Archive for Christian Writers
I am now continuing with my promise to put up more about Pope John Paul I. I don’t think that I could do better than to begin my commemoration of these two months that mark the 30th anniversary of his election and death than by posting his homily on the death of Pope Paul VI, who died 30 years ago this month, on Agust 6, 1978. Patriarch Luciani gave this homily at the memorial Mass in the basilica of San Marco in Venice on August 9. This beautiful homily acquires a special significance in light of the fact that less than three weeks later, Luciani himself was asked to take on the task of governing the Church in its “universal dimensions” when he was elected Pope John Paul I.
What is particularly moving to me about this homily is Luciani’s just judgment of Pope Paul’s work for the Church, his compassionate understanding of his personality, and the stress that the Pope’s job is often to suffer. In his first Angelus talk, in fact, on that unforgettable day after his election, on August 27, 1978, Papa Luciani said, “In the fifteen years of his pontificate, this Pope showed not only me but the whole world how to love, how to serve, and how to work and suffer for the Church of Christ.” No, the Smiling Pope was not blind to the suffering of his job. But neither was he overwhelmed by it, as some have said.
It also should be noted that Luciani supported and defended the Pope’s decision to release the encyclical Humanae Vitae in spite of the majority opinion of the papal commission on birth control. Luciani himself had hoped for a change. But he always resolutely defended the decision. Popularity, he stresses here, is not the Pope’s aim. I should add that there have been false things written about John Paul I’s possible plans in regard to artificial contraception as Pope, and I hope to address them in a subsequent post.
The homily was translated from the printed Italian version, but the last paragraph of it was an addition to the text that was later reported, probably taken from the video or audio tape of the event.
“I WILL BE CALLED PAUL”
“By what name do you wish to be called?” he was asked fifteen years ago at the end of the conclave. He said: “I will be called Paul.” Those who knew him would have sworn to us that this would be the name he would choose. Cardinal Montini had always been a passionate lover of the writings, the life, and the dynamic energy of the great Apostle of the Gentiles. And he lived his “Pauline quality” fully and to the last. Last June 29, he spoke of the fifteen years of his pontificate, and he made his own the words that Saint Paul, also near his end, had written to Timothy, “I have preserved and defended the faith” (2 Tim. 4:7). That the faith should be preserved and defended was the first point of his program. In his coronation address, on June 30, 1963, he had declared: “We will defend the Holy Church from the errors in doctrine and morals, which, from within and from without her borders, threaten her integrity and dim her beauty.”
St. Paul had written to the Galatians: “If an angel from heaven should preach to you a Gospel not in accord with the one we have delivered to you, let a curse be upon him.” (Gal. 1:8). In our day we might think of culture, being modern, and being up-to-date, as “angels,” and these are all things which Pope Paul cared about very deeply. But when they appeared to him to be contrary to the Gospel and to sound doctrine, he said no inflexibly. It is enough to mention Humanae Vitae, his “Creed of the People of God,” the position that he took in regard to the Dutch catechism, and his clear affirmation of the existence of the devil. Some people have said that Humanae Vitae was suicide for Paul VI, the collapse of his popularity, and the beginning of savage criticism. Yes, in a certain sense, but he had foreseen it and again, along with St. Paul, he said to himself: “Who would you say I am trying to please at this point — man or God? . . . If I were trying to win man’s approval, I would surely not be serving Christ” (Gal. 1:10).
St. Paul had also said of himself: “I have been crucified with Christ” (Gal. 2:19). Paul VI confided: “Perhaps the Lord has called me to this (pontifical) service, not indeed because I had any aptitude for it, or so that I might govern the Church and save her from her present difficulties, but so that I might suffer something for the Church, and that it might be clear that He, and no one else, guides her and saves her.” He has also said, “The Pope has the difficulties that come first of all from his own human weakness, which, at every moment, is faced with, and almost in conflict with, the enormous and immeasurable weight of his duties and responsibilities.” At times that can even become agony.
The Corinthians made the following evaluation of Paul: “His letters are severe and forceful, but when he is here in person, he is unimpressive and his word makes no great impact.” (2 Cor. 10:10). We have all seen Paul VI on television or in photographs embracing Patriarch Athenagoras: he looked like a little child, disappearing between the arms of a giant with an imposing beard. Even when he spoke, his voice was rather somber; rarely did it reveal the conviction and enthusiasm that were boiling inside him. But his thought! But his writings! These were truly clear, penetrating, profound, and sometimes finely sculpted. “Today the peoples in hunger,” he has written, for example, “are making a dramatic appeal to the peoples blessed with abundance. The Church shudders at this cry of anguish and calls on each one to give a loving response of charity to his brother’s cry for help.” Development, yes, but the full development “of every man and of the whole man.” “Every man,” and not only the fortunate class, “the whole man,” meaning that man must have the means to develop and progress, not only in the economic dimension, but also in the moral, spiritual, and religious dimensions. “To do more, know more, and have more, in order to be more” (Popularum Progressio, nos. 3, 13, 34, 6).
But St. Paul was above all the Apostle of the Gentiles, of those who then were considered outsiders to the Jews. He fought for them, in spite of the perplexity of the other apostles, and he traveled and suffered so much on their behalf. He wrote: “Five times at the hands of the Jews I received forty lashes less one, three times I was beaten with rods; I was stoned once, shipwrecked three times; I passed a day and a night on the sea. I traveled continually.” (2 Cor. 11:24-26). Like him, Paul VI has traveled 80,000 miles by air: Palestine, India, the headquarters of the United Nations, Fatima, Turkey, Colombia, Africa, and the Far East, have been the principal stages of his travels. All of these travels, perhaps, have not obtained any conversions, but they have created a feeling that the Church is close to the peoples of the world and their problems.
Another type of closeness — or better rapprochement — that Paul VI has sought, is that of contacts with governments that profess themselves atheist. A sensitive point, this: the Pope has been criticized on it by some. Undoubtedly, there was a risk. But a limited and calculated risk. Limited, because he did not give way on principles, on the basis of the Gospel saying iota unum aut unum apex non praeteribit a lege [not the smallest letter of the law, nor the smallest part of a letter, shall be done away with] (Mt. 7:18). Calculated, because, although with sometimes slender hope, he sought the advantage of religion. There is the problem of so many Catholics living under persecuting governments: the Pope really must send them bishops or try to obtain for them a few crumbs of religious liberty. The atheists themselves are a problem: there are so many, so many; can the Church shut itself off from them? St. Paul had written “I have made myself all things to all men, in order to save at least some of them.” (I Cor: 9:22). Why then, not admire the courage of a Pope who takes risks? When Pius VII was negotiating the concordat with Napoleon, he had open opponents even among the cardinals. “Negotiate with that criminal!” they said. “And sweep away from their dioceses all the old bishops, many of whom can be considered martyrs for the faith! And put in their place the bishops that the First Consul wants!” Pius VII, with anguish in his heart, asked the old bishops to suffer, or made them suffer, not only for the Church, but also from the Church; he made to the First Consul all the concessions that were morally legitimate in order to have, in return, tremendous advantages for religion. Naturally, the happy outcome of the negotiations were not seen immediately, but with time. History runs its course and repeats itself. So does the history of the Church.
In the patriarchal archives, there still exist some letters exchanged between Patriarch Roncalli and the deputy Secretary of State Montini. The Pope, Roncalli writes in one, wants a certain priest in Rome: granting this is a heavy sacrifice for Venice, but I am granting it, because in the Church “we must see broad and far.” Thank you, Montini answered him; thank you for the priest you gave up, and for the “broad and far.”
My brothers and sisters, no man is perfect; even Paul VI, who we mourn so deeply, may perhaps have done some things imperfectly. It seems to me, however, that, very cultured as a man, exemplary as a priest, as Pope he truly saw “broad and far.”
All of us must lift our gaze beyond every boundary and all work in a truly evangelical spirit, beyond every limit, with the Church of Christ, in universal dimensions.
Translated by Lori Pieper
From Albino Luciani, Opera Omnia, 8:584-86.
This is a photo of the event John Paul mentioned in that same Angelus talk, when Paul VI, in a prophetic gesture, “invested’ him with the papal stole in front of the Basilica of San Marco, on September 16, 1972. He said, laughing, “I have never turned so red!”
Filed under: Christian Writers, Church issues, Pope John Paul I, Pope Paul VI | |2 Comments
I haven’t forgotten my promise to write about the “revolution in cinema,” by which I mean the Christian revolution: the fact that Hollywood is now realizing the actual numbers of its Christian audience and is now trying to respond. Above all, I mean the recent explosion in Christian-themed fantasy epics on the big screen, including The Lord of the Rings, Harry Potter and The Chronicles of Narnia. Very much a reason to celebrate, though most of the films weren’t actually made by Christians. But this may soon change. This is one of the reasons Act One (of which I am a proud graduate) trains Christians for the movies is so that WE can get our own stories up on the big screen.
Not only this, but the cultural war between believers and atheists is going to heat up with this December’s release of The Golden Compass, the first of the three projected films based on Philip Pullman’s His Dark Materials trilogy. Pullman makes no secret of his hatred for Christian fantasy as written by Lewis and others, and his trilogy is directed toward the need to fight the “oppressivness” of religious belief. Meantime, more Chronicles of Narnia are coming to the screen, not to mention the final two Harry Potter films. The next couple of years are going to be interesting ones at the box office!
But there are some Christians who don’t realize what weapons we need in this war and why. They retreat into their Bibles while continuing to condemn most Christian fantasy literature for paganism, witchcraft, magic, and not having a scriptural quote in every line so people will know that the books are Christian. J. K. Rowling’s insistence that she is a Christian and even that she is writing about her own struggle with faith mean nothing to them. Or else they will make comparisons — Tolkien good, Rowling bad — based on nothing more than the fact that Tolkien has had a Christian label for years, and no one knows that much about Rowling’s beliefs — at least they didn’t when she first started writing.
Here is a wonderful post by an author who points out that one of the most basic problems some Christians have in reading fantasy literature is their lack of knowledge of ancient and medieval Christian symbolism and literature. Rowling, like other Christian fantasy writers, is working from a very rich tradition, which many of the evangelical side — and sadly, many Catholics as well — are ignorant of. They don’t even begin to know how to recognize the allusions in the books. And they simply refuse to open themselves up to knowledge.
This is only a taste of what I want to write. Now that I’ve completed the book, I should have time to explore the subject of the revolution in cinema at greater length — hopefully soon.
Filed under: C. S. Lewis, J.K. Rowling, Tolkien, Writing | |No Comments
Or “The Twilight of the Potter.” That’s irresistible title people are using for what seems like the end of the Potter era. I finished reading Harry Potter and the Deathly Hollows two weeks ago — I held off until July 23, two days after its release, to buy my copy — and read it all at one gulp.
For those who have yet to read it, you have a treat in store. It is a glorious book and in many ways a profound one, a fitting close to an epic story. Yes there are SPOILERS below, but out of consideration for you, I’ll try not to make them too heavy.
For the rest of us: Now that we have read through the last thrilling chapter, drunk to the last drop the bitterness of death and experienced to its fullest the joy of resurrection, we can finally reflect on the Harry Potter series as a whole.
I came to the series somewhat later than many people. I had heard a bit about it here and there, and was intrigued, but since I was spending most of my time from 1997-2001 working on my dissertation and every spare minute working on a screenplay of my own, I did almost no outside reading. When the movie version of The Sorceror’s Stone came out late in 2001 I went to see it — and immediately went out and bought every book in the series that had been published to that date. I loved them. As time went on, though, I was beginning to feel a little frustrated because the vast story, the incredible number of characters and the overwhelming mythology of this created world threatened to burst the bounds even of J.K. Rowling’s prodigious imagination. I was beginning to think she had taken on much more than she could actually handle. I felt that many of the story arcs and characters were ignored or dropped (my favorite character, Remus Lupin was criminally underused after his first appearance in Book III, at least until the last book), and it was becoming harder and harder to keep track of all the mysteries, clues, and revelations.
Something that I frequently missed in Rowling’s work was the sense of wonder, of transcendence that can be found so frequently in Lewis and Tolkien. Since the magic was a completely accepted and routine part of the everyday lives of most of the characters, there was little sense of wonder about it. But every now and again, the magic hinted at something profound. For instance, the Mirror of Erised in Book I, and especially the learning of the Patronus charm, again in Book III — another reason it is my favorite book in the series.
But for the most part, this last book paid off beautifully. Over time, I have become more and more pleased with improvement in Rowling’s writing. In this last book, she shows a greater sense of wonder or at least her ability to describe it.
For instance, Harry’s first sight of the beautiful silver doe.
Harry stared at the creature, filled with wonder, not at her strangeness, but at her inexplicable familiarity. He felt that he had been waiting for her to come, but that he had forgotten, until this moment, that they had arranged to meet. . . . He knew, he would have staked his life on it, that she had come for him, and him alone. (p. 566).
Or this:
While [Fleur's] radiance usually dimmed everyone else by comparison, today it beautified everyone it fell upon. Ginny and Gabriel, both wearing golden dresses, looked even prettier than usual, and once Fleur had reached him, Bill did not look at all as if he had ever met Fenrir Greyback. (p. 144).
Of course, there is no reason why Rowling’s strengths should be exactly the same as Lewis’ or Tolkien’s. She may not have been consciously reaching for the same level of wonderment. But her own strengths are dazzling. In particular, her creation of character, gift for dialogue, and attention to the moral realm are outstanding.
Above all this, the plot threads and character arcs that are resolved in this final book point to some strong over-arching Christian themes.
As far as I can tell, most of the young fans on places like Mugglenet.com seem to be oblivious to them. Just as Lewis wished, and as I’m sure Rowling herself wished. But they will still be affected by them. Whenever they are faced in the future with the task of forgiving a seemingly unforgivable enemy, they can think of Harry and Professor Snape. When the need to have compassion for those it seems impossible to have compassion on, they can think of Voldemort. When they need to realize that we are all sinners, they can think of Dumbledore — yes, even Dumbledore.
And then there are Harry’s final actions in the book, which I must not spoil — but they illustrate the center of the Christian faith in a moving and profound way. Even to say that much really gives it away. I was very moved this past weekend, listening to the ‘Pottercast” on i-Tunes, which came out almost immediately after the book’s release, in which a roomful of fans debated the book’s finale. How many of them, knowingly or not, grasped that theme of voluntary sacrifice, thought about it at length, and loved it. This is an overwhelming reason to be glad the books were written. (You can check out the podcast here or on i-Tunes).
Even many secular commentators are now getting the drift. For ages, the media has seen fit to ignore the actual Christian content of the books, while putting forward every Christian “Harry Hater” as an example of the usual Christian approach to fantasy literature. Few of them seemed aware that Rowling herself is a Christian.
The first secular review of the final book that I heard was on NPR, and it said that about halfway through the book, “the overwhelming religious allegory begins,” or something like that. If you’ve read or heard such a commentary. I hope you’ll share it.
Last night (finally) I went to see the movie version of Order of the Phoenix. This was the only book of the series that I have so far read only once (largely because I read it in a library copy rather than buying it). I had forgotten a great many of the details of that installment. It was really something to see this after reading the final book, and watching it onscreen, particularly a powerful moment at the end between Harry and Voldemort, I realized how much the story’s themes tend overwhelming in the same direction of moral and spiritual growth, of resisting evil inside yourself, and above all, of forgiveness.
This is a good occasion to reflect on what can only be described as a revolution in cinema that has taken place in the last few years. But that will have to wait for my next post.
Filed under: C. S. Lewis, Christian Writers, Film, J.K. Rowling | |No Comments
Because of my exhausting St. Elizabeth projects, I’ve missed a lot of blog-worthy subjects lately: Paris Hilton’s Bible reading’! The New Atheism! (Now there’s a pair of topics for you). All the latest summer blockbusters! (I hope to see one or two before the summer is over, particularly Ratatouille and Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix). And speaking of the last, I guess I could still be joining in the speculation over the last Harry Potter book and how J. K. Rowling will resolve Harry’s fate — except that I don’t have a clue as to what will happen to Harry, though I’m dying to find out.
Then there’s the ever-popular subject of the Motu Proprio, in which Pope Benedict XVI has indicated that the Traditional Latin Mass or Tridentine rite according to the 1962 missal will be more widely available. I was amazed by the amount of bloggage over this on various Catholic sites: the subject gets at least three times more commentary than any other, even posts on the war in Iraq. I’m also amazed at the extremism of some of the positions. It ought to be clear to everyone that the liturgical situation is more or less what is was before. The 1970 Novus Ordo, as the Pope is careful to point out, remains exactly what it was before — the ordinary normative liturgy of the Western Rite. So no, the decision does not destroy the liturgical reforms of Vatican II, as some have lamented. And it does not mean, as others are hoping, that the new rite they think is an abomination is on its way out, that there will be no more guitar Masses or liturgical dancers (an apparently mythical creature, which I have yet to glimpse in my many years attendance at NO liturgies).
I was also amazed at the level of ignorance, pride and arrogance in many statements on the liturgy. A large number of people on both sides seem to be bitter and relying on emotion without being able to give an objective account of whatever liturgy it is they abhor. Most of it is incredibly one-sided. Many lovers of the NO seem content to pile up complaints of the worst abuses the TLM was subject to in the past, without admitting its beauties, while Trads are content to complain about the worst abuses of the NO and treat them as typical, while at the same time making no real effort to even understand the purpose of the liturgical reform, even as a platform for criticizing it. We have to move beyond this. The truth is that every rite has its good points and any rite can be celebrated well or badly. And mere emotion or ascetic appreciation connected with a rite shouldn’t necessarily be confused with the genuine spiritual or moral experience brought about by an attentive, loving and above all humble participation in it. Let’s recall C. S. Lewis’ admonition that our primary purpose at any liturgy is not to criticize but to open ourselves to whatever spiritual nourishment is going on. And he was a man who found much to criticize in many Anglican liturgies.
One typical ignorant comment that I have read a lot of lately is that diversity in the liturgy is a somehow a bad thing. The norm, these people believe is that there should be a single text of the Mass, in Latin, the world over, because this uniformity is a perfect expression of the universality of the Church (”wherever you go, to Paris, London, Czechoslovakia, China - there is one Mass, the same Mass, everywhere the same!”). The only problem is that this uniformity of the Mass has never existed. These people seem to believe that “Western Rite” and “Catholic” are the same thing. In fact, there are a dozen or so rites in the Church, including several Eastern rites: some of their liturgies are older than any of the present Western ones. And all those who celebrate these varied rites are Catholic. When one of the uniformity posters had this rather forcibly pointed out to him, his response was basically “those rites involve only a small number of people” — so obviously they don’t count.
I’m writing this because I have just had the wonderful experience of having the true universality of the Church’s liturgy brought home to me at the Secular Franciscan Quinquennial Congress in Pittsburgh, the them of which was the cultural diversity of the Order and the Church. We had many wonderful presentations by Secular Franciscans who were, among others, Mexcian, Korean, Pueblo and Osage Indians, and enjoyed a number of native (non-liturgical) dances, which were wildly applauded.
But the best of all were the liturgies in two rites of the Church I had never experienced before. One was in the Syro-Malabar rite from India, celebrated in English and one of the Indian languages. a liturgy which traces its history back to the community founded by St. Thomas the Apostle. The other was the Byzantine Catholic rite Divine Liturgy of St. John Chrysostom, sung almost entirely in English by the whole congregation with a wonderful choir leading us. The liturgist who led us and gave instructions warned us “we sing fast.” Most of were surprised at just how fast. But there was nothing irreverent about the speed. The chant was easy to catch onto and melded with the experience of the beautiful and effusive words of God’s love, so different from the N0 liturgy I’m used to, that the total effect was one of golden buoyancy. It really did blow me away. Partly it was simply the fact that the rite was different: those who celebrate it every week must have to struggle with the over-familiarity of the words, just as we often do with the text of the Mass that we are familiar with. But mostly it was the connection with a living tradition of liturgy that preserves its own particular flavor of the one divine liturgy we all celebrate.
Attending these two beautiful and reverent Masses made me more grateful than ever that the Mass is so old, so varied, so much the same, yet so ever new.
Filed under: C. S. Lewis, Liturgy | |No Comments
I’m finally able to begin on what I had hoped to do a month ago — discuss the deeper cultural meaning and impact of The Da Vinci Code. What led up to this book and the film, which have been such an amazing cultural phenomenon? It is based on several things that have been going on for some years — a combination of post-modern skepticism and cynicism, rejection of the notion of an ultimate reality, New Age beliefs, spiritualism and the occult, feminism, wicca and goddess worship. One of the most popular of these threads has been a fixture in our culture for the past 30 years or so — the theories on myth and religion of Joseph Campbell, the high priest of myth in our day.
Campbell rejected traditional religion in favor of myth and metaphor. Jesus is only one of many heroes of myth. His historical existence is not important. The message of his myth, like that of all other myths, can be reduced on the psychological side to the need for individuation and separation from one’s parents, and on the spiritual side, to contact with some vague, nebulous “god” who is little more than a projection of the self. For him, the metaphysical realm is equivalent to the unconcious. Campbell’s theory, based on Freudian and Jungian analysis, was one basis for the Star Wars series. George Lucas has described himself as a follower of Campbell, and Lucas’ films followed Campbell’s Hero’s Journey pattern of rejection of and final reconciliation with the father.
Much of Dan Brown’s thought (if it can be called that) is based on Campbell’s theories. But the focus has turned away from Campbell’s outdated Freudian and Jungian analysis to an often less-noted aspect of his work: his celebration of feminist goddess religion and symbols, and his tirade against male- dominated religion. The book’s author, Dan Brown, says that Campell was a great influence on him. Brown’s hero, Robert Langdon, is a” symbologist.” There is actually no such discipline. It is Brown’s popularization of the idea of the Campbellian expert on myth interpreting its symbols for us. This theory leads us away from any idea that historical and factual reality is in any way important. Toward the end of the novel, Langdon says:
Every faith in the world is based on fabrication. That is the definition of faith — acceptance of that which we imagine to be true, that which we cannot prove. Every religion describes God through metaphor, allegory and exaggeration, from the early Egyptians through modern Sunday school. Metaphors are a way to help our minds process the unprocessible. The problems arise when we begin to believe literally in our own metaphors . . . Those who truly understand their faiths understand that the stories are metaphorical. (DVC, pp. 341-42).
This is almost unadulterated Campbell. This view is specifically identified with the female. At the end of book Sophie’s grandmother says, with an air of amusement: “Why is it that men simply cannot let the Grail rest?” She says that the mystery of the Grail is more important than the object itself, implying that only men with their logical and factual views want to know what really happened. (If this is Brown’s actual view of women, most of the women I know would laugh at it).
In Brown’s work then, an alternative history is presented, which makes readers feel they are pursuing the truth (and the movie’s poster says “Seek the truth”), yet what has traditionally been thought to be the ultimate goal of seeking the truth — certainty about the truth — is declared to be unimportant, if not outright denied. All trace of a belief in objective historical reality behind religion, much less a transcendent God, disappears. Which makes it all the more amazing that Brown himself goes around saying that the theories about Jesus, the Grail, Mary Magdalene, etc are true and really happened. Evidently he doesn’t understand his own book very well — that is, he completely misunderstood Campbell, even while parroting his theories.
Why has this laughably incoherent book been so popular? Many people still feel a nostalgia for Christianity and desire to be close to the person of Jesus, but they want to do it without having to buy into a Church or a specific doctrine, much less having to believe a divine being who wants them to obey moral rules. Some would say this is because the Church is authoritarian, and that its morality is preached only by the hypocritical. Perhaps, but I would guess that the deepest reason is a simple dislike in our narcissistic culture for the idea of heroism and sacrifice, true death and rebirth. Campbell’s hero not very heroic in this sense: he is still trying to become an individual and break away from his parents. He does not appear to be someone who could give his life for the world in any real sense.
In The Da Vinci Code, modern “goddess religion” attempts to mix with Christianity - but it is a Christianity watered down and stripped of meaning, because it has no use for the divinity of Jesus; it misunderstands or more often completely denies the meaning of Christ’s sacrificial death. As a result, it renders the search for overcoming evil in the world meaningless — not that secularism is doing any better.
Instead, Campbell and his latest fictional incarnation encourage us to find God within us. We simply choose the metaphor that comforts us most. We are navel-gazing gods, while war, terrorism and genocide wash over us.
This is why I’ve been very disatisfied with some of the books that attempt to debunk The Da Vinci Code. Most of them are good at supplying the facts that are obscured by Brown’s fantasies, but don’t get to the root of the actual dissatisfactions with the Church that his readers experience, or the actual world view that the book appeals to. But then, the answers are often hidden from the debunkers themselves, because Christians know so little about their own heritage about myth and metaphor in relation to God.
For instance, Ben Witherington’s The Gospel Code attempts to deal with Brown’s appeal to a longing for a feminine aspect to God. He does this by showing how the New Testament’s idea of God the Father is necessary. Many people with this kind of question will tune him out instantly. He might have done better by pointing out that well before “Sophia” or Holy Wisdom, the feminine aspect of God, was taken over by the Gnostics, she was the daughter and emanation of God in the Old Testament. Both Eastern and Western orthodox Christianity retained memories of Sophia (or, in Latin, Sapientia). In the Middle Ages, spiritual writer Henry Suso spoke of his mystical marriage with Christ as wedding Lady Sapientia. Much of his language was echoed by English anchoress Julian of Norwich, who also spoke of Jesus as our mother. Most Christians themselves are ignorant of this heritage. But it clearly serves to show that “the sacred feminine” has existed in Christianity since the beginning. Our Christian culture needs to recover something of this — but it doesn’t need to buy the bilge Dan Brown is offering to do so.
Most of all, however, it’s Brown’s (and Campbell’s) misuse of the ideas of myth and metaphor that I think needs correcting. If may take a whole book to do so — one I would love to write. At present, there definitely doesn’t seem to be time for that. But perhaps in a few more posts over the next few weeks, I can outline some of the answers to Campbell’s theories of myth. One excellent way to do so is through the works of C. S. Lewis, who wrote extensively on both myth and metaphor. It will be interesting to see who has the better concept of myth in the end.
Filed under: C. S. Lewis, Myths and Mythology, The Da Vinci Code, Writing | |2 Comments
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