Trinitarian Spirituality, 9: Cast of Characters, Better than a Russian Novel

May 22, 2012 By K. Mulhern 1 Comment

Inside of the oldest church in Egypt

 

We have a significant cast of characters when we talk about 4th-5th-century controversies. It might be helpful if we first listed them up front, sort of like a Russian novel giving all the main players and their relationships in a list before the story gets started.

The interesting thing about really believing that God is involved in history, not just back then there, but in an ongoing way—speaking, acting, moving, informing, shaping, inspiring, calling—means that we should be able to look for God in all of these persons, even the heretics. God doesn’t raise up heresies to trip us, but he does—indeed he must if we believe he is Lord of history—move through all these events and conversations in ways that lead to his final purpose. So this is no melodrama, where the bad guys should be booed and hissed off the stage because they are thoroughly vile creatures. They are simultaneously actors—meaning active agents, participants—and instruments of God’s will. But perhaps that is going too far afield for now…

So, for this post, let me just list the characters that will star in the show, and give very brief introductions. We will meet them all more intimately as we go along. You may want to refer back to this post occasionally in the weeks to come.

Arius : (c. 256-336), an Egyptian churchman; we met him in the last post. Arius was quite concerned to preserve the Oneness of God, and thus found the divinity of Jesus rather problematic. Exactly how does One + One + One = One? He did not solve this problem by tossing out Jesus’ divinity, as a modern Unitarian might, but by redefining that divinity. So Arius insisted he was a Trinitarian, and used all the Trinitarian language, but he constructed a hierarchical divinity, where Jesus was something more than human and yet less than fully God. This was an enormously popular solution; it created a scenario where believers could give all kinds of praise to the Christ as the favored instrument of the divine, yet never complicate the monotheism and transcendence of the one true God. This solution lingers today in some form in Jehovah’s Witnesses theology.

Alexander : (d. 326), bishop of Alexandria in Egypt. Here is Arius’ first opponent, a fiery earlier defender of Trinitarianism as it had been believed and practiced in the first three centuries of the church. Since Arius probably outlived him by a decade or so, Alexander had a hard time keeping up with the work of rebuttal.

Eusebius of Nicomedia : (d. 341), a bishop and supporter of Arius’ thinking; he liked to emphasize the term “unbegotten” as the summation of God’s essence, which clearly creates an issue with the “only-begotten” status of Jesus. If Jesus is the “only-begotten,” does that mean that he had a beginning? That there is only One who, not having a beginning, is God?

Eusebius of Caesarea : (c. 263-339) [TWO Eusebiuses? Seriously?]; a notable church historian; he rejected Arius’ ideas, but couldn’t quite bring Jesus up to the level of God the Father, so we end up with a subpar God indwelling Christ. Clearly, he ended up more sympathetic with the Arian compromise than he did with the orthodox mystery.

Asterius : (d. 341); known as a philosopher and, having caved under persecution and sacrificed to pagan gods as a way to avoid death and torture, he was never allowed to hold church office. A significant supporter of Arius, he tweaked Arian thought in ways he hoped would make it more palatable to those orthodox nuisances. Tweak away, Asterius, but Athanasius is going to have you for lunch.

Marcellus : (c. 374); bishop of Ancyra (modern-day Ankara, capital of Turkey). Marcellus strongly opposed Arian thinking, but came up with a solution that ultimately was also unacceptable to orthodoxy. Nothing quite like forcefully opposing a heretic and then becoming one.

Athanasius : (c. 296-378), at first Alexander’s deacon assistant, and then successor as bishop of Alexandria. Though he had that position for forty-six years, he spent more than one-third of that time in exile, banished by Arian supporters, including the Emperor. It is famously told of Athanasius that, having been exiled for the fifth time, the Emperor said to him with exasperation, “Athanasius, don’t you know that the whole world is against you?” To which Athanasius replied, “Oh no, it’s Athanasius against the whole world.”

Gregory of Nyssa : (c. 335-395), bishop of Nyssa and one of the famed Cappadocian Fathers, a threesome of theologians who contributed a great deal to the shaping of Trinitarian language, including the Creed. One of the three was Gregory of Nyssa’s brother, Basil of Caesarea, and the other was another Gregory, Gregory of Nazianzus.

(We pause here to remember Basil and Gregory’s sister, Macrina, also a saint of the church. While we don’t have evidence that Macrina was instrumental in the Trinitarian resolution, take a look at their family life. Macrina was the older sister, and most reports have her undertaking the religious training of her younger brothers. Gregory talks about her with great reverence, and wrote a couple of treatises about her life and thought. Shall we really imagine that Gregory and Basil never had meaningful conversations with Macrina about the Trinity? That Macrina’s own deep spirituality had no influence on her brothers’ work? Um, I don’t think so. I’m herewith including her as one of our Trinitarian heroes, though a silent one.)

Augustine : (354-430), bishop of Hippo, in northern Africa, and famed author, theologian, and key shaper of Western Christian spirituality. (The Eastern church likes him too, but not as much as the West does. They have “issues” with some of his ideas on sin and grace. But again, not something for us to discuss here and now.)

(Another aside: Augustine’s mother, Monica, had an enormous influence on Augustine, and we cannot deny that some part of his thinking developed in conversation with her. Another silent participant.)

There are other characters in the drama, some major and some minor, and some of those will get introduced along the way, but these are the ones Anatolios identifies as the focus of his study, so for the most part, that’s where we’ll play too.

As we meet these theologians and writers, we might find their arguments petty or puny, and when we do, we must keep a spirit of humility about us. Their worldview and their philosophical presuppositions may not align with ours. Their arguments may sound too weird to be wonderful. The easy way out of all this is to just shrug our shoulders and say, “Well, no wonder they got their panties in a wad. They’re thinking in mental categories that we no longer care about or that we understand better. Therefore, their conversations are meaningless to us.”

Anatolios, our guide here, reminds us that the construction of creedal language gave voice to vital Christian life and practice, and that language serves us as well when we are willing to do the work of understanding why and how they got there. It is we modern Christians who all too often end up with a petty and puny faith when we abandon the great conversation of Trinitarian spirituality and its language.

Next week let’s actually talk about language. It’s so easy to misunderstand each other, especially when I’m speaking Greek and you’re speaking Latin.

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Trinitarian Spirituality, 4: A Third Modern Approach

April 19, 2012 By K. Mulhern 3 Comments

 

In our travelogue thus far, Anatolios has been laying some groundwork for our understanding of the Trinity by pointing out some very common perspectives that he thinks are defective in some way. (And if you notice, on the right hand column of these posts, there is a menu of earlier posts for your rereading reference.)

First, we considered the idea that the truth that God is mystery means we can know nothing, really, about him except what he has done in human history; Anatolios calls this a trajectory of discontinuity—a radical break between what God has revealed and who he is. We don’t embrace this perspective because it shortens our vision of God to our own experiences and leaves the ‘heart’ of God beyond human knowledge. While this perspective offers us mystery—a good thing—it also leaves us without real relationship. How can you have a relationship with someone whose very being is unrevealed?

Second, we considered the idea that the truth about what God has done in human history is not only a genuine revelation about who he is, but is the sum total of who he is; Anatolios calls this a trajectory of conflation—a collapsing of our experiences and God’s being. This perspective offers us another very vital truth–that what God has done in history says something essentially true about who God is. It really does reveal God so that we can have relationship with him. But we don’t embrace this perspective either, because God is greater, more wonderful “inside” than he is “outside.” (I’m fairly sure that’s very untheological language.) But we must be careful, in our desire to understand, not to reduce God; though God’s works are glorious, and they are full demonstrations of his heart, we cannot say that they ‘capture’ the totality of who God is.

There is one more inadequate model in Anatolios’ sights: this one will, I think, be easier. The picture above is a give-away.

Anatolios calls this third approach the dominant one in Western Christian spirituality. He calls it analogical. Think in terms of metaphors, “creaturely” metaphors. The method here is to look around us at things we do understand and use them to ‘grasp’ Trinitarian language in some way.

And once again, there are strengths to this position. How else can we talk about something so profound without using metaphor or analogy? It is really a lot like a love poem. Love sweeps through our being, and our hearts are undone by ‘non-rational’ feelings; really good poets use analogies of a seemingly odd assortment of creaturely things to express love:

Your mind is water through an April night,
A cherry-branch, plume-feathery with its white… (Benet)

At first you coalesce entirely with the brightness
The elusive angle of a curtain… (Breton)

Leaning into the afternoons I fling my sad nets
to that sea that beats on your marine eyes… (Neruda)

O my Luve’s like a red, red rose,
That’s newly sprung in June:
O my Luve’s like the melodie,
That’s sweetly play’d in tune… (Burns)

So, we do the best we can—we speak of the Trinity in ways that can come as close as possible to things that seem to compare. Burns’ lover is like a red, red rose only because its depth and beauty and fragrance and delicacy (and maybe thorns?) remind him of her.

You know where we’re going with this. We’ve heard many such comparisons, some of them concrete, like shamrocks or ice-water-steam, and some of them less concrete, like relationships (my multiple identity as a daughter, wife, and mother). Some of the more famous, but less concrete analogies, have been used by really great theologians, like Augustine and Aquinas.

For instance, there is the “psychological analogy,” which takes its metaphor from the inner working of a human being. In this version, we see God’s inner being compared to ours. We have memory, understanding, and will—three aspects of our self that work together intimately to create our identity. (This is one of Augustine’s favorite models, and we will return to Augustine later in our journey.)

There is also the “social analogy,” another non-concrete metaphor, that explores Trinitarian language in terms of relationship. So, for instance, we read of the Trinity as a lover, the beloved, and the love that they share.

Anatolios gives an example of a metaphor I’ve never heard (with good reason)! He writes, “I recall a sermon on Trinity Sunday in which the preacher suggested the analogy of a father, a mother, and their baby sleeping in the same bed, the bed corresponding to the one essence!” Good grief.

The problem with analogies is that, once again, we’re starting with ourselves—they’re anthropomorphic models, human handles on something far greater. Any time we start with ‘me,’ we don’t really get to the whole truth about God. Some truth, yes; all truth, no. Analogies are so limited, and how can limits suffice in pondering the Great Mystery of Three-in-One?

The other problem with this model, and I think this is the far more dangerous one, is that they’re so easy. It’s easy to say, “Sure, I believe in the Trinity,” and have a shamrock or some other image in your head, and then feel like, check, got that doctrinal bungee cord in my Christian backpack. After all, certain doctrines just need to be packed away and hauled through life, like equipment you might need someday on the journey, just in case… We never take our belief in the Trinity out to examine it; it never comes in terribly useful; and since it’s problematic, it’s best kept in a little side pocket. Keep it simple, baby. Maybe I’ll need that doctrine someday; maybe I won’t. But when we get to those pearly gates, we can pull it out and demonstrate to that seraphim with the flaming sword that yes, indeed, we have “believed” that… see, here it is… no, I never really thought about it much… it made my head hurt… I didn’t think it was that important… the thief on the cross never gave it a second thought, now did he?

But when we do that, we can actually end up “believing in the Trinity” and yet living without any connection whatsoever to the Triune God. We become what I call “serial monotheists”—that is, we definitely only believe in one God (at a time), but sometimes it is the Father, sometimes it is the Son, and sometimes it is the Spirit.

Anatolios is adamant that the Trinity is the heart and soul of Christian faith and practice. I want to know what that means.

Analogies are helpful in thinking and talking about the Trinity, but ultimately we must conclude that they’re inadequate. And it’s okay to use them, ponder their usefulness… as long as we do, in fact, understand that they are not explanations, correlations, or summations of the truth about God. They are only doorways into the conversation.

Next up, an interlude about the Nicene Creed, a space for the conversation.

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