet suggested that
Calvin had foolishly confused a human call - the
appeal from Farel and Wiret with a divine
call. God had not called him, either to be a
pastor, or to work in Geneva. His expulsion from
the city proved that point beyond doubt.
But that feeling and that exile were temporary.
Calvin seemed to have found out where he was
meant to be, and regained a strong sense of
having been called by God. "The Lord, Calvin
wrote, "has given me strong reasons to confirm
myself in my calling. Grace was now linked with
a sense of guidance, expressed more rigorously
in the doctrine of vocation and related
doctrines, such as those of election and
predestination. Once more, grace is seen as
something which expresses itself in real human
life - not just human life in general, but the
lives of specific individuals.
Grace, then, Concerns the creative, empowering
and transforming expression of the graciousness
of God in the lives of his people. It is a
lifeline in a raging Sea of sin and despair. It
expresses itself in the forgiveness of sins, the
transformation of human weakness, and the
guidance of individuals towards their callings
in the world. When Paul wrote "by the grace of
God, I am what I am' (1 Corinthians 15:10), he
was bearing witness both to God's favour towards
him and to the actualisation of that favour in
his life. Grace is no abstract idea! To talk
about grace virtually amounts to writing
biographies - or even autobiographies - as it is
to chronicle the gracious acts of God in the
lives of men and women in history. Grace is what
God does for people. That is an insight which we
can use today.
The Reality of Sin Personal
and Structural
Grace is only fully and properly understood when
the reality and power of sin have been
addressed. The reformers generally had no qualms
Over speaking about sin. Perhaps two reasons may
be given for this observation. First, and not
least, the writers of the Reformation believed
that they had the means to deal with sin. The
doctrine of justification by faith addressed sin
head-on, offering peace with God in place of the
wrath of God, eternal life in the place of death
as the wages of sin, and forgiveness in place of
the guilt of sin. This confidence in the reality
of justification allowed a degree of assurance
in facing up to the reality of sin. Christ died
for real sins. Perhaps the most powerful
- and controversial - statement of this belief
may be found in a letter of Luther to
Melanchthon, in which (irritated at the latter's
fastidiousness in relation to his personal
life), he declared: "Be a sinner, and sin
boldly. But believe in Christ, and rejoice more
boldly still Luther's point (although probably
hopelessly overstated) is that there was no
point in becoming obsessed with petty sins:
Christ died for the big sins of life, and for
that we should rejoice.
But the second reason is perhaps the more
significant. The major reformers were not
academics, whose experience of life was
restricted to the ivory towers of academia. They
were pastors, with experience of the profound
impact of sin upon human life. They were
involved in power struggles within cities and
citadels of Europe, which brought home to them
the reality of structural sin. In short, they
lived in worlds which made it inevitable that
they should realise the impact of sin upon
individuals, social structures and communities.
They inhabited no Walter Mitty world, but were
obliged to face up to the grim realities of
human existence.
In part, the reformers themselves bore painful
witness to the personal and corporate aspects of
sin. Luther found himself placed in a very
difficult position during the Peasants' War of
1525. Should he support the peasants' revolt
against their oppressive masters - or should he
support the princes, upon whose patronage his
reformation depended? Caught up in a complex web
of possibilities, none of which could easily be
described as "right' or 'wrong, Luther found
himself supporting the princes. For many, he
compromised himself fatally. Luther's actions,
as much as his doctrine of justification, bore
witness to his sinful nature. He was forced to
recognise the deep roots which sin had made, not
only into his personal life, but into every
level of human life, individual and corporate.
The contrast with much modern theology is
significant, and reflects the shift, noted
earlier (p. 31), away from the Reformation
paradigm of the theologian as one who is seen to
be within the community of faith to one
who is seen as somehow being above that
community. Many modern academic theologians have
become detached from pastoral work, and have
minimal involvement in the affairs of the world.
A gap has opened up between academic theorists
and the world they are meant to be interpreting
and addressing. It is perhaps for reasons Such
as these that it is the pastors and writers of
the Third World who have brought home to the
modern period the reality of human sin. Western
universities are seen to be just as tainted by
sin as the Societies within which they are
based, or the individuals who teach within them.
In the twentieth century, H. Richard Niebuhr
spoke powerfully of a pseudo-gospel in which 'a
God without Wrath brought people without sin
into a kingdom without judgement through the
ministrations of a Christ without a cross. For
much liberal theology, the notion of sin is to
be dismissed as outdated and irrelevant, not
least because it poses a powerful challenge to
the notion of fundamental human goodness, upon
which so much liberal optimism rests. To
rediscover Reformation spirituality is to return
to an age when the reality of sin was freely
acknowledged. Sin has assumed for many liberal
writers much the same status as sex among the
Victorians: it was something that other people
did, and which you didn't talk about anyway. The
more open and healthy attitude of the reformers
has much to commend it. It also encourages a
degree of openness in relation to a difficult
area of spirituality - the persistence of sin
among believers.
Sinful Christians - A
Contradiction in Terms?
Most Christians are aware of a sense of sin;
indeed, very often it is the most mature
Christians that are most aware of their sin. But
underlying this practical observation is a
theoretical difficulty. How can sin and faith
coexist? How can Christians, who are meant to be
righteous, also be sinners? Psychology and
theology need to inter-relate on this issue.
Luther's discussion of precisely this point is
one of the most helpful aspects of his
spirituality. He deals with the question in the
Romans lectures of 151516, and we shall examine
what he has to say on the matter.
Luther draws a basic distinction between the way
we are regarded by God, and the way we regard
ourselves. There is a fundamental difference
between our status in Our Own eyes, and in the
sight of God. Luther uses the terms intrinsic
and 'extrinsic' in this connection. Having thus
clarified this distinction between the internal
human and external divine perspectives, Luther
considers the difference between believers and
unbelievers (to use his terms, saints and
hypocrites). The saints are always sinners in
their own sight, and therefore are always
justified extrinsically; the hypocrites,
however, are always righteous in their own
sight, and are therefore always sinners
extrinsically.' Believers thus regard themselves
as sinners; but in the sight of God, they are
righteous on account of their justification. God
reckons believers to be righteous, on account of
their faith. Through faith, the believer is
clothed with the righteousness of Christ, in
much the same way, Luther suggests, as Ezekiel
16:8 speaks of God covering our nakedness with
his garment. For Luther, faith is the right (or
righteous) relationship to God. Sin and
righteousness thus co-exist; we remain sinners
inwardly, but are righteous extrinsically, in
the sight of God. By confessing our sins in
faith, we stand in a right and righteous
relationship with God. From Our Own perspective
we are sinners; but in the perspective of God,
we are righteous.
Now the Saints are always aware of
their sin and seek righteousness from God in
accordance with his mercy. And for this very
reason, they are regarded as righteous by God.
Thus in their own eyes (and in reality) they
are sinners - but in the eyes of God they are
righteous, because he reckons them as Such on
account of their confession of their sin. In
reality they are sinners; but they are
righteous by the imputation of a merciful God.
They are unknowingly righteous, and knowingly
sinners. They are sinners in fact, but
righteous in hope.
Luther
is not necessarily implying that this
co-existence of Sin and righteousness is a
permanent condition. His point is that God like
a protective covering, under which we may battle
with Our sin. But - and this is Luther's central
insight - the existence of sin does not negate
our status as Christians. In justification, we
are given the status of righteousness, while we
work with God towards attaining the nature of
righteousness. In that God has promised to make
us righteous one day, finally eliminating our
sin, there is a sense in which we are already
righteous in his sight. Luther makes this point
as follows:
It is just like someone who is sick,
and who believes the doctor who promises his
full recovery. In the meantime, he obeys the
doctor's orders in the hope of the promised
recovery, and abstains from those things which
he has been told to lay off, so that he may in
no way hinder the promised return to health .
. . Now is this sick man well? In fact, he is
both sick and well at the same time. He is
sick in reality - but he is well on account of
the sure promise of the doctor, whom he
trusts, and who reckons him as already being
cured.
Obviously enjoying this medical analogy, Luther
takes it a stage further. Having established
that illness is an analogue of sin, and health
of righteousness, he concludes:
So he is at one and the same time both
a sinner and righteous. He is a sinner in
reality, but righteous by the sure imputation
and promise of God that he will continue to
deliver him from sin until he has completely
cured him. So he is entirely healthy in hope,
but a sinner in reality.
This
approach is helpful, in that it accounts for the
persistence of sin in believers, while at the
same time accounting for the gradual
transformation of the believer and the future
elimination of that sin. But it is not necessary
to be perfectly righteous to be a Christian! Sin
does not point to unbelief, or to a failure on
the part of God; rather, it points to the
continued need to entrust one's person to the
gentle care of God.
The pastoral importance of this way of thinking
is considerable. A colleague once told me of a
meeting which he had recently attended at his
local church, dealing with the theme of
'self-esteem. Everyone was asked to rate
themselves on a Scale between zero (terrible)
and ten (perfect). Most of those people - being
modest Americans - rated themselves between four
and six (not especially good, but not especially
bad either). The visiting speaker (who had been
reading some fashionable works of psychotherapy)
then declared that they all ought to rate
themselves as ten; they were, he said, all
perfect, and merely suffered from a complete
lack of self-esteem. This provoked an amused
reaction among those present, who generally
regarded their self-estimation as entirely
accurate, and that of their visiting speaker as
totally deluded.
This incident brings out neatly the reluctance
on the part of many modern persons to accept the
fact that they are less than perfect. To concede
imperfection seems tantamount to a humiliating
and degrading admission of total failure. This
denial of sin finds its natural expression in
the myth of perfection - the totally unrealistic
assertion that the way we are is the way we are
meant to be. The doctrine of justification
invites us to acknowledge our imperfection and
sin - while rejoicing in the purpose and power
of God to transform the poverty of our nature
into the likeness of Jesus Christ. Augustine
once likened the church to a hospital. It is a
community of sick people, united by their
willingness to acknowledge their sin and their
hope and trust in the skill of the physicians to
whose care they are committed. Luther, as we
have seen above, continues
righteous in hope.
The story also illustrates how important,
helpful and Christian Luther's approach
to this problem of self-esteem turns out to be.
God accepts us as we are. You do not have to
rate yourself as ten to be a Christian. Nor is
perfection a prerequisite of acceptance in the
sight of God. God accepts you just as you are -
he grants you the status often, on account of
his promise to renew and refashion you totally.
You score four, five or six - but you are
accepted nonetheless. In his graciousness, God
accepts you. You don't have to delude yourself
(or think that God is deluded) by pretending
that you are perfect. The justification of
sinners rests upon no delusions, no legal
fictions, and no pretence of holiness. God
accepts us for what we are, while he works
within us that which he wants us to be. We are
given the status of ten, in the light of
God's promise to rebuild us, and finally to give
us the nature of ten. And that gives us
encouragement and motivation to move up the
scale, working on our weaknesses and
shortcomings. And so, by the grace of God, our
fours, fives or sixes become eight, nine or ten.
God grants to us now a status which reflects his
vision, intention and promise concerning what we
shall be, when recreated by his grace.
But now consider the approach of our amateur
psychotherapist. He was telling his hearers that
they were perfect. That was regarded as
ludicrous by those who listened to him, for two
reasons. First, it did not accord with their
experience. They knew themselves to be less than
perfect. Whatever pretence of perfection they
may have chosen to maintain in public, in
private they were perfectly aware of their sin.
And second, it removed any motivation for
self-improvement. If you score ten out of ten,
there is nothing more to be achieved. The scene
is set for quietism, a total indifference to
self-improvement and growth in holiness.
Luther's approach avoids both these pitfalls. It
declares that we are sinners (which resonates
with our own experience and knowledge of
Ourselves), and that there is considerable room
for improvement - but it also affirms that we
are still able to have the status of being
righteous in the sight of God. The
twentieth-century German-American writer Paul
Tillich captured this insight when he wrote: "We
must accept that we have been accepted, despite
being unacceptable."
An awareness of sin, then, is not necessarily a
symptom of some kind of lapse from faith, or a
sign of an imperfect commitment to God. It can
be nothing more than a reflection of the
continuing struggle against sin, which is an
essential component of the process of
justification and renewal. Let Luther have the
final word on this point.
In ourselves, we are sinners, and yet
through faith we are righteous by the
imputation of God. For we trust him who
promises to deliver us, and in the meantime
struggle so that sin may not overwhelm us, but
that we may stand up to it until he finally
takes it away from us.
[Excerpt from Roots That Refresh: A
Celebration of Reformation Spirituality,
chapter 8, pages 1487-161, © 1991 Alister E.
McGrath, first published in Great Britain by
Hodder & Stoughton. Used with Permission.]
 Alister
E. McGrath, born in Belfast, Northern
Ireland, holds the Chair in Theology,
Ministry and Education at Kings College
London. He was previously Professor of
Historical Theology at Oxford University
and Director of the Oxford Center for
Christian Apologetics.
Originally a student of science, in 1977
McGrath was awarded a PhD in Biochemistry
from Oxford University for his work on
molecular biophysics. Following his
conversion from atheism to Christianity,
he studied divinity at St. John's College
at Cambridge (1978-80). It was during this
time that he studied for ordination in the
Church of England. McGrath was elected
University Research Lecturer in Theology
at Oxford University in 1993, and also
served as research professor of theology
at Regent College, Vancouver, from 1993-9.
He earned an Oxford Doctorate of Divinity
in 2001 for his research on historical and
systematic theology.
McGrath has written many books on the
interaction of science and faith and is
the producer of the 'Scientific Theology'
project, encouraging a dialogue between
the natural sciences and Christian
theology. McGrath is a strong critic of
Richard Dawkins, Oxford biology professor
and one of the most outspoken atheists. He
has addressed Dawkins' criticism of
religion in several of his books, most
notably in Dawkins Delusion published in
2007 by SPCK and IVP.
More
information on his websites: http://alistermcgrath.weebly.com/
and Professor
Alister McGrath
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