A Blessing in Disguise

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All's Christ for the mill . . .

. . . or so they say.

Terrance Lindall on "Satan's Peculiar Grace"

"Satan's Peculiar Grace"

Terrance Lindall
WAH Center

A couple of weeks ago, Bienvenido Bones Banez gave an extemporaneous piano recital, "The Satanic Rhapsody," followed by Terrance Lindall expounding, also extemporaneously, on the "peculiar graces" of Satan in extrapolating from Bien's now-famous dictum, that "Satan gives color to the world!"

Bien's statement sounds rather disturbing, initially, but Lindall sets it within the context of the quasi-orthodox position known as the felix culpa, or "fortunate fall." The basic idea is that without Satan's role in bringing about the fall, Christ would never have taken on flesh to take on humankind's sins, but in order for Satan to 'cooperate' with God's aims -- whatever Satan's intentions -- Satan has to be graced by God with certain gifts, Satan's peculiar graces.

Lindall opens with a gambit that plays on Steve Fallon's views about John Milton's peculiar grace, and since the video was finally put up on YouTube, I took the time to transcribe Lindall's extemporaneous talk:

Milton's peculiar grace was the fact that he always wrote about himself so much, and of course he was the great inspiration for truth. He said truth on any battlefield against any foe will prevail.

Now, when Bien came here a few years ago, he inspired me with a saying of his. He said, "Satan gives color to the world." Well, what does that mean exactly? It means that all of the strife and everything in the world inspires poets, writers, artists. If you go to a museum, you'll see a lot of that. If you read a book, books from the sixteenth-century on, it's all about conflict and war, love and hatred, and all these things, competition -- well, that's Satan-inspired.

Can you imagine if this were God's perfect world, if you had everything you wanted, good food, place to rest, no problems, no pain, live forever? You could live as vegetables! Imagine that! So, Satan's peculiar grace is that he has given you something to aspire to, to compete with. He's the adrenaline rush in your blood, and he also gives you great literature talking about the struggles you have, and so that is Satan's peculiar grace. It's a grace given to you by Satan.

Also, something else in the history of religious philosophy, there was something called the "fortunate fall." Does anybody know what the fortunate fall is? Ah (pointing to man in audience), here's one scholar. The fortunate fall is . . . because man has fallen, we have been given the grace of Christ being born into the world, and Christ, of course, is sacrificing himself for your good, supposedly. He has taken all your sins upon him[self], that you might be redeemed. That's the fortunate fall of man, the fortunate fall of Adam and Eve from the garden. They had to be redeemed, and Christ did that. That's the fortunate fall.

So, just recently, I came up with a hair-raising idea. Well, every year at Christmas -- and I know some of you aren't Christians -- but every year at Christmas, we should thank Satan because Satan has caused Christ to be born into the world, so let's thank Satan as well as God for giving us Christ.

Of course, I got a letter from a professor in South Korea who said, "Why, that's hair-raising, that's nearly heretical!" And of course, it's not. And I'll tell you why. Everybody should be thinking about ideas and things. If you're Jewish or Catholic or Muslim or whatever, you should actually be thinking about your religion, not just following it, because I do believe that knowledge, supposedly given to man when Adam and Eve bit into the apple, is a good thing, and I also believe . . . I also believe that, ultimately, knowledge is the savior of mankind, whether you believe in a mythology of religion or whether you believe that religion is exactly the truth of the world, I believe man will be redeemed through knowledge.

And it's coming to understand yourself. Accommodate yourself to the world. Accommodate yourself peaceably with other men. And that's our struggle right now, accommodating ourselves with the different cultures around the world, the different religions, accommodating ourselves to build a better world. And that's what Yuko's idea is all about: Peace, Harmony, and Unity. And that's her idea. It comes from a Japanese concept, of wah, which is what WAH means, WAH Center.

And we created recently the Williamsburg Circle of International Arts and Letters, which is a very intellectual organization. We have people on it like Arthur Danto, the famous art critic, probably the most outstanding art critic or commentator of the twentieth century. He's now ninety years old. We also have the former president of St. Bonaventure University, who's probably the foremost Milton scholar, apart from Steve Fallon, and he formed the largest Milton collection in the world, of which of course I'm part. But it's an outstanding scholarly group.

Bien is one of the members, and so, it's not a thing [only] about knowledge. We're pursuing knowledge, we're finding out about how literature intersects with the arts. And you can look it up on the internet.

Meanwhile, do you have any questions?

There were questions and Lindall's further extrapolations on his concept of Satan's peculiar graces, but I didn't have time or energy to transcribe those. After I first watched the video, I wrote Lindall a note:

Good talk, Terrance. Your gestures show the peculiar grace of good public speakers. I was especially impressed that you could speak well extemporaneously despite the distractions of people walking through, people talking, and infants crying.

And I asked:

Is there a transcript?

There wasn't. There is now . . .

Truth in Orthodoxy . . . Or in Bucking Orthodoxy?

Orin Buck

In light of my post two days ago -- about Lindall's talk on "Satan's Peculiar Grace" and Bien's "Satanic Free Rhapsody" -- the artist Orin Buck sent those of us in the WAH Circle a 'peculiar' email:

Terry, are you guys going to start a new schism in the Western Church, advocating an appreciation for Satan's role in God's Plan? That would also fit with the appreciation of Judas as Christ's collaborator in the Salvation of Man -- you should include that, also. I think that view has an older precedent, which is always good.

Orin's link led to this surprising 'revelation': "Judas the Misunderstood: Vatican moves to clear reviled disciple's name" (Times Online, January 2006):

Judas Iscariot, the disciple who betrayed Jesus with a kiss, is to be given a makeover by Vatican scholars . . . . on the ground that he was not deliberately evil, but was just "fulfilling his part in God's plan" . . . . [A] campaign led by Monsignor Walter Brandmuller, head of the Pontifical Committee for Historical Science, is aimed at persuading believers to look kindly at a man reviled for 2,000 years . . . . Brandmuller told fellow scholars it was time for a "re-reading" of the Judas story. He is supported by Vittorio Messori, a prominent Catholic writer close to both Pope Benedict XVI and the late John Paul II . . . . Messori said that the rehabilitation of Judas would "resolve the problem of an apparent lack of mercy by Jesus toward one of his closest collaborators" . . . . [and he added] that there was a Christian tradition that held that Judas was forgiven by Jesus and ordered to purify himself with "spiritual exercises" in the desert . . . . Father Allen Morris, Christian Life and Worship secretary for the Catholic Bishops of England and Wales, said: "If Christ died for all -- is it possible that Judas too was redeemed through the Master he betrayed?" . . . . The move to clear Judas's name coincides with plans to publish the alleged Gospel of Judas for the first time in English, German and French. Though not written by Judas, it is said to reflect the belief among early Christians -- now gaining ground in the Vatican -- that in betraying Christ Judas was fulfilling a divine mission, which led to the arrest and Crucifixion of Jesus and hence to man's salvation . . . . The "Gospel of Judas," a 62-page worn and tattered papyrus, was found in Egypt half a century ago and later sold by antiquities dealers to the Maecenas Foundation in Basle, Switzerland.

That was back in 2006, and I've not heard that anything has come of it, but a similar idea was entertained by none other than Jorge Luis Borges in the short story "Three versions of Judas" way back during the twilight of the Nazi gods in 1944. The protagonist of this story was a Swedish theologian named Nils Runeberg whose scriptural investigations combined with a bent toward metaphysical speculations and led not merely to a complete rehabilitation of Judas, but indeed to that disciple's apotheosis in Runeberg's magnum opus:

Toward the end of 1907, Runeberg finished and revised the manuscript text; almost two years passed without his handing it to the printer. In October of 1909, the book appeared with a prologue (tepid to the point of being enigmatic) by the Danish Hebraist Erik Erfjord and bearing this perfidious epigraph: In the world he was, and the world was made by him, and the world knew him not (John 1:10). The general argument is not complex, even if the conclusion is monstrous. God, argues Nils Runeberg, lowered himself to be a man for the redemption of the human race; it is reasonable to assume that the sacrifice offered by him was perfect, not invalidated or attenuated by any omission. To limit all that happened to the agony of one afternoon on the cross is blasphemous. To affirm that he was a man and that he was incapable of sin contains a contradiction; the attributes of impeccabilitas and of humanitas are not compatible. Kemnitz admits that the Redeemer could feel fatigue, cold, confusion, hunger and thirst; it is reasonable to admit that he could also sin and be damned. The famous text "He will sprout like a root in a dry soil; there is not good mien to him, nor beauty; despised of men and the least of them; a man of sorrow, and experienced in heartbreaks" (Isaiah 53:2-3) is for many people a forecast of the Crucified in the hour of his death; for some (as for instance, Hans Lassen Martensen), it is a refutation of the beauty which the vulgar consensus attributes to Christ; for Runeberg, it is a precise prophecy, not of one moment, but of all the atrocious future, in time and eternity, of the Word made flesh. God became a man completely, a man to the point of infamy, a man to the point of being reprehensible -- all the way to the abyss. In order to save us, He could have chosen any of the destinies which together weave the uncertain web of history; He could have been Alexander, or Pythagoras, or Rurik, or Jesus; He chose an infamous destiny: He was Judas.

The fictional Runeberg went far beyond the rehabilitation of Judas proposed by the Catholic scholar Monsignor Brandmuller, but should one not expect a Protestant to forge far beyond Catholics in heresy, there being fewer institutional boundaries and more theological splitting?

Only a writer like Borges could come up with such a fictional economy of salvation, more fabulous even than the utopian economy of salvation concocted by Karl Marx! As an Italian girlfriend of thirty years ago once told me, "Marxists read Marx, bourgeoisie read Borges." Like her, I prefer the latter's fiction over that of the former . . .

Hebrews 7: Verses 15 and 3 (Jesus and Melchizedek and the Son of God)

Meeting of Abraham and Melchizedek

Dieric Bouts the Elder, 1464–67

(Image from Wikipedia)

In yesterday's study of Hebrews that takes place weekly among a small group of us in my church, we noticed a puzzle. The anonymous author of Hebrews goes far toward intimately identifying Jesus as priest with Melchizedek as priest, even asserting of each that his priestly status is eternal (7:3, 17, 21) and that each is immortal (7:8, 16), and our study group had wondered if the writer were alluding to the figure of Melchizedek in Genesis 14:18-20 as a pre-incarnate appearance of the Son of God.

However, we then came Hebrews 7:15, which refers to Jesus as a priest "in the likeness of Melchizedek" (κατὰ τὴν ὁμοιότητα Μελχισέδεκ), which would seem to treat the two as different figures. I noted that this seems odd, for it would appear to imply two heavenly priests of the same status existing eternally. Furthermore, though I didn't point this out in the group discussion, the verse would appear to set up a hierarchical relationship, in which the one (Jesus) who is likened to the other (Melchizedek) is also therefore subordinated to him, as the likeness is to the original.

Later, as my wife and I discussed the issue, I reflected again on Hebrews 7:3, which states of Melchizedek that he is "likened to the Son of God" (ἀφωμοιωμένος . . . τῷ υἱῷ τοῦ θεοῦ), which sets up the same sort of hierarchical distinction, except that this time, Melchizedek is the one being subordinated, namely, to the Son of God.

But this sets up a circular hierarchical comparison in which Jesus is subordinated to Melchizedek, who is subordinated to God's Son, of whom Jesus is the incarnate manifestation.

This raises a question for me: Is the author of Hebrews using "likeness" (ὁμοιότητα) and "likened" (ἀφωμοιωμένος) in special senses, not to compare two figures in a hierarchical arrangement but to imply an identity?

Are either of these two Greek terms (or similar terms) used in this way elsewhere?

An odd figure of speech . . .

Anchor

Out of Place?

(Image from Wikipedia)

I noticed in Hebrews 6:17-20 -- which happens to be a rather long, convoluted sentence about God's encouraging oath to back up a promise for those who have 'fled' to the hope in Jesus as High Priest who has entered the veil to the Holy of Holies in the heavenly tabernacle -- that an odd figure of speech occurs:

(17) Accordingly, when God desired to demonstrate more abundantly to those who are heirs of the promise the immutability of his will, he guaranteed (it) with an oath, (18) so that through two immutable things, in which it is impossible for one who is God to lie, we might have a strong encouragement, we who have fled so as to lay hold of the hope which lies before us, (19) which we have as an anchor of the soul, steady and firm and reaching into the interior of the veil, (20) where Jesus has entered as a forerunner for us, having become High Priest according to the order of Melchizedek, forever. (Harold Attridge, Commentary on the Epistle to the Hebrews, Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1989, page 178a)

The oddity among oddities in this odd convolution is that misplaced anchor. Oh, before I forget, here's the Greek original, for those readers who like too say "It's all Greek to me!"

17 ἐν ᾧ περισσότερον βουλόμενος ὁ θεὸς ἐπιδεῖξαι τοῖς κληρονόμοις τῆς ἐπαγγελίας τὸ ἀμετάθετον τῆς βουλῆς αὐτοῦ ἐμεσίτευσεν ὅρκῳ 18 ἵνα διὰ δύο πραγμάτων ἀμεταθέτων ἐν οἷς ἀδύνατον ψεύσασθαι τὸν θεόν ἰσχυρὰν παράκλησιν ἔχωμεν οἱ καταφυγόντες κρατῆσαι τῆς προκειμένης ἐλπίδος 19 ἣν ὡς ἄγκυραν ἔχομεν τῆς ψυχῆς ἀσφαλῆ τε καὶ βεβαίαν καὶ εἰσερχομένην εἰς τὸ ἐσώτερον τοῦ καταπετάσματος 20 ὅπου πρόδρομος ὑπὲρ ἡμῶν εἰσῆλθεν Ἰησοῦς κατὰ τὴν τάξιν Μελχισέδεκ ἀρχιερεὺς γενόμενος εἰς τὸν αἰῶνα. (GNT Morph, Blue Letter Bible)

The Greek term for anchor is "agkyra" (ἄγκυρα), which clearly has an etymological connection to our English term "anchor," but what's an anchor doing within the veil to the Holy of Holies? I realize that this is a fanciful metaphor, not an actual anchor, but the image is odd. Believers are all on a ship at sea and have let the anchor out not in the depths of the sea but in the heights of the heavens, for this Holy of Holies is located in the innermost sanctuary of the heavenly tabernacle.

Attridge himself notes that this anchor "strikes a different and somewhat incongruous note" (p. 183b) and that "[t]he nautical imagery, already strained by the note that the anchor 'enters,' is broken with the reference to the place where the anchor reaches, 'the interior of the veil'" (p. 184a).

But this does make sense, finally, of that odd line that used to puzzle me in stanze 2 of Edward Mote's hymn "My Hope is Built on Nothing Less":

My hope is built on nothing less
Than Jesus' blood and righteousness;
I dare not trust the sweetest frame,
But wholly lean on Jesus' name.
On Christ, the solid Rock, I stand;
All other ground is sinking sand.

When darkness veils His lovely face,
I rest on His unchanging grace;
In every high and stormy gale
My anchor holds within the veil.
On Christ, the solid Rock, I stand;
All other ground is sinking sand.

His oath, His covenant, and blood
Support me in the whelming flood;
When every earthly prop gives way,
He then is all my Hope and Stay.
On Christ, the solid Rock, I stand;
All other ground is sinking sand.

When He shall come with trumpet sound,
Oh, may I then in Him be found,
Clothed in His righteousness alone,
Faultless to stand before the throne!
On Christ, the solid Rock, I stand;
All other ground is sinking sand.

I'm referring to the line "My anchor holds within the veil," which I always thought had a misspelling for "vale," i.e., "valley," and that was odd enough, but the spelling now makes sense.

In an odd sort of way . . .

Charles Portis: True Grit

Image from Amazon.com

I saw the first movie made from this Portis novel way back when it came out, or a little thereafter. It starred John Wayne and Glenn Campbell, who were well-known, and Kim Darby, who wasn't. The film was okay, but it was a John Wayne vehicle to an Oscar and was marred by Campbell's 'acting'. I think that I liked it because it was sort of about Arkansas, my home state. I was just a kid of 13 or 14, I reckon.

Well, I finally read the book over the weekend past because I was taking some time off and had the thing handy since I'd gotten it for my daughter as a Christmas gift. I bought it for her because it's sort of about Arkansas and because Charles Portis and LeRoy Tucker are friends, and I thought that I ought to get to know the friend of a friend.

Also, a new movie has been made based on the book, a Coen Brothers film, said to be far superior to the first one, so I thought that I'd prepare myself for seeing it.

Anyway, I liked the book. "A good story, well-told," as I wrote to Mr. Tucker upon finishing it. I wondered, though, why the book has stayed on my mind -- not that much time has passed since the weekend, of course. I think that it's stuck with me because it brings together several things that give the story tension. One thing is the distinctive narrative voice of the girl Mattie Ross, who sets out to avenge her father's death by hunting down and killing his murderer, Tom Chaney, in spite of being a good 'Christian'. Indeed, despite being even a very strict Calvinist with a deep attachment to the doctrine of predestination, she nevertheless hooks up with an obvious reprobate, the one-eyed U. S. Marshall, Rooster Cogburn, for him to help her do the dirty work. Another thing, naturally, is Rooster Cogburn himself, who might not be a saint, but who turns out to be a chivalrous knight on a horse -- in less-than-shining armor, but a knight nonetheless -- for even when he knows that Mattie is safe (or seems to be), he performs for her by 'jousting' against four dark knights:

Rooster said, "Fill your hands, you son of a bitch!" and he took the reins in his teeth and pulled the other saddle revolver and drove his spurs into the flanks of his strong horse Bo and charged directly at the bandits. It was a sight to see. He held the revolvers wide on either side of the head of his plunging steed. The four bandits accepted the challenge and they likewise pulled their arms and charged their ponies ahead.

It was some daring move on the part of the deputy marshall whose manliness and grit I had doubted. No grit? Rooster Cogburn? Not much!

. . .

I believe the bandits began firing their weapons first, although the din and smoke was of such a sudden, general nature that I cannot be sure. I do know that the marshall rode for them in so determined and unwavering a course that the bandits broke their "line" ere he reached them and raced through them, his revolvers blazing, and he not aiming with the sights but only pointing the barrels and snapping his head from side to side to bring his good eye into play.

Harold Permalee was the first to go down. He flung his shotgun in the air and clutched at his neck and was thrown backward over the rump of his horse. The Original Greaser Bob rode wider than the others and he lay flat on his horse and escaped clear with his winnings. Farrell Permalee was hit and a moment later his horse went down with a broken leg and Farrell was dashed violently forward to his death.

We thought that Rooster had come through the ordeal with no injury, but in fact he had caught several shotgun pellets in his face and shoulders . . .

One dark knight remains to be dealt with, the bandit chief Ned Pepper, but that's part of the story.

Also, Mattie's own ordeal isn't quite over, for she must face down her father's killer one last time, but in firing at him with her father's heavy pistol, she's thrown backward from the recoil and falls deep into a sinkhole that threatens to swallow her ever more deeply as she finds herself loosely wedged into a narrow neck of the hole and hard by the bones of a dead man, whose ribcage is filled with a ball of serpents. Rooster descends to harrow this hellish scene, stomp the serpents that threaten, and save her from falling entirely into the pit of utter darkness below.

All this is told with a lighter touch than I've used here, but I wanted to make explicit what's going on at a deeper level.

I think that there are even echoes of Don Quixote in the protagonist Rooster Cogburn, partly from the picaresque aspect to his character, partly from the ridiculous figure that he cuts, and partly from his exaggerated sense of self, but we shouldn't be too surprised to find the Knight, the Christ, and the Man of La Mancha all put into one character, for the chivalrous cowboy is commonly portrayed as the last incarnation of the Medieval knight, of which Quixote was a Renaissance example, and the virtuous night was ever a Christ figure. It all fits, somehow, even if Rooster isn't exactly a cowboy.

No wonder Mattie Ross falls so deeply in love with Rooster, without ever quite realizing that she does.

And that makes her story a tragic one . . .

"The Gospel of Mel Gibson"?

Poor schizoid Mr. Gibson, eh?

Oh, perhaps he's no greater wretch than the rest of us, but he certainly seems to be currently working overtime at bringing himself lower than what you might expect to scrape from the bottom of that proverbial barrel, and his image has taken quite a long, hard tumble since his heady days with The Passion of the Christ almost seven years ago.

I've read enough in the transcript from the recording of his self-righteous, narcissistic bluster towards Oksana Grigorieva to realize that we only now truly know the guy, and I don't care to know him any closer by reading more of that.

I'll therefore take some distance from the man and turn to an astute analysis of Gibson's narcissism by David Brooks in his recent column, "The Gospel of Mel Gibson," published with the New York Times (July 15, 2010):

There used to be theories that deep down narcissists feel unworthy, but recent research doesn't support this. Instead, it seems, the narcissist's self-directed passion is deep and sincere.

Note this clever use of the quasi-religious term "passion." We'll return to this. But first, more on the typical narcissist:

His self-love is his most precious possession. It is the holy center of all that is sacred and right. He is hypersensitive about anybody who might splatter or disregard his greatness. If someone treats him slightingly, he perceives that as a deliberate and heinous attack. If someone threatens his reputation, he regards this as an act of blasphemy. He feels justified in punishing the attacker for this moral outrage.

More religious terminology there from Brooks on the narcissist's messianic self-regard, with additional religious language of the sacred yet to come:

And because he plays by different rules, and because so much is at stake, he can be uninhibited in response. Everyone gets angry when they feel their self-worth is threatened, but for the narcissist, revenge is a holy cause and a moral obligation, demanding overwhelming force.

Brooks then turns to Gibson and describes his verbal attack upon Oksana Grigorieva as "primal and searing" in "unleashing one . . . barrage after another," his "breathing . . . heavy," his "vocal muscles . . . clenched," and his "guttural sounds . . . like hammer blows." His "crude and derogatory" words "come out in waves" as he tries "to pulverize her into nothingness, like some corruption that has intertwined itself into his being and now must be expunged." Brooks is especially struck by Gibson's self-righteous -- dare one suggest messianic -- self-regard:

It is striking how morally righteous he is, without ever bothering to explain what exactly she has done wrong. It is striking how quickly he reverts to the vocabulary of purity and disgust. It is striking how much he believes he deserves. It is striking how much he seems to derive satisfaction from his own righteous indignation.

How did he fall so far? Recall that this was a man -- as reported by Allison Adato in "The Gospel of Mel," People (Vol. 61 No. 9, March 08, 2004) -- who imagined himself already so low:

It's the director's left hand nailing Jesus to the cross. The cameo is more than a Hitchcockian gimmick. Gibson feels his telling of the Passion holds all humanity responsible for the death of Jesus. And, he has said, "I'm first on line for culpability. I did it."

I recall being struck by those very words back in 2004 and thinking that they sounded something like what many evangelicals might utter, perhaps echoing the words of St. Paul in I Timothy 1:15, that "Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners; of whom I am chief."

But Gibson's words seemed somehow different, perhaps because he had physically acted out the role of the one actually pounding in the nails. Consider his statement: "I'm first on line for culpability." If Brooks is right about Gibson being a narcissist, then we shouldn't interpret Gibson's confession of his culpability as an expression of humility, but as a claim to primacy.

Mel is just too good to be any place other than "first on line." His "Passion" is first and foremost about himself . . . as Brooks implies in his clever, striking pun on "passion," just one of many wordplays, beginning with his column's title.

Gibson's gospel turns out to be just Gibson, a self-glorifying narcissist flaming out as a falling star in a long, tedious arc of insidious descent.

Dostoevsky on Christ and Truth?

Monument to Dostoevsky

Russian State Library, Moscow

(Image from Times Online)

I once criticized the Archbishop of Canterbury in this blog for his suggestion that sharia be legally recognized as applying to British Muslims on issues of family law if they wished to appeal to Islamic principles, for he seemed not to realize that women are accorded fewer rights than men in sharia. On a personal level, however, I like Archbishop Rowan Williams, and I speak in the strictest sense of "personal," for I met the person in Scotland at St. Andrews some years back during a conference there on the Gospel of John. Probably, I like him because he laughed at a joke that I made.

I imagine that I would also like what he has to say much of the time, and I ought to read his book on a subject of mutual interest, Dostoevsky: Language, Faith, and Fiction. The book was published two years ago, so I'm too late for reading to review, but Salley Vickers reviewed it in 2008 for The Times in an article available online. Ms. Vickers goes to the heart of the matter concerning Dostoevsky, as does the Archbishop, for she writes:

Williams begins [his book] with a perplexing comment in the 1854 letter that Dostoevsky wrote when just released from labour camp. The letter, to the woman who had given him, while in prison, a copy of the New Testament which had dramatically affected his beliefs, asserts "if someone were to prove to me that Christ was outside the truth, and it was really the case that the truth lay outside Christ, then I should choose to stay with Christ rather than with the truth". This declaration has disturbed Dostoevsky readers ever since. Versions of it resound throughout the fiction, finding the clearest echo in The Devils, in the question put to one of the characters: "Didn't you tell me that if it were mathematically proved to you that truth was outside Christ you would rather remain with Christ than truth?"

This passage by Ms. Vickers motivates me to order a copy of the Archbishop's book, for I'd like to know how he unpacks Dostoevsky's assertion of a fideism against his better judgment in the hypothetical case Dostoevsky sets up. The novelist's remark sounds extreme, but I wonder how many contemporary Christians may have intuited the same potential dilemma. A couple of times in the past two years, I've heard intelligent ministers offer similarly fideistic views, one of them arguing that we must set aside our human logic and accept God's truth and the other arguing that we have to get back behind the Age of Reason and accept some mysteries that sound like a contradiction.

Well, I have a problem with that sort of fideism, for if one accepts that contradictions are acceptable, how does one decide which contradictions to accept, given that there are an unbounded number to choose from?

In my opinion, a contradiction requires resolution, or least an honest attempt at resolution, rather than the sacrifice of one's rationality. I'm not so arrogant as to imagine that I can resolve all contradictions, but I do believe that they impose a duty on us to attempt resolution.

I'd therefore like to see what the Archbishop has to say on Dostoevsky's formulation of this problem.

"Imitation of Christ"

Thomas à Kempis

(Image from Wikipedia)

In a recent Christianity Today article, "The Jesus We'll Never Know" (April 9, 2010), Scot McKnight tells of how he begins his class on that 'historical Jesus' figure known as Jesus of Nazareth:

On the opening day of my class on Jesus of Nazareth, I give a standardized psychological test divided into two parts. The results are nothing short of astounding.

The first part is about Jesus. It asks students to imagine Jesus' personality, with questions such as, "Does he prefer to go his own way rather than act by the rules?" and "Is he a worrier?" The second part asks the same questions of the students, but instead of "Is he a worrier?" it asks, "Are you a worrier?" The test is not about right or wrong answers, nor is it designed to help students understand Jesus. Instead, if given to enough people, the test will reveal that we all think Jesus is like us. Introverts think Jesus is introverted, for example, and, on the basis of the same questions, extroverts think Jesus is extroverted.

Spiritual formation experts would love to hear that students in my Jesus class are becoming like Jesus, but the test actually reveals the reverse: Students are fashioning Jesus to be more like themselves. If the test were given to a random sample of adults, the results would be measurably similar. To one degree or another, we all conform Jesus to our own image.

Since we are pushing this point, let's not forget historical Jesus scholars, whose academic goal is to study the records, set the evidence in historical context, render judgment about the value of the evidence, and compose a portrait of "what Jesus was really like." They, too, have ended up making Jesus in their own image.

I recall as an undergraduate at Baylor University that during a time of depression, I imagined Jesus as a depressed individual, though a happy friend insisted that Jesus was a very happy fellow. We both made Jesus in our own images, so I reckon McKnight is correct. His point is not entirely new, of course, as Albert Schweitzer noted this early in the twentieth century in his critique of the Jesus reconstructed by scholars in their search for the historical Jesus, for these scholars all reconstituted Jesus in their own image. The tendency undoubtedly goes back centuries, for instance to Thomas à Kempis in his famous, fifteenth-century De imitatione Christi, as we perhaps see here, in an English translation by Aloysius Croft and Harold Bolton, The Imitation of Christ (Bruce Publishing Company, 1940), Book 4, Chapter 8:

As I offered Myself willingly to God the Father for your sins with hands outstretched and body naked on the cross, so that nothing remained in Me that had not become a complete sacrifice to appease the divine wrath, so ought you to be willing to offer yourself to Me day by day in the Mass as a pure and holy oblation, together with all your faculties and affections, with as much inward devotion as you can.

What more do I ask than that you give yourself entirely to Me? I care not for anything else you may give Me, for I seek not your gift but you. Just as it would not be enough for you to have everything if you did not have Me, so whatever you give cannot please Me if you do not give yourself.

Offer yourself to Me, therefore, and give yourself entirely for God -- your offering will be accepted. Behold, I offered Myself wholly to the Father for you, I even gave My whole Body and Blood for food that I might be all yours, and you Mine forever.

But if you rely upon self, and do not offer your free will to Mine, your offering will be incomplete and the union between us imperfect. Hence, if you desire to attain grace and freedom of heart, let the free offering of yourself into the hands of God precede your every action. This is why so few are inwardly free and enlightened -- they know not how to renounce themselves entirely.

My word stands: "Everyone of you that doth not renounce all that he possesseth, cannot be My disciple." (Luke 14:33)

If, therefore, you wish to be My disciple, offer yourself to Me with all your heart. (paragraphs 231-232)

Here, we see a Christ who renounced all of his 'self' on the cross and asks his followers to do the same, which would likely appeal to Christians of many varieties of Christianity, but in some of the specifics might appeal only to Catholics, for in references to the "mass" and to Christ's body and blood as "food," we see a very Catholic Christ exhorting Catholic Christians to (distantly) imitate him by offering themselves as "oblations" during the same mass. Thomas à Kempis would thus appear to have constructed Christ as a Catholic.

I offer nothing surprising or profound in this observation, obviously, neither anything original nor purely scholarly. I was simply struck by Scot McKnight's anecdote about students and by the thought that Thomas à Kempis must have done the same sort of thing.

I suppose that some scholar has looked into the point, but this is just a note to myself . . .

Anglo-Saxon Hoard Found in Former Kingdom of Mercia

Anglo-Saxon Treasure

(Image from Yahoo.com)

Exciting news this morning awaited those of us interested in such Anglo-Saxon literature as Beowulf, for we read of an archaeological find with enormous implications for Anglo-Saxon studies. I read of it in Yahoo's article by Raphael G. Satter: "Largest hoard of Anglo-Saxon treasure found in UK."

Roger Bland, the expert who directed the hoard's excavation, calls it a "fantastic find." The treasure was unearthed in the former Anglo-Saxon kingdoms of Mercia and is dated to 675-725 AD, which puts it close in time to the composition of that epic poem Beowulf.

Relevant to this literary 'connection' would be the small strip of gold shown above, for it is inscribed with a martial quotation from a Latin version of the Old Testament:

"Rise up, O Lord, and may thy enemies be dispersed and those who hate thee be driven from thy face."

Satter doesn't identify the precise source, nor does he provide the Latin, so I shall. It's Numbers 10:35 and says in Latin:

"surge Domine et dissipentur inimici tui et fugiant qui oderunt te a facie tua"

If you compare this verse to the image, you will be able to make out some of the Latin words, albeit differing slightly in spelling, e.g., "dissipentur" is given as "disepentu(r)" and "fugiant" as "fugent."

That will give linguists something to puzzle over, but I'm more interested in possible implications of this warlike verse choice for my theory that in the poem Beowulf, the character "Beowulf is being presented as a pagan antetype of Christ in an epic Anglo-Saxon praeparatio evangelium" that models pre-Christian Anglo-Saxon culture as being under the old covenant described in the Old Testament.

I argue this latter point at length in my article "Praeparatio Evangelium: Beowulf as Antetype of Christ," published back in 2004 by The Medieval and Early Modern English Studies Association of Korea (Volume 12, Issue 2).

The literature scholar Brother Anthony has kindly placed my article online for those intrepid enough to venture in such realms.

UPDATE: Current Archaeology 236 (cf. Wikipedia) provides the entire Latin inscription, "surge d[omi]ne [et] disepentur inimici tui et fugent qui oderunt te a facie tua," and references both Numbers 10:35 (i.e., "surge Domine et dissipentur inimici tui et fugiant qui oderunt te a facie tua") and Psalm 67:2 (i.e., "Exsurgat Deus et dissipentur inimici eius et fugiant qui oderunt eum a facie eius"), but the inscription is obviously much closer to the Numbers citation.

Divine Sovereignty and Human Freedom II

The Last Judgement (c. 1467-1471)

Hans Memling

(Image from Wikipedia)

Two blog entries ago, I posted on "Divine Sovereignty and Human Freedom" in response to a couple of comments by Professor David C. Innis on an even earlier entry in which I ask about "Total Depravity?"

In my blog entry on "Divine Sovereignty and Human Freedom," I cited Matthew 11:23 as a scriptural foundation for free will:

καὶ σύ Καφαρναούμ μὴ ἕως οὐρανοῦ ὑψωθήσῃ ἕως ᾅδου καταβήσῃ ὅτι εἰ ἐν Σοδόμοις ἐγενήθησαν αἱ δυνάμεις αἱ γενόμεναι ἐν σοί ἔμεινεν ἂν μέχρι τῆς σήμερον (Morphological Greek New Testament)

And thou, Capernaum, which unto the heaven wast exalted, unto hades shalt be brought down, because if in Sodom had been done the mighty works that were done in thee, it had remained unto this day; (Young's Literal Translation)

My argument was as follows:

Look at the biblical statement, which -- in its larger textual context -- effectively means that Capernaum will be condemned because Sodom would have repented (cf. verse 20). The "because" here specifies the reason for Capernaum's condemnation, namely, that Sodom would have repented, implying that Capernaum should also have repented. But that implication further entails that Capernaum could have repented, for a "should" entails a "could."

Professor Innis replied:

Well that is a challenging point, and I've had to ponder it. But is the example really any different from Jesus' call for people to "Repent!"? Or is it any different from the very fact of a Judgment Day, when Jesus will say, "I was hungry and you didn't feed me"? Here he says, Messiah himself lived in your midst, preached the Kingdom, and you didn't repent. He uses the example of Sodom to shame them and so to stir their consciences.

I think that there is a difference between Matthew 11:23 (actually, the entire passage of Matthew 11:20-24) and two examples given by Professor Innis. Neither example offers a counterfactual. In the first example, Christ's call to "Repent!" is a present offer, current at each moment (until retracted someday). In the second example, the judgement pronounced by Christ on Judgement Day is for a past failure, therefore closed off in the past (and thus judged). Neither of these situations is expressed counterfactually. Although I believe that the call and the judgement both presuppose personal responsibility and thereby free choice, I think that Matthew 11:23 provides a stronger argument by virtue of its counterfactual.

Basic to my argument here is the statement that a "should" entails a "could." According to my friend Bill Vallicella, The Maverick Philosopher, this is equivalent to stating that an "ought" implies a "can." The standard view in philosophy is: "If one ought to do X, then one must be able to do X." I think that this statement is even more clear when expressed as a past subjunctive -- "If one should have done X, then one must have been able to do X" -- for this means that one could have acted differently.

Christ's words in Matthew 11:23 seem to mean that in the very conditions in which Capernaum had found itself at the time of the call to repent, it could have chosen to repent or not to repent. Capernaum did not repent, but this fact does not mean that it could not have repented, for if that were the case, the analogy to Sodom as a counterfactually repentent city would fail.

My argument depends upon Christ referring to a past event, which is how I understand Matthew 11:20:

Τότε ἤρξατο ὀνειδίζειν τὰς πόλεις ἐν αἷς ἐγένοντο αἱ πλεῖσται δυνάμεις αὐτοῦ ὅτι οὖ μετενόησαν (Morphological Greek New Testament)

Then began he to reproach the cities in which were done most of his mighty works, because they did not repent. (Young's Literal Translation, slightly edited)

The Greek word metenoasan (μετενόησαν) is in the aorist, and ou metenoasan (οὖ μετενόησαν) therefore means "did not repent." Some translations use the past perfect: "had not repented." Either way, I take Christ's words here as referring to a past event from the perspective of Christ himself.

But I suppose that there might be some disagreement on how to understand the use of the aorist in this verse, and I'll have to think about this point.

Early Christian Cup: DIA CHRESTOU OGOISTAIS?

DIA CHRESTOU OGOISTAIS

(Image from Der Spiegel)

The New Testament scholar Jim West has called attention on Cross-Talk List to this archaeological 'find' -- discovered in the harbor seabed of Alexandria, Egypt by the German diver and treasure hunter Franck Goddio -- which bears the words DIA CHRESTOU OGOISTAIS. Jim also blogs briefly on this cup and links to Wieland Willker for the image. I'll not link directly to Wieland's copy of the image, because of an intrusive pop-up there, but will link instead to the original at Der Spiegel.

This 'find' apparently has some people excited because they think that the words refer to Christ. Wieland seems to take this 'find' seriously:

Franck Goddio found this cup on the ground of the harbor of Alexandria in May this year. It has a diameter of about 9 cm and weighs 200g. According to their report, it was found in layer 2 of the stratigraphy, which means that it is from the first half of the first century!

The epigraph André Bernand from Paris thinks that the biblical Messiah is meant. He considers the cup as some kind of witch’s cauldron which belonged to a fortune teller who was basing his authority on Jesus. The text means "Magician through Christ".

Wieland is here referring to André Bernand's speculation as reported in Der Spiegel. Bernand might be thinking of the sort of practice reported in Acts 19:13-14:

Then certain of the vagabond Jews, exorcists, took upon them to call over them which had evil spirits the name of the Lord Jesus, saying, We adjure you by Jesus whom Paul preacheth. And there were seven sons of one Sceva, a Jew, and chief of the priests, which did so.

This passage in Acts implies that some non-Christians sought to use the name "Jesus" as part of a magical formula to exorcise evil spirits, though the incantation doesn't seem to have worked very well in this case, as verses 15 and 16 go on to report:

And the evil spirit answered and said, Jesus I know, and Paul I know; but who are ye? And the man in whom the evil spirit was leaped on them, and overcame them, and prevailed against them, so that they fled out of that house naked and wounded.

Be that as it may, my main point is that an attempt at a magical use of the name "Jesus" -- and therefore also of the title "Christos" -- is entirely possible in principle.

Antonio Lombatti, however, who maintains the website Pseudoscienze cristiane antiche e medievali, (Ancient and Medieval Christian Pseudoscience), expresses deep skepticism about this particular cup:

You don't need a microscopical analysis of that inscription: of course, it cannot be so neat if the object was found under the sea. Moreover, I also find the carving of the Greek letters to be quite unusual -- I mean, too perfect -- for a text on a 2,000 year-old cup.

Jim West agrees that the inscription is a fake, and I concur that the inscription looks awfully clear for being on an object supposedly under water for 2000 years, but I'm no expert.

Yet . . . I do wonder why the inscription reads "DIA CHRESTOU OGOISTAIS" rather than "DIA CHRISTOU OGOISTAIS." The word "chrestou" is the genitive singular form of "chrestos," which is an adjective meaning "good," and therefore not the title "Christos," which is what one would expect if this referred to Christ. Why would a forger choose to inscribe the word "good" rather than "Christ"? Was the supposed forger so inept?

The German article in Der Spiegel notes that "chrestos" was actually used rather often as a Greek name:

"Chrestos war in Griechenland ein gebräuchlicher männlicher Vorname", erklärt der Historiker Manfred Clauss aus Frankfurt am Main, "das muss nichts mit Jesus zu tun haben."

Translated, this says:

"Chrestos was commonly a man's given name in Greece," explains the historian Manfred Clauss of Frankfurt am Main. "That need not have anything to do with Jesus."

This is correct, but I do recall, from my time studying with New Testament Professor Otto Betz in Tübingen, that "Christos" and "chrestos" were sometimes interchanged as a wordplay since "Christ" was "good." Perhaps the putative forger was not inept but clever?

To be clear, however, let me emphasize that I am also skeptical about this inscription, and for the reason given by Antonio Lombatti. The letters simply look much too distinct to be nearly 2000 years old.

But what in the world does ogoistais actually mean? If this is a forgery, it's a very odd one.

Alexander Boguslawski: More on Seraph in Bosom of "Christ the Blessed Silence"

Christ the Blessed Silence

Russian, circa 1700 (30.7 x 27 cm)

(Image from The Temple Gallery)

Christ the Blessed Silence

Detail with Seraph

(Image from The Temple Gallery)

In my Thursday post providing Alexander Boguslawski's fascinating and useful, detailed information about this Russian icon showing a seraph nestled in the bosom of Christ the Blessed Silence, I closed with these words:

Perhaps some reader who knows the explanation to this puzzling image of the the seraph in Christ's bosom will take the time to lead us through the labyrinth to the answer.

Well, a reader did step forth with more information, none other than, once again, Professor Boguslawski himself, who provided "Some news on the Blessed Silence":

I contacted Richard Temple (an old friend) and discovered from his reply that he had on his site two other icons featuring seraphim (or cherubim). I am attaching a series of pictures for you, as well as Temple's commentary on those icons. He has no idea why the iconography changed or allowed these variations (there are, for instance, blue cherubim in one of the icons).

I'd like to post those images that Boguslawski sent, but I couldn't locate them at The Temple Gallery, and I don't yet know how to copy them from my computer onto my site at Photobucket, the online service that I use to store the images that I post here on my blog. If I figure that out, I'll post them, for the two mentioned by Boguslawski differ from the icon above in that they each show three seraphim -- one in the center and two on each side.

Meanwhile, here's what Richard Temple has written:

BLESSED SILENCE. ("Blagoe Molchanie")

Christ depicted as an angel is based on Isaiah 9:5 who refers to "The Messenger ("Angelos") of Great Counsel". He is the "Word in Eternity" and, according to Coomber in The Icon Handbook, (Springfield Illinois, 1995), the iconography is "associated with the Creation and the Plan of Salvation, ordained from Eternity".

Other references from Isaiah are relevant: 42:2 "He shall not...cause his voice to be heard in the streets"; 53:7 "He was afflicted yet opened not his mouth...as a sheep before her shearers is dumb, so he opens not his mouth".

Two four pointed stars, one superimposed on the other, are seen within Christ's halo; their eight points are said to symbolize Eternity and the whole of Creation. (The Octave is the symbol of completion).

Christ is clothed as a bishop (cf Hebrews 4:14 "...we have a great high priest that is passed into the heavens, Jesus Christ, Son of God...". Seraphim, six-winged, bodiless and traditionally red, adorn the upper part of his chest and arms. The Seraphim, according to Dionysius the Areopagite, are the highest order of Angels and stand at the entrance into Paradise. Below Christ's navel is a Cherub, also bodiless and regarded as second in the angelic order. Christ holds the traditional Russian eight pointed cross and an inscribed scroll: "Come unto me all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest" (Matthew 11:28).

The subject was introduced into the iconographical canon in Russia in the 16th century. At that time Moscow, which had recently declared itself the Third Rome, was a milieu of intense theological and iconographical activity. (See N.P. Kondakov, The Russian Icon, OUP 1928, Chapter Mystical and Didactic Subjects).

I'm not sure which of the three images depicting a seraph in the bosom of Christ that Temple is referring to, for I don't see the cherub above Christ's navel, but given this information and the two additional images, Boguslawski has concluded:

Therefore, my statement that the icon was "absolutely unique" needs to be changed to "unusual." My explanation that it indicates the closeness of the heavenly forces to Christ still holds... Well, and now we have a nice collection of images...

And we may soon have one more, for Boguslawski tells me:

I am even tempted to paint my own icon of the Blessed Silence, since I am a modern day iconographer (see an example of one of my works -- the recently finished Mother of God of Kazan).

Again, I would like to provide that Theotokian image, but it is stubbornly stuck on my computer rather than 'unstuck' on Photobucket. You can, however, visit Boguslawski's own website for exhibiting his art, including several of his icons, but I don't see his "Mother of God of Kazan" included.

In his closing remarks, Boguslawski added some kind words:

And one more comment -- I love your blog! What a relief to find a literate person!

To this, I replied:

I'm glad that you like my blog. I don't know that I'm really so literate, but I do have a lot of interests -- mostly of things that I can't so easily comprehend, but a man's reach must exceed his grasp, else what's a heaven for?

I wish that I had even a modicum of your linguistic and artistic talent . . . and your other talents as well. Perhaps mine is a talent for blogging. But like the winged Christ with seraph, I am not unique. I've found a host of intelligent, literate bloggers. My own blog might be unusual for the range of things that I post on. Just today, I blogged about my Ozark home...

But I'll leave the degree to which my blog is 'unusual' to the judgement of my peers, those who peer here.

Icon of Winged Christ the Blessed Silence with a Seraph in His Bosom

Christ the Blessed Silence

Russian, circa 1700 (30.7 x 27 cm)

(Image from The Temple Gallery)

I am inspired this morning to make some brief remarks on this icon to which Brandon Watson (who blogs at Siris) drew my attention some days ago when I was blogging about various depictions of Christ as a winged figure.

Especially intriguing for me in the above icon is the seraph held in the bosom of Christ. In response to Brandon, I wondered if the seraph were an allusion to the story of St. Francis receiving the stigmata from a six-winged 'Christ' in a baffling vision in which Christ, a seraph, and the soul of St. Francis all three appear identical. Readers will recall that I devoted several blog entries to this puzzling vision.

But perhaps the icon above is presenting the Holy Spirit as emanating from the bosom of the Son -- except that I've never heard of the Spirit being depicted as a seraph. A dove, yes; but a seraph, no . . . which may suggest nothing other than my ignorance.

I'm hoping that Alexander Boguslawski, professor of Russian Studies at Rollins College might have some illuminating remarks on this icon, for he noticed that I had quoted his remarks on the depiction of a winged Christ in Rublev's famous icon presenting the Old Testament Trinity, so he posted an interesting comment on that particular blog entry.

But we'll just have to wait on that.

Meanwhile, here's a modern-day icon, a beautiful, angelic Sophie revealing words about her role in creation -- and one can also find this same Sophie linked to Milton's Paradise Lost.

Christ as Winged Holy Silence

Jesus Christ as Winged Holy Silence

(Image from Elizabeth T. Knuth's Website)

I noted in an earlier blog entry that over at the Milton List, the scholar Paul Miller had called attention to Rublev's winged trinity. Well, he also linked to still another tradition of a winged 'Christ' -- in the figure of a winged Holy Silence.

For instance, he linked to the above depiction at the website of Elizabeth T. Knuth, who not only provides the icon but also tells us:

This remarkable icon depicts Christ as Holy Silence. The inscription on the bottom border says, "Hê hagia hêsychia", that is, "Holy silence." Hesychia is much sought after in Orthodox spirituality, but this is clearly an icon of Christ, for the inscription within the icon itself reads, "Jesus Christ." Is the Word now silent? Is it not rather that the Word is found and speaks in silence?

The figure in the icon has wings, a sign of heavenly origin, as in Rublev's famous icon of the Trinity. Christ is wearing red robes. Red is the color of the Incarnation, and also the color of grace. The diamond on Christ's breast is surrounded by seven jewels, seven being the number of perfection and the number of gifts of the Holy Spirit.

In iconography, Christ as Hesychia is sometimes depicted as masculine and at other times, as in this instance, in feminine form. The same can be said of the portrayal of Christ as Holy Wisdom.

Wisdom, if not depicted in the Old Testament as a Person in the Trinitarian sense, is certainly personified and identified very closely with God. In Hebrew and Greek, the Biblical languages, Wisdom is feminine. Therefore Divine Wisdom is "she". See, for example, Proverbs 8 and the beginning of the following chapter. Christians understood these Old Testament references to Wisdom as foreshadowing Christ. The Gospels tell of Jesus Christ in words that are often reminiscent of Holy Wisdom, and St. Paul more than once calls Christ the Wisdom of God. This icon accordingly portrays Christ as Wisdom incarnate.

As Knuth notes, "the inscription within the icon itself reads, 'Jesus Christ,'" i.e., "IC XC," the abbreviation in Greek capital letters for "Iēsous Christós." Knuth further identifies this figure not only as "Holy Silence" (Hê Hagia Hêsychia) but also as "Holy Wisdom" (Hagia Sophia).

I do not know if identifying "Holy Silence" with "Holy Wisdom" is also traditional, or if Knuth herself is suggesting this identification. She does note that Christ as Holy Silence appears in both feminine and masculine form.

For a masculine winged figure of Holy Silence as Christ, see the following icon by Suzanne Zoole:

Suzanne Zoole, Christ the Holy Silence (2001)

(Image from The Episcopal Church and Visual Arts)

Ms. Zoole tells us that this "icon was painted during a five day silent retreat at Mepkin Abbey, a Trappist monastery in Moncks Corner, South Carolina."

I think that I could use about a week of silence, but no time off for me, though this might help a little...

Saint Francis Receiving Stigmata from Winged Christ: Interpretation

Pieter Pauwel Rubens

The Stigmatization of St Francis (c. 1616)
Oil on Canvas, Wallraf-Richartz Museum, Cologne
(Image from Web Gallery of Art)

Regarding the previous two days' posts on a 'winged Christ', I received an interesting comment from the blogger Brandon Watson, of the blog Siris, who responded to one of my closing questions. I had asked:

So . . . are we seeing an image of a winged Christ or an image of a winged seraph in the image of Christ?

Brandon suggested:

I think there's an even more complicated possibility (and I think it's the one Bonaventure is actually trying to suggest in the passage you quoted in the previous post), namely, that it is the image of Francis himself in the image of a seraph in the image of Christ crucified. I think Bonaventure, at least, wants to avoid treating the figure in the vision as directly of either Christ or a seraph because Christ is not a seraph and seraphim do not suffer. By treating the vision symbolically as being of Francis himself, Bonaventure is able to avoid suggesting that Francis's vision implied either of these, while still being able to treat it as a significant event worth careful study.

Brandon here provides support for a view that I tentatively put forth in the first of my two posts on these Medieval and Renaissance images depicting the stigmatization of Saint Francis. Concerning Bonaventure's description in Commentaries of St. Bonaventure the Bishop (Legenda S. Francisci cap. 13) of the vision experienced by Saint Francis during his stigmatization, I had written the following:

The expression "there appeared to him as it had been one of the Seraphim" comes from the Latin clause "vidit quasi spéciem uníus Séraphim," which I suppose could also be translated as "it appeared as one of the seraphim kind." My Latin is not very good, but the obscure passage seems to imply that Francis's love took the form of a seraphim in the likeness of Christ crucified.

Well, as I confessed, my Latin is poor, and I misconstrued "video" to have the meaning not only of "to see" but "to appear." I should have checked a Latin dictionary and a Latin grammar first. The Latin "vidit" must mean "he saw," i.e., that St. Francis saw. So, the original translation of "There appeared to him" was a possible way of rendering "vidit," but my suggestion of "it appeared" is totally wrong. Nevertheless, I believe that Brandon and I are correct in seeing the seraph as an image of St. Francis. Let's look again at the crucial passages from Bonaventure's Commentaries, first in Latin (for those better than I):

Dum ígitur seráphicis desideriórum ardóribus sursum agerétur in Deum, et afféctus compassiva teneritúdine in eum transformarétur, cui ex caritáte nimia crucifigi complácuit; quodam mane circa festum Exaltatiónis sanctæ Crucis, in látere montis orans, vidit quasi spéciem uníus Séraphim, sex alas tam fúlgidas quam ignítas habentem, de cælórum sublimitate descéndere. Qui, volatu celerrimo ad áëris locum viro Dei propinquum perveniens, non solum alatus, sed et crucifixus appáruit; manus quidem et pedes habens extensos et cruci affixos, alas vero sic miro modo hinc inde dispósitas, ut duas supra caput erigeret, duas ad volándum extenderet, duabus vero réliquis totum corpus circumplecténdo velaret. Hoc videns veheménter obstupuit, mixtumque dolori gáudium mens ejus incurrit, dum et in gratióso ejus aspectu, sibi tam mirabíliter quam familiáriter apparentis, excessivam quamdam concipiébat lætítiam, et dira conspecta crucis affixio ipsíus ánimam compassívi dolóris gládio pertransívit.

Intelléxit quidem, illo docénte interius qui et apparébat exterius, quod, licet passiónis infirmitas cum immortalitate spíritus seráphici nullátenus conveníret, ídeo tamen hujúsmodi visio suis fuerat præsentáta conspéctibus, ut amícus ipse Christi prænosceret, se, non per martyrium carnis sed per incendium mentis, totum in Christi Jesu crucifixi expréssam similitúdinem transformándum. Dispárens ítaque visio, post arcanum ac famíliare collóquium, mentem ipsíus seráphico interius inflammávit ardore; carnem vero Crucifixo conformi exterius insignívit effigie, tamquam si ad ignis liquefactivam virtútem præámbulam sigillativa quædam esset impréssio subsecuta.

Now, the English translation provided at the same website:

The burning of his desire made his heart rise towards God like the heart of a seraph, and his tender answering love yearned to be changed into the likeness of him who hath so loved us that he was content to bear the Cross. And it was so that one morning early, about the time of the Feast of the Exaltation of the Holy Cross, he was praying upon the side of the mountain, and there appeared to him as it had been one of the Seraphim, having six wings, glorious and fiery, flying to him from heaven. It came therefore very swiftly, and stood in the air, hard by the man of God. He beheld then the appearance thereof that it was not winged only, but crucified also. His hands and feet were stretched forth and nailed to a Cross. Twain of his wings were lifted up and joined one to the other over his head, and twain were stretched forth to fly withal, and with twain he wrapped around his body. When Francis saw it, he was sore amazed, and his soul was filled with sorrow and gladness, for the eyes of him that appeared were full of strange love and tenderness, so that he conceived great rejoicing thereat, but the nailing to the Cross was so exceedingly dreadful, that as he saw it, a sword of sorrow pierced his soul.

Then he whom he beheld with his bodily eyes, began to speak silently unto him in his heart, and he understood that albeit the deathless Séraphim cannot suffer or faint, this vision was nevertheless therefore set before him, that he might know that as a friend of Christ he was to be all changed into the likeness of Christ Jesus crucified, not by the martyrdom of the body, but by the fervour of the soul. Then they held together some sweet converse, as of a man with his friend, and the vision passed from him, but his heart was kindled inwardly with the fire of the Seraphim, and his body was outwardly changed into the likeness of him who was crucified, even as wax is softened by the fire and taketh the impression of the seal.

Bonaventure describes St. Francis as seeing his own desire for heavenly things rise like the heart of a seraph toward God and his own love for Christ yearn for transformation into the likeness of Christ crucified. This desire and yearning of his heart, his "fervour of the soul," subsequently becomes transformed into a vision of something like a seraph but also like Christ. Bonaventure apparently wants us to see Francis as envisioning his own seraphlike soul in the form of Christ crucified. Christ is not winged, and seraphs do not suffer, so Francis is seeing neither a seraph nor Christ but a vision of his own soul in the form of a seraphlike Christ, with which he converses and which transforms his body to bear the stigmata.

I'm relying on the English translation provided, so my interpretation is provisional, but it seems at least plausible. If so, then the paintings depicting the stigmatization of St. Francis are presenting us with an image of his soul in the image of a seraph in the image of Christ. The painting itself is yet another image, so we have fourfold imagery with this painting.

Rather complex, as Brandon notes.

Yet even though Christ is not being portrayed as an angel -- for a soul is being presented as a seraph in the form of Christ instead -- the effect wrought by the painting itself is precisely that of portraying Christ as an angel, at least to the uninitiated viewer.

Saint Francis Receiving Stigmata from Winged Christ: Images

The Stigmatization of St. Francis

Stained Glass Window

Cappella Baroncelli, Santa Croce, Florence

(Image from Web Gallery of Art)

Concerning yesterday's entry from the Commentaries of St. Bonaventure the Bishop (Legenda S. Francisci cap. 13) (Latin original, with English translation) on the vision of St. Francis receiving the stigmata from a winged figure, Professor Roy Flannagan, one of the scholars on the Milton List suggested this:

Jeffery, several things occurred to me after reading the account of the seraphim with stigmata and Francis, together with the Giotto painting in the basilica of Assisi: the seraph, so far as I can tell, is just an angel in Francis's dream, but an angel with the stigmata; and I think you are making a leap both in interpreting the legend and the fresco to make the angel imitating Christ into Christ himself. The point might be that both the seraph and Francis are emulating Christ in accepting his wounds.

The seraph as painted conforms to same dimensions and wing-formation as would Raphael in Paradise Lost 5.277ff or in Isaiah 6.2. Check my notes on the brightness and the color of those wings in the Riverside Milton.

And, in Assisi, doves are still very much associated with St. Francis, and, just to add another wrinkle, the dove is associated with the other members of the Trinity in Genesis when the Sprit (interpreted by Christians as the Holy Spirit) dove-like sits brooding. To quote Dolly Parton, among other interpreters, "On the wings of a snow white dove, He sends His pure sweet love...."

I replied:

Thanks, Roy. I probably wasn't very clear, but when I referred to "the 'winged Christ' . . . wounding rather than healing St. Francis," I put 'winged Christ' in scare quotes to show my uncertainty.

Here's what I posted on my blog:

The expression "there appeared to him as it had been one of the Seraphim" comes from the Latin clause "vidit quasi spéciem uníus Séraphim," which I suppose could also be translated as "it appeared as one of the seraphim kind." My Latin is not very good, but the obscure passage seems to imply that Francis's love took the form of a seraphim in the likeness of Christ crucified.

I based this inference on the context to the passage, but the text is not entirely clear to me, and later in the same source, the crucified image is referred to as a seraph, so perhaps you're correct.

However, I think that Professor Cynthia Gilliatt went too far in therefore concluding that "Renaissance paintings . . . [were] more or less devoid of [a] winged Jesus." So, I posted the following to the Milton List:

While Roy Flannagan may be correct that the figure in the vision of St. Francis is not Christ but an angel (the seraph-like figure), I think that stating that Renaissance paintings are devoid of a 'winged Jesus' might be too hasty a conclusion. Take a look at these Medieval and Renaissance images:

An unidentified work:

St Francis Receiving the Stigmata

(Artist not identified)

(Image from Franciscan Archive)

A fresco by Giotto di Bondone:

Giotto di Bondone

Stigmatization of St Francis

Fresco, Upper Basilica of St. Francis

Assisi, Italy, 1297-1300

(Image from Web Gallery of Art)

Tempera on wood by Giotto di Bondone:

Giotto di Bondone

Stigmatization of St Francis (1300)

Tempera on wood, Musée du Louvre, Paris

(Image from Web Gallery of Art)

Another fresco by Giotto di Bondone:

Giotto di Bondone

Stigmatisation of Saint Francis

Fresco, Bardi Chapel

Santa Croce, Florence, 1325

(Image from Web Gallery of Art)

Oil on panel by Jan van Eyck:

Jan van Eyck

Stigmatization of St Francis (1428-29)

Galleria Sabauda, Turin

(Image from Web Gallery of Art)

Oil on canvas by Pieter Pauwel Rubens:

Pieter Pauwel Rubens

The Stigmatization of St Francis (c. 1616)

Oil on Canvas, Wallraf-Richartz Museum, Cologne

(Image from Web Gallery of Art)

Even if the figure giving St. Francis the stigmata in the original vision is correctly interpreted as a seraph that has taken on the form of the crucified Christ, the aesthetic force of these images would be to reinforce the impression that a winged Christ appeared to St. Francis.

All that being shown and said, I doubt that Charles Wesley was influenced by any depiction of St. Francis receiving the stigmata. Rather, he was almost certainly referencing Malachi 4.2:

"But unto you that fear my name shall the Sun of righteousness arise with healing in his wings; and ye shall go forth, and grow up as calves of the stall." (Malachi 4.2)

We see a double reference in these lines of Wesley's hymn:

Hail the heaven-born Prince of Peace!
Hail the Sun of Righteousness!
Light and life to all he brings,
Risen with healing in his wings.

There's surely no need to look to a tradition of depictions of a winged Christ in Medieval and Renaissance art (or in Blake) for a source behind Wesley's imagery.

I am, however, glad that the question was posed, for I might otherwise never have become of aware of this fascinating series of artworks depicting a extraordinary winged Christ . . . or perhaps an ordinary winged seraph who happens to be crucified and looks exactly like Christ.

So . . . are we seeing an image of a winged Christ or an image of a winged seraph in the image of Christ? And would the latter have made a difference to the viewer?

Draw your own conclusions.