Dan Reid has an interesting post on the IVP blog on some of his bête noirs.
Lately I’ve been experiencing moments of speechlessness. Over the years it’s been a recurring condition for me. It’s triggered by comments—sometimes from church folk, no less—who mention that, of course, we now know that there were many Gospels—such as the Gospel of Thomas—which were just as early as, if not earlier than, the four Gospels but didn’t make it into the New Testament. Or that the early church soon exchanged following Jesus for beliefs about Christ. Or that the Sermon on the Mount was forsaken for a catechism or a confession. Or that Constantine held absolute sway over the bishops at Nicea and shaped its creed for political ends.
You need to read the whole post to get the full picture of what he thinks, and why he thinks these positions are wrong. I don’t entirely agree with his examples: they are not as black and white as he seems to imply. Dating Thomas, for example, is notoriously difficult and controverted, although the case for it being derivative is not well enough known. Constantine’s political needs and the changed situation of making Christianity legitimate genuinely does change the picture for Christian disputes and creates different pressures for their settlement.
Nonetheless, underlying the sorts of things that Dan objects to are, I think two main approaches. The first is an approach to history which Paul Bradshaw, the liturgist, characterises as that of “splitters” against “lumpers”. In part this offers a genuine correction to narratives that iron out diversity, but it also plays into a modern ideology of pluralism being good, and dogmatism destructive. It is, I think, important to draw attention to the congruence between a commitment to pluralism now, and an insistence that there was no privileged orthodoxy then. (The converse is also true: a commitment to unity now overrode evidence of diversity then.)
From the point of view of historical construction, there is a problem with this. We may be able to find evidence that positions X, Y and Z existed, but the evidence is fragmentary enough that we can’t be sure of the significance of this. It may well be that 85% of people held position Y, and X and Z, though evidenced, were local or minority positions. Whatever the actual diversities, it seems clear that those who espoused one or other position were not pluralistic. Even when they had no power to enforce their view (and much of “orthodoxy” was developed while Christians were in a position of relative powerlessness) they argued that their view was the correct one. It is slightly odd to hear them then being adduced as evidence of the pluralistic nature of “historical” (for which read “real”?) Christianity. In that sense, we should remind ourselves again that history is as much a story about the present as it is about the past.
The other approach, especially post Foucault, is to read the human and ecclesial story simply in terms of power: dominant story and suppressed voices. Historically this ignores the aforementioned largely powerless nature of the earlier Christians. But it also ignores the way in which the core Christian narrative is a critique of power, and an example of love exercising power through surrendering it. The cross always carries a critique of the church within its own proclamation. If we are being true to that vision, and the vision of God as Triune self-giving that is elaborately woven around the cross, then we will also resist any analysis that says power relations are the whole story, or, indeed, the only story.
Yes, being sensitive to and suspicious of power relations is something on which both Foucault and the gospel have something to say. The gospel, however, insists in the end on trust and love as the more basic human reality. That is a reality that agrees with our best hopes for our most significant relationships. Either position is a commitment, not an obvious conclusion from any objective standpoint, but a way of inhabiting a narrative.
Those who are truly committed to ideological suspicion should, however, pause to ask themselves whether their reconstruction of early Christian diversity simply serves the power relations of a modern pluralism that insists exclusive commitments are bad.
{ 3 comments }
Yes, very well put. I would problematize matters, nonetheless, and argue in favor of seeing the canon as a witness to the recognition of a plurality of positions within a common commitment to a correct position.
“but a way of inhabiting a narrative” – lovely phrase! Reminds me of the palindrome that frames Psalm 90, habitation and beauty.
I’ve become very suspicious of the adjective “Constantinian” when used by Western Christians. It is almost invariably used in a simplistic way, by people who have no ideas of the complexities of history, and blame Constantine for everything they think is wrong with Christianity, and for “Christendom”, whatever that may be.
It almost drives me to the other extreme, and to want to join the fire walkers who go fire walking on his feast day.
Comments on this entry are closed.