Christological battles around "The Young Messiah"

Last week's opening of The Young Messiah in theaters opened a theological can of worms in some circles. The controversy centered on the self-awareness of Jesus. Did the film imply that the boy Jesus did not know his own divine identity?

I'm not sure that everyone who wrote about or commented on the human knowledge of the Christ Child actually saw the movie, or if they were going more on the quote (from "Joseph") used in some social media: "How do we explain God to His own Son?" To me, it was clear in the movie that the seven-year-old Jesus was more than just precocious in his knowledge of God. When his dying uncle Cleophas was muttering incoherently, it was Jesus, yards away, who informed Cleophas' wife "He is talking to God" as if he had been on the receiving end of that communication. In the subsequent healing of that same uncle, Jesus is portrayed praying to his "Father God." At the same time, Mary and Joseph have not told the little boy anything of his mysterious origin, despite his searching questions. (That is one of the questions that continues throughout the movie: When, and under what circumstances, should the young child learn about his conception?)

We know from the Gospels that Mary referred to Joseph as "your father" and the evangelist Luke speaks of Mary and Joseph as "the parents of Jesus." It is only at age twelve that we hear the boy claim God as his father in a unique way, referring to the Temple as "my Father's house." (The same striking expression comes up again--at the cleansing of the Temple by the adult Christ.) Personally, I suspect that (pace The Young Messiah) Mary and Joseph never referred to God as Jesus' "father"; that this was a revelation we received directly from Jesus himself. But I digress.

That Jesus possessed full divine knowledge, knowledge that was somehow accessible to him in his human nature, is part of the truth of our salvation. Pope Pius XII (in his encyclical Mystici Corporis, n. 63) wrote: "The loving knowledge with which the divine Redeemer has pursued us from the first moment of his incarnation is such as completely to surpass all the searchings of the human mind; for by means of the beatific vision, which he enjoyed from the time when he was received into the womb of the Mother of God, he has for ever and continuously had present to him all the members of his mystical Body, and embraced them with his saving love." "The Son of God loved me and gave himself for me," Paul asserts (Gal 2:20).

He knew who he was, he knew his mission, and he knew whom he was saving.

But how did that work itself out in a seven-year-old with two natures? How did the ongoing formation of synapses in a seven-year-old brain coordinate with the workings of a divine mind? The filmmakers take a legitimate look at one way this might have expressed itself in the life of Christ. Since we cannot refer to anyone else with two complete natures, all we can do is use our imagination to try to envision the real-life implications of the dogma, and I think the filmmakers did all they could to create a movie that respects the whole truth about Jesus (even though they may not have been aware of the finer points of doctrine on the human knowledge of Christ).

In theology there is an expression "That which was not assumed [that is, taken on personally by Christ] is not redeemed." Jesus "grew in wisdom and age and grace before God and men" (Lk. 2:52).  It is not unfathomable that part of Christ's acceptance of a true and complete human nature might have been that he humbly submitted to the full natural process of personal development. (There is nothing in the Gospels to let us suspect that Christ's childhood was somehow remarkable; the incident in the Temple when he was twelve is narrated as an outlier in an otherwise ordinary home life.)

"That which was not assumed is not redeemed." Gregory Nazianzen coined this expression to teach that all of human nature was taken on and healed by Christ; could it not apply also to the entire process of growth and development?

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For more on Christ's human and divine knowledge, see the Catechism of the Catholic Church, 470-472.

Also available to accompany the film:
Study guide for Catholic youth groups
Catholic family discussion guide for the film

Abandoned.

It's a week from Good Friday, and I've been reflecting a lot lately on Jesus' sense of God as his Father. In part, this was sparked by seeing the movie The Young Messiah: the little boy Jesus has an intuitive sense of God as Father, even before Mary tells him about the Annunciation and reveals to him that God truly is his Father. Obviously, a major part of Jesus' mission was proclaiming God's trustworthy nearness and providence; his fatherhood. And Jesus himself had striking experiences of God affirming him as "my beloved Son."

Detail from El Greco, Christ Crucified

For St Paul, too, God's fatherhood was absolutely fundamental to the Gospel. Paul thought of the Holy Spirit as the one who prays in us with the same filial word Jesus used in his prayer, "Abba, Father!" (see Gal 4:6). Paul pointed to this same concept when writing about Baptism in his theological treatise letter to the Romans: "You have not received a spirit of slavery leading back into fear; you have received the spirit of adoption, by which we cry out 'Abba! Father!'" (Rom 8: 15).

Rewind now to Good Friday. Jesus spent an anguished hour or more the night before in Gethsemane, praying "Abba, Father, all things are possible to you. Take this cup away from me; yet not what I will, but what you will" (see Mk 14:36, Mt 26:39, Lk 22:42 and even Jn 18:11). Now Jesus is nailed to a cross, and suddenly the source of his existence seems to go extinct. Jesus is caught between two impossibilities: that the Father should not be, and that he, Jesus, somehow exists without the Father. He had been ready to face the void of sin; he was steeled to do battle with evil. But this total eclipse? A choking gasp of horror stifles him.

And here I wonder if Jesus found even more motivation to give us life for us poor, "fatherless" creatures. He experienced the desperation of our situation; our need for the Gospel. His love for the Father and for us meant that he would do anything so that his Father could be our Father. And from this, the joy and victory in his voice on Easter morning when he would be able to say to Mary Magdalen and to "my brothers": "I am ascending to my Father and your Father; to my God and your God!" (Jn 20:17).

Novena to St Joseph (with a difference)

The day The Young Messiah opens in theaters (yes, go see it), the Daughters of St Paul will be launching a "Cinema Novena" that incorporates clips from the movie. This is something I've been working on all week (still am, in fact). It is sort of a "Lectio Divina" but with a movie instead of a book. The daily e-mails will run from March 11 through the Solemnity of St. Joseph, March 19.

So go to the sign-up page and put your e-mail address in the form. That's all. It's easy. It's free. And it's truly inspirational.

Still Re-Reading Lent with Rene Girard: The Peace the World Cannot Give

So far I've only read two books by Rene Girard and maybe four that are based on his insights (so I'm  barely literate in this field), but I have been really, really intrigued by what I've read,  convinced that there is a lot more for me to discover (and be challenged by). From my introductory reading, I've picked up 3 key Girardian terms that have served me pretty well in taking a new look at those familiar Gospel passages we hear every Lent. The key words are imitation (Girard prefers “mimesis”), rivalry and victim (scapegoat).

Imitation/mimesis is a human non-negotiable. We do not come with an adequate set of instincts for survival, ready for life: we have to learn just about everything, and we do it through imitation. (Girard remarked that this loss of instinct was the price of our free will.) Imitation/mimesis does more than show us how to do things: it also indicates what kinds of things to do, to achieve, to desire and to flee; what goals to aim for; what shoes to wear for what occasion with which crowd; what team to root for (or to jeer). Mimesis, in other words, does not only communicate how-to's; it communicates values. A thousand industries in our consumer culture build on this foundation.

But what happens in our sin-infected species when too many people grasp after the same coveted prize? Well, rivalry (what else?). Mimetic rivalries can take strange forms. I myself once witnessed a tragi-comic mimetic escalation between two mentally ill persons, each of whom tried to outdo the other in terms of the gravity of their diagnoses. And rivalries can escalate as competing parties jostle for dominance. It can even lead to all-out war. Girard's reading of ancient myths revealed that when mimetic rivalry reached a crescendo, it would often lead to the bizarre unification of all the competing parties in a lopsided battle against a single doomed victim. The violence unleashed against the “one” resolved the tensions among the “all,” simultaneously revealing the victim to be both the true “cause” of the conflict and the surprising “savior” of the community: a kind of “god.” Thereafter, sacrifice would be offered in imitation of the original scapegoating violence that had revealed such a “divine visitation.” And sacrifice could be repeated (whether at the expense of another human victim, or eventually with an animal proxy) the next time the community was threatened with collapse in the face of rivalry. Girard verified this mechanism not just in the Greco-Roman myths, but across the spectrum of world literature. The deception of “peace through victim-making” would continue unopposed until Easter Sunday.

Repeatedly, Jesus warned his disciples about rivalrous attitudes. There was the time they had just arrived at their destination and Jesus turned to the Twelve. "What were you discussing on the road?" Mark reports pointedly: “They kept silent, for on the way they had discussed with one another which of them was the greatest. Sitting down, he called the Twelve and said to them, 'If anyone wants to be first, he shall be last of all and servant of all' ” (Mark 9: 33-35 ). Another time, he advised, “...when you give a feast, invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, the blind, and you will be blessed, because they cannot repay you” in a show of one-upmanship (cf Luke 14:12-14).

"Offer no resistance to injury"; "Love your enemies."

Girard points out that Jesus' example in the Passion corresponds perfectly to his most puzzling, even distressing command: “But I say to you, do not resist an evil person; but whoever slaps you on your right cheek, turn the other to him also” (Mt 5:39). “Like a lamb led to the slaughter” (Is 53:7), he did not respond to violence with violence, not even the measured violence of equal measure as in the old rule “an eye for an eye” (Lv 24:17-23). Jesus allowed himself to absorb, not escalate, the destabilizing violence that threatens society.

After the triumphant parade to Jerusalem on Palm Sunday, when the disciples were sure that the Kingdom was about to be revealed (they were right about the fact, but dead wrong about the means), Jesus deliberately turned their expectations upside down by washing their feet. “If I, the Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you must wash each other's feet.” He was calling for imitation, but in service, not in rivalry: “As I have done, so you must do.” There is little danger of mimetic escalation here!

Paul also takes issue with rivalrous tendencies that appeared in his communities. He ridicules those who compare themselves with others (favorably, of course) or who claim “higher” spiritual gifts or more important status in the community. With the Corinthians, he releases the full power of his irony, showing that he can out-do any and all boastful claims. And since the community is indulging in a foolish rivalry, he skewers them and “talks like a fool”:

“Since many are boasting in the way the world does, I too will boast. ... Are they Hebrews? So am I! Are they Israelites? So am I! Are they descendants of Abraham? So am I! Are they servants of Christ? Now I am really talking like a fool: I am more, with my many more labors and imprisonments, with far worse beatings and frequent brushes with death...” (see 2 Cor 11:17-30). 

Instead of boasting of his authority as an Apostle, Paul turns the Corinthians' worldly standard of excellence upside down (which is truly “right side up” according to the example of Jesus). Then, to show us a “still more excellent way,” he gives us a kind of psalm about charity in all its self-emptying, other-favoring qualities (1 Cor 13). 

Girard's thought certainly rings true in my ears. It also makes some of the more mysterious passages in Paul (and in the book of Revelation) a bit more revelatory. Above all, what it suggests to me in this Lenten season is the need for the transformation of my desires. Like every other child of Adam and Eve except for Jesus and Mary, I imbibed a skewed set of values and the unfortunate concupiscence that drives me to pursue those limited goods at any cost. The redemption needs to reach me there, redirecting my hopes to what is good, true, real, beautiful and lasting; the hope that does not disappoint; the good that lasts forever and is unlimited, able to be shared completely by all without being diminished. 

And then? The end result is freedom. The children of God are free because they are no longer controlled by external/outside forces that would take them by the nose and lead them this way and that. We are always mimetic, but the thing is to “be imitators of God” (Eph 5:1) in Christ who made himself an example for us (Jn 13:15). That is peace “not as the world gives” (Jn 14:27), that is, not at the cost of someone else's blood or by making other people into a stepping-stone; not by assigning blame outward, but by letting it fall away, in imitation of the one who said “Learn of me who am meek and humble of heart” (Mt 11:29).

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Books I've read and recommend on this theme:

 
 

The Young Messiah: Filling in the Blanks in the Infancy Narratives

One of the perks of maintaining a blog (and a strong Twitter following) is getting invited to preview upcoming films. That is how I got to see the unlikely Lenten film, The Young Messiah, before its release in theaters.

The film, which opens next week, was based on Anne Rice's carefully-researched novel Christ the Lord: Out of Egypt. Twitter conversations between our own Sister Helena Burns and director Cyrus Nowrasteh indicate that the director did his own due diligence when it came to research. It shows in many snippets of dialogue that reflect non-biblical traditions, especially the Proto-Evangelium of James, an early Christian “novel” that attempted to do for 2^nd century Christians what director Nowrasteh wanted to do for us: envision the events surrounding Jesus' childhood during that period which the Gospel writers completely skip over,between the Presentation in the Temple when he was 40 days old to that Passover when he was twelve. The film, like the novel, settles on a seven-year-old Christ Child.

This is a surprisingly dark film, and it is Satan who provokes that darkness, starting from the opening scene in Alexandria, Egypt. The cloaked, somewhat androgynous figure of Satan (visible only to the Child) resembles the demonic figure in the Passion of the Christ, but in one scene I thought I also caught an homage to the twisted Joker in The Dark Knight: “Your cause is lost.... Chaos rules!” We even get a preview of the future temptation in the desert when Satan appears (in a bejeweled stole) at the Child's bedside and then transports him to a high cliff to see the city of Jerusalem in flames, tempting the boy to react. It is this "Lenten" quality that makes The Young Messiah a not-incongruous film for the latter weeks of Lent.

Uncle Cleophas to the rescue!

The film does a nice job weaving together the strands of pious tradition and the loose ends given us in the Gospels. James, “the brother of the Lord” (Gal 1:19)? He's Uncle Cleophas' son. Who's Cleophas? Mary's brother. (People familiar with the Bible will realize that later, beneath the Cross, along with Jesus' mother, there will be “his mother's sister, Mary the wife of Cleophas [Clopas]” –see John 19:25.) The jolly Cleophas knows about Jesus' miraculous conception and drops tantalizing hints to the boy, who is beginning to puzzle about his own mysterious nature and why he, and not others, can restore life to a dead bird—and to a dead boy. “Your mother was weaving the veil for the Holy of Holies,” Cleophas remarks, setting the scene of the Annunciation as told not by Luke, but by that early Proto-Evangelium. For her part, Mary insists throughout most of the film that the boy is still too young for that story.

The extended Holy Family. That's James in the front.

Much is made of the fact that the child had been born in Bethlehem (something Mary tries to keep the Child from talking about). Even on the extended family's return to Israel (by sea), when it comes out that Jesus had been born in Bethlehem, strangers take note. There are no seven-year-old boys in Bethlehem. Herod saw to that. When Herod's son (who looks like the Satan figure, but without the bleached hair) hears rumors about a boy who escaped the Bethlehem slaughter, he sends a Roman centurion on a mission to finish what he himself had done those years earlier. The several encounters (and near misses) between the boy and the soldier keep the plot moving through to a pivotal moment in the Temple.

Casting was totally on target. Joseph (Vincent Walsh) is spectacular, and Severus (Sean Bean) does a marvelous job showing the centurion's long-suppressed humanity struggle for the upper hand. The physical settings in Matera, Italy and in Rome's Cinecittá studios are superb. The location titles in Papyrus font, not so much.

Re-reading Lent with Rene Girard: Is it I, Lord?

Nazareth, photographed in 1870.

Something happened in Nazareth that day. We don't get the whole story in today's Gospel, which is the conclusion of a very rich passage in Luke that begins with Jesus, fresh from his victory over temptation in the desert, and filled with the Holy Spirit, proclaiming in his hometown synagogue that “today, in your hearing, the Scriptures are fulfilled.”

At first, his hearers were filled with excitement. Jesus gave a marvelous homily; they were starstruck, except for the fact that this was their own neighbor, someone who had never outshone them before. But then there were reports of miracles in other parts of Galilee... Surely, then, Nazareth would be home to even greater wonders! Expectations were high. Nazareth was practically beside itself with images of its own future glory, outshining that of prosperous Capernaum (scene of so many cures). And then Jesus drops this bombshell: “There were many lepers in Israel during the time of Elisha the prophet, yet not one of them was cleansed, but only Naaman the Syrian.” An uproar ensues, and then mob action.

After a lifetime studying cultural narratives, Rene Girard noticed something. Until the time of Christ, in the historic narratives and myths, the self-defining stories that people told about their tribe or culture, the mob was always right. When a unanimous crowd rose up against a single offender, or a single group of outcasts, nothing was more self-evident than the rightness of their cause, and the enormous guilt of the nonconforming “other.” It is only through the unfolding of the Gospel, and especially the events that we will commemorate three weeks from now that the world was introduced to the very peculiar notion that a mob action points to the guilt, not of the object of their common wrath, but of the unthinking, unanimous crowd.

There were already more than a few hints of this in the various books of the Old Testament that give voice to the victims of mob violence with protests of innocence that are absent from the ancient myths. And in today's Gospel, Jesus is guilty of nothing more than laying bare the self-aggrandizing expectations of his fellow townsfolk.

And yet Jesus was not lynched that day at Nazareth. Something happened to break the unanimity of the crowd, without which the process of self-confirming victimization cannot happen. I wondered today, in my meditation, just what it was that allowed Jesus to “pass through the midst of them” and walk away (for good). Then I saw it. He looked at the person nearest him, an old neighbor who was almost choking with resentment at what he considered Jesus' betrayal of his kin. Jesus looked at that neighbor. He saw him. He “looked at him with love” and that look managed to break down, in the one person, the hypnotic power of the mob. The neighbor looked and suddenly saw Jesus, the Jesus he had known for years, the Jesus he had watched growing up next to his own children. He saw not a traitorous ingrate, but the boy and man he had known. The blind, insane anger melted, and he slipped away. And Jesus looked at the next person, and saw not the sputtering puppet of the anonymous crowd, but the local potter. And the old potter found himself being looked on and known deep down. And he shrugged off the vise-grip of the mania and went back to his wheel.

Jesus “passed through the midst of them” that day. One day, though, the anonymity and unanimity of the mob would be complete, and there would be no simply way though. There would be the death of a final victim of human rage, and it would be he himself, taking away the sins of the world. From then on, Girard noted, wherever the Gospel would penetrate, the victim mechanism would begin to lurch out of alignment until it ceased functioning entirely. 

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Reflect: What factors leave me open to "possession" by a mob mentality, allowing some other person, group or ideology to define values or judge persons and events for me? During Lent, how can I "be transformed by the renewal of the mind" to "have the mind of Christ" in those areas of life that cause me the most anxiety?

The path to boundless mercy

Sieger Köder's depiction of Joseph, reunited with his brothers.

On this Lenten Friday, we get a hint of Good Friday in the readings at Mass. Today’s first reading, in particular, is a sad story of betrayal: the story of Joseph and his brothers.

Although we won’t hear the whole tale at Mass (the reading ends with Joseph being sold to the “Ishmaelites”), the general outlines of the Joseph story are somewhat well known thanks to a certain delightful Broadway musical. Joseph spends years as a slave, is betrayed again (by his Master Potiphar’s wife), and lands in Pharoah’s dungeon.

Thus far, Joseph sounds like the Count of

The Count savors his revenge.

Monte Cristo. Alexandre Dumas’ novel is also about a betrayal—and an elaborate plan for revenge that threatens to destroy more than the original traitors.

Joseph’s brothers, too, will fear the worst when they learn that he not only survived the ordeal, but ascended to the highest post in the realm, second only to Pharaoh. Thinking he is simply biding his time until after their father dies, the brothers, in Jacob’s name, craft a groveling (but on point) plea for mercy.

But Joseph had not spent that time in slavery and in prison plotting his comeuppance. He did not spend that time rehashing the whole sad story to himself, bolstering an image of himself as a perpetual victim. Somehow Joseph, the master storyteller, was able to retell his own story (to himself!) from a completely different perspective. He  used all that downtime to great advantage.

Although the son of Jacob had the power to execute exquisite revenge on his brothers, he chose a different path, and God had everything to do with it. “You meant harm,” he told his brothers frankly, “but God meant it all for good: for the salvation of many people.”

A tip in a book read long, long ago keeps coming back to me. I don’t remember the context, but it applies (and how!): Sometimes we find ourselves facing a brick wall—-and the wall is time. For years, Joseph was facing not one, but four brick walls. But his soul was not held within those limits. Having experienced the special love of his father, Jacob, he was perhaps better equipped than most to believe in the providential love of God.

Mercy is not an easy gift to give, and it doesn’t come automatically. I am learning that mercy becomes more of an option when I can get some distance from the impact of a hurt or injustice on me, using my imagination and giving to God the power to make all things work together for the good, even for someone else’s good.

Peter and the Chair (on the plane)

In the light of Pope Francis' latest airplane press conference, today's feast of the "Chair of St Peter" offers a good opportunity to reflect on the teaching office of the Pope (which the chair represents). There were two matters brought up on the ride from Mexico that especially lit up the blogosphere: the comments that someone who talks only of building walls "can't be a Christian" and the Pope's rather vague answer when queried about the use of contraception in the light of the devastating birth defects in Brazil that seem to be caused by the Zika virus.

During the pontificate of St John Paul II, we had two and a half decades of a brilliant, media-savvy communicator sitting in that chair of Peter. He was a professor, and used his teaching chair to full advantage. His successor, too, was a professor with a gift for expressing highly nuanced reflections in compact sentences. We got used to treating the Pope like an oracle.

That day on the plane, if Pope Francis was an oracle, it was along the lines of the famous Oracle of Delphi whose pronouncements could be interpreted any number of ways. While Pope Francis emphasized that abortion ("a crime") is never justifiable, he refused to similarly reiterate the Church's teachings on contraception. Indeed, what he emphasized were the exceptions, referring to episodes dating back to his predecessors Pope Paul VI (the Pope of "Humanae Vitae") and Benedict XVI. In both cases, the matter was extremely specific and also quite exceptional. (Benedict's hypothetical case presented a male prostitute using a condom to limit the spread of HIV, demonstrating, Benedict said, a step in the right direction--not a recommended course of action.) Even the most generous interpretations cannot lead to the conclusion that Pope Francis gave his blessing to the use of contraception as an everyday option for couples.

For the rest, we will have to wait for the forthcoming document on the family, the one prepared for by the work of the two last Synods. We're told the release date is March 19, the Solemnity of St Joseph, Husband of Mary.


My own reflections run along these lines:

Brazil's fertility rate 1960-2009.
(You think they don't already use birth control?)

#1: The headlines (and even the question) about Church teachings on contraption and the Zika virus seem to take for granted that those poor, backward Brazilians have no access to birth control. (Isn't that, if not exactly racist, kind of a "classist" assumption?) On the contrary, National Geographic did a story that highlighted how unexpectedly rapid the birth rate decline in Brazil has been. As of 2009, the birth rate was already below replacement. Obviously, Brazilians haven't been waiting for a Pope to offer any input about avoiding pregnancy. Francis knows that. He likely also feels that a frightening crisis is not the best occasion for inviting people to thoughtful consideration of the wisdom of NFP.

#2: Contraception fails. A lot. (This helps keeps Planned Parenthood in business.) Then what?  The immediate call to loosen abortion restrictions in Brazil because of the risk from Zika was appalling and callous. Pope Francis was clearer than ever that abortion is a crime that can never be justified, even in the case of severe birth defects. It may have even been his desire to focus more intently on the evil of abortion that left him almost shrugging off contraception (which people are using anyway).

#3: Zika has been proven to be sexually transmitted. Chemical contraception and surgical devices are not going to stop the spread of the virus. (Then see point #2.) Why, then, is contraception touted as some sort of 100% solution?

#4: There are some indications that the birth defects seen in Brazil may be tied not so much to the Zika virus as to a larvicide which began to be used in Brazil in 2014; prior to that year, cases of microencephaly were nowhere near the seemingly epidemic numbers being seen now. Colombia--where the larvicide is not used--has had similar rates of Zika infection, but without the concurrent rise in microencephaly. We can be pretty certain that even if a link were to be unquestionable, the corporations who pocketed the profits will find a way to suppress the findings. Still, "follow the money" is a good rule of thumb.

#5: Whatever the cause, Brazil is seeing an increase in the number of children born with potentially serious disabilities. What can members of the Church do to to assist families in the care of these fragile members and to support parents who face this unexpected and heartbreaking challenge? (Among other things, I can see new religious communities rise up in mercy to meet this material and spiritual need.)

Worth reading:

John Allen, on the Vatican's generally muted response in situations like this. Allen's article also gives the history behind the opinion credited to Pope Paul VI, which actually dates back to 1961 (before he was Pope) and was issued not by then-Cardinal Montini but a group of three moral theologians.

Amy Welborn, on the "cult of personality" in a culture of instant communication and how this impacts even the way we look to the Pope. (She promises more in today's post, which I have not yet seen.)

Rereading Lent with Rene Girard

I've been reading a lot lately written by or inspired by Rene Girard, the recently deceased thinker (and Catholic convert) who discovered in ancient literature (specifically myths from world over) what he considered the violent origin of all human culture, an origin represented in a disguised and sacralized fashion in natural religion. Call it the cultural testimony or remnants of the original sin.

Analyzing his findings, Girard noticed that even the most basic human expressions, starting with language itself, are built on the unsteady framework of imitation—he used the term "mimesis" to prevent the concept from being understood in too external a fashion. The child who says "Dada" or "Mama" acquired that word through imitation of the very one the word represents. Every step of early human development comes about through mimesis, but so also do the values that the child acquires: the scales for measuring beauty and comfort and status (and what-have-you) are all acquired in a mimetic way. The entire advertising industry is built on the socialized way we pick up on what is cool and what is not; what is respect and what is scorn; who is in and who is out. Unfortunately for us, it is not enough for us to feel in sync with our own cultural group by adopting the common value system. Just as in a neighborhood when everyone tries to keep up with the Joneses, mimesis engenders rivalry, and rivalry tends to disrupt the ties of communion and threaten the stability of the family, or clan, or team, or political party.

Enter Satan, the disrupter of communion par excellence, to propose a solution to the impending explosion. It is enough to determine who is to blame for the upset—the persons or religious sub-group or social class  or unassimilated strangers who provoked the current state of malaise. "Expel them," Satan suggests, "and harmony will be restored."

The murder of Seth (in the form of a hippo) by
his rival, Horus (whom Seth had molested)
is one of innumerable myths that fit the
pattern Girard discerned in world religions.

Looking at the standard religious myths of non-biblical literature, Girard realized that all of them told the same basic story: a story of rivalries that reach a dangerous crescendo, but which are resolved when the guilty party (often an unknown visitor or a misfit or the perpetrator of some hideous or unnatural act) is permanently and efficiently expelled by a united action on the part of the majority. (Stoning was a favorite mode and even left a memorial pyramid on the site!). The concord that is born from the unanimous mob action amazes the community, and they come to believe that a god has been among them. The next time disharmony threatens, the group re-enacts the expelling (perhaps slaying a prince or a prisoner of war in the place of the fallen-and-risen god). Their unity of purpose, and the rightness of the cause demonstrate that the accusation is clearly true, and the violent mob of lynchers are really noble priests of the peace-bestowing god.

I know, this is a hard sell for an unfamiliar take on society, and I'm probably not rendering it properly at all. After all, I've only been reading this stuff for the past year or so. But bear with me.

Girard thought he had discovered a hither-to unknown insight about human society. The universality of the myth-pattern and the invariability of the stages and the way they became structured in religious practice seemed to confirm what he was recognizing. At first he may have thought the stories in the Bible were just more of the same.

Except for one thing.

In the myths, the unknown visiting "god" was always considered the real, if mysterious, cause of the community's woes as well as of its restoration. The community which expelled him (through brutal and unanimous murder) was completely justified in its action. In the Bible, though, the victim of mob action (whether his name was Joseph or Job or Jesus) was clearly innocent, and the crowd (of brothers, or of accusing "friends," or of the priests and people in the Praetorium courtyard) was clearly guilty. To his surprise, Girard found that the Bible refused to follow the standard pattern. Beginning with some of the very early books of the Old Testament, the Bible had already begun to name and thus undo the sacralized violence that characterized society and religion since the beginning. (Remember that Cain, who murdered his own brother out of rivalrous envy, was "a founder of cities.")

The weft and warp of society turns out to be rivalry and murder, and Divine Revelation the antidote, administered drip by drip over the course of centuries.

Coming Next: "Divine Revelation's Remedy for Rivalry" and "Is it I, Lord?"

Free! (It's my favorite word)

Amazon is luring people to give their music service a try with a free month of "Prime Music." It sounds like you get the free two day shipping that is the main draw of "Prime" plus unlimited streaming even of rather exclusive music releases. If you have WIFI and like a variety of music, you might want to take advantage of the opportunity. (The offer is only good during February.)

Brides of Christ Closing the Year of Consecrated Life

Today, the Feast of the Presentation of the Lord, is also the closing of the Year of Consecrated Life. This year of Church attention on the various forms of special consecration got a little lost in the excitement of the unexpected Jubilee Year of Mercy, but today's feast gives us one last chance to reflect on the mystery of a consecration rooted in the baptismal consecration. And I received an invitation to reflect a little further on this when a sister from another community asked for some input on a paper she is writing as part of her graduate studies.

Sister said that in Africa, religious sisters are frequently referred to as "Brides of Christ," but in her studies in North America, she observed that this language was not exactly the title of preference. Instead, she was told, Sisters prefer to be identified as "women of the Church," this reflecting the option for social justice. And so she put the call out to women religious in a very modern fashion: via Facebook message! " I would like to know  your congregation's view on the 'bride of Christ' metaphor. Do you still use it? Do you have another model that you use to refer to women religious?"

Interestingly enough for me, her question came the day after I myself was musing on the title "Bride of Christ," so I was delighted to give it some more thought. And since that generated way more than a Facebook message's worth of content, I am just referring Sister to the old Nunblog for my reflections on her question. (As the Lady Alice More said in "A Man for All Seasons": "If anyone wants to know my opinion...he only has to ask for it!")

Dear Sister,

Thank you for your question. I really benefited a lot from thinking it over. In fact, just the day before your inquiry, I had been reflecting on the image of the “Bride of Christ” in connection with another project. Your question just gave me the excuse I needed to delve a little further into my own convictions.

I had never ever heard the expression “women of the Church” used to substitute for “Brides of Christ.” It seems a very poor, pale replacement. In fact, it is the very weakness of the substitute that triggered most of my reflections. “Women of the Church” is valid enough as it stands, but it is nowhere near as evocative and rich as the term it is meant to replace. Frankly, it doesn't say very much to me.

First vows for Paulines in Pakistan (Jan 25)

In my community (Daughters of St Paul) we do not use this expression very much, but we do not use a “replacement” for it either. We tend to think of ourselves more in apostolic terms, and identify ourselves charismatically (as “Paulines” or “media nuns”), taking the relationship with Jesus as a matter of fact and of the public record. (Since “apostle” means “one who is sent” the Sender is automatically included!)

Personally, I do not use the expression “Bride of Christ.” I am not a particularly romantic type of person, and do not identify too much with the expression, which I think I have heard mostly from much older people (i.e. my parents' generation) and found in books published fifty or more years ago. Given our highly sexualized culture, I have also found that when the expression is used today in secular media (for example, in an article or post about a group of sisters or about women religious in general), it is used with an air of bemusement or mild ridicule. Today's culture being as unhealthy as it is, the expression “Bride/s of Christ” can even be distasteful (outside of extremely fervent Catholic circles).

The expression “Bride of Christ” may have fallen by the wayside in the affluent world, but it is making a comeback among some younger women religious. It is possible that some of the younger sisters are taken with the romance of all things “retro” and might be somewhat uncritical about old things, but I think they are also telling us something very important about the imagery of the “Bride of Christ” and we need to listen to that.

I believe (very strongly!) that the language of the “bride of Christ” ought to remain part of our self-understanding as women religious, but not flaunted or used casually in secular contexts where it can be either grossly misinterpreted or treated as the quaint but bizarre belief of a marginal culture. The language is based on an analogy; it is not a bare fact that stands on its own.

Among the values of the “Bride of Christ” image:

The virgin/bride is an archetype: a foundational human symbol that simply cannot be done away with or replaced. Assumption of this image makes a powerful statement about Christianity. I think it is especially unwise to reject ancient insights in light of modern sensibilities which may be (to use biblical language) “passing away.”

What does the virgin/bride archetype “say”? I believe this image speaks of both present and future realities:

Present realities:

Beauty (when is a woman more lovely than on her wedding day?)

Joy

Hope

Beginnings

Gift of the “whole” self, and one's whole future

Focus on the Groom!

Future realities:

Fruitfulness (children)

Fidelity (lifelong)

Fidelity (exclusivity)

At the center of all these present and future realities is the one word that sums it all up: LOVE. A bride is a woman whose existence is practically synonymous with love. To say “bride” is to speak of love: a love that is somehow new, dawning, brimming with promise. To say “bride” is to evoke a happy future: a future which is the full flowering of the love that is promised on the wedding day. (That happy future is the main reason we celebrate other people's weddings with so much joy!)

All of the above are subsumed into the Church's use of the image of the bride of Christ, an image which started not with Christ, but in the Old Testament. The image of the human bride of the divine Bridegroom is a biblical image, especially significant in the prophets, in St Paul (especially 1 Cor 7 and Eph 5), and in the book of Revelation, the last divinely inspired words we have from the early Church.

St Paul saw the married couple, husband and wife, as a “type” or symbol-in-person of Christ and the Church. So the primary “bride of Christ” is not the religious sister, but the Church. It doesn't take much to then see the consecrated woman as a “type” of the Church-as-Bride, and it didn't take long for the Fathers of the Church to make this explicit. Thanks to them, the spousal language became a part of the Liturgy of the Hours and Office of Readings for Virgins and Religious. This is especially clear in the antiphons and the use of Psalm 45 (an ode for a royal wedding) for the Common of Virgins.

The image of the bride evokes election (being called personally, by name). It is the relationship, not the work that is primary. I think this is lost when “women of the Church” is chosen because it is presumed to speak of social justice. No, my primary relationship in life is not with my ministry (or even with my fellow believers, co-members of the Mystical Body), it is with the Lord Jesus in whose name and for whose sake I am baptized and am engaged in ministry. This relationship with the Lord is one of communion, not the one-flesh union of natural marriage, but a communion that hopefully grows toward that undivided union with the Lord that is the nature of heaven.

Then there is the mystical tradition of the Church in which the spousal image (and the biblical Song of Songs!) plays such an important part. Although men like Bernard of Clairvaux and John of the Cross contributed powerfully to this mystical tradition of the soul as beloved spouse of Christ, women are the icon of the virgin/bride/Church. Even the liturgical designation of “virgin” for women only (even though there are many virgin men saints) underlines the importance of this image. The liturgical title is not about a woman's biological status, but about what Facebook would call her “relationship status” and then, more profoundly, not about the woman at all, but about the Church: The woman depicts the Church as Bride in a way that a virginal man cannot. (The male priesthood, then, is the counterpart--is there a correlation between rejection of the title "Bride of Christ" and resistance to the male priesthood? Just wondering.)

Just as the image of the bride evokes the hope of future happiness, the “Bride of Christ” is an eschatological sign (cf. Mt 22:23-33). Humans are designed for marriage. The bridal image says that the woman religious is not a shriveled, lonely, unfulfilled person who devotes herself to work because she never found a partner in life; she is united to her life-partner and at the same time, she evidently “awaits” him as her most “blessed hope” (cf. Tit 2:13): her apparent single state speaks of the one who is coming. This is a huge sign of hope to those who understand the Christian faith, and enough of a question mark for those who do not to provoke them to approach the woman herself and ask their questions—which they do—giving the sisters an opportunity to proclaim the gospel. It is also significant that women religious find the vow of chastity the most meaningful of the three evangelical counsels (1993 Nygren and Ukeritis study of Religious in the US). I even read once that the psychological profiles of women religious match those of married (not single) women!

So the image of the "Bride of Christ" is liturgically and biblically rich; our state in life is not marginal to the Bible. Instead, with a self-understanding as "bride" we women religious find ourselves spoken to powerfully across the arc of divine revelation. It is fitting that there be in the Church a living "key" to the Scriptures.

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As we close the Year of Consecrated Life during this Jubilee of Mercy, it was a special grace for me to have the opportunity to reflect a bit more on this title, to recognize more explicitly how rich it really is, and what grace it suggests for me and for the Church.