The human mind
naturally tends to make (and remake) religion into familiar terms, while
resisting the wholly other as such. As David Hume explains, the human mind is
naturally drawn to what is familiar to itself; considerably more effort is
required to hold onto the notion of pure divine simplicity without adding
ornaments. Sociological phenomena such as father-son relationships and the role
of a son are more familiar than the Son as Logos and agape.[1] The resurrection is typically thought of in
supernatural physiological and historical terms, rather than as whose meaning
is distinctly religious and, furthermore, is part of a religious narrative. The
Trinity as existing in reality metaphysically is easier to understand than the
Trinity as transcending reality, as it’s source rather than its substance. God
as the first cause of the Big Bang is easier to grasp than God as the source or
condition of Creation. These all-too-easy category mistakes are particularly
problematic in that they obscure religion as distinctly religious.
Who thinks of the
Son of God as the Logos, or Word—that aspect of God that plays
an active role in the creation story as well as the Incarnation? It is
much easier to conceptualize the Son from father-son relationships even though
Augustine warns against doing so. Who thinks of resurrection as whose
historicity is within a faith narrative rather than from a historical
account, and is thus conditioned on a distinctly religious meaning and
basis of validity? If I'm right, none of us has thought much about what remains
after the precipitates of other domains have been extracted such that the
remaining liquid is distinctly religious.
That the
resurrected Jesus walks through a door and yet is hungry and eats a fish
suggests that the concept of resurrection is not at bottom physiological. At
the very least, the linguistic device seems to be oriented to obstructing such
easy likenesses from other domains. A body transformed
spiritually is a distinctly religious phenomenon;
it is no accident that it is ensconced in a faith narrative, rather
than in a historical account, a book on human biology, or even a text
whose body is on supernatural, hocus pocus magic.
That the Passion
story is ritually and festively acted out each year means that in “mythic time”
Jesus is risen
each Easter. Hence Christians rejoice, as if announcing breaking news, "He
is risen!" The experience of religious presence that can take
place in mythic rather than chronological/historical time has great value and
meaning. Yet such distinctly religious meaning and its own sort of validators
are overlooked simply in asking whether Jesus was really
resurrected from the dead. "Was" connotes time to a historian,
and “really” is taken to mean empirically (i.e., as an observable fact), as if
such time and factuality trump mythic time and distinctly religious validation
stemming from religious meaning.
Religion itself,
moreover, is undercut even if Jesus rose
from the dead historically. Whether persons or events in a faith narrative
happen to be historical outright or mythic-historical, accepting empirical
historical claims as the litmus test undercuts religion itself because it is
made subject to the criteria of another domain, namely history. In his book, Eclipse of the
Biblical Narrative, Hans Frei points out that just asking whether some
event in the story really took place gets in the way of the story’s meaning
coming through unimpeded.
On a morning after
Easter when I was at a grocery store looking at half-priced, tempting chocolate eggs, I
conversed with an evangelical Christian woman about the holiday. She told me
she had read the Bible thirteen times. "You have to read it all the way
through to get its full meaning," she explained, "because the meaning
of one chapter is connected to the meanings of other chapters." Thinking
of Frei, who had retired from Yale unfortunately before my studies there, I
replied that interrupting the reading to ask whether something "really" happened
would get in the way of the coherence of the meaning of the Bible as a whole; it would be like stepping out to get popcorn in the middle of a movie. The suspension of disbelief, and hence "getting into" the story-world itself, is eclipsed by the interruption.
The woman agreed, though she was visibly uncomfortable with the mere
possibility that I might have been suggesting that Jesus did not really (i.e.,
as a historical occurrence) rise from the dead. Frei would say: Don't even ask
the question! Get out of the way, "for Christ's sake," and let the story tell its story. Instead of spoiling for a brawl, this policy not to eclipse the
story's own meaning treats religion as sui generis, as worthy in itself instead of needing to defer to
the criteria of another domain for some sense of validity.
We are so used to
thinking of religion using concepts borrowed from other domains that we would
scarcely even recognize something that is distinctly religious if it came up
and slapped us in the face and said, "Here I AM!" Elijah found the
Lord on the mountain not in the high winds, the ensuing earthquake, or the
fire, but in a gentle breeze.[2]
What
is the Logos, for instance, and how can “Son” be thought of as such rather than
in terms of the characteristics of human sons? Augustine warns that “no carnal
thought creep up” in interpreting Jesus’s expression, “As the Father has taught
me” in terms of a human father teaching his son. To liken the Trinitarian
relationship to a (merely) human one would be, Augustine writes, to “fashion
idols” in one’s heart.[3]
We are so conditioned to think of the Son of God in terms of being a son of a
father that we, Christian or not, have scarcely any idea what "Son"
means in a distinctively religious sense; and yet, it is precisely such a sense
that can minimize the risk of self-idolatry that comes with anthropomorphism
(i.e., applying human characteristics to non-human entities).
We are so used to assuming that overgrown vines from other gardens are
native to religion that we have no clue, I suspect, as to what religion’s own
garden would look like if regularly weeded. In fact, I would not be
surprised to find that we have been pulling the native plants as weeds! For
religion to regain or perhaps achieve its native health for the first time,
without the convenient and alluring stain of anthropomorphism, the
category-mistakes that come with blurring boundaries must first be recognized
and corrected and then attention must be directed to the question of just what
is distinctly religious.[4] Perhaps the defining question is whether religion
need necessarily be human, all too human; can the domain as distinctively drawn
transcend the limits of human cognition, sentience, and perception to have as
its referent point the Wholly Other? Can we get out of the way?
1. For more on this point and that of David Hume, see ch. 12 of God’s Gold: Beneath the Shifting Sands of Christian Thought on Profit-Seeking and Wealth.
2. 1 Kings 19:11-12.
3. Augustine, "Tractate 40" in Tractates on John: Books 28-54, trans. John W. Rettig, Fathers of the Church: A New Translation 88 (Washington, D.C.: Catholic University of America Press, 1993), 126.
4. See ch. 12 of God’s Gold: Beneath the Shifting Sands of Christian Thought on Profit-Seeking and Wealth.
3. Augustine, "Tractate 40" in Tractates on John: Books 28-54, trans. John W. Rettig, Fathers of the Church: A New Translation 88 (Washington, D.C.: Catholic University of America Press, 1993), 126.
4. See ch. 12 of God’s Gold: Beneath the Shifting Sands of Christian Thought on Profit-Seeking and Wealth.