God's Fatherhood After Feminism

I recently witnessed a New Testament doctoral defense of a good friend of mine who quite literally defended, against significant opposition, the use of the word "Father" for God.  What's more, she was pregnant. Why would a woman do this?  Is it not her responsibility to push for other such metaphors?  After all, feminist thought has uncovered an abundance of them, and not necessarily from spurious sources.

Appealing to Scripture is far too easy.  Consider also the early Christian Odes of Solomon which suggest the incarnation happened because God’s “breasts were full…  The Holy Spirit… mixed the milk of the two breasts of the Father.”  Likewise, Clement of Alexandria spoke of the “breast that is the Word, who is the only one who can bestow on us the milk of love."  Ephraim the Syrian employs the semantic range of his native tongue to speak of Christ similarly: “As indeed He sucked Mary’s milk, He has given suck – life to the universe. As again He dwelt in His mother’s womb, in His womb dwells all creation."

Indeed, to think of God too literally as Father is not Christian orthodoxy but its opposite - a verified heresy.  The Arians overly-literalized God's fatherhood in order to posit Christ as the created Son.  Hence this surprising conciliar refutation from the Council of Toledo in 675:

We must believe that the Son was not made out of nothing, nor out of some substance or other, but from the womb of the Father (de utero Patris) that is that he was begotten or born (genitus vel natus) from the father's own being.

Such language was effortlessly employed by orthodox Christians not because they thought of God as female. Instead, they used such language because they knew that God transcended sex altogether.  Verna Harrison permanently altered the feminist trajectory when she showed that for authoritative fourth century theologians such as Gregory of Nyssa, God's transcending sexual categories was not an innovative idea, but axiomatic:  “The divine is neither male nor female," asserts Gregory, going on to ask, "for how could such a thing be contemplated in divinity, when it does not remain intact permanently for us human beings either?”  Thomas Aquinas could speak of God literally as Good, Wise and One, but he could not do so regarding God's Fatherhood, language which he understood to be necessarily metaphorical.  Motherly metaphors are thereby Scripturally-warranted fair game, a means of loosening our grasp on the legitimately normative reference to God as Father.

However, this does not mean that mother metaphors can replace father language, which is overwhelming in Scripture and Creed.  To be sure, God's name in the Bible - I AM - defies categorization; and when God is addressed as Father in the Old Testament, it is never in the biological, pagan sense of fathers who mate with female consorts.  Yet in the New Testament, father language mushrooms in light of Christ's audacious - and appropriate - immediacy with his Abba.  Such language appears in the New Testament nearly 200 times.  Barth was right to point out that such language was more vocative than essential (51), but father talk is overwhelming nonetheless.  Accordingly, feminist Janet Martin Soskice rightly argued that to invent new terms for the Trinity, like "Mother, Daughter, Spirit" would be to invent a new religion.  Better, she suggests, to leave Christianity altogether, as many feminists have unfortunately (and needlessly) felt it necessary to do.

In addition, there has been a considerable backlash from feminists against the suggestion that mother language should replace father language when naming God.  Hence Jane Williams "reject[s] the feminization of the Spirit as a way forward for feminist debate because it leaves unchallenged our deepest convictions that there is sexual distinction in God... it allows us to to forget that all theological language works with analogy and metaphor."

Christ's masculinity, however, is no mere metaphor.   And this obviously does bring manhood into the Trinity.  But classical Christian thought shows surprising flexibility in this area as well.  Strangely enough, Christ's maleness was rarely emphasized in Patristic theology, lest a heretic suggest Christ did not save women as well.  “What matters for [the Fathers] is not that he became male (άνήρ, vir)," writes Kallistos Ware, "but the fact that he became human (ἄνθρωπος, homo)."  Ware points out the more broadly inclusive ἄνθρωπος of the Nicene Creed, adding that “even on occasions when we might expect the Fathers or the liturgical texts to emphasize the maleness of Christ, surprisingly they often omit to do so.” (87). 

Consequently a modern feminist such as Elizabeth Johnson does not argue for Christ's androgyny.  "Let us be very clear: the fact that Jesus of Nazareth was a male human being is not in question.  His sex was a constitutive element of his historical person along with other particularities such as his Jewish racial identity..."  And yet, by investigating Scripture, Johnson discovers that Christ's totality indisputably includes the feminine.  When, for example, Christ says, "I am Jesus, whom you are persecuting" (Acts 9:5), the women referred to just beforehand (Acts 9:2) are explicitly included in Christ's self-identification.  "The heart of the problem is not that Jesus was male," concludes Johnson, "but that more males have not been like Jesus" (311).  There is much to criticize in certain strands of feminist theology - but can one really take issue with that?

One of the liberating facets of living when we do is the chance to see certain trajectories of feminism played out (or having careened off the post-humanist cliff).  But the best of feminism has borne significant fruit.  Hence, "the Church should not condemn feminism," wrote Elisabeth Behr-Sigel, "but rather baptize, purify and enlighten it." Surprisingly therefore, a fine defense against gender essentialism can be found in traditional Christianity.  This involves retaining the normative use of Trinitarian Father language, including Christ's inevitable maleness, but employing both with the flexibility that was not invented by feminists, but which feminism has - thankfully - led scholars to recently rediscover in the early church.

And so, the reason a pregnant dissertation defender might not have a problem with father language is straightforward:  She is theologically well-educated.  She sees such language as normative, but holds it lightly, as any orthodox Christian must.  God names God, and we don't.  So yes, God is Father - but unlike any father that we know.  After all, that God is "Mother" is not nearly so daring as the orthodox Christian assertion that God has one.

The Unmappable Terrain of Christianity and Art

James Elkins, a prolific art historian at the Art Institute of Chicago, is our best cartographer of the unruly terrain of art history and contemporary art.  Due to his unusual productivity, his books tend to be reviewed in bulk - about five at a time.  Some reviewers are impressed by his baffling range, others are clearly disturbed that his books rarely bear the mark of focused specialization (though he can do that too). 

But what especially disturbs some about Elkins is his refusal to light a candle at the altar of critical theory, which - until quite recently - was a prerequisite for academic success.  The reason for Elkins' demurral appears to be his frustration with theory's essential sameness:  "The wilderness of writing on twentieth-century painting," Elkins explains, "is really an orderly place where the majority of judgments are received opinions, derived from a very small number of models" (159).  Elkins' non-conformity to such models once earned him the opprobium of an Art Bulletin reviewer, who compared Elkins to more fashionable art historians, Rosalind Krauss and Yve-Alain Bois. 

Most important... is the fact that Krauss and Bois consistently deny the possibility that art can be anything more than its "base materiality." Their argument is strong and consistent: a picture of mold is a picture of mold. Elkins often implies that painting can be transcendent, can move beyond the messy stuff of oil paint itself in order to show something that is beyond the picture plane.  In comparison to Formless, Elkins's book is inconsistent and even sentimental.

A more clear indication of how carefully art historians patrol their disciplinary borders is difficult to find.  Elkins is chastised for trespassing on transcendent turf, a domain which the (supposedly adventurous) methodology of critical theory deemed off-limits.  Indeed, because Elkins' prose sometimes knocks on the door of the transcendent (albeit with protective gloves), it's not surprising that Elkins has found religion. By which I mean, he has found religion to be a subject worthy of art historical interest.  This started with On the Strange Place of Religion in Contemporary Art, and has progressed into the Art Seminar Series volume entitled Re-Enchantment, which explored the art world's attitude to religion by interviewing dozens of scholars and curators on the subject.  While not monolithic, the book frequently evidenced a younger generation complaining that old guard art historians such T.J. Clark or the much pilloried Michael Fried, don't take religion seriously enough.  

But Re-Enchantment just scratched the surface.  Decades of cultural investment by Christian academic institutions, programs, organizations, and journals have paid off, making the output of Christian perspectives on art criticism, production and history almost unmappable.  As I've remarked before, Catholics are enjoying the revival of Jacques Maritain and Etienne Gilson, backed by the historical studies of Murphy and Schloesser, and the philosophical work of Trapani.  The Orthodox are seeing the emergence of Pavel Florensky, the 20th century art historian, theologian, priest, scientist and martyr (silenced by the very revolutionaries after whom the art history's most influential journal, October, was named).  This revival is due to new translations of Florensky's art writings by Salmond, a biography by Pyman, and a compelling advance of his ideas by Antonova.  What's more, a surprising article from a former editor of Art Forum has suggested that Jacques Lacan - a darling of critical theory - may have obtained some of his best ideas from Florensky, who was translated into French just as Lacan was developing his notion of the gaze.  One couldn't make this stuff up. 

Protestants are also making a strong showing in the aesthetic arena that they have traditionally neglected.  William Dyrness' formidable historical survey of Reformed visual culture would have been enough, but his latest work, Poetic Theology, which could fairly be called a Summa of Protestant aesthetics, pushes the project well into the 21st century.  Dyrness drives the last nail in the aniconic coffin, and argues that Calvin's prohibitions agains images, or his insistence to keep churches locked, were temporary measures never meant to be permanent features of Protestant life.  Dyrness has the panache to distinguish Reformed aesthetics from its Catholic (Thomism) and Anglican (Radical Orthodoxy) alternatives, while still arguing for a symbolically rich, contemplative Protestantism, haunted by brokenness yet socially engaged.  Surprisingly, he succeeds.

This is not to posit the Reformed tradition as the right option, but simply to show the variety of them available for those people - Christian or not - who are interested in the light that Christianity can shed on art and art history.  Theory, you will recall - according to one of its best elucidators - is inherently and consistently suspicious of the visual.  Christianity, because of the visible God at the heart of its proclamation - is much less so (though, of course, not completely).  One doesn't need a Ph.D. in art history to know that Christianity has meant much for the history of art.  But one very well may need one to come up with an intellectual justification to continue to rule that not insignificant religion out.

Centripetally, books by Wuthnow, Dyrness and Taylor have attempted to understand and encourage the state of the arts in North American churches.  Centrifugally, Siedell remains a necessary prod to engage contemporary art on its own terms without striking a Tillichian bargain.  The Association of Scholars of Christianity in the History of Art (ASCHA) evidences the new seriousness with which Christianity is taken by art historians.  Likewise, new journals that show theologically informed engagement of art seem to emerge monthly.   Consider new journals such as Anamnesis, the frequently sharp and prolific output of Transpositions, Curator Magazine, the art coverage of the Other Journal and Comment, Dappled Things and Ruminate, ArtWay, Catapult, Liturgical Credo, Cresset, St. Katherine's Review, to say nothing of the more established venues such as Image or CIVA.

The aim here is not a narrowly "Christian" art world or "Christian" art history, but the better art production and truer study which comes from not ruling out a phenomenon as massive as global Christianity - which, furthermore, frequently doesn't behave.  Many of the organizations and publications listed above are (understandably) interested in an artistically sophisticated faith, and are consequently less than eager to draw attention to the Christian kitsch they seek to, wait for it...  leave behind. But the irony is that such kitsch - the visual religion of everyday believers - has now become a subject of serious academic investigation, as evidenced by the impressive infrastructure erected by David Morgan and the journal Material Religion.  This is nicely summarized by the fact that the notorious Thomas Kinkade is no longer as much mocked as seriously analyzed by art historians.  In short, kitsch counts. 

But nor is it everything.  Take for example, the effusion of studies on religion in the Renaissance since the seventies, or the publications showing how religion persisted through the early modern world, such as The Idol in an Age of Art, Rembrandt's Faith, Art and Religion in 18th Century Europe, or Painting the Sacred in the Age of Romanticism, not to mention calls for papers like Empowerment and the Sacred or Spiritual Matters.  Modernism is not unaffected as well, as evidenced by two impressive publications (Alter Icons and Avant-Garde Icon) and an upcoming conference regarding how Eastern Christian icons influenced modern art.  One could go on.

"With a few marginal exceptions," wrote James Elkins at the end of a Books and Culture exchange, "the exclusion [or religion by the art world]... is not owned, or owned up to, by anyone. That is why it is so difficult to imagine how this state of affairs can be changed, even though it is inevitable that it will, eventually, be changed." But Christian perspectives on art history and art production are emerging more quickly than anyone - so far as I know - can reasonably assess.  I tried to chronicle this a year ago, and have tried to update it here.  The difficulty of the task makes me feel that "eventually" might be just around the corner, if not already here. 

Update:  Here's a follow-up post.

Midnight in the 18th Arrondissement

For those of you yet to climb on the millinerd twitter bandwagon, I suppose I should tell you I have a post on Woody Allen's architectural nostalgia up today. See Jamie Smith's mention of Midnight in Paris' theological parallels as well.

Hawthorne's Hell

In Nathaniel Hawthorne's short story Young Goodman Brown, a prototypical Puritan named Goodman leaves his Faith.  That is to say, he leaves his wife named "Faith" for a walk in the unwelcoming woods.  There Goodman encounters the devil himself, who disabuses the "good man" of his assumption that his fellow Puritan acquaintances are all pious.  On the contrary, the putrid sins of each are laid bare in the dark of the woods.  "'Welcome, my children,' said the devil, 'to the communion of your race...  Now are ye undeceived. Evil is the nature of mankind. Evil must be your only happiness. Welcome again, my children, to the communion of your race."   In case we miss the point, Hawthorne includes a moment when Goodman shouts, "I've lost my Faith!"

The story begs (me at least) for theological interpretation:  Faced with a curdled Calvinism, the notion that God chose an undetermined number of individuals to be damned for whom Christ could never have died (i.e. the "L" in TULIP), Hawthorne resolves the unbearable numerical tension:  Everyone is damned.  Hawthorne dreams the nightmare of American history in overly-didactic, but nevertheless effective, prose.  It worked.  Melville said the story was "as deep as Dante."

Leaving aside whether Calvin himself would have approved of the way his message was disseminated, it's hard to deny that predestination was historically unhinged from Christology to torturous results, especially in this country.  Again, see Thuesen on that.  The decretum absolutum, the notion that certain people are out with no chance of ever being in, became an ugly wedge in the American psyche, and to be frank, we American Protestants have a responsibility to sort it out, and not - of course - by facilely suggesting the opposite: Everyone is saved.

This is one of the reasons the theology of Karl Barth is so important.  Barth fixed the disaster of predestination (with Athansius' help), on specifically Protestant grounds.  Of course, many believe this to be unwise because of Barth's supposed universalism.  But this is a misrepresentation.  All are potentially included in Christ for Barth, and yet:

It is His concern what is to be the final extent of the circle. If we are to respect the freedom of divine grace, we cannot venture the statement that it must and will finally be coincident with the world of man as such (as in the doctrine of the so-called apokatastasis).  No such right or necessity can legitimately be deduced.  Just as the gracious God does not need to elect or call any single man, so He does not need to elect or call all mankind  (II/2, 417).

For Barth, one can take upon oneself damnation, but to do so would be to take on a punishment already borne.  It would be to deny one's own God-given nature instead of realizing it, which - not incidentally - is John of Damascus' definition of sin. Barth's doctrine of election is apophatic. He stands with Paul and Job, 'O the depth of the riches and wisdom of God!  How unsearchable are his judgments and how inscrutable his ways!' (Rom. 11:33)."  But what is definitely ruled out is the less than apophatic insistence that there are certain individuals to whom the invitation of salvation could never apply.

Others, traditional Calvinists among them, say that Barth is unwise because his collectivism undermines the individual. The Dictionary of the Presbyterian and Reformed Tradition in America, for example, even names Barthianism as a view which "denies that God chooses individuals." This too is a misrepresentation.  According to Barth:

The community is its necessary medium [of election].  But its object (in Jesus Christ, and by way of the community) is individual men... individuals are actively responsible...  and not the groups themselves or any single group.  There is no... predestined humanity [in the abstract].  It is individuals who are chosen and not the totality of men (II/2, 313).

It's curious that the most developed, and certainly the most Christological view of election, has now been picked up by the tradition that most disastrously fumbled the ball.  "For when I am weak, then I am strong" (2 Cor. 12:10).  This is the happy result of Barth's decision to stay put, to be faithful to his own unfaithful tradition, giving us, in turn, a balm to wounds that America (let's be honest) forgot it even has.  But they still need healing, and who better to apply the balm than the tradition that inflicted the wound?  This is also why it's so significant that Barth has in many ways won Princeton Seminary, once known for inflexibly disseminating classical Calvinism, and then - ironically enough - for the early twentieth century Protestant liberalism which Barth did so much to undo.

The problem, however, is that Barth's compelling doctrine of election is too frequently locked up in theology seminars, having not (yet at least) taken literary or artistic form, as have some of the worst versions of Calvinism due to gifted writers like Hawthorne. We might, then, re-imagine Hawthorne's Goodman Brown on Barthian grounds. It would involve a walk into a different thicket. The revelation that occurs therein would not be an equal and opposite distortion - where everyone was secretly good, or where all were necessarily dragged into heaven.  On the contrary, sins would be just as putrid, but could be confessed because forgiving grace was on the horizon.  In those woods Goodman, disabused of the illusion of his own goodness, would encounter not Barth, much less Barthians, but Christ, who - speaking of the church - would say the very same words of Hawthorne's devil:  "'Welcome, my children, to the communion of your race. Ye have found thus your nature and your destiny."

These, I like to think, are the woods we live in.

Birthday Post

From Petrarch's Letter to Posterity: 

As a young man I was deluded, as an adult I went astray; but old age corrected me and experience convinced me of the truth of what I had read a long time before—that youth and pleasure are vain; or to be more exact, I was taught that by Him who creates all times and ages, and who allows wretched mortals, swollen with unjustified pride, to go astray from time to time, so that eventually they may recognize their sinfulness and see themselves as they really are.