Looking for the ‘risen’ Jesus? – Book Review

Geza Vermes, The Changing Faces of Jesus (London: Allen Lane, 2000)

This contribution to the search for the ‘Jesus of history’ adopts a rigorous methodology. Each of the canonical sources is examined in turn, albeit in an unusual order. Vermes begins with the genuine Pauline epistles as the earliest written sources available. He identifies elements in them that derive directly from the Jesus tradition – notably the account of the resurrection. Vermes interprets the formula ‘I handed on to you as of first importance what I turn had received’ (1 Cor. 15:3) as an indication that Paul is here repeating a core part of the proto-gospel message. Interestingly, the slight difference of phraseology in 1 Cor. 11:23 leads Vermes to speculate that Paul may have introduced the words of institution, previously unknown to the tradition, and that ‘the editors of Matthew, Mark, and especially Luke, who follows Paul most closely, introduced it into their respective accounts in the Synoptic Gospels’ (p. 69).

From this initial account, it is clear that we are dealing with a careful, text-based, and analytical approach to the question. Further treatment of the other epistles and the Johannine corpus confirms this impression. Vermes concludes his survey of this material by typifying the Jesus presented in Paul and John as a mystical, deified quasi-abstraction. He does this in large part by assessing the occurrences of the various titles they use for Jesus. The main difference between Paul and John is that Paul, writing in the middle of the first century, has a strong eschatological expectation (although this lacks clear definition – see p. 91). Meanwhile, John, composed in the early second century, has more or less disposed of this eschatological urgency. As Vermes puts it (quoting Alfred Loisy), ‘The first Christians expected the return of Christ, but it was the church that arrived instead’ (p. 113).

The Acts of the Apostles, the Synoptic gospels, and Mark’s gospel in particular, present a much more ‘human’ Jesus, along the lines of a ‘wonder-working prophet’ such as Elijah (see, for example, p. 190). It is interesting to note which of the sayings of Jesus Vermes admits as authentic – usually because they seem to go against the subsequent teaching of the Church – and how he weaves the emerging picture of a Galilean holy man together with his extensive knowledge of the Qumran scrolls and Rabbinic sources from the first century BC to the second century AD. These invariably cast light on the sayings and actions of Jesus, and help to situate them in a wider religious and social context.

Vermes is nothing if not fair. He recognises similarities between Jesus and other prophetic figures, while allowing for major differences of emphasis and vision. The inclusiveness of Jesus vis-à-vis women and outcasts is a notable distinctive, for example. Even his treatment of the resurrection tactfully leaves open the possibility that the account preserved by Paul and the fragmentary hints in Mark (later much elaborated by Matthew, Luke, and John to strengthen their veracity) might indeed refer to something real. Vermes quotes Paul Winters: ‘Crucified, dead, and buried, [Jesus] yet rose in the hearts of the disciples who had loved him and felt he was near’. It seems to me that this does not quite explain the persistence of the resurrection message, and its attested presence in the earliest recorded sources. Ultimately, the resurrection remains a skandalon to be accounted for.

The absence of an index and extensive bibliography is a serious shortcoming in this book.

God and Ethics? – Book Review

Alan J. Torrance and Michael Banner (ed), The Doctine of God and Theological Ethics (London: T&T Clark, 2006)

Seeking to explore the relationship between doctrine and ethics, this edited collection contains contributions from theologians and philosophers. The majority begin with Christian doctrines such as the Trinity (see Miroslav Volf’s remarkable piece on this subject), or Christian concepts such as the dichotomies of law/grace and grace/nature, and then explore how these might shape or inform a system of ethics.

Beginning with God rather than human perspectives does not mean that these essays are detached from human concerns. Many of the contributors end up offering profound insights into human nature along the way. For example: ‘self-reproach remains a device for avoiding self-knowledge’ (Alasdair MacIntyre, p. 24); or the suggestion that ethics should be based, not ‘on obedience to rules, but in terms of an account of character’ (Fergus Kerr, p. 72). Some of these insights are powerful and inspiring, such as the quotation from Luther regarding a ‘confident [person], believing in plenitude’ (p. 98), or the history of conscience traced by Webster (especially culminating at p. 158).

Furthermore, Christian theology is in a position to tell philosophical ethics that it has limits, and that it needs a telos (a goal or end), if it is to make sense. Stanley Hauerwas, for instance, states that ‘The appropriately phrased theological question is never “Does God exist?”, but “Do we exist?”‘ (p. 86). Murray Rae, meanwhile, advises that ‘it is necessary to ask the question of anything good, “Good for what?”‘ (p. 203).

The themes of gift and covenant (as opposed to contract) recur again and again, as when Volf points out that the Trinity is ‘a form of exchange of gifts’ (p. 114), or in Torrance’s observation that God’s relationship with Israel in the torah is covenantal (based on grace and freedom), rather than contractual (based on law). In this sense, torah is not the same as lex (p. 173). These concepts only make sense theologically and ethically when they are related to Christ (see also Hebrews 9:1).

Implications are drawn for the Church: ‘[...] if Christians would only stop adapting themselves to the conduct of a secular world that is no longer attuned to the Christian spirit of its origins’, we might see a transformation of society such as we saw in the early Christian centuries (Wolfhart Pannenberg, p. 53).

Torrance would have the Church speaking to the state with the authority of the Word (p. 183), showing it what a community is. Joan Lockwood O’Donovan goes even further, questioning the concepts of property and rights from a historical Christian perspective, and pointing out the ‘inescapable association of the concept of rights with [...] possessive individualism’ (p. 191).

This is powerful stuff, and there is much to question and debate in these contributions. However, two important points seem to emerge from the book as a whole. The first is a new confidence in the Christian message as a coherent way of looking at the world, and as a position from which to criticise secular approaches to ethical questions. Secondly, there is a realisation that there is no either/or choice to be made between theological doctrines and philosophical findings. Rather, it is a case of both/and, as we learn to ‘speak truthfully’ about human experience and divine self-revelation, about how grace and nature work on one another.

Wolf Hall – Book Review

Hilary Mantel, Wolf Hall (London: Fourth Estate, 2009)

The term ‘historical novel’ covers a broad range of writing. If it is not actually an oxymoron, it nevertheless contains a certain amount of tension between fidelity to the historical context on the one hand, and the demands of pure fiction on the other. This tension leaves open the possibility for varying degrees of truthfulness in both historiographical and fictional narratives (as previously discussed in this blog).

Mantel resolves this potential problem by opting for character, dialogue, and atmosphere, rather than plot. Character, because her story is told entirely from the perspective of Thomas Cromwell; dialogue, in a variety of registers from the familiar to the formal (and occasionally in smatterings of French, German, Spanish, Latin, and Italian – as befits the context); and from atmospheric intrigues at court to light-hearted situations at home. The tone of these scenes varies from the cynical to the comical, and from the heart-warming to the gut-wrenching.

Given the nature of her subject, Henry VIII and his ‘great matter’, the plot is involved and always changing. Yet due to its relative familiarity and recent treatment on the stage, screen, and page (not least in the HBO television series ‘The Tudors’), it holds few surprises. The more familiar the reader is with the English Reformation, the more characters, quotations, and allusions he or she will recognise. Mantel’s hints and Cromwell’s premonitions grow clearer and more blatant as the tale progresses. The book ends, deftly but predictibly, with a chapter entitled ‘To Wolf Hall’.

So it is character that carries this novel, and Mantel has chosen an interesting and unusual one. Her account of Cromwell is analysed very capably in Colin Burrow’s article, ‘How to Twist a Knife’ (London Review of Books, Vol. 31 No. 8 (30 April 2009), pp. 3-5). Burrow suggests that Wolf Hall is ‘less a historical novel than an alternative history novel. It constructs a story about the inner life of Cromwell which runs in parallel to scenes and pictures that we thought we knew’.

And so it does. Cromwell comes across as a well-rounded character with desires, ambitions, memories, and a conscience. He is capable of political ruthlessness, but also of compassion. Mantel offers imaginative insights into the inner workings of the mind of a powerful man, whether of the sixteenth or of the twenty-first century. The only criticism I would raise is that Cromwell’s cynicism – especially about religious questions – occasionally seems closer to the twenty-first than to the sixteenth century. The greatest pitfall in both history and historical fiction is anachronism.

Scarcity or plenty? – Book Review

Lewis Hyde, The Gift: How the Creative Spirit Transforms the World (Edinburgh: Canongate, 2007; first publ. 1983)

Like Marcel Hénaff’s Le Prix de la Vérité (see forthcoming review), Hyde’s book is a reworking of the concept of gift, as analysed by Mauss (‘Essai sur le don’, 1923-24), Lévi-Strauss (Les Structures élémentaires de la parenté, 1949), and others.

In this case, Hyde focuses on the arts, making characteristically bold claims for the scope of his work. To give him his dues, The Gift is a a wide-ranging treatment of the topic. Beginning from the classic starting point in social anthropology, Hyde goes on to offer a detailed analysis of usury in the Christian West, including some good points with regard to Calvin and Luther. The latter, for example affirms ‘a scarcity of grace and gift’. Scarcity becomes a dirty word when Hyde contrasts it with plenty in this section. Furthermore, he identifies that in a gift-based system any surplus is passed forward to the recipient, while in usury the surplus is retained by the creditor.

There are also fascinating chapters on Walt Whitman and Ezra Pound, and insights into the workings of political and business economics in 1970s and 80s Capitalism.

Certain themes recur throughout Hyde’s study. The most prominent of these is the grouping of money, Logos, and commerce over and against gift, Eros, and imagination. It is easy to see which grouping Hyde finds most attractive, and only in the final chapter does he begin to ask how the two groups can interact. It is here that more thinking is required, to see how the arts – and society at large – can reincorporate the idea of plenty into our scarcity-driven thinking.

Federal Liberty – the seed of an idea?

‘The Swiss Reformed Protestants in the sixteenth century, following the Bible, defined liberty as federal (from the Latin foedus, meaning covenant) liberty (i.e., the liberty to live according to the terms of God’ s covenant with humanity entered into), rather than individual liberty as natural liberty.’

This quotation from Daniel J. Elazar’s article, ‘Communal Democracy and Liberal Democracy: An outside Friend’s Look at the Swiss Political Tradition’ in Publius, Vol. 23, No. 2, Communal and Individual Liberty in Swiss Federalism (Spring, 1993), pp. 3-18 (p. 13) links the theological concept of ‘covenant’ with the political concept of ‘liberty’ in a potentially fruitful way.

We tend to think of liberty exclusively in terms of the individual, and have learned to dismiss communal ideals as idealistic. But ideals are not necessarily unrealistic, and a communal form of liberty may well prove far more workable and sustaining than our bankrupt individualism, which in the light of the banking crisis and the disintegration of society, is clearly an unworkable idealism.

An observer of trees and characters – Book Review

Michaël Viscoli, Le signe de l’arbre: L’Horoscope celtique – votre arbre de naissance, trans by Walter Weideli (Paris: Actes Sud/Babel, 1996; first published in German as Der Keltische Baumkalender, Zürich: Migros, 1988)

The key word here is ‘arbre’, as opposed to ‘horoscope’ or ‘celtique’. Like other horoscopes, the characterisation of personality types and their attendant destinies is bland, vague, and easily applicable to almost anyone. And as a historical study of Celtic culture and beliefs, it is woefully lacking in any critical analysis, discussion, or reference to sources.

What Viscoli is good at is the observation of trees. For example, he explains how to distinguish a chestnut tree from a horsechestnut on the basis of its leaves, blossoms, and fruit (p. 79f.). He notes the medicinal properties of the birch tree (p. 34) and the culinary potential of beech-tree oil (p. 44).

The problem with Viscoli’s project is that he tries to extrapolate general truths from his observation of trees, in order to apply them directly to human life. Only occasionally does this manage to convince, as in the case of the olive tree and its ‘three secrets for a balanced life’ (p. 38):
- be frugal
- do not be afraid of transplantings
- seek the light

How Myths are Made – Book Review

Aurelio Ramos Cabellero, ‘The Spanish Civil War in Contemporary Spanish Fiction: Soldados de Salamina, Los Girasoles Ciegos, and La Mula’ (unpublished MPhil thesis, University of Birmingham, 2009) – Book Review

‘Each author creates meaning in a unique way’. So concludes the author of this thesis, drawing together two themes (the creation of meaning and the unique/particular/individual) that run throughout his analysis of three recent works of fiction relating to the Spanish Civil War.

On the subject of meaning and its creation, this thesis shows a great deal of sensitivity to the processes, and in particular the literary techniques, by which history and other stories are constructed.

With relation to ‘the individual and the particular’ (as the author phrases it in one plance), these three works are shown to focus their attention on the effects of the war in one location, or one moment in time. This is the case, for example, with the single incident investigated by the narrator/protagonist of Soldiers of Salamis, Javier Cercas. This character shares his name with the author of the novel, without necessarily being the same person – as is rightly pointed out in this thesis.

The upshot of this is that the reader’s understanding of the Civil War becomes nuanced. Things that may once have seemed certain no longer are. The Republicans are no longer totally good. The Right is no longer totally wrong. There are good and bad people on both sides, their humanity redeemed and gently mocked at the same time. Meanwhile the horrors of war in general are exposed. The authors of these three texts are sceptical of totalising narratives.

Paradoxically, these authors create new myths even as they deconstruct others. Tentatively and self-consciously, the author of Soldados de Salamina gives us a new hero figure. Yet his very reluctance to do so is itself an effective narrative technique. There is no way out of this trap.

In the works discussed, as in Ramos Caballero’s analysis of them (in which he quotes Ricoeur to good effect – see blog entry for 26 January 2010), the boundaries between history and fiction begin to blur. We are firmly in the realm of critiques of narrative such as Mark Day also offers.

Food for thought 2010 – Book Review

Lilo Göttermann (ed), Denkanstösse 2010: Ein Lesebuch aus Philosophie, Kultur und Wissenschaft (Munich: Piper, 2009)

Excerpts from recent publications in the natural sciences, history, politics, and philosophy/religion/psychology (the latter grouping is a category created by the editor or publisher), the title of this collection of essays means something along the lines of ‘food for thought, 2010′.

Topics covered range from the use of smell in parts of the body other than the nose (Hanns Hatt and Regine Dee) to Islamic fundamentalism post-9/11 (Gilles Kepel). Along the way there are three biographical studies, including one on the life of Darwin (David Quammen) and another on Kepler’s discoveries regarding planetary orbits (Thomas de Padova).

Clearly there is a limit to how much of an author’s thought can be communicated in such short excerpts from larger works. And a significant chunk of each contribution is taken up with scene-setting and basic introductory material, which gives the collection the popularising feel of a Reader’s Digest. The real problem with this collection, however, is its underlying assumption about the world. I discern a secularist European neoliberal agenda lurking just below the surface (and not very far below the surface in the case of Friedrich Merz or Gilles Kepel’s contributions).

Each of the political and psychological/theological/philosophical contributions touches on the subject of individual freedom in one way or another. Merz’s ‘Was ist gerecht?’ argues that a properly Platonic understanding of justice means that the individual choices of each person contribute to the overall justice or injustice of a given society. We only get the politicians we deserve (p. 121). It follows, then, that individual responsibility is the key to a well-ordered society. The state should only provide a minimum level of support (p. 124), along with the opportunities for work that will enable each person to work towards their own individual fulfilment. Merz does not ask what kind of work this is likely to be, especially in the kind of competitively capitalist society he envisages.

Similarly, Kepel argues that trade and economic development around the whole of the Mediterranean basin represent the only solution to the current problems of the Middle East and Gulf regions (p. 133).

Liberty and equality are the watchwords here, while fraternity is redefined as ‘solidarity’ by Ulrich Wickert, in his contribution ‘Weshalb Tugenden modern sind’ (p. 171). The virtues of faith, hope, and love barely get a mention by Wickert, who elides all the virtues – including progress, individualism, and profit-maximisation – into one, contemporary virtue of ‘Freiwilligkeit’, the freedom to choose (p. 173). Even Walter Jens and Hans Küng prefer to speak of God as ‘der solidarische Bundesgott’ in their article ‘Menschenwürdig sterben’ (p. 145, emphasis mine). Again, the point is that solidarity speaks more of personal responsibility than of love.

Perhaps the most interesting article is the one by Jonah Lehrer, ‘Wie sir entscheiden’. First he outlines the view, shared by Plato, Descartes, and Freud, that reason should be made to rule over the affects. Lehrer then quotes a study by António Damásio to show that people who have suffered brain damage to their orbitofrontal cortex (the seat of the emotions) may be fully rational and yet unable to make decisions. It would seem that desire and emotion are more integral to the decision-making process than a dualistic/rationalist system allows for.

From one man’s journals to a communal aesthetic? – Book Review

Mathieu Simonet, Les carnets blancs (Paris: Seuil, 2010)

On the face of it, the most self-indulgent project since Tracy Emin’s bed. Yet it has produced a piece of work that convinces both aesthetically and psychologically.

The concept is simple: to document the destruction or transformation of the author’s personal journals, written over a period of years and filling over 100 notebooks. Mathieu begins by rereading his old notebooks and disposing of them himself, in a variety of novel and inventive ways. So far, so self-indulgent.

But gradually other people are drawn into the project. There is a blog, on which Mathieu records the stories of his journals. One is sent around the world, where it inspires other people to share their own thoughts along the way. A young man in Lebanon takes a notebook of Mathieu’s poetry with him when he goes to the airport to meet a stranger for the first time. The notebook accompanies him and he feels a sense of presence, that he is not alone (pp. 77-78).

Simultaneously, Mathieu shares excerpts from his old journals, which turn out to be as much about other people as they are about himself. He talks about his mother and her illness, the unique personality of his grandmother, his lovers and life with his partner. These stories are updated and reflected upon throughout the book too.

Eventually, Mathieu asks other artists and members of the public to transform his journals into pieces of work. The result is an explosion of paintings, sculpture, fashion, food, and even a perfume made from pieces of a journal and inspired by its contents.

In this way, Les carnets blancs is less the memoir of one person than the story of a family and a network of relationships over a period of time. That some of the relationships are short-lived, difficult, or disappointing only makes their written traces all the more poignant. This is how the text works psychologically.

Undergirding the stories and reflections that Mathieu builds up, layer upon layer, is one simple aesthetic principle. This is something he learned from his father, who told him when he first began to keep a journal that ‘il ne fallait rien inventer, juste écrire les faits, et attendre que ça prenne de l’ampleur’ (p. 21f.). Truth is poetry.

Of course, the kind of ‘truth’ recorded in a journal is likely to be one-sided. I asked Mathieu about the ethics of writing about other people (and especially their intimate secrets) from such a subjective perspective. His response: it makes you a bastard (‘salaud’); so the goal is to minimise your bastardliness. This is why he removes some characters from the story entirely, or hides their identity. For such a self-indulgent project, Les carnets blancs is very considerate of other people and very creative in terms of community, friendship, and artistic endeavour.

Perhaps this is because it has the courage to acknowledge its own selfishness and bastardliness, opening up a space for honest encounter?

How to write and interpret history – Book review

Mark Day, The Philosophy of History: An Introduction (London: Continuum, 2008)

If this book has done nothing else, it has at least introduced me to the work of Paul Ricoeur.

But it has done more than this, by showing how questions of epistemology and hermeneutics have been discussed in the field of historiography.

This in turn is suggestive of ways in which hermeneutics and epistemology need to be considered within the field of theology. Indeed there are direct parallels or even areas of overlap within what Day writes.

If the writing is aimed at students of history, the ideas are nevertheless of much wider application.

In particular, I am interested in Day’s analysis of historiography as narrative, which links with Christian Salmon’s Storytelling and with the BBC series ‘The Tudors’, as well as tying up nicely with Ricoeur (and Rowan Williams?) with regard to theology.