Hope and Otherness: Christian Eschatology and Interreligious Hospitality (Currents of Encounter, 56) 900435705X, 9789004357051

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Hope and Otherness: Christian Eschatology and Interreligious Hospitality

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Currents of Encounter studies on the contact between christianity and other religions, beliefs, and cultures Editor-in-Chief Marianne Moyaert (Vrije Universiteit Amsterdam, the Netherlands) Editorial Board Claudio Carvalhaes (McCormick Theological Seminary, usa) – Catherine Cornille (Boston College, usa) – Marion Grau (Norwegian School of Theology, Norway) – Paul Hedges (ntu, Singapore) – Henry Jansen (Vrije Universiteit Amsterdam, the Netherlands) – Bagus Laksana (Sanata Dharma University in Yogyakarta, Indonesia) – Willie L. van der Merwe (Vrije Universiteit Amsterdam, the Netherlands) – Jonathan Tan (Case Western Reserve University, usa) Founding Editors Jerald D. Gort Hendrik M. Vroom (†) Advisory Board Gavin d’Costa (University of Bristol, Department of Religion and Theology) Lejla Demiri (University of Tubingen, Center for Islamic Theology) Nelly van Doorn-Harder (Wake Forest University School of Divinity) Jim Heisig (Nanzan Institute for Religion & Culture) Mechteld Jansen (Protestant Theological University, Amsterdam) Edward Kessler (Woolf Institute and Fellow of St Edmund’s College, Cambridge) Oddbjorn Leirvik (University of Oslo, Faculty of Theology) Hugh Nicholson (Loyola University Chicago, Department of Theology) Anant Rambachan (St. Olaf College, Northfield, usa) Mona Siddiqui (University of Edingburgh, School of Divinity) Pim Valkenberg (Catholic University of America) Michelle Voss Roberts (Wake Forest University School of Divinity) Ulrich Winkler (University of Salzburg, Center for Intercultural Theology and the Study of Religions)

VOLUME 56 The titles published in this series are listed at brill.com/coe

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Hope and Otherness: Christian Eschatology and Interreligious Hospitality By

Jakob Wirén

leiden | boston

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Cover illustration: The Banquet Table. © Andrea Riley. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Wirén, Jakob, author. Title: Hope and otherness : Christian eschatology and interreligious hospitality / by Jakob Wirén. Description: Boston : Brill, 2018. | Series: Currents of encounter, ISSN 0923-6201 ; VOLUME 56 | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2017041344 | ISBN 9789004357051 (pbk. : alk. paper) Subjects: LCSH: Eschatology. | Future life. | Christianity and other religions. | Religions–Relations. | Judaism–Doctrines. | Islam–Doctrines. Classification: LCC BT821.3 .W57 2017 | DDC 236–dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017041344

Typeface for the Latin, Greek, and Cyrillic scripts: “Brill”. See and download: brill.com/brill-typeface. ISSN 0923-6201 ISBN 978-90-04-35705-1 (paperback) ISBN 978-90-04-35706-8 (e-book) Copyright 2018 by Koninklijke Brill nv, Leiden, The Netherlands. Koninklijke Brill nv incorporates the imprints Brill, Brill Hes & De Graaf, Brill Nijhoff, Brill Rodopi, Brill Sense and Hotei Publishing. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher. Authorization to photocopy items for internal or personal use is granted by Koninklijke Brill nv provided that the appropriate fees are paid directly to The Copyright Clearance Center, 222 Rosewood Drive, Suite 910, Danvers, ma 01923, usa. Fees are subject to change. This book is printed on acid-free paper and produced in a sustainable manner.

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To Malin

∵

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Contents Preface xi 1 Introduction 1 1.1 The Task 1 1.2 The Context of This Study 3 Theologies of Religions: Introduction 3 The Threefold Paradigm 5 The Threefold Paradigm and This Study 13 Beyond the Threefold Paradigm? I: Particularism as a Fourth Option 16 Beyond the Threefold Paradigm? II: Comparative Theology 20 1.3 Methodological Considerations 26 The Method of Correlation 26 A Revised Method of Correlation 28 A Revised Method of Correlation as Comparative Theology? 30 Introducing the Heuristic Tools 33 1.4 Material 37 1.5 Terminological Considerations 39 How Some of the Terms are Interrelated 39 The Concepts of Hope and Eschatology 40 The Concepts of Other and Otherness 42 Otherness and Theological Integrity 54 1.6 The Structure of This Study 64 2 Christian Eschatologies and the Religious Other 66 2.1 Introduction 66 Eschatological Positions vis-à-vis the Religious Other 68 2.2 The Foundation: Four Cornerstones 69 Truth and the Religious Other: Joseph Ratzinger 69 Hope and the Religious Other: Jürgen Moltmann 85 History and the Religious Other: Wolfhart Pannenberg 98 The Real and the Religious Other: John Hick 112 2.3 The Rise of the Notion of the Religious Other in Christian Eschatology 122 ‘Old Doctrines for New Jobs’: Gavin D’Costa 122 Respecting Other’s Religious Ends: S. Mark Heim 129 2.4 Conclusion: Heuristic Tools 138

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viii contents 3 A Wider Horizon: Hope and Otherness in Muslim and Jewish Eschatologies 141 3.1 Introduction 141 3.2 Hope and Otherness in Muslim Eschatologies 142 Introduction 142 A Taxonomy of Contemporary Muslim Thinkers 143 Introducing Muslim Theologies of Religions 148 Picturing Paradise: Mujtaba Musavi Lari 153 Eschatology and Ethical Criteria: Fazlur Rahman 165 The Vision of Islam: William C. Chittick 172 Revisiting the Heuristic Tools 180 3.3 Jewish Eschatologies 185 Introduction 185 Contemporary Jewish Theology 187 Introducing Jewish Theologies of Religions 192 Election: Michael Wyschogrod and the Chosen People 196 The Messiah: Steven Schwarzschild and a Theology of Waiting 207 The Resurrection of the Dead: Neil Gillman and the Hereafter 220 Revisiting the Heuristic Tools 229 3.4 Conclusion: Heuristic Tools 231 4 Towards a Christian Eschatology with Theological Integrity for the Religious Other 232 4.1 Introduction 232 4.2 Theological Space: Religious Otherness Reassessed 234 Introduction 234 Contributions from Muslim and Jewish Eschatologies 235 Linguistic Hospitality 237 Death and Otherness 241 4.3 Theological Interplay: Eschatological Otherness Reassessed 249 Introduction 249 Contributions of Muslim and Jewish Eschatologies 251 The Apophatic Nature of the Eschaton 252 A Tradition-Specific Determination of the Eschaton? 258 4.4 The Heavenly Banquet 265 The Feast as a Human Symbol 266 The Feast as a Religious Symbol 271 The Heavenly Banquet as a Christian Symbol 274 4.5 Conclusion 282

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References 287 Index of Names 311 Index of Subjects 314

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Preface I am convinced that interreligious relations pose one of the most important and urgent questions for religious traditions today. We are sometimes led to believe that religion is a substantial threat to peace and security. Were it not for religion, the thinking goes, the world would be a far better place. Such simplistic judgments do not do justice to either the complexity of culture and religious traditions or the peacebuilding and positive dimensions of religious life. Nonetheless, religion is ambiguous and can certainly foster both hostility and hospitality. Here theology has a role to play. Words and interpretations matter! It is the responsibility of theologians to examine the implications of these interpretations and to provide alternative ones. Eschatology, which is the particular theological focus of this book, might seem far removed from the interreligious challenges of everyday life. But eschatological reflection is not only a matter of future expectations: our eschatological beliefs affect our lives and our ways of relating to the Other in the present, regardless of our particular worldview. The title of this book, Hope and Otherness, refers to the intersection of eschatology and interreligious relations. When interreligious issues are approached theologically, this particular intersection takes on significance. The front cover depicts a table laid for dinner. Anyone who has ever prepared a major party knows that it takes work and the contribution and input from so many people to make it happen. Admittedly, the book you now hold in your hands shares few characteristics with a feast and even less so with a heavenly banquet. Still, reflecting now on the process of preparing it, I recognise that I am indeed indebted to a whole group of ‘co-workers’. Here and now, at the eschaton of this work, I would like to express my gratitude: to my doktorsvater, Werner G. Jeanrond, of the University of Oxford; Gösta Hallonsten and Jesper Svartvik, my dissertation supervisors at Lund University. Friends and colleagues at stimulating academic milieus—particularly at the Centre for Theology and Religious Studies at Lund University as well as at the Department of Theology at the University of Glasgow and the Church of Sweden’s national office in Uppsala—have proven a blessing for my work. I would also like to thank those involved in bringing this work to publication. Professor Marianne Moyaert, of VU University Amsterdam, encouraged me to turn my thesis into a book and she has, together with anonymous peer reviewers, given me important input along the way. Ingrid Heijckers-Velt and Syeda Sana and others at Brill have kindly and professionally assisted me

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throughout this process, and Andrea Riley has graciously lent her beautiful painting The Banquet Table for the book’s cover. Thanks also to Birgit and Sven Håkan Ohlsson’s foundation for their generous funding. Many people have read and commented on my work at different stages: Philip Halldén, KG Hammar, Mohammad Khalil, Mattias Martinson, Ferdinando Sardella, Simon Stjernholm, and the scholars who read a draft of the chapter on Jewish eschatology that I presented at the Swedish Theological Institute in Jerusalem. A special thanks to Henry Jansen for his language editing skills, to Andreas Westergren for stimulating conversations on the nature of banquets, and to Archbishop Antje Jackelén, whom I have the privilege to serve as theological secretary. There are many more who should be included in this list, including friends and family members to whom I am deeply grateful. I began my work when our oldest daughter was still a baby. Noomi is now an eleven-year-old schoolgirl with three younger siblings, Liv, Iris, and Simon. Their contribution to the conversations and ‘banquets’ of our everyday life provide a continuous source of amazement. Admittedly, when thinking of the heavenly banquet, I envision a somewhat less noisy and disorderly atmosphere than the one at our kitchen table at home. Nevertheless, the love, joy and hullabaloo we share under these circumstances are the closest to celestial bliss I have ever come. Finally, to their brilliant mother and my companion during these meals, Malin: for what it’s worth, this book is dedicated to you. Uppsala, August 2017

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Introduction 1.1

The Task

Many theologians have pointed out that eschatology is a—or even the—promising theological field for reflecting on interreligious relations. The future, it is argued, is something we all share. Moreover, the eschatological orientation towards an unknown and yet hopeful future yields a certain openness of sorts towards those of other religious traditions. According to Catherine Cornille, eschatology ‘offers the most natural and compelling foundation for the development of doctrinal humility.’1 Similarly, Jacques Dupuis states: There is, perhaps, nothing which provides interreligious dialogue with such a deep theological basis, and such true motivation, as the conviction that … the members of different religious traditions … are travelling together toward the fullness of the Reign, toward the new humanity willed by God for the end of time.2 David B. Burrell reflects on ‘the ways each Abrahamitic tradition offers to attain its transcendent goal’ and is confident that, through the eschatological perspective, ‘wayfarers formed in distinctive ways can encounter one another, offering each other assistance along the way.3 Anthony Kelly suggests that we focus less on interfaith dialogue and more on what he calls inter-hope dialogue. According to Kelly, [a] new openness or sympathy comes into play when the encounter between different faiths and spiritualities is set within a horizon of hope and its expectation of an ultimate communion in eternal life.4

1 Catherine Cornille, The Im-Possibility of Interreligious Dialogue (New York: Crossroad, 2008), 36. 2 Jacques Dupuis, Toward a Christian Theology of Religious Pluralism (Maryknoll: Orbis Books, 2006), 346. 3 David B. Burrell, Towards a Jewish-Christian-Muslim Theology (Chichester: Wiley-Blackwell, 2011), 130. 4 Anthony Kelly, Eschatology and Hope (Maryknoll: Orbis Books, 2006), 16.

©  koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2018 | doi 10.1163/9789004357068_002

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Cornille concludes that ‘eschatology saves Christianity from simple resignation to the relativity of all truth and from indifference toward the truth of other religious traditions.’5 Notwithstanding this optimism regarding the interreligious potential of eschatology, few have actually pursued this path and established eschatology as an interreligious theological resource. The present study seeks to address this disproportion by examining some of the potential and limits of eschatology in the theology of religions. Admittedly, the eschatological perspective does not always produce harmonious interreligious relations. Competing eschatological claims have been at the heart of many arguments and conflicts. I remain convinced that there is an interplay between people’s eschatological expectations and their present situation. Hence, indifference, ignorance, or hostility in the here and now is often reproduced in a person’s view of the hereafter. Conversely, a person’s eschatology affects how he or she conceives and prioritises the here and now. Thus, this interplay indicates that eschatology can lead not only to friendship and good alliances but also to enmity and distrust. The 20th century has been called ‘the century of eschatology’. This characterisation of Christian theology in the 20th century, if correct, must be understood against the background of the 19th century (and actually the beginning of the 20th) where ‘the eschatological office [was] closed most of the time’.6 This is well known, and the witticism is made time and again that the eschatological office is now not only open but even working overtime.7 The hard-working officials in this office include the theologians who will be examined in the second chapter of this study. To discern eschatology’s alleged potential for interreligious issues more closely, I shall explore the aspect of theology of religions in their eschatologies. This study analyses the religious Other in contemporary eschatologies. Needless to say, a person’s ‘eschatology’ is more than her post-mortem expectations. Again, a person’s eschatology influences how she lives, forms her relationships, and her conception of life. As a consequence, the question of

5 Cornille, The Im-Possibility of Interreligious Dialogue, 40. 6 See, for instance, Christoph Schwöbel, ‘Last Things First? The Century of Eschatology in Retrospect’, in The Future as God's Gift: Explorations in Christian Eschatology, ed. Marcel Sarot and David Fergusson (Edinburgh: T & T Clark, 2000), 217. 7 See, for instance, Jerry L. Walls, The Oxford Handbook of Eschatology (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008), 7. See also Schwöbel, ‘Last Things First?’, 217.

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eschatological expectations is closely related to the more general field of interreligious studies: the question of the religious Other in one’s eschatology is also a question of the religious Other in one’s here and now. Given that eschatological reflection assumes a certain degree of continuity between this life and the hereafter, this study explores how Christian eschatology articulates the theological integrity of the religious Other. The question of religious otherness in eschatology is approached comparatively and correlationally. This means that the issue of the religious Other in Christian eschatologies is seen in light of the religious Other in Muslim and Jewish eschatologies. Hence, the task is to discern the theological integrity of the religious Other in not only Christian eschatologies but also in Muslim and Jewish ones. Moreover, the comparison serves to explore mechanisms of inclusion, exclusion, and assimilation in these eschatologies. Thus, the overall aim of this study is to explore the room for religious otherness in contemporary eschatology. This aim is carried out in three steps. The first step is to investigate how and to what extent the theological integrity of the religious Other is articulated in the eschatologies of some influential contemporary Christian theologians (chapter  2). The second step is to compare and correlate the analyses of Christian eschatologies with contemporary eschatologies from the Muslim and Jewish traditions. Provided that some of the mechanisms of inclusion, exclusion, and assimilation in Christian eschatology are tradition-specific, the purpose is to compare how the religious Other is approached in these non-Christian eschatologies (chapter 3). Third, this study intends to explore avenues for reassessing otherness in Christian eschatology. The comparison and correlation between Christian eschatologies on the one hand and Muslim and Jewish eschatologies on the other serve as the point of departure for this third step (chapter 4). 1.2

The Context of This Study

Theologies of Religions: Introduction Interest in ‘theology of religions’ has grown immensely over the last three decades. This field now touches almost every aspect of Christian doctrine. Not only soteriology and christology, but also ecclesiology, hamartiology, theologies of creation and of the Bible are being rethought in relation to this field. But the term ‘theology of religions’ can be defined in slightly different ways. It is sometimes seen as a meta-theory that negotiates the relationship

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between all religious traditions.8 Most scholars today, however, regard theology of religions as reflecting on religious plurality from within a particular religious tradition. Using a political metaphor, Jesper Svartvik calls theology of religions the foreign policy of a particular religious tradition.9 Hence, it is here that the borders are negotiated, and it is this ‘department’ that is responsible for the contact with the other ‘countries’. As a tentative definition, I would suggest that theology of religions is a particular religious tradition’s theological reflection on the fact of religious plurality. Conceived in this way, theology of religions is actually more concerned with what the consequences of the presence of other religious traditions are for the ‘home tradition’ rather than the concrete theological content of these other religious traditions. This does not suggest that a scholar of theology of religions has to share the faith of the tradition he or she is studying, but it does not prevent him or her from sharing this faith either. Academic work in theology of religions requires a certain amount of imagination to discuss and analyse the consequences other religious traditions’ claims of truth and salvation have for the home tradition. Admittedly, the growth of theology of religions over recent decades can sometimes hide the fact that Christian theology has been informed by religious plurality since its beginning. Of course, the context in which the New Testament was written is already religiously diverse. Nonetheless, it can still be argued that the issue of religious plurality is present in a new way today. For instance, new means of transport have enabled more intercultural and interreligious encounters than before, and technological innovations such as television and the internet have rapidly increased our awareness of people of other faiths. This book is situated at the crossroads of the theology of religions and systematic theology (and particularly its sub-discipline, ‘eschatology’). A common way to categorise different approaches in theology of religions is the threefold paradigm of exclusivism, inclusivism, and pluralism. Even though this taxonomy has been criticised for a number of reasons (I shall soon return to some of them), it is so widespread that it is almost impossible to discuss theology of religions without referring to it. This threefold paradigm was presented by Alan Race in 1983 as a survey of Christian responses to the plurality of

8 This is how John Hick at least views the pluralist approach. See John Hick, ‘The Possibility of Religious Pluralism: A Reply to Gavin D’Costa’, Religious Studies 33, no. 2 (1997), 163. 9 Jesper Svartvik, Textens tilltal: Konsten att bilda meningar (Lund: Arcus, 2009), 135.

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religions.10 Later, however, it was also adopted by scholars from other religious traditions.11 In this chapter, I shall first briefly present the three positions and some of the challenges they face (p 5ff). I shall then discuss the role of the threefold paradigm in this particular study (p 13ff) and, third, explore some attempts to move ‘beyond’ the threefold paradigm: particularism and ‘comparative theology’ (p 16ff). The Threefold Paradigm Exclusivism The term ‘exclusivism’ is well established in the literature, but there is a sense that the one who called this approach ‘exclusivism’ was not one of its primary advocates. Alan Race sketches a historical development which can give the impression that Christian theology is moving from the exclusivism of the past via today’s inclusivism towards the pluralism of the future.12 If so, contemporary people who feel affinity for exclusivism are discredited by Race’s taxonomy. Paul F. Knitter has suggested new names for Race’s threefold paradigm. In Knitter’s presentation, the exclusivist approach has been called ‘the replacement model’. In this study, I shall employ the more widespread terminology of exclusivism, inclusivism, and pluralism. While I agree with Knitter’s sympathetic approach to each model and hence his less biased terminology, the threefold paradigm plays too small a role in this survey for me to successfully establish other notions.13 10

Alan Race, Christians and Religious Pluralism: Patterns in the Christian Theology of Religions, 2nd ed. (Maryknoll: Orbis Books, 1993). Race is himself a pluralist and the threefold paradigm, it could be argued, suggests a development from the old exclusivist position via inclusivism to enlightened pluralism. Thus, one can challenge the neutral and objective function of the threefold paradigm. 11 Including the Jewish scholar Alan Brill and the Muslim scholar Mohammad Khalil. See Alan Brill, Judaism and Other Religions: Models of Understanding (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2010), and Mohammad Hassan Khalil, Muslim Scholarly Discussions on Salvation and the Fate of ‘Others’ (University of Michigan, Dissertation, 2007). For other examples of where the threefold paradigm is applied to other religious traditions, see, for instance, Perry Schmidt-Leukel, ed., Buddhist Attitudes to Other Religions (St. Ottilien: EOS, 2008). See also Lloyd V. J. Ridgeon and Perry Schmidt-Leukel, eds., Islam and Inter-Faith Relations: The Gerald Weisfeld Lectures 2006 (London: SCM Press, 2007). 12 Race, Christians and Religious Pluralism, 70–71. See also his preference for a pluralistic position: Alan Race, Interfaith Encounter: The Twin Tracks of Theology and Dialogue (London: SCM Press, 2001), 29–35. 13 Paul F. Knitter, Introducing Theologies of Religions (Maryknoll: Orbis Books, 2007), 19–49.

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It should also be pointed out—as do Knitter, Moyaert, and others—that exclusivism, while being treated somewhat condescendingly in theology of religions, remains an important approach to religious plurality in the past as well as the present.14 Exclusivism certainly plays a crucial role in many types of Christianity that are expanding in the southern hemisphere.15 According to Race, exclusivism applies to both the question of truth and the question of salvation: for exclusivism, there is neither truth nor salvation outside of Christianity. This position is often exemplified by the famous quote from the Council of Florence in 1441: It firmly believes, professes and preaches that all those who are outside the catholic church, not only pagans but also Jews or heretics and schismatics, cannot share in eternal life and will go into the everlasting fire which was prepared for the devil and his angels, unless they are joined to the catholic church before the end of their lives.16 While this quote gives voice to an ecclesiological exclusivism, Protestant versions of exclusivism tend to be more christocentric. In this context, it is commonplace to refer to thinkers such as Karl Barth and Hendrik Kraemer. A characteristic quotation can also be found in the work of Ernst Brunner: Jesus Christ is both the Fulfillment of all religion and the Judgment on all religion. As the Fulfiller, He is the Truth which these religions seek in vain … He is also the Judgement on all religion. Viewed in His light, all religious systems appear untrue, unbelieving and indeed godless.17

14 15 16 17

Ibid., 19. Marianne Moyaert, Fragile Identities: Towards a Theology of Interreligious Hospitality, trans. Henry Jansen (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2011), 15. Philip Jenkins, The Next Christendom: The Coming of Global Christianity, 2nd ed. (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007), 1–9. Norman P. Tanner, ed. Decrees of the Ecumenical Councils: Volume One. Nicaea I to Lateran V (London: Sheed & Ward, 1990), 578. The German text reads: ‘Jesus Christus ist beides, die Erfüllung aller Religion und das Gericht über alle Religion. Er ist als der Erfüller, die Wahrheit, die in allen Religionen vergeblich gesucht wird … Denn Jesus Christus ist nicht nur die Erfüllung, sondern auch das Gericht aller Religion. An ihm erweist sich alles Religionstum als unwahr, unfromm, ungläubig, ja als gottlos.’ Emil Brunner, Offenbarung und Vernunft: Die Lehre von der christlichen Glaubenserkenntnis (Zurich: Zwingli-Verlag, 1941), 267. The English quotation is found in Race, Christians and Religious Pluralism, 20.

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For the exclusivist, the revelation in Christ is the single criterion through which every other religion is assessed. Furthermore, other religions represent attempts to know God without revelation, whereas Christianity seeks God through revelation. Paul F. Knitter distinguishes between ‘total’ and ‘partial’ replacement. While the former finds no lasting significance whatsoever in other religious traditions, the latter ascribes to them a certain value in terms of revelation. The latter kind of exclusivist acknowledges a limited general revelation where God speaks through, for instance, the conscience of individual people. When it comes to ‘salvation’, however, both of these replacement models argue that it is possible only through explicit faith in Christ.18 Inclusivism Race describes inclusivism as ‘a dialectical “yes” and “no”’ to other faiths’.19 On the one hand, the (Christian) inclusivist holds to the idea that the full truth and the true path to salvation is found in the Christian tradition only. On the other hand, he or she holds that it is possible for other faiths to contain traces of truth and that they may prepare people for salvation in Christ. As examples of inclusivism, one can refer to the Second Vatican Council and some of its statements on people of other faiths. Race quotes, for instance, Lumen Gentium: Those also can attain to salvation who through no fault of their own do not know the Gospel of Christ or His Church, yet sincerely seek God and moved by grace strive by their deeds to do His will as it is known to them through the dictates of conscience…. Whatever good or truth is found amongst them is looked upon by the Church as a preparation for the Gospel. She knows that it is given by Him who enlightens all men so that they may finally have life.20 Race acknowledges that there are different degrees of inclusivism depending on the degree to which the boundaries between Christianity and other faiths are stressed. But, for him, a central feature of inclusivism is the attempt to keep

18 Knitter, Introducing Theologies of Religions, 19–31. 19 Race, Christians and Religious Pluralism, 38. 20 Lumen Gentium: Dogmatic Constitution on the Church, §  16; http://www.vatican.va/ archive/hist_councils/ii_vatican_council/documents/vat-ii_const_19641121_lumen -gentium_en.html

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both the uniqueness of God’s revelation in Christ and God’s universal salvific will.21 Terrence Tilley distinguishes between ‘classical inclusivism’, which is the position that we are presently reviewing, and ‘contemporary inclusivism’. I shall first discuss ‘classical inclusivism’ and then move on to ‘contemporary inclusivism’. Like Race, Tilley gives mainly Catholic examples—primarily Karl Rahner— to illustrate classical (Christian) inclusivism. In Tilley’s view, inclusivism is characterised by four elements. First, Christianity sees itself as the religion for all human beings, and there can be no religion on an equal par with it. Second, there are elements of grace in the other religious traditions. Even though these religions are inferior, they still can be viewed as adequate to some extent. Third, individuals who belong to these other religious traditions can be seen as ‘anonymous Christians’. Fourth, the church ‘is the expression of divine grace hidden in other religions.’22 Hence, Tilley sums up the inclusivist tension of the necessity of Christ (and the church) for salvation and yet the acknowledgement of the possibility of salvation for all of humankind. As Marianne Moyaert points out, [s]oteriologically, there is an asymmetry between Christianity and the other religions. Inclusivism clings to the definitive reality of salvation in the divine incarnation. The idea that the other religions are independent paths to salvation cannot be reconciled with God’s act of salvation in Jesus Christ.23 Consequently, Christian inclusivism holds that the Christian faith is superior in terms of truth and salvation, though other religious traditions may contain traces of truth and may be preparatory for salvation in and through Jesus Christ. According to Tilley, this classic inclusivism has been challenged by a modified version he calls ‘contemporary inclusivism’. Tilley cites Jacques Dupuis as a representative of this new form of inclusivism. Like its classical form, contemporary inclusivism holds that salvation is possible for the religious Other and

21 Race, Christians and Religious Pluralism, 54. 22 Terrence W. Tilley and John F. Birch, ‘Classic Inclusivism: Does God Go Incognito?’, in Religious Diversity and the American Experience: A Theological Approach, ed. Terrence W. Tilley (New York: Continuum, 2007), 73. 23 Moyaert, Fragile Identities, 23.

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that other religious traditions may contain elements which are good and true. Even more, however, it is argued that other religious traditions can play a part in God’s plan. God has not revoked the covenant with Abraham and the Jewish people. The same is true of the covenants with Adam and Noah. As a matter of fact, given that God has entered into several different covenants, it might even be the case that there are other covenants ‘outside’ the Christian and Jewish tradition. Hence, Dupuis argues that in this sense, God actually mediates salvation through these religious traditions. Christ does not abolish these covenants but fulfils them through a convergence of paths. Thus, Dupuis’ contemporary inclusivism goes one step further in its acknowledgment of the other religious tradition and still maintains the universality and normativity of Christ.24 Pluralism If Dupuis takes inclusivism one step further in recognising the validity of non-Christian religious traditions, pluralism represents yet another step. The pluralist position holds that religious traditions other than one’s own are, although different, equally valid paths to salvation as well as equally valid bearers of truth. This means that the ‘one and only’ aspect of Christ and salvation is rethought. While it is possible to claim that Christ is unique, Christ offers, in Knitter’s words, a ‘relational uniqueness’.25 Jesus Christ is unique for me. Pluralist thinkers argue that Christ is not the only way to reach salvation. Rather, other religious traditions constitute valid ways of salvation in their own right. Again, in Knitter’s words, Jesus Christ is truly the word of God but not solely the word of God.26 Moreover, all (or most) religious traditions represent limited and yet equally adequate ways of describing the divine reality. Hence, Christians need not distance themselves from belief in the triune God, but they should be aware that the Trinity is also a non-conclusive and fragmentary characterisation of God. It is often pointed out that pluralism cannot compete with exclusivism and inclusivism when it comes to being supported and represented in the history of Christian thought. Gavin D’Costa emphasises that ‘[p]luralism is a very recent phenomenon within Christianity.’27 He is right: pluralism represents a

24 Dupuis, Toward a Christian Theology of Religious Pluralism, 386–90. 25 Paul F. Knitter, Jesus and the Other Names: Christian Mission and Global Responsibility (Maryknoll: Orbis Books, 1996), 80. 26 Ibid. 27 Gavin D’Costa, Christianity and the World Religions: Disputed Questions in the Theology of Religions (Chichester: Wiley-Blackwell, 2009), 9.

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new paradigm and thus a novel way of theologically responding to religious plurality.28 But this does not mean that the theologians defending the pluralist paradigm do not argue from the perspective of the Christian tradition. By way of example, Roger Haight develops a pluralist christology in Christ as the Symbol of God, and argues that this actually concurs with a modern adaptation of the ecumenical councils in Nicea and Chalcedon. He intends to offer positive, intelligible, and constructive interpretations of Nicea and Chalcedon that are at the same time faithful to the intent of these doctrines.29 Alan Race conceives of pluralism as a ‘relativistic’ position in a certain sense, namely, in that it is ‘the belief that there is not one, but a number of spheres of saving contact between God and man.’30 Yet he emphatically denies that the pluralist position is relativistic in a way that makes no distinction whatsoever between violent ideologies and destructive sects on the one hand and ‘true’ religions on the other.31 This question of the criterion is further emphasised in Knitter’s theology for instance. His praxis-oriented pluralism is focused on the global well-being of all living things. In One Earth, Many Religions he presents an ‘eco-human well-being as a criterion for Religious truth’.32 Hence, religious traditions that are capable of promoting global well-being are recognised as true salvific paths. Knitter declares that I am now following the lead of those who hold up the ‘salvation’ or ‘well-being’ of humans and Earth as the starting point and common ground for our efforts to share and understand our religious experiences and notions of the Ultimately Important.33

28

See, for instance, Knitter, Introducing Theologies of Religions, 112. See also Terrence Tilley and David E. Martin, ‘From Pluralism to Mutuality: Does God Cherich All the Faith Traditions?’. In Terrence Tilley (ed.) Religious Diversity and the American Experience: A Theological Approach (New York: Continuum, 2007), 93–94. 29 Roger Haight, Jesus, Symbol of God (Maryknoll: Orbis Books, 2005), 273. 30 Race, Christians and Religious Pluralism, 77. 31 Ibid., 77–78. 32 Paul F. Knitter, One Earth, Many Religions: Multifaith Dialogue and Global Responsibility (Maryknoll: Orbis Books, 1995), 118. 33 Knitter, Jesus and the Other Names, 19.

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In his later publications, Knitter prefers the term ‘mutualism’ rather than ‘pluralism’. While Tilley understands the term as referring to what is actually a new position, I consider the two positions as virtually identical.34 After all, Knitter does not make this distinction in his Introducing Theologies of Religions, and the mutuality model covers pioneering pluralist thinkers like Wilfred Cantwell Smith and John Hick.35 Tilley is right, however, to the extent that the later Knitter emphasises praxis and solidarity as points of departure rather than philosophical reflection as such.36 Perry Schmidt-Leukel provides a fourfold argument for the pluralist position which sums up the concerns of many pluralists. First, he claims that there is theological support for a pluralist position in the Christian tradition. Second, he states that empirical evidence shows no significant difference between the religious traditions in terms of their ‘fruit’ or consequences in the world. Hence, no one seems superior to the others. Third, he argues that the idea that the Ultimate Reality is present only in certain places or times seems at odds with the benign character of this Reality in all major traditions. Fourth, he thinks that neither exclusivism nor inclusivism recognises any genuine value in religious diversity.37 We do not do justice to pluralism if we do not recognise the plurality of pluralist approaches as well.38 Perhaps most important in this regard is the difference between what David Ray Griffin calls ‘identist pluralism’ and ‘differential pluralism’.39 The pluralist thinkers referred to so far are all identist pluralists in Griffin’s terminology. Identist and differential pluralists alike reject absolutism in religion and affirm that religions other than one’s own mediate salvation and truth to its adherents. But while identist pluralists claim that all religions are oriented toward the same ultimate reality, differential pluralists do not. John B. Cobb, a representative of the latter, is

34

Tilley states that ‘Knitter has recently moved beyond the classic pluralist approach to discern a “mutuality” model for relationships between faith traditions’. Tilley and Martin, ‘From Pluralism to Mutuality’, 96. 35 Knitter, Introducing Theologies of Religions, 109–49. 36 It should also be pointed out that he developed his emphasis on praxis already in the mid1980s. See Paul F. Knitter, No Other Name? A Critical Survey of Christian Attitudes Toward the World Religions (Maryknoll: Orbis Books, 1989), 217–31 (originally published 1985). 37 Ibid., 101 f. 38 For another helpful overview of different pluralistic positions, see Perry Schmidt-Leukel ‘Pluralist Theologies’, The Expository Times 122, no 2 (2010), 53–72. 39 David Ray Griffin, ‘Religious Pluralism: Generic, Identist, Deep’, in David Ray Griffin (ed.) Deep Religious Pluralism (Louisville: Westminister John Knox, 2005), 24.

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not convinced by the (identist) pluralist claim that theistic and non-theistic religious experiences refer to the same reality. According to Cobb, it is strange to claim that Emptiness, which is realised, and God, who is worshipped, both refer to the same reality.40 Influenced by Alfred North Whitehead’s philosophy, Cobb’s pluralism includes ‘a pluralistic metaphysics’ that argues that there are two or more ultimates.41 This view, Cobb argues, brings together seemingly contradictory religious claims: When a Buddhist says that no God exists, the main point is that there is nothing in reality to which one should be attached. When a Christian says that God exists, the meaning may be that there is that in reality that is worthy of trust and worship. If those translations are correct … then it is not impossible that both be correct. … [T]he Buddhist could in principle acknowledge the reality of something worthy of trust and worship without abandoning the central insight that attachment blocks the way to enlightenment. And the Christian could come to see that real trust is not attachment in the Buddhist sense.42 Cobb’s differential pluralism seeks to recognise both truth and difference in the propositions of religious traditions. In fact, Cobb mentions three ‘ultimates’: God (theistic), creativity (non-theistic or acosmic) and the universe (cosmic, the totality of finite things). One of these three ultimates (or a combination of them) corresponds to the views of all the major world religions, according to Cobb. Perry Schmidt-Leukel gives voice to a common critique of differential pluralism when he states that the idea of several ‘ultimates’ in fact leaves us with no ultimates: For if there were a second ‘ultimate’, both would ‘limit’ each other and none of them would be ‘greater than anything else’.43 40

John B. Cobb, Beyond Dialogue: Toward a Mutual Transformation of Christianity and Buddhism (Eugene: Wipf and Stock, 1998), 43. 41 John B. Cobb, Transforming Christianity and the World: A Way Beyond Absolutism and Relativism (Maryknoll: Orbis Books 1999)¸88. See also Griffin ‘John Cobb’s Whiteheadian Complementary Pluralism’. In Griffin (ed.) Deep Religious Pluralism (Louisville: Westminister John Knox, 2005), 47. 42 Cobb, Transforming Christianity, 74. 43 Perry Schmidt-Leukel ’Pluralisms’, in Alan Race & Paul M Hedges (eds.), Christian Approaches to Other Faiths (London: SCM Press 2008), 97.

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Below (in chapter 2), I shall discuss S. Mark Heim’s position. His view cannot be categorised as ‘pluralist’, but it does have fundamental similarities to Cobb’s view. His approach is also polycentric, primarily with regard to ultimate end(s). The Threefold Paradigm and This Study As can be seen in the survey of the three positions above, an underlying assumption behind all of them is that the main issue is the individual’s access to salvation. This becomes obvious in, for instance, Schmidt-Leukel’s theology of religions when he states that its task is ‘to show whether from the standpoint of one religion other religions can be understood as genuinely and equally salvific’.44 The issue of individual salvation is certainly a legitimate one, and the fact that, despite objections and critique, the threefold paradigm has remained foundational for theology of religions for more than three decades indicates this. Clearly, the pedagogical value of the threefold paradigm should not be underestimated. The critique is not unwarranted, however. Ian Markham has noted that the threefold paradigm gives the false impression that the three alternatives cover all available options.45 Gavin D’Costa has argued that the three approaches all collapse into exclusivism in the sense that both the inclusivist and the pluralist are exclusivistic with respect to the other approaches. In short, the inclusivist argues that he or she is right and the exclusivist and the pluralist are not. Moreover, the inclusivist’s limited acknowledgment of other religious traditions is not an acknowledgment on their own terms. It is not possible to discern rays of truth in a distinct religious tradition and still consider the appraisal of these rays as an appraisal (however limited) of this tradition. Rather, what is embraced is an accommodated view of the other tradition, and this view is, in fact, a new and separate tradition. Consequently, D’Costa argues, the inclusivist is exclusivistic with regard to the other religious tradition as other.46 The pluralist is actually promoting a modern liberalism which is exclusivistic towards other approaches. Hence, despite the assurances of openness and tolerance, pluralism represents a new religious tradition that only accepts other pluralists—hence those who belong to this tradition—according to D’Costa.47

44 45

Ibid., 97. Ian Markham, ‘Creating Options: Shattering the ‘Exclusivist, Inclusivist, and Pluralist’ Paradigm’, New Blackfriars 74, no. 867 (1993), 34. 46 Gavin D’Costa, The Meeting of Religions and the Trinity (Maryknoll: Orbis Books, 2000), 19–24. 47 Ibid.

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There is certainly something valid about D’Costa’s reasoning. But I am not convinced that the pluralist approach necessarily represents a new religious tradition. It is possible to develop some kind of pluralistic approach from within a particular religious tradition without betraying that tradition. Moreover, even if there is an exclusivist flavour in every view (this position is true, better, or more reasonable than the other), there is still a difference between exclusivism, inclusivism, and pluralism with respect to how the relationships between Christianity and other religious traditions are negotiated.48 Schmidt-Leukel argues that a great deal of the confusion and critique surrounding the threefold paradigm has to do with a lack of clear definitions. He suggests that the threefold paradigm should be articulated in connection with the phrase ‘mediation of a salvific knowledge of ultimate/transcending reality’ (P). Apart from the atheistic or naturalistic view that no such mediation exists, there are only three possible alternatives with regard to this phrase: 1. P is given in one and only one religion (exclusivism). 2. P is given in more than one religion but only with one singular maximum (inclusivism). 3. P is given among the religions more than once and without a singular maximum (pluralism). Framed in this way, Schmidt-Leukel rightly points out that there are no other logical alternatives.49 Given the definition and restrictions he provides, his arguments are convincing: the structure of the threefold paradigm is consistent the three alternatives are not one and the same and his way of formulating the paradigm covers all existing options. Schmidt-Leukel brings clarity and delimitation to this debate. At the same time, his logical schema raises further questions. It does not, for example, differentiate between soteriology and epistemology. There are some advantages in keeping both aspects together, and it certainly makes the overall structure of the proposal more lucid. It does become more difficult, however, to discern those who argue that the truth only can be found in their own religion while at the same time holding that salvation is not mediated through religions at all but to all human beings regardless of religion. In its present structure, the proposal does not leave room for alternatives and differences within each of the three alternatives. The clear-cut propositions may therefore prove confusing when trying to categorise concrete positions. For instance, Christians who otherwise identify as exclusivists or inclusivists but hold that God has not revoked

48 49

Ibid., 90–92. Perry Schmidt-Leukel, ’Exclusivism, Inclusivism, Pluralism: The Tripolar Typology—Clarified and Reaffirmed’, in Paul F Knitter (ed.) The Myth of Religious Superiority: A Multifaith Exploration (Maryknoll: Orbis Books, 2005), 18–20.

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the covenant with the Jewish people and that ‘salvific knowledge’ is mediated through the covenant of Sinai seem to fall into the third category and can be regarded as pluralists. This is also why I discuss particularity as a fourth alternative below. The clear structure shows that the reinterpreted typology responds only to certain concerns. This last point does not detract from Schmidt-Leukel’s accomplishment but does remind us that theology of religions cannot be approached solely via this schema. The threefold paradigm constitutes a kind of beacon for those venturing into the waters of theology of religions; it is difficult to navigate entirely without it. Yet, as has already been hinted above, the threefold paradigm will not play a major role in this survey. I shall briefly elaborate on the reasons for this. First, the threefold paradigm does not recognise different interpretations of salvation but treats the term as a uniform notion. I agree with Schmidt-Leukel’s remark that there is nothing in the typology that ‘prejudge[s] how these claims … are understood and evaluated.’50 But there is also nothing that insists on a careful assessment and comparison of different views. Rather, the notion of salvation is treated a priori as univocal. As I hope will become clear in the following chapters, eschatology is not necessarily understood in the same way, neither within the Christian tradition nor across different religious traditions.51 Hence, the question of who will be ‘saved’ needs to be raised together with the question of what eschatological fulfilment is. Second, even though her critique is somewhat generalising, I think there is some truth to Jeannine Hill Fletcher’s observation that there is ‘a self-referential construction of the other’ in these three alternatives.52 Exclusivism leaves no room for either truth or salvation in other religions, and, hence, the religious Other needs to be transformed into the Same in order to be approved. Inclusivism does not deny that the religious Other could possess

50

51

52

Schmidt-Leukel is responding to Heim’s criticism that the threefold paradigm presupposes a uniform notion of salvation: ‘Exclusivism, Inclusivism, Pluralism’, 26. Even though I do not endorse Heim’s creative proposal of different religious ends, I do share his view that the meanings of terms such as ‘salvation’ or ‘eschatology’ have to be carefully assessed and compared. See S. Mark Heim, Salvations: Truth and Difference in Religion (Maryknoll: Orbis Books, 1995), 6–10. For a discussion on the diverse views of salvation, intrareligiously as well as interreligiously, see Paul Hedges, Controversies in Interreligious Dialogue and the Theology of Religions (London: SCM Press 2010), 183–189. He argues that the variety of Christian heavenly hopes may be just as incompatible as the variety of heavenly hopes from the different religions. Jeannine Hill Fletcher, ‘Shifting Identity: The Contribution of Feminist Thought to Theologies of Religious Pluralism’, Journal of Feminist Studies in Religion 19, no. 2 (2003), 7–8.

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truth and salvation, but this assessment is based on what is similar to his or her own tradition. Thus, it is an appreciation of sameness rather than otherness. Many pluralists also tend to argue on the basis of underlying similarities between religious traditions. John Hick, for instance, claims that most doctrinal differences between various religions are illusory and that the commonalities behind this illusion bind all human beings together. Moreover, the self-referential construction that Hill Fletcher observes tends to lead to a somewhat static construction of the religious Other. Given this critique, it is not easy for the Christian theologian to find reasons to engage in interreligious conversations and encounters in any of the three approaches. If Christian theology of religions is concerned with the Christian theological response to religious diversity in general, this study also raises questions regarding these other religious traditions in themselves. It asks not only whether Christian eschatological fulfilment is open to the religious Other but also what place there is for the religious Other in Muslim and Jewish eschatologies. Beyond the Threefold Paradigm? I: Particularism as a Fourth Option The threefold paradigm has not been replaced, but it has been challenged in several ways. In this section, I shall discuss some of the recent attempts to phrase the alternatives in theology of religions differently. In his Introducing Theologies of Religions, Paul Knitter suggests a fourfold paradigm when presenting the alternatives in theology of religions. Knitter does, admittedly, adhere to Race’s paradigm, even though he is sensitive to the recent development and the plurality within the models and does discuss possible subcategories. In addition, however, to the three original approaches, which he names the replacement model, the fulfilment model, and the mutuality model, he adds a fourth: the acceptance model.53 Paul Hedges, Marianne Moyaert, and others have suggested a name that enjoys wider reception now: particularism.54 This fourth model is articulated by theologians such as Joseph DiNoia, 53 Knitter, Introducing Theologies of Religions. 54 Knitter also adopts this terminology in later writings. See Paul F. Knitter ‘Comparative Theology is not “Business-as-Usual”, Buddhist-Christian Studies 35 (2015), 183. It should be pointed out that particularism is internally diverse. Moyaert and Knitter both identify three different but related approaches which could be labeled particularist: the postliberal approach of George Lindbeck, the radical pluralist approach, mainly associated with S. Mark Heim, and comparative theology: Knitter, Introducing Theologies of Religions, 177 and Marianne Moyaert, ‘Recent Developments in the Theology of Interreligious Dialogue’, Modern Theology 28, no. 1 (2012), 49 n 58. See also Hedges, Controversies in

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Paul Griffiths, and Alistar McGrath.55 It includes perspectives from postliberal theology and George Lindbeck’s ‘cultural-linguistic approach’ which, in turn, is influenced by Wittgenstein.56 Lindbeck denies universal categories and argues that the differences between the religions are so profound that they constitute different language games that are not translatable from one to the other. Therefore, Lindbeck finds it impossible to evaluate or to harmonise other religions. Here, the differences are strongly accentuated, and, consequently, the otherness of the religious Other is held at a distance. As a result, neither salvation nor damnation exists in other faiths. In Lindbeck’s words: There is no damnation—just as there is no salvation—outside the church. One must, in other words, learn the language of faith before one can know enough about its message knowingly to reject it and thus be lost.57 But even though the particularist approach is deeply influenced by Lindbeck’s cultural-linguistic approach, it is necessary to distinguish between the two. As Moyaert points out, particularism is a softer version of Lindbeck’s approach: Whereas postliberalism seems to seal the end of dialogue, particularism emerged as a kind of critical awareness of difference within interreligious dialogue.58 While Lindbeck’s approach leaves little or no room for actual dialogue and learning between religious traditions, particularism is somewhat more

Interreligious Dialogue, 146 ff. In this present section, I shall focus on Lindbeck’s approach, although some of what is said applies to the others as well. Heim has written at length on eschatology, and his view will be discussed more closely in chapter two. Comparative theology is also related to the particularistic approach, but I do not consider it a model within the three(four)fold paradigm. Rather, I see comparative theology as an approach that can be carried out from an exclusivist, inclusivist, pluralist or particularist view. See the next section, where comparative theology is discussed in more detail. 55 See Joseph A. DiNoia, The Diversity of Religions: A Christian Perspective (Washington D.C.: Catholic University of America Press, 1992); Paul J. Griffiths, The Problem of Religious Diversity (Malden: Blackwell 2001) and Alister McGrath ‘A Particularist View: A Post-Enlightenment Approach’, in Dennis L. Okholm and Timothy R. Philips (eds.) Four Views on Salvation in a Pluralistic World (Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 1996), 151–180. 56 See, for instance, George Lindbeck, ‘The Gospel’s Uniqueness: Election and Untranslatability’, Modern Theology 13, no. 4 (1997). 57 George Lindbeck, Nature of Doctrine: Religion and Theology in a Postliberal Age (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press 1984), 59. 58 Moyaert, Fragile Identities, 161.

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optimistic regarding the possibilities of interreligious dialogue. Hence, one could see the particularist approach as the adaptation and application of Lindbeck’s views to interfaith reality. Or, one could argue, with Moyaert, that particularist theologians actually fail to draw the ultimate conclusions of the cultural-linguistic theory they subscribe to. Or we could argue both: there is no principal opposition between these two assessments. One reason for the particularist’s selective appreciation of Lindbeck may very well be his or her experience of interreligious encounters.59 Heim is influenced by Lindbeck and DiNoia and has written more extensively on eschatology than they have. He has developed a theological position that allows not only for a plurality of paths but also for a plurality of religious ends. Hence, nirvana and heaven are ontologically different but can, nevertheless, both be ontologically true. Heim’s attempt to approach otherness is ­discussed in greater detail in the second chapter (2.3.2). He sees himself as an ­inclusivist and, according to Schmidt-Leukel’s narrower version of the threefold paradigm, he certainly is.60 Others, such as Paul Knitter and Terrence Tilley, consider Heim a particularist.61 Paul Hedges also discusses Heim’s thinking in the company of theologians who share the particularist agenda but concludes that ‘perhaps, Heim fails to be a particularist by being insufficiently post-modern’.62 I share Hedges’ ambivalence in this regard. I do not want to challenge Heim’s own self-analysis, and his theology still has clear affinities with a particularistic approach and its emphasis on and respect for the profound differences between religious traditions. Hedges cites six points that keep the particularistic approach together. These points are broad and general but still helpful when characterising particularism. First, alterity and difference are emphasised over commonalities and similarities. What the faith traditions have in common may be of some value, but what is of actual importance for the theology of religions is the significant differences between them. Second, there is no such thing as a pluralistic meta-perspective from which all religious traditions can be surveyed. It is only possible to speak from within a particular tradition. Third, from a Christian particularist point of view, the Holy Spirit may be at work in other faiths. Fourth, other religious traditions are not instruments of salvation, though they may, unknown to us, be part of God’s plan for humanity. Fifth, particularism

59 Ibid., 161, 172 60 Mark Heim, The Depth of the Riches, 8. 61 Knitter, Introducing Theologies of Religions, 192 ff. and Tilley, Religious Diversity, 183–186. 62 Hedges, Controversies in Interreligious Dialogue, 164.

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is based on a postliberal and postmodern worldview. Sixth, the Christian relation to other faiths is most efficiently approached through the doctrines of the Trinity and of Christ. Thus, the meaningful starting point of any conversation is where truth lies: in the particularities rather than the commonalities.63 This means that the particularistic approach rejects exclusivism because it has no room for God’s presence in other faiths. It rejects inclusivism and pluralism because they both assume some kind of essential similarity between the different faiths. According to particularism, there is no common core or universal experience.64 The particularist approach is a welcome response to some of the shortcomings of exclusivism, inclusivism, and pluralism, not least in terms of recognising differences between the religious traditions and thereby respecting the integrity of these traditions. But the strong emphasis on incommensurability and the metaphor of separate languages also raises questions about the possibility of people of different faiths actually being able to understand each other and to share experiences. A one-sided focus on differences prevents mutual exchange as well as criticism and tends to isolate the religious traditions from each other. The view that particularism constitutes a new approach alongside the original three is underlined in Raimon Panikkar’s The Intrareligious Dialogue, where he distinguishes five attitudes to religious pluralism: exclusivism, inclusivism, parallelism, interpenetration, and pluralism. Parallelism corresponds to particularism, so the ‘new’ attitude in Panikkar’s paradigm is that of interpenetration. Unfortunately, Panikkar does not tie this attitude to any concrete theologian; he merely explains it as ‘mutual interpenetration without the loss of the proper peculiarities of each religiousness’.65 Panikkar understands this as an open process where insights from other traditions are adopted within one’s own tradition and where one’s own tradition might challenge and enrich the Other’s. The different models, attitudes, and paradigms indicated above are not entirely congruent since they do not always answer the same questions. Gavin D’Costa has addressed this issue and suggests that any paradigm should be quite explicit regarding what question it is responding to. For D’Costa, the central issues are: What are the means of salvation, and what is the goal of

63

Paul Hedges, ‘Particularities: Tradition-Specific Post-modern Perspectives’, in Alan Race & Paul M Hedges (eds.), Christian Approaches to Other Faiths (London: SCM Press 2008), 97. 64 Ibid. 65 Raimon Panikkar, The Intrareligious Dialogue, 2nd ed. (New York: Paulist Press, 1999), 9.

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salvation? He introduces a classification of seven alternatives with different answers to how, from a Christian point of view, a person is saved. The alternatives that D’Costa finds are: through the Trinity, through Christ, through the Spirit, through the church, through God (conceived of in a theistic and non-trinitarian way), through the Real (beyond theistic terminology), and through good works.66 Obviously, these seven alternatives are not mutually exclusive, since both Christ and the church can be means of salvation at the same time. Moreover, this way of posing the question makes explicit that theology of religions is not so much an attempt to evaluate other traditions as it is to evaluate one’s own view of salvation. While D’Costa’s approach has the merit of clearly specifying the issue at stake, this is also its weakness. Like Schmidt-Leukel’s approach, it presupposes a rather individual concept of salvation and that salvation is a ‘state’ to which individual members gain access through particular ‘means’. Nonetheless, D’Costa’s model is helpful as a survey of responses to this specific question. Beyond the Threefold Paradigm? II: Comparative Theology In the paradigms presented by Knitter and Panikkar, ‘comparative theology’ is included as one approach in the theology of religions. In their opinion, comparative theology is distinguished from the other types and hence an alternative to inclusivism or pluralism. As we shall see, however, this classification is disputed. I defined theology of religions above as theological reflection on religious plurality from within a particular religious tradition. Objecting to such an approach, Francis X. Clooney, James Fredericks, and other pioneers in comparative theology state that we do not know the religious Other well enough to make sweeping statements. Moreover, they argue, it is precarious (if not perilous) to make general assertions about the religious Other given the wide diversity of religious traditions. According to comparative theologians, theology of religions is an a priori enterprise that makes its (soteriological or epistemological) judgement before the encounter, whereas comparative theology reverses this order. It is first necessary to actually learn more about—and from—other religious traditions so that one can make the kind of judgements that theology of religions makes. Consequently, what comparative theology suggests is a careful reading of classical sources from another religious tradition. Comparisons of this kind allow Christian theology to learn from this tradition. Clooney writes: 66 D’Costa, Christianity and the World Religions, 35.

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The more specific a comparison, the better; the more particular a Christian effort to understand a non-Christian text or practice, the better, the more we attend to learning about particular things and ideas that were previously ‘other’ to us, the better, and the more we write from within this expanded realm of knowledge, and not simply about it, the better.67 As Fredericks points out, the preference for narrow and limited comparisons is shared by a number of significant comparative theologians.68 According to Clooney, comparative theology is ‘a theology deeply changed by its serious engagement in the particularities of more than one religious and theological tradition.’69 Given the critical stand against theology of religions, it is hardly surprising that the relationship between comparative theology and theology of religions has been a matter of debate. Fredericks prefers to see comparative theology as an alternative to the theology of religions, rather than as a complement. He even argues against the practice of theology of religions as such. First, he states that no theological understanding of religious diversity is possible until a detailed study of other traditions has been completed. Since comparative theology is only in its initial stages, this is not yet the case. Second, theology of religions is not able to do justice to the hermeneutical complexity of the task: the voice of the Other and its transformative power are muted. Third, Fredericks argues that theology of religions is not really helpful since it enables Christian theologians to continue the intra-Christian conversation without involving the religious Other. Fourth, since theology of religions entails a judgement of other religious traditions, it implies that the theologian actually knows more about these other traditions than the adherents themselves.70 While I agree with some of Fredericks’ criticisms of theology of religions, I am not convinced that comparative theology actually replaces theology of religions. It is difficult to clearly separate the comparative study (comparative theology) from the general approach or attitude towards other traditions (theology of religions). As a matter of fact, if this separation is carried out,

67 68 69 70

Francis X. Clooney, ‘The Study of Non-Christian Religions in the Post-Vatican II Roman Catholic Church’, Journal of Ecumenical Studies 28, no. 3 (1991), 489–90. James L. Fredericks, ‘Introduction’, in The New Comparative Theology: Interreligious Insights From the Next Generation, ed. Francis X. Clooney (London: T & T Clark, 2010), xii. Francis X. Clooney, Comparative Theology: Deep Learning Across Religious Borders (Malden: Wiley-Blackwell, 2010), 43. Fredericks, ‘Introduction’, xiv-xv.

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comparative theology turns into comparative religion. Schmidt-Leukel is right in his warning that the compared Christian and non-Christian texts or beliefs might already entail certain explicit or implicit assumptions about other religions. … [I]t is doubtless the case that he, as part of his own religious background, will already be influenced by those religious convictions that have their own implications on the truth claims entailed in the beliefs of others.71 Can comparative theology be seen as a ‘theoretical virgin’?72 Is it possible to make a theological comparison without having any preference regarding theology of religions? Both Clooney and Fredericks pledge their allegiance to inclusivism, and, as Rose Drew points out, neither of them seems prepared to profoundly change their theological position.73 Clooney states that [m]y comparative theology is in harmony with those inclusivist theologies, in the great tradition of Karl Rahner, SJ, and Jacques Dupuis, SJ, that balance claims to Christian uniqueness with a necessary openness to learning from other religions.74 Fredericks is critical of theology of religions, but he still sympathises with the inclusivist attitude.75 This remark is further strengthened by Hugh Nicholson, who considers himself to be a comparative theologian and declares that his comprehension of comparative theology ‘favours an “inclusivist” understanding of the relationship between the home tradition and others.’76 In this sense, comparative theology is not an attitude to be added to the threefold paradigm but a completely different approach. Hence, one can do comparative theology from an exclusivist position, as well as from a pluralist position. Conceived in

71

Perry Schmidt-Leukel, ‘Limits and Prospects of Comparative Theology’, in Naming and Thinking God in Europe Today: Theology in Global Dialogue, ed. Norbert Hintersteiner (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2007), 503–04. 72 Ulrich Dehn, ‘A European (German) View on Comparative Theology: Dialogue with My Own Past’, Religions 3, no. 4 (2012), 1086. 73 Rose Drew, ‘Challenging Truths: Reflections on the Theological Dimension of Comparative Theology’, Religions 3, no. 4 (2012), 1044. 74 Clooney, Comparative Theology, 16. 75 Fredericks, ‘Introduction’, xv. 76 Hugh Nicholson, ‘A Correlational Model of Comparative Theology’, The Journal of Religion 85, no. 2 (2005), 192.

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this way, Hick’s contribution, which will be discussed in chapter two, is a kind of comparative theology. As a matter of fact, it is not only that Fredericks has been challenged on his way of contrasting the theology of religions and comparative theology. Ulrich Winkler is among the comparative theologians who actually consider theology of religions to be an inevitable perspective within comparative theology. Without theology of religions, he argues, comparative theology is not able to convincingly dismiss the suspicion that one’s own tradition is considered true and superior prior to the comparison.77 Reinhold Bernhardt also holds that it is necessary for comparative theology to include, implicitly or explicitly, a theology of religions. In his view, a traditional form of inclusivism as discussed in section 1.2.2, is not sufficient. Rather, Bernhardt advocates a different kind of inclusivism that comes closer to the correlational approach I will suggest in section 1.3 below. Bernhardt seeks a theology of religions that is rooted in the Christian tradition without considering one’s own tradition superior to other religious traditions. He calls his approach a ‘mutual hermeneutical inclusivism’: the first term refers to the lack of superiority claims and the last to the rootedness in Christian tradition.78 In his own words: If CTh [comparative theology] wants to assert its claim to be a theological enterprise it needs to enroot the comparative approach in a theology of religions which shows that from the very heart of the Christian faith we can expect God’s salvific presence to be present not only in the Christian tradition.79 According to Bernhardt, such an approach would enable a ‘theological curiosity’ of other traditions that may motivate future work in comparative theology.80

77

Ulrich Winkler, ‘Reasons for and Contexts of Deep Theological Engagement with Other Religious Traditions in Europe: Toward a Comparative Theology’, Religions 3, no. 4 (2012), 1185. 78 Reinhold Bernhardt, ‘Comparative Theology: Between Theology and Religious Studies’, Religions 3, no. 4 (2012), 970. The approach is discussed at length in Reinhold Bernhardt, Ende des Dialogs? Die Begegnung der Religionen und ihre theologische Reflexion (Zurich: Theologischer Verlag Zürich, 2005), 206–25. Here Bernhardt distinguishes between mutual and unilateral inclusivism. He states that there are indications of a mutual inclusivism in, for instance, Karl Rahner’s theology of religions but that they are not developed any further. Hence, for him, Rahner’s theology in general remains a ‘unilateral’ inclusivism. 79 Bernhardt, ‘Comparative Theology: Between Theology and Religious Studies’, 970. 80 Ibid.

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Actually, the term ‘comparative theology’ also refers to an earlier apologetic movement with rather old roots. Hence, what I have here called ‘comparative theology’ is sometimes, and more precisely, called the new comparative theology.81 The relation between the old and new forms of comparative theology is also a matter of debate. The old comparative theology can be traced back at least to the 19th century.82 Here we find works such as James Freeman Clarke’s Ten Great Religions: An Essay in Comparative Theology (1871) and George Matheson’s The Distinctive Messages of the Old Religions (1893).83 Locklin and Nicholson comment on these and other works: ‘The older comparative theology epitomises the universalist ideology that has since become so problematic.’84 Norbert Hintersteiner similarly recognises the strong apologetic dimension in the old comparative theology. According to Hintersteiner, the ‘singularity of Christianity was often expressed in a vaguely oxymoronic phrase: “uniquely universal”’.85 Nicholson comments on the differences between the old and the new comparative theology. He highlights three fundamental differences. First, the new comparative theology consistently avoids the generalisations and religious stereotyping that were commonplace in the old comparative theology. Second, the new comparative theology is genuinely interested in the theology of other religious traditions. Hence, descriptions of other religious traditions should be acceptable to members of those traditions. Third, the new comparative theology is less normative than its predecessor and yet is more aware of its 81 82

83



84 85

As is the case in the edited volume, The New Comparative Theology: Interreligious Insights From the Next Generation, ed. Francis X. Clooney (London: T & T Clark, 2010). According to Ulrich Dehn, forerunners to this old form of comparative theology can actually be found in the work of medieval Christian thinkers who, for polemical reasons, studied the Qur’an from a Christian perspective. See Dehn, ‘A European (German) View on Comparative Theology’, 1086. James F. Clarke, Ten Great Religions: An Essay in Comparative Theology (Boston: Houghton Mifflin Company, 1913). Available online through Boston Public Library at http://ia600604 .us.archive.org/16/items/tengreatreligion1913clar/tengreatreligion1913clar.pdf. See also George Matheson, The Distinctive Messages of the Old Religions (London: William Blackwood and Sons, 1893). Available online through Princeton Theological Seminary at http://ia600303.us.archive.org/18/items/distinctivemessa00math/distinctivemessa00math .pdf Reid B. Locklin and Hugh Nicholson, ‘The Return of Comparative Theology’, Journal of the American Academy of Religion 78, no. 2 (2010), 481. Norbert Hintersteiner, ‘Intercultural and Interreligiuos (Un)Translatability and the Comparative Theology Project’, in Naming and Thinking God in Europe Today: Theology in Global Dialogue, ed. Norbert Hintersteiner (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2007), 466.

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presuppositions. According to Nicholson, it is not the normative commitments as such that constitute a problem but the attempt to mask them behind an alleged objectivity.86 Hedges argues convincingly that the historical and theological roots of the old comparative theology are more present within the new comparative theology than the advocates of the latter actually admit.87 This being said, the new comparative theology is, if not entirely separate, at least distinct from the old comparative theology and its apologetic and unique universality. As Moyaert points out, the new comparative theology is ‘moved by an ethical concern’ that focuses on a fair relationship between one’s own and the Other’s tradition.88 To further understand new comparative theology, there is a third scholarly approach (besides theology of religions and the old comparative theology) that it is also distinguished from: comparative religion. In his programmatic Comparative Theology, Clooney separates comparative theology from comparative religion by stating that the former does not merely entail neutral and detached comparison but is rooted in a particular faith.89 Hence, the theological commitment to a certain religious community is part of the investigation. (One should note that, as with theology of religions, this does not imply that the scholar has to belong to the particular tradition that is being examined to practice comparative theology. Rather, it is a matter of one’s hermeneutical position and attitude to the subject.) Thus, whereas theology of religions evaluates the theological significance of other religious traditions in general, comparative theology is more concerned with the comparison of theological assertions from within different religious traditions. Rather, as a theological and necessarily spiritual practice … comparison is a reflective and contemplative endeavour by which we see the other in light of our own, and our own in light of the other.90

86

Hugh Nicholson, ‘The New Comparative Theology and Theological Hegemonism’, in The New Comparative Theology: Interreligious Insights From the Next Generation, ed. Francis X. Clooney (London: T & T Clark, 2010), 58–59. 87 Paul Hedges, ‘The Old and New Comparative Theologies: Discourses on Religion, the Theology of Religions, Orientalism and the Boundaries of Traditions’, Religions 3, no. 4 (2012). 88 Marianne Moyaert, ‘On Vulnerability: Probing the Ethical Dimensions of Comparative Theology’, Religions 3, no. 4 (2012), 1145. 89 Clooney, Comparative Theology, 9–10. 90 Ibid., 10–11.

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Clearly, this study entails comparison, and this is a theological study. Hence, I should specify the extent to which it represents comparative theology. Fredericks provides a rather generous characterisation when he describes it as ‘the attempt to understand the meaning of Christian faith by exploring it in the light of the teachings of other religious traditions.’91 Given such a broad definition, the current study can be seen as an example of comparative theology. But it does deviate from the ideal of comparative theology in other respects. To clarify these matters, I shall open my methodological considerations with some remarks on one of the forerunners of comparative theology: the method of correlation. The review of the method of correlation (p 26ff) will be followed by a critical discussion on how that method could be revised in the present context (p 28ff). In the next section, I shall relate the method of correlation to comparative theology in order to further reflect on how both of these approaches actually contribute to our method in this study (p 30ff). And finally, the last section of my methodological considerations will explain what are arguably the most important elements in the method: the heuristic tools. The tools of theological space and theological interplay are extracted from the analysis in the second chapter and constitute a concretion of what ‘correlation’ and ‘comparison’ mean in this study (p 33ff). 1.3

Methodological Considerations

The Method of Correlation Paul Tillich introduced the method of correlation in the second half of the 20th century as a way to express the interplay between Christian theology and the surrounding world. For Tillich, the method of correlation functions both descriptively and normatively; it is both a recipe for how theology (almost) always has been done and how theology should be done.92 Theology should have an apologetic character, and it is precisely in the correlation between Christian faith and the human situation that theological apologetics is practised.93 The task of systematic theology is to analyse the human situation and 91 92 93

James L. Fredericks, Faith among Faiths: Christian Theology and Non-Christian Religions (New York: Paulist Press, 1999), 139. Paul Tillich, Systematic Theology I: Reason and Revelation; Being and God (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1951), 60. Paul Tillich, ‘The Problem of Theological Method: II’, The Journal of Religion 27, no. 1 (1947), 26.

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then demonstrate how the Christian symbols answer the questions of today. Consequently, theology sets the rules for how the correlation is performed. Theology can learn from philosophy, psychology, and literature when it comes to the analysis of the human condition. Hence, interdisciplinary studies can prove helpful in asking the right questions, but these non-theological subjects can never contribute to the answers given by Christian faith. Neither other academic disciplines nor human experiences in general can affect the content of Christian faith. The substance of theology’s answer to the questions of today is the manifestation of Jesus as the Christ, and this is not open to debate.94 This method was later developed by, among others, David Tracy. He ­challenged the idea of a stable content for the Christian faith and looked for a method that could do justice to the mutuality between Christianity and culture. As a result, he advanced the concept of a ‘classic’, a term that encompasses not only texts but also events, images, music, movies, and individuals. With this concept of classic, Tracy sought to capture the religious dimension of common human experience. A classic is able to open people to new experiences of love, communion, and truth and to transcend their self-centeredness and egoism. It demonstrates its truth by convincing every new generation of its relevance. Tracy acknowledges two sources for theology: Christian texts and common human experience.95 Here, the difference between Tracy and Tillich becomes evident. While Tillich considered the Christian message superior to human experience, Tracy holds them to be equal: Yet contemporary Christians do need to see again that we must find not only proclamatory word but word rooted in … the manifestations of the sacred in the cosmos. The ‘profane’ be no more. The secular has been disclosed as religiously significant.96 There is a religious dimension to common human experience which is to be discerned and analysed, but there is also an ‘experienced’ dimension of

94 Tillich, Systematic Theology I, 62–64. 95 David Tracy, Blessed Rage for Order: The New Pluralism in Theology, 2nd ed. (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1996), 44. 96 David Tracy, The Analogical Imagination: Christian Theology and the Culture of Pluralism (London: SCM Press, 1981), 217–18.

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religion.97 The two areas are interrelated and, as a consequence, every theological attempt to interpret common human experience is already an attempt to establish a mutually critical correlation between experience and Christian tradition. When the Christian message is interpreted, the contemporary experience of the theologian interpreting is applied in that interpretation. The correlation is achieved precisely through the confrontation between the tradition and the theologian’s experience.98 A Revised Method of Correlation There are, however, some problems with this approach. The existence of ‘common human experiences’ is quite disputable, and the method might give the false impression that there are two entities that ought to be correlated. As Werner G. Jeanrond points out, this is not the case. Neither ‘human experience’ nor ‘Christian tradition’ is uniform entities.99 The situation is multipolar and 97

98

99

Regarding the role of experience, Tracy’s development over time is obvious: from a more optimistic pursuit of harmony and unity in Blessed Rage for Order (where the concepts of ‘limit to’ and ‘limit of’ are introduced), towards an increasing awareness of diversity and conflict in The Analogical Imagination (the concept of ‘classic’) and a more specifically religious notion in Plurality and Ambiguity (the concept of ‘religious classic’). The emphasis on diversity and conflict are reinforced in the Gifford Lectures (where the notion of ‘fragments’ is introduced). In his most recent writings, the centrality of the christological event is stressed (he introduces the neologism ‘frag-event’). However, the purpose remains the same: to discern the religious dimension in human experience. For the concept of ‘limit’, see Tracy, Blessed Rage for Order: The New Pluralism in Theology, 92-118; for the concept of ‘classic’, see Tracy, The Analogical Imagination: Christian Theology and the Culture of Pluralism, 99–153; for the concept of ‘fragment’, see David Tracy, ‘Form and Fragment: The Recovery of the Hidden and Incomprehensible God’, in The Concept of God in Global Dialogue, ed. Werner G. Jeanrond and Aasulv Lande (Maryknoll: Orbis Books, 2005); for the concept of ‘frag-event’, see David Tracy, ‘Western Hermeneutics and Interreligious Dialogue’, in Interreligious Hermeneutics, ed. Catherine Cornille and Christopher Conway (Eugene: Wipf and Stock, 2010), 4. In a 1993 article, Stephen L. Stell criticises Tracy for separating experience and tradition into a dichotomy. Based on Tracy’s essay in Paradigm Change in Theology, this critique does not seem entirely fair. See Stephen L. Stell, ‘Hermeneutics in Theology and the Theology of Hermeneutics: Beyond Lindbeck and Tracy’, Journal of the American Academy of Religion 61, no. 4 (1993). See also David Tracy, ‘Hermeneutical Reflections in the New Paradigm’, in Paradigm Change in Theology: A Symposium for the Future, ed. Hans Küng and David Tracy (Edinburgh: T & T Clark, 1989), 54. See in particular Werner G. Jeanrond, ‘Correlational Theology and the Chicago School’, in Introduction to Christian Theology: Contemporary North American Perspectives, ed. Roger A. Badham (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 1998), 137–53.

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multifaceted rather than bipolar. Lieven Boeve has also stressed this and declared that the former way of understanding the method of correlation is no longer viable. Others, such as John Milbank and other proponents of Radical Orthodoxy, have emphatically argued that there is no easy way to establish continuity between the Christian tradition and other voices of society.100 Yet we can ask, with Boeve, whether Milbank does not take this point too far in his emphasis on particularity and discontinuity. Boeve suggests that we should not conceive of this relationship in terms of immediate continuity or of sharp discontinuity but as something in between. He develops his method around terms like recontextualisation and interruption. These terms, he argues, describe the area between continuity and discontinuity. In Boeve’s words, Where anti-correlationist (anti-modern) theologies strongly relativize or deny the intrinsic involvement of Christian faith and theology with the context and thus stress the discontinuity between both, the category of interruption holds continuity and discontinuity together in an albeit tense relationship. Interruption is after all not to be identified with rupture, because what is interrupted does not cease to exist. On the other hand, it also implies that what is interrupted does not simply continue as though nothing had happened. Interruption signifies an intrusion that does not destroy the narrative but problematizes the advance thereof.101 Hence, Boeve challenges the optimistic and one-sided version of correlation in which correlation only reflects an exchange between an idealised Christianity and a similarly idealised secularism. He does not reject the method entirely, however, but develops it. As a matter of fact, he states that his methodological proposal could be seen as a ‘postmodern correlation’.102 Over against the critical remarks sketched above, I still consider the (revised) method of correlation as relevant. This methodology, in my view, implies two things. First, it enables the Christian tradition to acknowledge truth in every area of human existence and thereby opens it up to the possibility of learning and changing. Second, it encourages theological perspectives on literature, psychology, and music to engage in conversation with these expressions of culture. By acknowledging other academic disciplines as potential sources 100 John Milbank, Catherine Pickstock, and Graham Ward, eds., Radical Orthodoxy: A New Theology (London: Routledge, 2006), 1–5. 101 Lieven Boeve, God Interrupts History: Theology in a Time of Upheaval, trans. Brian Doyle (New York: Continuum, 2007), 42. 102 Ibid., 40.

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of theology, they are rescued from becoming mere stereotypes in the Christian narrative. In his major works on the method of correlation, Tracy focused on the dialogue with the so-called secular world and hence recognised biology, philosophy, physics, and literature as sources of Christian theology while hardly mentioning Islam, Buddhism, and Judaism. Admittedly, he has not written extensively on theology of religions since then, though he has at least addressed the topic. In Dialogue with the Other, he emphasises that dialogue among the religions is no longer a luxury but a theological necessity. The praxis of dialogue demands primacy before any rush to theoretical revisions within theology.103 It is already clear from these remarks on a revised method of correlation that there are significant similarities with comparative theology. In the next section, I shall further elaborate on the characteristics of the revised method of correlation by relating it to comparative theology. A Revised Method of Correlation as Comparative Theology? In his article called ‘Comparative Theology’ in The Encyclopedia of Religions (1987, republished 2005), Tracy conceives of his method of correlation as a kind of comparative theology. He considers comparative theology to be ‘any explicitly intellectual interpretation of a religious tradition that affords a central place to the fact of religious pluralism in the tradition’s self-interpretation.’104 Hence, as an approach to religious plurality, it is not principally a matter of making general evaluative statements about other religious traditions and their truth claims. Rather, it is one of studying the theology of other religious traditions to challenge and enrich Christian perspectives. As we have seen, representatives of comparative theology have emphasised that the subject matter of comparison ought to be small. In this sense, Bennett Comerford is right when he says: ‘Stated plainly, Tracy is not a comparative theologian.’105 Nonetheless, Tracy’s theological project and the method of 103 David Tracy, Dialogue with the Other: The Inter-Religious Dialogue (Louvain: Peeters, 1990), 95. 104 David Tracy, ‘Theology: Comparative Theology’, in The Encyclopedia of Religion, ed. Mircea Eliade (New York: Macmillan, 1987), 447. 105 Bennett Comerford, ‘The Present Situation and the Comparative Imperative: Parallels in the Theological Responses to Religious Pluralism of David Tracy and Francis X. Clooney’, Journal of Comparative Theology 3, no. 1 (2012), 42.

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correlation do not contradict comparative theology. Tracy’s method of correlation is a more general form of comparative theology. Clooney himself refers to comparative theology as ‘Tracy-plus’, indicating that it draws on Tracy’s method and yet moves beyond it. The primary difference between Tracy’s notion of comparative theology and Clooney’s ‘Tracy-plus’ is that the latter is ‘a closer, more particular engagement that thinks through the truths of several traditions’.106 While Tracy’s definition includes theology of religions as part of comparative theology, Clooney, as we have seen, regards them as distinct. I do not claim that the comparison in this study meets the criteria set by Clooney and Fredericks, among others. For instance, the ‘micrological’ ambition of comparison advocated by Von Stosch, Clooney, and others is not an explicit aim here.107 Moreover, Clooney emphasises the hermeneutically ‘clean’ approach to the Other’s religious texts. In his view, comparative theology should not impose questions from one’s own tradition on these other texts. Hence, one should avoid ‘themes or … methods already articulated prior to the comparative practice.’108 I shall relate this view to my own methodology below. I have expressed my affinity for Tracy’s correlational approach and tried to conceive of it as an alternative that falls somewhere between inclusivism and pluralism. This means that there may be truth and salvation in other religious traditions and that, from a Christian point of view, other traditions may play a part in God’s plan. Such a view is in line with Dupuis’ argument regarding covenants above: the covenants with Abraham and the Jewish people are not revoked nor are the covenants with Adam and Noah. It is possible from a Christian point of view that God has entered into other covenants not known to the Christian tradition. This view could also be articulated as the possibility of pluralism: a rejection of any a priori denial that there could be equally authentic religions without affirming that there actually are such religions.109 In fact,

106 Clooney, Comparative Theology, 43. 107 See Klaus von Stosch, ‘Comparative Theology as Liberal and Confessional Theology’, Religions 3, no. 4 (2012), 986. See also Clooney, ‘The Study of Non-Christian Religions in the Post-Vatican II Roman Catholic Church’, 489–90. And Fredericks, ‘Introduction’, xii. 108 Francis X. Clooney, ‘Comparative Theology: A Review of Recent Books’, Theological Studies 56, no. 3 (1995), 522. 109 Schubert M. Ogden’s theology of religions, which is influenced by Alfred North Whitehead, is similar to John Cobb’s in important respects. In this context, I am not evaluating Ogden’s process theology approach to theology of religions but am only referring to his position of endorsing the possibility of pluralism without claiming the actuality of pluralism. See, for instance, David Ray Griffin, ‘John Cobb’s Whiteheadian Complementary Pluralism’, in Griffin (ed.), Deep Religious Pluralism (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2005), 52.

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one could say that the possibility of other authentic religions follows from my reasoning regarding the theological integrity of the religious Other. Thus, in the context of eschatology, I suggest this possibility on the basis of the overall argument of the recognition of religious otherness. It may seem overanxious to speak only of ‘possibility’, but it is in accordance with my understanding of eschatology and eschatological statements, as will be clear in the final chapter.110 For Christians, it is through Christ that truth and salvation are experienced. Still, as I shall argue throughout this book, the eschatological roles of Christ and of other religions are left open. The reason for this view is theological: the Christian tradition does not represent a birds-eye view from which all other religious traditions are conceived and evaluated. As Boeve insists, the Christian position is not that of the detached observer who monitors all other paths. Rather, it is that of the engaged participant whose perspective is limited.111 Even though the Christian tradition contains universalistic claims, its scope and knowledge are finite. In this regard, I see the approach of comparative theology as fruitful in allowing the close assessment of similarities and differences between the religious traditions and theological reflections on these findings. This is certainly a reason for the approach I am taking in this present book. It is also along these lines that I understand Tracy’s correlational methodology: But the liberal inclusivist ways, too, I now realize, must also be put at risk in the new inter-religious dialogues. The new question is to find a way to formulate a Christian question on religious pluralism in such manner that a genuinely new answer may be forthcoming without abandoning Christian identity. The ‘answer’ is unlikely to be, as some suggest, by shifting from a ‘christocentric’ to a ‘theocentric’ position. This Christian response seems more a postponement of the issue rather than an adequate response to it. For insofar as Christians know the God (as pure, unbounded Love) that all Christian models of theocentrism demand, they know that God in and through the decisive revelation of God in Jesus Christ.112 Hence, when Tracy applies the method of correlation to interreligious encounters, he finds it difficult to foresee its results. Rather, ‘if genuine dialogue is to occur, we must be willing to put everything at risk.’113 It should be pointed 110 See ‘The Apophatic Nature of the Eschaton’ below in particular. 111 Lieven Boeve, Interrupting Tradition: An Essay on Christian Faith in a Postmodern Context (Leuven: Peeters, 2003), 99 f. 112 Tracy, Dialogue with the Other, 96–97. 113 Ibid., 95.

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out that several comparative theologians similarly argue that we should not anticipate the outcome of the comparison and that we do not yet know where the interreligious encounters will take the different religious traditions. Nevertheless, there are also comparative theologians—we have already mentioned Nicholson, Fredericks, and Clooney—who emphasise their commitment to an inclusivist approach. While I do not adhere to the inclusivist presuppositions, I have tried to sketch Tracy’s correlational approach in this section as an—admittedly vague—alternative starting point. This being said, I do not deliberately try to distance myself from comparative theology. Given the concerns discussed above, I consider it helpful and a valuable addition to traditional theology of religions. As a matter of fact, if Clooney is right in his somewhat critical definition of theology of religions, this book certainly moves beyond its scope and towards comparative theology. Clooney sees theology of religions as a theological discipline that discerns and evaluates the religious significance of other religious traditions in accord with the truths and goals defining one’s own religion. It may be greatly detailed with respect to the nuances of the home tradition, but most often remains broadly general regarding the traditions that are being talked about.114 As already stated, there are also broader definitions of comparative t­heology, such as Tracy’s, Fredericks’, and Von Stosch’s. The present project may arguably qualify as an example of comparative theology according to these more encompassing definitions. Rather than continuing to discuss whether this study concurs with a given definition of comparative theology, however, it is time to specify further in what sense it is comparative and correlational. Introducing the Heuristic Tools The correlational approach in this study is connected to the heuristic tools that provide the methodological framework in chapters two, three, and four. The first of these heuristic tools, the ‘theological space’ of the religious Other, is concerned with the question whether the theological language as such provides room for the religious Other as other without ignoring, excluding, or

114 Clooney, Comparative Theology, 10.

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assimilating the Other. Is the religious Other present in the eschatological descriptions and, if so, how?115 The second heuristic tool, the ‘theological interplay’ between eschatology and other statements of faith, has to do with the extent to which eschatology is inscribed within a theological system and how it is so inscribed. In the Christian eschatologies assessed in chapter two, the primary interplay is between eschatology and christology. This and other interplays influence eschatology in different ways. As I shall argue, this interplay is significant for the question of theological integrity in eschatology. Moreover, since eschatology interacts theologically with other tradition-specific elements, it is of particular interest to study and compare the situation in Christian eschatology with Muslim and Jewish eschatologies which lack these elements but have others instead.116 In the third chapter, these tools are applied heuristically to govern the reading that will be offered. Hence, the analyses of Muslim and Jewish eschatologies are structured correlationally with the help of these heuristic tools. Here we can note that Clooney’s advice regarding a hermeneutically clean approach is only partially followed. On the one hand, the explicit ambition of this study is to analyse these eschatologies on their own terms rather than to presume that theological concepts like ‘heaven’, ‘believer’, and ‘salvation’ refer to the same thing. Nevertheless, the comparison and correlation start with specific challenges in contemporary Christian theology. In this sense, the analyses of Christian eschatologies in chapter two are not of the same nature as the analyses of Muslim and Jewish eschatologies in chapter three. The correlational approach adopted here implies that the challenges in the Christian tradition are compared with how these precise challenges are handled in the Muslim and Jewish traditions. Hence, though both excluding and including traits are identified in Muslim and Jewish eschatologies, the question to be addressed is how the specific exclusive traits in Christian eschatologies are responded to in Muslim and Jewish eschatologies. 115 The expression ‘theological space’ is mentioned in articles by Tony Bayfield and Jesper Svartvik. My account is influenced by their arguments but is further developed in accordance with the context and conditions of this study. See Tony Bayfield, ‘Making Theological Space’, in Dialogue With a Difference: The Manor House Group Experience, ed. Tony Bayfield and Marcus Braybrooke (London: SCM Press, 1992). See also Jesper Svartvik, ‘Contemporary Christian Self-Understanding: Populus Dei or Corpus Christi?’, Current Dialogue, no. 53 (2012), 33. 116 For a thoughtful discussion on another theological interplay (between the story of the Fall and revelation), see Svartvik, ‘Contemporary Christian Self-Understanding: Populus Dei or Corpus Christi?’, 34.

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This approach results in a kind of hermeneutical circle that starts in the Christian tradition, moves further out into the Other’s tradition and then curves back again to the Christian tradition. Theologically speaking, this movement is endless: the hermeneutical circle enables a deeper understanding of oneself and of the Other and its results are not predetermined.117 The question of the role and place of the religious Other is not addressed by, for instance, Jürgen Moltmann and Joseph Ratzinger. Thus, I am actually searching for answers to questions not raised by the authors themselves. This is true also of the Muslim and Jewish theologians in the third chapter. It may seem a precarious way to approach their works. One certainly needs to be careful with arguments from silence. As will be clear below, however, even though the particular question is not raised, it is still possible to extrapolate traces of an ‘eschatological theology of religions’ from these texts. Feminist theology comes to mind as a fruitful parallel: in their foundational works, feminist theologians constantly ask questions ‘foreign’ to the Christian ‘classics’ and still yield substantial results in terms of new research.118 In fact, to read a text ‘against the grain’—to search for answers in a context where the question is not raised—is not only a possible but also necessary task in most academic disciplines. It is nevertheless important to bear in mind this ‘violation’ of some of the authors I will take as interlocutors. Certainly, there are power dimensions to all kinds of interreligious work. Among those are, as Paul Hedges points out, ‘the lingering effects of Western imperialism’ where, for instance, a Western Christian academic discourse is seen as representing modernity, progress, and success compared to other non-Western discourses.119 Power asymmetries between religious traditions and between cultures affect not only interreligious dialogue but also the academic discipline of theology of religions. Hedges identifies some of the dangers and pitfalls connected to these asymmetries: proclaiming tolerance in a way that does not recognise particular religious identities and focusing on similarities in a way that denies differences.120 These aspects also have to be 117 For a parallel discussion, see Marianne Moyaert, ‘Recent Developments in the Theology of Interreligious Dialogue: From Soteriological Openness to Hermeneutical Openness’, Modern Theology 28, no. 1 (2012), 26. 118 See, for instance, Amy-Jill Levine and Maria Mayo Robbins, eds., A Feminist Companion to Patristic Literature, vol. 12, Feminist Companion to the New Testament and Early Christian Writings (London: T & T Clark, 2007). 119 Hedges, Controversies in Interreligious Dialogue, 95. 120 See also Robert Schreiter, New Catholicity: Theology Between the Global and the Local (New York: Orbis Books, 2005), 43.

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considered in a work like ours. They are not reasons not to engage in interreligious work but they should inform us how that work is carried out. After all, trying to avoid interreligious encounters and theology of religions would, in the long run, enforce stereotypes and mistrust from all sides.121 I also agree with Hedges that ‘without dialogue, without listening to the other as an equal, then we have no way to critique ourselves’.122 Furthermore, it is important to see that the power dynamics in interreligious relations are not one-dimensional only but more complex and multifaceted. There are norms contradicting the one described above. As a consequence, power asymmetries on all sides may be challenged and criticised. In the context of our study, awareness of these power dimensions are integrated into the methodology in more than one way: differences are at the fore in the analyses; the emphasis on integrity and otherness responds to precisely some of the concerns of power asymmetries; and the heuristic tools approach brings structure and clarity to how the ‘dialogue’ is conducted. Methodologically, it should be pointed out that critical assessments can be applied to the Other’s tradition as well as to the home tradition. Thus, the religious Other is not immune to critique. On the basis of the Christian tradition, it is possible to pose critical and challenging questions about what is found in the other traditions. In this study, these questions concern the issue of theological integrity. This way of working is thoroughly discussed by Reinhold Bern­ hardt. In his article on interreligious discernment, Bernhardt suggests that we look for material criteria that are deeply rooted in the sources of their own respective religious traditions and yet at the same time applicable to other traditions as well.123 Having stated that the religious Other is not immune to critique, it should also be admitted that, in this study, the focus is not on the identification of weaknesses in the Other’s theologies per se. As already mentioned, the heuristic tools approach concentrates on identifying different solutions in other religious traditions to challenges within the Christian tradition. Nevertheless, particular examples of 121 For a discussion on this, see Jesper Svartvik, ‘Introduction: “For Six Strange Weeks They Had Acted as if They Were Friends”, in Religious Stereotyping and Interreligious Relations, ed. Jesper Svartvik and Jakob Wirén (New York: Palgrave Macmillan 2013), 1–18. 122 Hedges, Controversies in Interreligious Dialogue, 101. 123 Reinhold Bernhardt, ‘Coordinates for Interreligious Discernment from a Protestant View: Transcendence—Freedom—Agape—Responsibility’, in Criteria of Discernment in Interreligious Dialogue, ed. Catherine Cornille (Eugene: Cascade Books, 2009), 56.

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when the otherness of the religious Other is not respected will be highlighted and discussed in the chapter on Muslim and Jewish eschatologies as well. 1.4 Material All four Christian theologians examined in chapter 2.2 have contributed significantly to the development of Christian theology in the last quarter of the 20th century and since. Joseph Ratzinger, Wolfhart Pannenberg, Jürgen Moltmann, and John Hick are some of the most well-known and influential contemporary theologians in the Western church, and they belong to the first generation of theologians after the Second Vatican Council (in the sense that they are influenced by the Council rather than the other way around). In this study they represent the four cornerstones that lay the foundation for contemporary Christian eschatology. By this, I mean that it is difficult to study contemporary Christian eschatology without running across them. The reasons for choosing these four theologians consist in the influence they have exerted and in the actual content of their works. In their respective eschatologies, all four seek to make room for the religious Other, though in quite different ways. This heuristic or pragmatic aspect of the selection implies that they are not necessarily the ultimate representatives of their respective churches. Nonetheless, in terms of influence and diversity (they speak from different denominations: Roman Catholic, Lutheran, and Reformed) they have influenced and characterised eschatology in Western Christianity. Certainly, in their different approaches to eschatology and otherness, they do say something significant—albeit not exhaustive—about eschatology in the Western church today. Regrettably, none of these four ‘cornerstones’ is a woman. As a matter of fact, the gender (im)balance in chapters two and three is disturbing and even more so, given that the choice of material reflects the situation in the disciplines of contemporary Christian, Muslim, and Jewish eschatology. This being said, there are several important and valuable feminist critiques of eschatology. Some of them are imbedded and discussed throughout the analysis in this study. In particular, Catherine Keller, Rosemary Radford Ruether, and Sarah Coakley should be mentioned. Keller revisits the apocalyptical tradition and reminds us of eschatology’s emphasis on the here and now. In her reading of the Book of Revelation, she provides a critical perspective on how and when triumphalist eschatologies become oppressive.124 Radford Ruether was an early 124 Catherine Keller, Apocalypse Now and Then: A Feminist Guide to the End of the World (Boston: Beacon Press, 1996).

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critic of eschatologies focused solely on the eternal existence of the individual. Her work continues to prove to be relevant.125 Coakley has examined contemporary conceptions of the body and argues that there is an eschatological dimension and direction in our fixation on the body.126 Nonetheless, these are mainly responses to, or implications of, an already established eschatological discourse, rather than full-scale eschatologies in their own right. Arguably, no eschatologies written in the 21st century are more influential and widespread than those of Joseph Ratzinger, Jürgen Moltmann, Wolfhart Pannenberg, and John Hick. Yet there are some recent attempts to discuss the broader question of eschatology and theology of religions. Hence, along with the four main targets of the second chapter, I shall discuss two important contributions that distinguish themselves in another respect. Even though Gavin D’Costa and S. Mark Heim are not on the same level as Pannenberg, Ratzinger, Moltmann, and Hick with respect to influence, their eschatologies serve to illustrate what challenges remain in this field. Moreover, in their eschatological work, they include the perspectives from theology of religions more explicitly than any of the theologians in the main part do. The selection of Muslim and Jewish theologians is contextualised in the ­introduction to the respective section. I shall place these theologians in the wider setting of contemporary Muslim and Jewish theology, respectively. Nonetheless, I should venture some preliminary remarks here. Two general criteria have made the number of Muslim theologians to choose from rather small. First, it is important to this study that eschatologies be contemporary and written by scholars who participate in the academic conversations in Europe or North America. There are several reasons for this first criterion, but the single most important one is that the comparison and correlation become more adequate if there is, at least in some sense, a shared context. Second, and more obviously, the theologians in question have to have contributed significantly to the field of eschatology in a way that has implications for theology of religions. In the section on Jewish eschatology, the same two criteria apply. Yet Jewish theology has a stronger tradition of being represented at Western universities, particularly in North America. On the other hand, eschatology is a less central subject in the contemporary Jewish tradition than in the Muslim and Christian 125 Rosemary Radford Ruether, Sexism and God-talk: Toward a Feminist Theology (London: SCM Press, 1983), 235–58. 126 Sarah Coakley, Powers and Submissions: Spirituality, Philosophy and Gender (Oxford: Blackwell, 2002), 155–56.

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traditions. Consequently, it is also true for the Jewish tradition that the number of contemporary thinkers to choose from is limited. In sum, the selection of material is carried out in accordance with the principles mentioned. Nonetheless, it is not necessary to argue that this selection is the only one possible. Rather, in chapters two and three I discuss a number of significant and influential scholars from different backgrounds within the respective religious traditions. Needless to say, the result does not cover the entire scope of different voices in these traditions but constitutes a strong representation of contemporary Christian, Muslim, and Jewish eschatologies. Unless otherwise stated, biblical quotations are from The New Revised Standard Version (NRSV). Quotations from the Qur’an are from The Koran Interpreted by Arthur J. Arberry. 1.5

Terminological Considerations

How Some of the Terms are Interrelated In this study, the issue of theological integrity is closely aligned with the notion of otherness as well as with the heuristic tools of theological space and theological interplay. The word ‘integrity’ (from the Latin integer, i.e., ‘whole, complete’) refers to the state of being whole or undiminished. In this study, it concerns the religious Other. ‘Theological integrity’ is used as the umbrella term that sums up the different aspects of respecting and recognising otherness that are developed and discussed throughout the study. This also implies that theological integrity is almost synonymous with a general understanding of leaving room for the religious Other as other. The question of ‘leaving room’ occurs on the theological level, within the (Christian) theological language of eschatology—hence the terminology of ‘theological’ integrity rather than ‘religious’ integrity or simply ‘integrity’. As a consequence, theological integrity is not defined separately from the notion of otherness. Rather, it is the notion of otherness that is foundational for this study, and theological integrity is to be seen in relation to the philosophical and theological grounding of otherness discussed below (p 42ff). This also becomes clear later in this chapter where arguments for recognising otherness are discussed under the heading ‘Why Bother about the Theological Integrity of the Religious Other?’ (p 54ff). Moreover, the terms ‘recognising’ and ‘respecting’ the otherness of the Other are used interchangeably, although, in 1.6 below, I discuss recognition in the tradition of Charles Taylor and Axel Honneth.

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It should be emphasised that theological integrity is not about isolating the religious Other or suggesting that the meaning of otherness is fixed. On the contrary, the discussion below (1.5.3) illustrates the different dimensions and the hybrid and dynamic character of otherness. Consequently, theological integrity is not about static identities but about whether there is room for the Other as other in (Christian) eschatology. As an umbrella term, the notion of theological integrity embraces the two heuristic tools of theological space and theological interplay. Thus, these heuristic tools are to be seen as two important aspects of theological integrity. As the structure of chapter four reveals, the tool ‘theological space’ is concerned with representations of the religious Other in the different eschatologies, whereas ‘theological interplay’ is concerned with representations of the eschaton in the same eschatologies. Both of these tools, it is argued, are of significance for the possibilities of articulating the theological integrity, or leaving room for the otherness, of the religious Other. The Concepts of Hope and Eschatology As the title of this book indicates, hope and otherness are two pivotal notions. The discussion on otherness is, however, significantly more comprehensive than that on hope. Let me briefly explain why this is so. The notion of otherness is not found primarily in the eschatologies assessed but is added to them in the analysis. Thus, I bring the notion of otherness to the discussion of eschatology, and thus it is necessary to clarify the reasons for doing so and the content of the term. But, when it comes to hope, it is much more a question of analysing the content and character of hope that is already present in the respective theologies. In this sense, the definition of ‘hope’ belongs to the results of the investigation. This suggests that hope, eschatology, and eschatological beliefs are not static concepts throughout the chapters but have somewhat different meanings in line with the views of the different theologians who are studied here. This being said, I shall nonetheless try to clarify the relationships between some of the different terms that are associated with hope and eschatology. In the Christian tradition, hope is often seen as a virtue and a gift of God and, as such, something that needs to be nurtured. It is only when it is taken care of that hope can grow and thus be capable of resisting despair and hopelessness. Anthony Kelly captures this when he declares that hope ‘implies a trustful and confident movement toward the future. It is trustful, for it is relying on something or someone for the help that is needed.’127 127 Kelly, Eschatology and Hope, 1.

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In all of the eschatologies assessed in this study, eschatology has to do with hope, albeit in different ways and in differing degrees. In this sense, one can claim that eschatology qualifies hope by offering content and direction. Still, this is not completely true since eschatology refers not only to ta eschata (Greek: the last things)—resurrection, the day of judgement, purgatory, heaven and hell—but also to hope as such. As Moltmann and others argue, eschatology is not one element of Christian theology but the medium through which Christian faith is approached.128 Hence, it might be more appropriate to conceive of eschatology as a particular form of hope, rather than the object of hope. If so, it is true not only of eschatology, but also of hope, that it is constituted by both the act of hoping and the object of this hope. The term ‘eschatology’ became part of the theological vocabulary rather late, presumably around the 17th century.129 Therefore, it is scarcely surprising that its usefulness is sometimes challenged. By way of example, Robin Boyd reflects on these terminological issues and considers eschatology ‘an unsatisfactory term’.130 The reasons he advances are that it (obviously) does not exist in the Bible or the early Christian tradition. Moreover, he states that the eschatological goal is not an event but a person (i.e., Jesus Christ). Boyd suggests that a different term, teleiōsis, would be more suitable, given that this term occurs in the Bible and that it signifies not only an end in general but also a purpose.131 Even though I consider Boyd’s critique to be an important reminder of the fact that, in the Christian tradition, eschatology is not only a temporal notion but a teleological one as well, I do not find significant reasons for deviating from established terminology. Regardless of whether one shares Boyd’s view (as do some of the Christian theologians in chapter two) that Jesus Christ is the eschatological end, eschatology is the widely acknowledged term for God’s fulfilment of creation. Another term, closely related to eschatology that appears a few times in this study and still does not play any significant role is apocalypticism. Distinguishing clearly between eschatology and apocalypticism is a delicate task. The latter is sometimes treated with suspicion, as a distorted version of eschatology. 128 Jürgen Moltmann, Theology of Hope: On the Ground and the Implications of a Christian Eschatology, trans. James W. Leitch (London: SCM Press, 2002), 2. 129 See David Fergusson, ‘Introduction’, in The Future as God’s Gift: Explorations in ­Christian Eschatology, ed. David Fergusson and Marcel Sarot (Edinburgh: T & T Clark, 2000), 1. 130 Robin Boyd, ‘The End of Eschatology? Questions of the Future of Interfaith Relations—Part 1’, The Expository Times 123, no. 5 (2012), 209. 131 Ibid., 214–15.

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As a result, apocalypticism does not play a major role in many contemporary eschatologies.132 In this study, eschatology and apocalypticism are not seen as immediately comparable. Rather, I follow Greg Carey, John J. Collins, and others who conceive of apocalypticism as primarily a literary genre. In Carey’s view, apocalypticism is a narrative that mediates a revelation concerning future, unknown events, from an other-worldly being to a human recipient.133 It could be added that the content of the message normally concerns some kind of imminent judgement with a possible threat of the destruction of the present world order.134 Such a definition of apocalypticism allows us to talk about ‘apocalyptic eschatology’, and we can expect that some eschatologies are more apocalyptic than others. Hence, in this study, I do not make any sharp distinctions between the two and the analyses in chapters two and three will show that, according to this definition, contemporary theology hosts eschatologies with different degrees of apocalypticism. The Concepts of Other and Otherness This work uses the term ‘religious Other’ throughout. It is not a disrespectful way of referring to outsiders. Nor is ‘Other’ simply a synonym for ‘different’. Rather, it is a philosophical and theological concept with its own trajectory. Since the term is frequently used in theology of religions, it is not necessary to provide a comprehensive treatment of it.135 Instead, I shall briefly sketch some historical influences and reflect on how the notions of Other and otherness are used in this study. The purpose of this historical survey is to provide a context for the concept of the (religious) Other. In particular, it looks at Emmanuel Levinas and his focus on the respect for the otherness of the Other. This concern has also influenced the scope and the objectives of this study. Questions of identity, otherness, and selfhood have been present throughout the history of Western philosophy. In this sense, it is possible to trace questions of otherness to the ancient philosophers, such as Plato. The Socratic notion of 132 For a discussion, see Jakob Wirén, ‘Framtidsförväntningar och fiendebilder: Samtida muslimsk och kristen apokalyptik’, Svensk Teologisk Kvartalskrift, no. 3 (2012). 133 Greg Carey, Ultimate Things: An Introduction to Jewish and Christian Apocalyptic Literature (St Louise: Chalice Press, 2005), 4. 134 John J. Collins, ‘Apocalyptic Eschatology in the Ancient World’, in The Oxford Handbook of Eschatology, ed. Jerry L. Walls (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008), 46–47. 135 For a detailed study, see, for instance, Brian Treanor, Aspects of Alterity: Levinas, Marcel, and the Contemporary Debate (New York: Fordham University Press, 2006).

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‘anamnesis’ is related to an epistemological theory that seeks to answer the question of how human beings learn things. But it is also a way to understand and approach otherness. The leading idea is that all that an individual human being learns is actually present within him- or herself—it just needs to be retrieved and delivered. What is different and unknown is already within the individual, and it only has to be remembered in order to be regained. Through the process of anamnesis, this other is overcome anew and made part of the self.136 Admittedly, even if the questions as such date back to the ancient world, the term otherness as referred to in this study is not quite as old. It is to this more recent discussion that we shall now turn. Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel The concept of ‘Other’ and ‘otherness’ is found in the philosophy of Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel who discerned several stages in the development of human consciousness, the highest of which is the ‘self-knowing spirit’ or the ‘absolute knowing’.137 This, the highest state of consciousness, is obtainable through what Hegel calls ‘the Other’ (das Andere).138 Thus, self-consciousness and identity are possible only in relationship to the Other. According to Hegel, however, the relationship between the self and the Other is on ‘my’ terms and for ‘my’ sake. Hegel describes the process as one of negating the Other so that the self can enjoy itself purely and self-consciously.139 When the Other is negated and thereby consumed, a new Other is needed to maintain the identity of the self. Therefore, the self desires new objects (Others) to enjoy and to ensure its self-consciousness. This desire for the Other does not rest, and hence the self does not attain any stable self-consciousness. How, then, can pure self-consciousness be attained and preserved? Hegel searches for an Other that does not disappear when negated and finds his answer in the Other as a self-conscious Other. In such a relationship, the Other is able to recognise the identity of the self by negating itself, enabling the self’s self-consciousness and yet retaining her identity.140 136 See, for instance, Plato, Meno, trans. Robert W. Sharples (Chicago: Bolchazy-Carducci, 1985). 137 Stephen Houlgate, ‘G.W.F. Hegel: The Phenomenology of Spirit’, in The Blackwell Guide to Continental Philosophy, ed. Robert C. Solomon and David L. Sherman, Blackwell Philosophy Guides (Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell, 2007), 10. 138 G. W. Friedrich Hegel, Phenomenology of Spirit, trans. Arnold V. Miller (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1977), §§ 175–84. 139 Ibid., §§ 175-76. See also Houlgate, ‘G.W.F. Hegel: The Phenomenology of Spirit’, 13. 140 Hegel, Phenomenology of Spirit, § 175.

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The famous Hegelian dialectic between the master and the slave draws upon the struggle between two self-consciousnesses, the self’s and the Other’s. Hegel scholars disagree as to whether or not the relationship to the Other can be mutual. Alexandre Kojève argues that the desire of the self is to negate the Other to achieve self-consciousness. This negation leads to the elimination of the Other’s otherness.141 Stephen Houlgate, on the other hand, stresses the irreducibility of the Other and his or her otherness. Hence, whereas Kojève regards desire as the power by which self-consciousness is obtained, via the assimilation of the Other, Houlgate finds that Hegel’s position accepts the independence of the Other. According to Houlgate, Hegel considers desire insufficient and therefore establishes a mutual recognition between the self and the Other.142 Be that as it may, and regardless of whether Kojève or Houlgate is closer to the truth, the Other is not the primary target in Hegel’s thinking. Rather, the Other is a means by which the self can reach self-consciousness in its highest form.143 Hegel approaches otherness in epistemological terms, and the underlying question for him concerns the self: How can one secure identity? How can one reach pure self-consciousness? Edmund Husserl Edmund Husserl’s phenomenology has been a source of inspiration to many philosophers working explicitly with otherness, including his student Emmanuel Levinas. Two of the central elements in Husserl’s writings are consciousness and perception. The oft-quoted phenomenological phrase zu den Sachen selbst, refers to what appears to our consciousness. Accordingly, what is available to human beings is not reality as such but perceptions of reality. The intentional object is, for Husserl, the object of a consciousness of something other than the self. Thus, Husserl does not claim to study the things of the material world as such but how they are manifested in human consciousness. The phenomenology that Husserl develops entails a kind of methodological reduction, epoché, which produces a new relationship to the world and to being. The reduction builds on the distinction between existence (that something is) and essence (what something is). To explore the essence of things, the question of their existence must be put aside. The epoché sets aside the question 141 Alexandre Kojève, Introduction to the Reading of Hegel: Lectures on the Phenomenology of Spirit. Assembled by Raymond Queneau, trans. James H. Nichols Jr. (New York: Basic Books, 1969), 7–8. 142 Houlgate, ‘G.W.F. Hegel: The Phenomenology of Spirit’, 20. 143 Hegel, Phenomenology of Spirit, §§ 175–77.

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of existence while focusing on the interaction between the subject and the object, the self and the Other. Consequently, Husserl does not seek to prove the existence of anything but to investigate how and in what sense the Other appears to one’s consciousness. Given the almost solipsistic situation the self is left with after the methodological reduction, it is reasonable to ask how the Other can be approached as a true subject. A comparison with Descartes sheds some light on this question. Descartes also deconstructs the world through a methodological reduction: his method of doubt. He then rebuilds the world through his proof of the existence of God. Husserl, on the other hand, rebuilds the meaning of the world without any theological arguments and, as Daniel Birnbaum and Sven-Olav Wallenstein state in the preface to their Swedish translation of Husserl’s Méditations cartésiennes (Cartesian Meditations), the place of God is taken by the Other in Husserl’s argument. It is the Other who is the transcendental argument giving meaning to the world.144 The Other plays an important role in Husserl’s work, not least when he struggles with the perils of solipsism. He sees the fact that the phenomenological reduction, the epoché, leaves one with nothing but one’s self-consciousness as entailing a risk.145 Is the self so tied to its experiences of consciousness that it is impossible to reach outside of it? Husserl turns to the Other for help and makes the theory of the Other’s being-for-me the foundation for his theory of the objective world in its entirety.146 The Other marks the boundary between the spheres of ‘ownness’ and transcendence. This means that the self’s first encounter with transcendence, with something distinct from its own self, is the Other.147 Consequently, the existence of the world is to some extent derived from the notion of otherness in Husserl’s thinking. Furthermore, the self is characterised by Husserl primarily as the non-foreign or non-other, and the existence of the Other can be said to precede the existence of the external world. It is as equally true that ‘ownness’ makes the Other possible in its difference from the Other as it is to claim that the Other enables the self. The Other is ‘immanent transcendence’ to the self—something present yet different and distinct from the self. There is an unbridgeable distance between the Other 144 Edmund Husserl, Cartesianska meditationer: en inledning till fenomenologin. Med förord av översättarna, trans. Daniel Birnbaum and Sven-Olov Wallenstein, Filosofi och samhällsteori (Göteborg: Daidalos, 1992). 145 Edmund Husserl, Cartesian Meditations: An Introduction to Phenomenology, trans. Dorion Cairns (Dordrecht: Kluwer Academic Publishers, 1999), § 42. 146 Ibid., § 43. 147 Ibid., § 49. See also Saulius Geniušas, ‘Self-Consciousness and Otherness: Hegel and Husserl’, Santalka 16, no. 3 (2008), 29.

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and the self, a distance which prevents the erasing of plurality and the assimilation of the Other into a homogenous totality.148 We can note that the ‘Other’ is of importance by enabling the self in both Hegel’s and Husserl’s thinking. One can also note, however, that precisely through this ‘enabling’, the Other is instrumentalised and made to serve the purpose of the self. As we shall see, this is a perspective Levinas was highly critical of. While the ethical dimension is not absent from Hegel’s and Husserl’s thinking, it is the foundation of Levinas’ philosophy of otherness. Emmanuel Levinas The philosophy of Emmanuel Levinas is in some respects a critique of the entire Western philosophical tradition. One way to phrase this critique is to say that, according to Levinas, the Western tradition lacks the ability to account for the Other as other. Therefore, Levinas attempts to do philosophy in a way that does not reduce the Other to one’s own categories or philosophical system. ‘Ontology’, Levinas argues, divests the Other of its otherness by reducing it to the same. The Socratic maieutics—one of Levinas’ examples—expects nothing from the Other but what is already within itself: the Other is neutralised and objectified in the very process of knowing.149 The result is a self-centred philosophy with room for hardly anyone but oneself: ‘The ideal of Socratic truth thus rests on the essential self-sufficiency of the same, its identification in ipseity, its egoism. Philosophy is an egology.’150 The critical edge is repeated and also directed against other philosophers who, according to Levinas, suffer from an ontological approach. George Berkeley, René Descartes, and Martin Heidegger are among the targets of this critique. All of them think of the Other in terms of the same. The Levinasian critique is repeated by many theologians in different contexts. In our present study as well, Levinas’ question whether the Other is thought of in terms of the same plays an important role. According to Levinas, one consequence of the common Western philosophical approach is a position not far from solipsism: the self is the centre around which everything else orbits. One of Levinas’ concerns with the ‘solipsism’ of ontology is that ethics becomes (at best) secondary or (at worst) superfluous. Hence, Levinas states, ethics must not begin with ontology. Rather, it should be the other way round: ethics is first philosophy and ontology can only be

148 Geniušas, ‘Self-Consciousness and Otherness: Hegel and Husserl’, 27. 149 Emmanuel Levinas, Totality and Infinity: An Essay on Exteriority, trans. Alphonso Lingis (Pittsburgh: Duquesne University Press, 2005), 42–43. 150 Ibid., 44.

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derived from ethics. It follows that there is really no choice as to whether one is responsible for the Other: a responsibility that rests on no free commitment, a responsibility whose entry into being could be effected only without any choice…. Responsibility for the Other, this way of answering without a prior commitment, is human fraternity itself, and it is prior to freedom.151 The problem with all totalising systems, he argues, is that they are unable to do justice to our experience of exteriority and otherness. What traditional philosophy all too often does, according to Levinas, is divest the Other of his or her otherness through comprehending, grasping, and neutralising the Other. Over against this, Levinas proposes that one should let the Other be other and respect exteriority. Then it is no longer possible to conceive of otherness as a reversible relationship: I am not other to the Other in the same sense as he or she is other to me. That leads to a totalising system where the Other is marginalised or diminished.152 Actually, if the Other is not respected, the self is immune to all kinds of critique, according to Levinas. ‘Other’ is a rich concept in Levinas’ thinking, and the term can refer to different things. We should also bear in mind that, as Brian Treanor points out, the Other is never tu but always vous. Hence, the term is somewhat ambiguous even with regard to number. Treanor distinguishes between four related but different references to the term ‘Other’: first, it is the Other as the other person the self encounters; second, it is the ‘third’, meaning what surrounds the self’s encounter with the Other; third, it refers to God; and fourth, to the otherness within the self (myself).153 Important as it is to bear these different connotations in mind—not least the otherness within oneself—the primary focus of this study is the Other as the other person. In one specific respect, however, I would argue that Levinas’ concept of otherness is less helpful to the interreligious context of this study. Levinas emphasises that the Other is not only truly other but that his or her otherness is absolute and transcendent. According to Levinas, if otherness is not regarded as transcendent, it is impossible to avoid giving the Other a place in my system (as my child, my teacher, my carpenter, etc.): the Other is reduced to more of

151 Emmanuel Levinas, ‘Substitution’, in The Levinas Reader, ed. Seán Hand (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1989), 106. 152 Treanor, Aspects of Alterity, 35. 153 Ibid., 23.

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the same and is eventually absorbed in the process of comprehension.154 This is what Richard Kearney calls the externalisation of alterity, which means that the Other becomes so remote that the possibilities of friendship and dialogue are placed at risk.155 While agreeing with Levinas’ plea to respect otherness, I am less convinced about his strong separation of the self from the Other. If the transcendence of the Other is emphasised very strongly, or even absolutised, any exchange between the self and the Other is hardly possible: neither critique nor communication. I shall further discuss the transcendence of otherness and different ways to conceive of it (1.5.3) below. As is already indicated in the discussion of Levinas’ notion of otherness above, referring to ‘religious differences’ is not the same as referring to ‘religious otherness’. The methodological issue is that ‘difference’ refers to a meta-perspective where the things that differ are compared from an external position. Hence, ‘difference’ usually involves a neutral outsider’s point of view. Otherness, as we have seen in Levinas’ reflections, is the perspective of a participant. In this study, the religious Other is other in relation to the Christian tradition. This means that, methodologically, the Christian tradition is ‘the point of view’ from which the Muslim and the Jew become religiously Other. As I have stated earlier, this does not imply that the reader, or the writer, has to be Christian. It is rather about what theology of religions calls the ‘home tradition’: the religious tradition whose view of religious pluralism is currently under discussion. Needless to say, it is not possible to cover the many ways of understanding and developing otherness. One discipline where Levinas’ work has proved influential, however, is postcolonial studies. This is also a discipline that is highly sensitive to different ways of failing to respect otherness. To further discuss the role of otherness in this study, I shall very briefly comment on the postcolonial perspective. Postcolonial Theory Eschatological visions are not politically innocent. The nature of the political dimension varies significantly, but when Christian theology proclaims the hope of a future kingdom, a Christ who will reign, a battle that will be fought or a reward for the faithful, the political dimension can hardly pass unnoticed. Furthermore, the eschaton is often, in an analogical way, imagined as a ‘territory’ where Christians (in Christian eschatology) are among its settlers. Hence, it

154 Ibid., 18–19. 155 Richard Kearney, Strangers, Gods and Monsters: Interpreting Otherness (London: Routledge, 2003), 9.

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is not completely out of line to at least briefly look at postcolonial theory when analysing eschatologies and (religious) otherness. If colonialism is the conquest of someone’s land and resources, postcolonialism is the questioning of colonial dominance and its consequences.156 When the Oxford English Dictionary defines colonialism it does so in a way that sheds some light on the postcolonial task. Colonialism, the Oxford English Dictionary informs us, comes from the Latin colonia, which means farm or settlement. Consequently, a colony is explained as [a] settlement in a new country; a body of people who settle in a new locality, forming a community subject to or connected with their parent state; the community so formed, consisting of the original settlers and their descendants and successors, as long as the connexion with the parent state is kept up.157 Interestingly enough, nothing whatsoever is mentioned about the people who lived in the country before the colonisers came: the focus is entirely on the settlers. Postcolonialism, on the other hand, is focused precisely on these kinds of disproportions. A fundamental conviction of postcolonial theory is that there are unheard voices, that the privilege of some (in many cases white Western adult males) places others in the margins. The perspectives of these silenced voices are commonly referred to as ‘subaltern’, and the possibility of taking the subaltern voices into account is a fundamental question that occupies postcolonial ­theory. The insights of postcolonial theory and its sensitivity to subaltern perspectives and to the non-acknowledgment of the Other’s otherness build on, among other things, the philosophical development of conceptions of the Other and otherness recently referred to. Like Levinas, postcolonial thinkers such as Gayatri Spivak, Luce Irigaray, and Mayra Rivera argue in favour of otherness. Not to acknowledge and preserve a group’s or a person’s otherness is to rob them of who they are. Thus, there is an ethical argument imbedded and presupposed in these theories. Admittedly, postcolonial theory arose for other purposes and is not straightforwardly applicable to eschatology. For instance, the many strategies of

156 Ania Loomba, Colonialism/Postcolonialism, 2nd ed. (London: Routledge, 2005), 16. 157 ‘Colony’, in Oxford English Dictionary (Oxford University Press, 2012). The example comes from Loomba, Colonialism/Postcolonialism, 7.

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‘othering’, that is, ways of building one’s own identity at the expense of the Other, are concerned with actual historical-political conflicts. Hence, even though terms such as segregation, domination, and abandonment could be applied analogically, I have chosen not to. The primary reason is that that these terms, when applied to eschatology, tend to overstate the case rather than create the sensitivity to different approaches to otherness that is needed to evaluate the alternatives. This being said, the terms of assimilation and exclusion, frequent in postcolonial studies, are used in this study and are informed by postcolonial theory. Assimilation is the integration of the Other without her otherness. She is accepted on condition that her otherness is left behind. There are several ways of assimilation, among them persuasion, education, and rehabilitation. Common to them all is that they are used in an attempt to adapt the Other and transform her according to one’s own preferences. Exclusion treats otherness by building walls. Sharp lines are drawn and the Other is not welcome in one’s own territory and is not allowed to be part of one’s own future. Those who do not accept being assimilated are neglected or rejected.158 We have now discussed conceptions of the Other at some length. Throughout this study, however, the term Other is often qualified as ‘religious Other’. Therefore, it is necessary to develop and specify what is meant by the religious Other. The Religious Other The term ‘Other’ is used in different ways and with different connotations by the philosophers cited above. Common to them all, however, is a sense that ‘Other’ entails the question of the relationship between the self and what is different from the self. The term ‘religious Other’ is, as stated above, used to designate what is religiously different from the self, from the viewpoint of Christian theology. Thus, the religious Other refers to a person believing in and belonging to another religious tradition than the Christian. The faith to which the religious Other belongs is then part of his or her otherness. The term ‘religious Other’ could just as well be applied in the theological reflection of other religious traditions, but in this study the perspective is a Christian one.

158 See Frantisek Novosad, ‘The Clash of Cultures and the Accomodation of Otherness’, Dialogue & Universalism 10, no. 12 (2000). See also Mayra Rivera, The Touch of Transcendence: A Postcolonial Theology of God (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2007), 35, and Miroslav Volf, Exclusion and Embrace: A Theological Exploration of Identity, Otherness, and Reconciliation (Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1996), 72–75.

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To determine the notion of otherness as ‘religious’ is not to argue that atheists are of no concern here. Rather, this designation serves to highlight the difference constituted by diverse religious belongings, which is our primary interest. Even though many aspects discussed in this study apply to atheism and agnosticism as well, specific issues regarding these worldviews are left aside (this is also the case for religious traditions such as Buddhism and Hinduism). Certainly, atheism and agnosticism are not obscure or forgotten as dialogue partners in Christian theology. In fact, it could be argued that Christian theology in the 20th century has discussed issues concerning the secular Other to a greater extent than those concerning the religious Other. Nonetheless, I sense there are aspects of atheism and agnosticism that deserve to be assessed more carefully. A notable example from the perspective of traditional Catholic theology of religions is Stephen Bullivant’s The Salvation of Atheists and Catholic Dogmatic Theology. In his study, Bullivant is concerned with the question whether and how an atheist could be saved.159 Identity is something multiple and hybrid. One could argue that the term ‘religious’ otherness overstates the case and gives religion a more important role than is empirically justified. After all, questions of religious belonging do not refer to static identities. Could it not be that other identities are more constitutive than religion? Is it not possible for a person to belong to more than one religious tradition? What is required is a model that acknowledges the complexity and several dimensions of differences, thereby challenging the ‘insider–outsider’ distinction. Before I move on towards such a model, I shall comment on the notion of religion itself. This notion has been challenged in several respects. For example, Tomoko Masuzawa has argued that there is no such thing as a clearly defined category of religion with comparable phenomena.160 In fact, as a scholarly category, she argues, the terminology of ‘world religions’ was designed with Christianity as the norm and has served the purpose of enabling Christian hegemony and universalism.161 Daniel Boyarin rightly criticises the sometimes artificial borders between different religious traditions. Regarding the relationship between Christianity and Judaism, he states that

159 Stephen Bullivant, The Salvation of Atheists and Catholic Dogmatic Theology (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012). 160 Tomoko Masuzawa, The Invention of World Religions, or, How European Universalism was Preserved in the Language of Pluralism (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2005), 1–3. 161 Ibid., 14–20.

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I am no longer prepared to think in terms of pre-existent different entities—religions, if you will—that came (gradually or suddenly) to enact their difference in a ‘parting of the ways’.162 Boyarin’s and Masuzawa’s criticisms remind us that the borders between religious traditions are seldom clear-cut. Moreover, their criticisms challenge the idea that religious traditions represent uniform systems that are compatible and easily compared. Hence, it is important to point out that this study on eschatology and religious otherness does not claim to compare religious traditions with each other in general. Rather, it is focused on particular thinkers from particular religious traditions. Furthermore, the arguments that religions are not always compatible and that the borders between them are not always clear should not discourage studies on various aspects of interreligious encounters. On the contrary, it should bring to those studies the awareness of the task’s complexity. Boyarin’s comments on the ‘parting of the ways’ bring to the fore another issue regarding borders between different religious traditions: ‘multiple belonging’. In recent years, scholars in theology of religions have discussed the possibilities of multiple belonging, the question of whether a person is able to belong to more than one tradition at the same time. Or, rather, how it is possible for some people to actually belong to more than one tradition at the same time.163 The research on multiple belonging is still in the making, but the issue as such certainly challenges attempts to overstate the subject of religious otherness. Moreover, reflecting on multiple belonging has resulted in a renewed interest in syncretism. Several scholars have pointed out the ‘syncretistic’ and ‘hybrid’ character of all tradition-making.164 In short, there are many reasons to be cautious about clear-cut and absolute distinctions between religious traditions.

162 Daniel Boyarin, Border Lines: The Partition of Judaeo-Christianity (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2011), 2. 163 For a recent article, see Paul Hedges, ‘Multiple Religious Belonging after Religion: Theorising Strategic Religious Participation in a Shared Religious Landscape as a Chinese Model’, Open Theology 3, No 1 (2017). See also Rose Drew, Buddhist and Christian? An Exploration of Dual Belonging (Abingdon: Routledge, 2011). For an edited volume with different voices and perspectives on multiple belonging, see Catherine Cornille, ed. Many Mansions? Multiple Religious Belonging and Christian Identity (Maryknoll: Orbis Books, 2002). 164 See, for instance, Daniel Boyarin and Virginia Burrus, ‘Hybridity as Subversion of Orthodoxy? Jews and Christians in Late Antiquity’, Social Compass 52, no. 4 (2005).

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Though complex and ambiguous in itself, religious otherness is clearly not the only level of otherness a person encounters. Hence, it is necessary to conceive of otherness in a way that acknowledges the many levels. Thus, the next step is to consider one such model, a model which has room for diversity without losing touch of the questions of religious belonging and religious otherness. We can thereby bear in mind that the term religious Other in itself is a distillation of a more complex otherness. As argued above, religious otherness is not only found between adherents of different world religions but also within these religions. Based on this assumption, I shall further discuss religious otherness by applying Rosi Braidotti’s model of female subjectivity and difference. As we shall see, this model will prove helpful when applied and accommodated to a discussion of religious otherness.165 In this model, the first level constitutes the difference between religions. This is the difference that leads to the term religious otherness and the very topic of this study. It looks at different religious belongings and identities. In a sense, this is the most obvious difference, which cannot be properly understood unless the other levels of difference are present. When Braidotti presents this first level, she mentions several misuses of differences (between the sexes).166 This risk is also present with respect to religious differences. The adherents of the ‘home religion’, in this case Christianity, are defined at the cost of the adherents of other religions. There is a danger that the Christian subject is viewed as the norm, while the Other is defined by the lack of attributes common to the Christian subject. The most central issue on this level, according to Braidotti, is the critique of universalism. The apparent risk, in terms of sexual difference, in her view, is a so-called universalism which is implicitly male-identified and in which the male subject is the universal norm. On the theological level, the question is whether the Christian subject projects itself as pseudo-universal and thereby reduces the space of the religious Other. A second level of difference pertains to the differences within the religious communities. Not to acknowledge these differences is to institutionalise and settle the Other: to turn her into a stereotype. To recognise differences within the religious communities is to account for the embodiment of every community and of every single member thereof. It is to acknowledge their different

165 Rosi Braidotti, Nomadic Subjects: Embodiment and Sexual Difference in Contemporary Feminist Theory, Gender and Culture (New York: Columbia University Press, 1994), 158–67. 166 Ibid., 159.

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experiences and the diversity in terms of race, age, class, etc. Braidotti’s concern with feminist theory applies to religious otherness as well: the crucial matter of the second level is to present and give legitimacy to a diversity of forms of religious subjectivity and religious otherness without falling prey to relativism. As already argued, I consider it important to acknowledge that ‘religious otherness’ is a gathering concept which brings together different identities and levels of belonging.167 Furthermore, Braidotti is eager to distinguish between the situated Other and the generalised, universalised Other. Hence, she claims that it is necessary to recognise a distance between the general notion of Other and the empirical Other(s). A third level regards the differences within each and every religious Other. A human being is not only a conscious subject but a network of levels of experiences and of unconscious identities. A human being’s memory and genealogy are parts of who she is. A person is constituted by a history of genetics as well as of events, by a multitude of relationships as well as unconscious images and identifications. These images and identifications are not easily controlled: ‘Unconscious desire and wilful choice do not always coincide.’168 Braidotti reminds the reader that the construction of this third level of subjectivity can easily result in exclusion and hegemonic structures. The antidote, she suggests, is to stress that the subject is both split and historically anchored. It seems that these two last levels of otherness both challenge and strengthen the methodological focus on religious otherness (first level) in this study. They challenge religious otherness in the sense that this otherness is merely one aspect of the differences a human being is confronted by. They reinforce religious otherness in the sense that an awareness of these different levels of otherness may prevent the ‘othering’ of the religious Other. The three levels of differences are not dialectically connected nor are they chronologically consecutive. Quite the opposite, they are present simultaneously and are not easily separated. Otherness and Theological Integrity Introduction: Why Bother about the Theological Integrity of the Religious Other? In this section, I shall discuss the issue of respecting otherness more thoroughly. The analyses in chapters two and three do not explicitly depend on whether otherness is considered worthy of respect. Rather, in these chapters, the primary question is if it is respected. In chapter four, I shall elaborate on how 167 Braidotti, Nomadic Subjects, 162. 168 Ibid., 166.

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it can be respected. It could be argued, however, that using the terminology of ‘other’ and ‘otherness’ begs the question since the tradition of Levinas and other thinkers strongly seeks to ‘respect’ the Other and his or her otherness. Levinas does not put a great deal of effort in arguing why otherness should be respected. Rather, he proceeds the other way around; it is the starting point for his philosophy. The encounter with the Other in her otherness is the beginning of philosophy: ‘ethics as first philosophy’.169 Nonetheless, the theological investigation pursued in this study is not ‘first philosophy’. Consequently, I shall provide a theological rationale for respecting the otherness of the religious Other. This argument is in no way conclusive, but, hopefully, it will be convincing enough to justify the theological investigation of ways to reassess religious otherness in Christian eschatology. To proceed with the argument, I shall discuss the respect for otherness in the theological discussion of the imago Dei on the one hand and that respect in the broader political-philosophical discussion of human dignity and human rights on the other. This means that the overall argument is theological and that it is developed in philosophical and practical directions.170 In short, I argue that the notion of the imago Dei expresses a quality shared by all human beings. This quality or capacity attributes a certain dignity to every human being, a dignity that deserves to be recognised. ‘Recognition’ is then understood in the tradition of Charles Taylor and Axel Honneth. It follows arguably, from the recognition of the Other that the otherness of the (religious) Other is acknowledged and respected. To be sure, terms such as otherness, human dignity, and religious freedom, as understood today, are not to be found in the early Christian tradition. These are modern terms, and they presuppose some of the features that characterise our contemporary discussion. Scholars differ, however, in their assessment of the degree of continuity between the religious history of Europe and human rights.171 For instance, Lynn Hunt emphasises the discontinuity between the two. She traces the discussion of human rights back to the Enlightenment and argues that human rights depend on the notion of the human person as an 169 Levinas, ‘Ethics as First Philosophy’. 170 Reinhold Bernhardt is among those who have stressed that the arguments of openness towards the religious Other should be found within one’s own tradition rather than motivated on the basis of a general reference to tolerance, for instance. Here, I seek to follow this advice and ground the argument in the Christian tradition. See Bernhardt, Ende des Dialogs?, 219. 171 For a discussion, see Ola Sigurdson, Det postsekulära tillståndet: religion modernitet politik (Göteborg: Glänta produktion, 2009), 271–83.

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independent individual with physical integrity and moral autonomy.172 Nonetheless, these notions, as developed in the Western philosophical and political tradition, can hardly be entirely separated from Europe’s religious history. As many scholars have argued, the genealogy of notions such as human rights and human dignity can at least partly be traced back to the Judaeo-Christian tradition.173 Michael Walzer distinguishes between ‘thick’ and ‘thin’ theories of human rights. The thin theories unite the different approaches to human rights as a kind of lowest common denominator. The thick theories, on the other hand, are more tradition-specific and therefore also more extensive.174 It is in precisely this sense that one can develop a thick theory of human rights based on Christian theology.175 Four Models of the Imago Dei In the Christian tradition, theological reflection on the human being and his or her value and integrity is typically derived from the notion of the imago Dei. This notion is mentioned only three times in the biblical literature (Gen. 1:26-27, 5:1-3, 9:6) but has been a foundational motif for Christian theological anthropology.176 Consequently, in this study, I shall explain how a Christian theological argument for respecting otherness can be developed from the imago Dei. Admittedly, the notion of humanity as created in God’s image is equivocal and has been interpreted in different ways. Here, the purpose is not to cover all of these interpretations. I shall, however, provide an overview that can serve as an introduction to our discussion of the image of God. Claudia Welz’ typology is helpful here. She presents four models of—primarily Western Christian— theological interpretations of the imago Dei.177 As we shall see, the argument that follows is not entirely dependent on one specific interpretation.

172 Lynn Hunt, Inventing Human Rights: A History (New York: W.W. Norton & Company, 2007), 20–21. 173 See, for instance, the discussion and references in Sigurdson, Det postsekulära tillståndet, 253–316. 174 Michael Walzer, Thick and Thin: Moral Argument at Home and Abroad (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 1994), 8. 175 Sigurdson, Det postsekulära tillståndet, 293. 176 For an overview, see, for instance, Michael J. Scanlon, ‘Christian Anthropology’, in The New Dictionary of Theology, ed. Joseph A. Komonchak, Mary Collins, and Dermot A. Lane (Dublin: Gill and Macmillan, 1990), 27–41. 177 Claudia Welz, ‘Imago Dei: References to the Invisible’, Studia Theologica 65, no. 1 (2011).

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The functional models emphasise that the image of God lies in human beings representing God on earth and thereby having certain tasks in relation to the rest of creation. The ‘function’ might be, as Genesis indicates, procreation (‘Be fruitful and multiply, and fill the earth’), stewardship (‘let them have dominion over …’) or protecting the integrity of fellow human beings (‘so that no one who came upon him would kill him’).178 The imago Dei motif teaches us that the human being is not autonomous but always lives in relation to God. According to this model ‘it seems amiss to point to any specific features or faculties that would add up to the imago Dei.’179 It is an open question whether the imago Dei in the functional model consists of human beings’ stewardship and dominion over the rest of creation or if the dominion is merely a result of the imago Dei. In either case, the functional model stresses the motif of being God’s representative on earth.180 The mimetic models emphasise the resemblance between God and human beings. A well-known example of the mimetic model comes from Augustine who develops a trinitarian anthropology in which the Trinity is reflected in the human being as memory, intellect, and will.181 It is particularly in the mimetic model that the question of a distorted or corrupted image has been discussed. One can think of the well-known distinction between image and likeness, which has been discussed by many theologians in the history of theology.182 Dietrich Bonhoeffer emphasises the mimetic model and argues that the resemblance lies in freedom.183 Bonhoeffer thus links the mimetic and relational models. Freedom can, arguably, be seen as a relation since one is free only in relation to someone or something else. The relational models emphasise that the imago Dei is not a distinct quality that the human being possesses. Rather, human beings are the image of God in how they relate to God and to each other. Karl Barth argues along these lines when he states that the image consists in the human being as Gottes

178 Gen. 1:26-28; 4:15. For a discussion, see Tikva Frymer-Kensky, ‘The Image: Religious Anthropology in Judaism and Christianity’, in Christianity in Jewish Terms, ed. Tikva Frymer-Kensky et al. (Boulder: Westview Press, 2000), 331–32. 179 Welz, ‘Imago Dei: References to the Invisible’, 77. 180 Ibid., 77–78. 181 Augustine of Hippo, The Trinity, trans. Edmund Hill (New York: New City Press, 1991), books IX-XI (270–321). 182 See Welz, ‘Imago Dei: References to the Invisible’, 79–80. 183 Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Schöpfung und Fall: Theologische Auslegung von Genesis 1-3 (Munich: Chr. Kaiser, 1958), 40–43.

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Gegenüber.184 According to Welz, the ‘relational model of the image of God focuses on the way that the God-relationship is already established before human beings can come to understand themselves as part of this relation.’185 The dynamic models emphasise that the imago Dei is a task to be fulfilled, a process that will be completed eschatologically in the kingdom of God. If theologians in the resemblance model have struggled with the idea of the human being originally created in the image of God, the dynamic model stresses that the human being will finally become the image of God.186 As Welz puts it: ‘The successful self-realization is the achievement of the imago Dei. This way, the imago Dei appears not only as human predisposition, but also as the destination of the human being.’187 Having considered the diversity of interpretations of the imago Dei, we can recall Tikva Frymer-Kensky’s sobering remark that ‘[w]e can no more pin down the exact nature of this God-like quality than we can pin down the nature of God. Often, the two depend on each other.’188 Moreover, we can note that the four models are not mutually exclusive. For instance, all four models can be harmonised with Frymer-Kensky’s three key aspects of the image: first, the ‘us’ (Gen. 1:26) indicates the social dimension of the human being and the imago Dei. Second, the relationship to the rest of creation seems to include some kind of dominion or responsibility. Third, human beings must not be killed.189 Actually, it is possible to argue for human dignity along the same lines, even though one emphasises different models. I shall follow Wolfgang Vögele, whose very schematic argument allows for a (relative) diversity of ways to understand the imago Dei. As he points out, the relationship between the imago Dei and human rights is established in four general steps: first, human beings are created in God’s image. Second, this implies that the human being has a value or dignity. Third, all human beings share equally in this value. Fourth, the equal value of all human beings has to be respected and implies their equal rights.190 184 Karl Barth, Die kirchliche Dogmatik bd. III: Die Lehre von der Schöpfung (Zurich: Evangelischer Verlag, 1950), 166, 323. 185 Welz, ‘Imago Dei: References to the Invisible’, 82. 186 For a parallel discussion on the eschatological character of the image of God, see Jason S. Sexton, ‘The Imago Dei Once Again: Stanley Grenz’s Journey Toward a Theological Interpretation of Genesis 1:26-27’, Journal of Theological Interpretation 4, no. 2 (2010), 188. 187 Welz, ‘Imago Dei: References to the Invisible’, 83. 188 Frymer-Kensky, ‘Christianity in Jewish Terms’, 331. 189 Ibid., 331–32. 190 See, for instance, Wolfgang Vögele, Menschenwürde zwichen Recht und Theologie: Begründungen von Menschenrechten in der Perspektive öffentlicher Theologie (Gütersloh: Chr. Kaiser, 2000), 474.

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Ola Sigurdson further qualifies this argumentation when he applies ‘recognition’ as the link between the imago Dei and human rights.191 In our case, ‘recognition’ will serve as the theological rationale for respecting the otherness of the (religious) Other. In the next section, we shall discuss this ‘link’. Recognition as a Theological Category Ola Sigurdson’s use of recognition comes primarily from the Hegel scholars Charles Taylor and Axel Honneth. Both emphasise the importance of recognition in pluralistic societies today. In a very fundamental sense, recognition is about being someone in the eyes of the Other and thereby being able to articulate one’s own voice. Taylor points out that in societies with distinct social hierarchies, these hierarchies served as a basis for honour and respect. In the pluralistic societies of North America and Europe today, we have seen the (relative) collapse of social hierarchies. According to Taylor this leads to an increasing need for recognition. Without recognition, people cannot develop and thrive as persons. In Taylor’s own words: The thesis is that our identity is partly shaped by recognition or its absence, often by the misrecognition of others, and so a person or group of people can suffer real damage, real distortion, if the people or society around them mirror back to them a confining or demeaning or contemptible picture of themselves. Nonrecognition or misrecognition can inflict harm, can be a form of oppression, imprisoning someone in a false, distorted, and reduced mode of being.192 Notably, in Taylor’s view, the withholding of recognition is an act in itself with possibly fatal consequences. The recognition of an individual, a culture, or a religious tradition is not only about letting them survive; it is also about recognising their legitimacy.193 According to Taylor, it is reasonable to approach every culture (or religious tradition) as if it had a value. But it is not reasonable to assume a priori that the result of our ‘investigation’ is that all cultures are exactly equal in terms of value. Such a position would indeed lead to cultural relativism and therefore prevent any recognition at all. A point of particular

191 Sigurdson, Det postsekulära tillståndet, 309–16. 192 Charles Taylor, ‘The Politics of Recognition’, in Multiculturalism: Examining the Politics of Recognition, ed. Amy Gutmann (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1994), 25. 193 Ibid., 65–68.

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interest in our discussion is that Taylor emphasises that, in order to recognise the Other, the value of his culture and religious tradition cannot be dismissed a priori.194 As we shall see, Axel Honneth shares this view and articulates it even more forcefully. Honneth conceives of recognition in terms of accepting and respecting the integrity of the Other. He points out that, since recognition is intersubjective, we have to acknowledge that it takes place in different spheres: for the individual to develop as a person, he must be recognised not only in the personal sphere (through love) but also in the judicial (rights) and social (solidarity) spheres.195 He argues that all three spheres constitute the necessary and sufficient conditions for a proper recognition. The personal sphere includes the physical and emotional needs, and it is primarily a person’s family and close friends who provide for these. The judicial sphere regards a person’s rights in society. As a human being and member of society, every person should be recognised as having certain ‘universal’ rights. If the first and the second sphere relate to what is common to all human beings, the third sphere concerns what is particular. The social sphere is about recognising the specific characteristics of the individual. Honneth emphasises the importance of a social medium that must be able to express the characteristic differences between human subjects in a universal and, more specifically, intersubjectively obligatory way.196 As we can see, Taylor’s and Honneth’s approaches seek to recognise the individual in his or her entirety. It is not enough to recognise a person as an individual despite his or her cultural background, religious affiliation, or gender.197 If these aspects from the social sphere are not included, we cannot really speak of recognition, according to Honneth. We shall soon return to this remark.

194 Ibid., 73. 195 Axel Honneth, ‘Recognition and Justice: Outline of a Plural Theory of Justice’, Acta Sociologica 47, no. 4 (2004), 351. 196 Axel Honneth, The Struggle for Recognition: The Moral Grammar of Social Conflicts (Cambridge: Polity Press, 1995), 122. 197 Susan Wolf criticises Taylor for not paying enough attention to the specific characteristics of gender. As she rightly points out, the problem is not necessarily that a woman is not recognised as a woman. On the contrary, all too often the problem is that she is not recognised as anything but a woman. See Susan Wolf, ‘Comment’, in Multiculturalism: Examining the Politics of Recognition, ed. Charles Taylor and Amy Gutmann (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1994), 76–77.

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As stated above, Sigurdson ties the notion of recognition to the concept of the imago Dei. His way of understanding the imago Dei includes traces of all four models but can be said to favour the relational model. The imago Dei includes a relationship with God and with other human beings. In Christian tradition, this means that recognition is not only about rights but also about fellowship and love. Recognition is a notion that emphasises the relationality of the image of God. To recognise and to be recognised is precisely about confirming the image of God in its diversity and variety. As the image of God, the human being is universal, and this relationship concerns every human being, regardless of class, race, religion, gender, or moral behaviour. As Frymer-Kensky states, ‘Nobody can be more of the image of God than anyone else. … Nobody is “other” to the image of God, and no one can be treated in ways that do not recognize this divine quality.’198 Moreover, as Sigurdson points out, the imago Dei is not static: it is dynamic, and it exists in relation to God and other human beings. This implies that the notion of the image of God can be seen eschatologically: recognition is an ongoing process that takes place in the dialectic between gifts and gifts in return.199 The theological argument that I am sketching is that the image of God is a value and a dignity in every human being and that a proper response to this dignity is recognition. According to Sigurdson, a parallel link between the imago Dei and recognition is love. The image of God exists in the relationship between human beings and between God and human beings. This relationship cannot be thought of apart from love. Furthermore, love seeks recognition; it recognises the Other and wants to be recognised by him or her. Love seeks a recognition that is not about struggling for one’s own cause. As Paul Ricœur states: The commandment that precedes all law is the word that the lover addresses to the beloved: Love me! Love commends itself through the tenderness of its supplication.200 A particularly clear example of this is found in the commandment to love one’s enemy (Matt. 5:44). Love is not only for one’s own sake, and, as Ricœur points

198 Frymer-Kensky, ‘Christianity in Jewish Terms’, 333. 199 Sigurdson, Det postsekulära tillståndet, 311. 200 Paul Ricœur, The Course of Recognition, trans. David Pellauer (Cambridge Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2005), 222.

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out, in Christian tradition, it is actually prior to judicial laws. Thereby, through love, the notion of recognition transcends justice and the negotiation of concrete (human) rights. But love is not opposed to human rights—only prior to them. As Sigurdson points out, when love is seen as a concrete praxis that seeks the well-being of the Other, it also seeks the social, economic and political recognition of fellow human beings.201 Consequently, both respect for the otherness of the Other and human rights in political, social, and economic areas follow from love’s recognition of the Other. This recognition is primarily a response to God’s recognition of the imago Dei in every human being in the act of creation.202 In his theological grounding of human rights, Sigurdson remarks that human existence is a gift and, as such, hardly associated with any rights. Still, the ‘rights’ have a negative basis: the fact that it is a gift also means that no one should compromise or threaten this gift.203 As we have seen, human rights and the respect for otherness are not part of the primary theological language in the Christian tradition. Nonetheless, we have also seen that these notions can be derived from a more traditional theological language. When this is done, these notions serve to emphasise and highlight important consequences of the intimacy of love and the recognition of the imago Dei in every human being. Arguing this way does not reject other arguments but provides a ‘thick description’ and shows that, in the Christian tradition, there are more foundational reasons and motives than the pragmatic quest for respect. It should also be noted that there is nothing remarkable about the recognition of religious otherness in interreligious discourse. On the contrary, many organisations actually involved in interreligious dialogue and other interreligious encounters take the integrity of the religious Other as a fundamental point of departure (or an explicit goal). This is true not only of specifically Christian organisations but also of organisations with members from other major religious traditions.204 201 Sigurdson, Det postsekulära tillståndet, 312. 202 Ibid., 312–14. 203 Ibid., 312–13. 204 In a certain respect, it seems that it is easier to leave room for the Other as other on the practical level of interreligious dialogue and encounters than on the theological level of eschatological hope. Indeed, there are good reasons for Christian theologians to develop their thinking in a way that resembles this experience from people involved in dialogue. See, for instance, documents on dialogue from the World Council of Churches, Religions for Peace, or the European Council of Religious Leaders. See also the Jewish theological

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Applied to the primary context of this study, I would argue that, if and when Christian eschatology formulates hope for the religious Other, it has to leave some room for the integrity of the religious Other. If it does not, there is simply no hope for the religious Other. Let me further elaborate on this issue by means of an example. Suppose that eschatological fulfilment was something like a heavenly men’s club where, obviously, only men were welcome. Due to the universalistic vision of the club, however, all human beings were welcome, but all women were somehow transformed into men before entering the club. Even though the club’s ‘hope’ as such is universalistic, it can be questioned whether this is actually a hope for the individual woman. She is certainly not wanted as she is but only after being ‘male-ified’.205 (Obviously, a similar example could be made with reference to, for instance, race or sexual orientation.) Not to ‘respect’ the Other’s otherness on fundamental issues such as gender, sexual orientation, race, and religious affiliation is to not respect the Other. Not to express hope for the Other as woman, as Muslim, etc., is to not express hope for her at all. Certainly, one could argue that the issue of recognising otherness does not at all apply to the eschaton. In an imagined hereafter, things may be radically different from our present experiences and, therefore, there is no longer any need for interreligious recognition. After all, the objection is sound: we do not know enough about these matters to make any claims about the meaning of recognition in the eschaton. But that is not what we are discussing here. Rather, our question concerns eschatology—the theological language that is used to describe this future hope. On this ‘linguistic’ level, my arguments of recognising otherness above remain relevant. To close this section where I have argued for the respect of otherness and theological integrity, I shall briefly refer to Chief Rabbi Jonathan Sacks who



document ‘Dabru Emet: A Jewish Statement on Christians and Christianity’ and the Muslim theological document ‘‘A Common Word Between Us’: World Council of Churches, Guidelines on Dialogue with People of Living Faiths and Ideologies (Geneva: World Council of Churches, 1979/2010); Religions for Peace, ‘A Guide to Building Inter-religious Councils’, http://religionsforpeace.org/file/resources/toolkits/irc-manual.pdf.; European Council of Religious Leaders, ‘Berlin Declaration on Interreligious Dialogue’, www.rfp -europe.eu/index.cfm?id = 216896; Tikva Frymer-Kensky et al., eds., Christianity in Jewish Terms (Boulder: Westview Press, 2000), xvii; Miroslav Volf, Ghazi bin Muhammad, and Melissa Yarrington, eds., A Common Word: Muslims and Christians on Loving God and Neighbor (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2010). 205 Early Christian thinkers argued along these lines. For a contemporary discussion, see Ruether, Sexism and God-talk, 248-49. See also Coakley, Powers and Submissions, 161–66.

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proclaims the dignity of difference. He states that ‘[i]t is based on the radical transcendence of God from the created universe, with its astonishing diversity of life forms’.206 My argument began with the notion of creation and the imago Dei. According to Sacks, the crucial question ‘is whether I can make space for difference. Can I recognize the image of God in someone who is not in my image, whose language, faith, ideals are different from mine?’207 Given that this already takes place in theological reflection on interreligious encounters and dialogue, it is one of the purposes of this study to investigate how and to what extent this is the case in Christian eschatology. In the fourth chapter, I shall explore how the recognition of the otherness of the Other as imago Dei can also have a place in Christian eschatology. 1.6

The Structure of This Study

This book consists of four chapters. This chapter, the introductory one, is the first. Chapter two provides an analysis of religious otherness in Christian eschatology. The investigation of contemporary Christian theologians hinges on the issue of theological integrity in these eschatologies. The result is that two further issues are identified as central to the question of the theological integrity of the religious Other in Christian eschatology: theological space and theological interplay. With respect to the former, what space is there for the religious Other in these eschatologies, and to what extent is the religious Other accounted for as other? Regarding the latter, what kind of interplay takes place between eschatology and other central Christian statements of faith, such as christology and ecclesiology? In different ways, the inner dynamics of Christian systematic theology determines eschatology. In many cases, the eschaton is ecclesiologically or christologically conditioned in a way that, it will be argued, leaves little room for the theological integrity of the religious Other. Hence, the two features—theological space and theological interplay—are identified in the second chapter. Chapter three analyses the role of religious otherness in contemporary Muslim and Jewish eschatologies. The two features of the second chapter are used in the analyses as ‘heuristic tools’. Thus, the lens through which these

206 Jonathan Sacks, The Dignity of Difference: How to Avoid the Clash of Civilizations, 2nd rev. ed. (London: Continuum, 2003), 201. 207 Ibid.

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other eschatologies are assessed is the analysis of Christian eschatologies. This means that the correlation and comparison discussed in the introductory chapter above are carried out by means of the heuristic tools. As a result of the heuristic tools applied in the third chapter, three issues from Muslim eschatologies and three issues from Jewish eschatologies are identified as aspects that provide room for the theological integrity of the religious Other in eschatology. Chapter four brings together the six aspects from chapter three, along with some general insights from interreligious hermeneutics in order to reassess religious otherness in Christian eschatology. This final chapter is focused on both the otherness of the religious Other and the otherness of the eschaton. Thus, the issues identified as reducing the theological integrity of the religious Other in the second chapter appear as heuristic tools in the third chapter. In the fourth chapter, these tools reappear as central aspects of theological reflection. The theoretical framework and the general qualifications of the ‘interreligious conversation’ have now been established. It is therefore time to move from these preparatory remarks to the proper theological analysis. Thus, we shall now turn to the question of the religious Other in contemporary eschatologies.

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Christian Eschatologies and the Religious Other 2.1 Introduction ‘Rethinking Heaven’ was the title of a cover story in an issue of Time a few years ago.1 The article claims that there has been a recent turn in Christian theology to the view that eschatology can no longer be separated from this world or this life. Moreover, this turn is said to imply the eschatological view that heaven and earth are brought together in a renewed and redeemed creation. In many ways, this theological turn is older than the Time article claimed. All the theologians studied below could more or less be seen as holding this view. This ‘recent’ turn primarily underlines the close connection between eschatology and this world. Given this re-emphasised relationship between eschatology and this world, it is important to look more closely at how particular aspects of this world, such as religious diversity, are reflected in contemporary eschatology. In this chapter, some contemporary eschatologies will be analysed with regard to how they treat religious otherness. The question of the possibilities of salvation for those outside the church is by no means new. On the contrary, a number of attitudes towards the non-baptised can be traced back to the early days of the church. One such attempt to write the history of how the destiny of ‘outsiders’ was viewed is Francis Sullivan’s Salvation Outside the Church.2 In his book, Sullivan convincingly demonstrates the ambiguity and complexity of the well-known expression ‘No salvation outside the church’ (Latin: extra ecclesiam nulla salus) and other similar Roman Catholic statements. Moreover, Sullivan’s work illustrates the long history of these questions. We saw in the first chapter that, in contemporary Christian theology, the question of whether the religious Other will be ‘saved’ has been discussed intensely and that this discussion has yielded, among other things, the threefold paradigm of exclusivism, inclusivism, and pluralism. The aim in this chapter, however, is not to view the religious Other apart from his or her otherness but to approach otherness as an integral part of who a person is. This means not only asking whether there is salvation outside the church but also addressing the broader issue of

1 Jon Meacham, ‘Rethinking Heaven’, Time, 16 April 2012. 2 Francis Aloysius Sullivan, Salvation Outside the Church? Tracing the History of the Catholic Response (New York: Paulist Press, 1992).

©  koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2018 | doi 10.1163/9789004357068_003 Jakob

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the theological integrity of the religious Other in Christian eschatologies. For instance, to what extent does the Christian eschatological hope imply a ‘christianisation’ of the Jew or Muslim? And to what extent is there hope for the Jew as Jew or the Muslim as Muslim? As I shall argue in this chapter, there has been a strong focus on soteriological openness in the sense of examining the possibility of the salvation of those outside the Christian church. Soteriology is about salvation and how it is obtained: salvation from what and for whom? In this context, soteriological openness concerns the issue of whether or not the religious Other can be saved. This is a question to which the threefold paradigm of exclusivism, inclusivism, and pluralism provides (a number of) answers. While the question of salvation is an important and central issue in Christian theology, it is not the only way to approach eschatology and the religious Other. It does not, for instance, reveal much about the nature of this salvation (or lack thereof) for the religious Other. A related and yet different question concerns what we could call eschatological openness.3 This question is whether and to what extent there is room for the religious Other as other in eschatological descriptions. Hence, it concerns the religious Other in the linguistic practice of eschatological assertions. The following quotation from the Jewish scholar Jacob Neusner phrases it well: How can I form a theory of the other in such a way that within my own belief I can respect the other and accord to the outsider legitimacy within the structure of my own faith?4 Neusner’s quest has religious thinking in general in mind, but his statement could be applied to eschatology and articulates the issue of eschatological openness that I am now discussing very well. Eschatological openness refers to the extent to which the theological integrity of the religious Other in a particular eschatology is respected and retained. It is dependent on actual eschatological descriptions. What does 3 This important distinction is influenced by Marianne Moyaert who also seeks to address theology of religions beyond the issue of soteriology. Her own distinction is between soteriological and hermeneutical openness. While we use the term ‘soteriological openness’ in the same way, however, her term ‘hermeneutical openness’ is slightly different from ‘eschatological openness’. The former describes ‘the willingness to understand the other’ even before taking up the soteriological questions. My own term ‘eschatological openness’ refers to the linguistic practice in eschatological assertions, parallel with the soteriological questions. For Moyaert’s distinction, see Moyaert, ‘Recent Developments in the Theology of Interreligious Dialogue’. 4 Jacob Neusner, Jews and Christians: The Myth of a Common Tradition (London: SCM Press, 2003), 110.

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eschatological hope look like? How does the religious Other appear in these descriptions? As I shall argue, one important factor in this respect is how the eschaton is described and how it is ‘Christian’. The crucial parameter is not whether an eschatology is tradition-specific, i.e., whether a Christian eschatology is christological. Every eschatology belongs to some tradition, religious or secular, and is therefore tradition-specific. The Christian tradition necessarily understands eschatological hope in a christological way. The interesting question therefore is not if but how it is christological. I shall suggest that it is helpful to distinguish between Christ being seen as a key (or symbol) of eschatology and Christ being seen as the criterion of eschatology in a way that rules out every non-christological eschatology as deficient or false. In our discussion below, these two alternatives shall be termed christologically conceived and christologically conditioned eschatologies. An entirely closed eschatology leads to a theological position in which the understanding of the eschaton is contingent on one’s own tradition (for instance, by being christologically conditioned). An entirely open eschatology, on the other hand, does not make any assertion about the eschaton whatsoever. Neither of these extremes is represented in this study; rather, the theologians treated here are located at different points between these two extremes. This could be illustrated as a coordinate system where the degree of soteriological openness is displayed horizontally as the x axis and the degree of eschatological openness vertically as the y axis. The diagram below illustrates that it is perfectly possible to hold a position with a high degree of eschatological openness and still a low degree of soteriological openness. On the other hand, a universalistic position where everyone is held to be ‘saved’—which is, by definition, soteriologically open—can be combined with eschatological closure.

Eschatological Positions vis-à-vis the Religious Other Eschatologically open

Soteriologically closed

Soteriologically open

Eschatologically closed

As previously stated, the degree of eschatological openness is related to the nature of tradition-specific eschatological claims.

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The focus of this study could perhaps also be expressed as the language of eschatological assertions. I consider the link between eschatological convictions and the here and now to be mutual in the sense that, on the one hand, eschatological assertions reflect the way relationships are formed and valued in the here and now, while, on the other hand, eschatological convictions affect the way relationships are formed and valued in the here and now. The question at issue is to what degree the religious Other is allowed to be other in Christian eschatological assertions. The present chapter is divided into two parts. First, I analyse four influential, ‘classic’, contemporary theologians of the Western church and then examine more recent perspectives, namely, those of S. Mark Heim and Gavin D’Costa. These treatments are distinguished from the ‘classics’ in the first part because they explicitly address the issue of other religious traditions in their eschatologies and because their contributions cannot compete with the classics in terms of impact and influence. 2.2 The Foundation: Four Cornerstones Truth and the Religious Other: Joseph Ratzinger Introduction Throughout his long career as a theologian and church leader, Joseph Ratzinger (b. 1927) has written on a vast number of topics. Many of his publications on these topics are collections of articles and speeches. Except for his doctoral dissertation on Augustine’s ecclesiology and his habilitation thesis on Bonaventure, he has published notably few monographs.5 Given this situation, it is worth noting that his work on eschatology stands out as Ratzinger’s only strictly systematic monograph.6 The choice of subject underscores—and actually contributes to—Ratzinger’s own observation that ‘eschatology has moved into the very center of the theological stage.’7 Ratzinger 5 Joseph Ratzinger, Volk und Haus Gottes in Augustins Lehre von der Kirche (Munich: K. Zink, 1954). See also Joseph Ratzinger, Die Geschichtstheologie des heiligen Bonaventura (Munich: Schnell & Steiner, 1959). 6 For the observation and a short comment, see Gösta Hallonsten, ‘Benedict XVI/Joseph Ratzinger’, in Key Theological Thinkers: From Modern to Postmodern, ed. Staale Johannes Kristiansen and Svein Rise (Burlington: Ashgate, 2013), 302. 7 The book was written upon request as part of Johann Auer’s series on dogmatic theology. Joseph Ratzinger, Eschatology, Death, and Eternal Life, trans. Michael Waldstein, 2nd ed. (Washington: Catholic University of America Press, 2007), 1. Originally published in German: ­Joseph Ratzinger, Eschatologie: Tod und ewiges Leben (Regensburg: Friedrich Pustet, 1977).

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wrote his eschatology while he was a professor in Regensburg and thus before he became Archbishop and later Prefect of the Congregation for the Doctrine of Faith. There might actually be some truth in Aidan Nichols’ observation that Ratzinger’s later works as a church leader are to a great extent responses to conflicts and challenges of the Catholic Church, whereas his eschatology was written from the conviction that ‘the eschatology theme was the central issue of the New Testament’.8 It should also be noted, however, that his book on eschatology is actually a critical response to theological trends that contest traditional Catholic beliefs. In any case, we can see that eschatology remains a central theme in the later works written by Ratzinger and then as Pope Benedict XVI. In this section on Ratzinger, I shall limit the analysis to material where he is the explicit author, be it before or after he was elected pope. This is not to deny that he has had a great impact on official documents, such as Dominus Iesus and others, but most of these were not written by him. As Gerard Mannion comments: ‘Ratzinger was not the author of Dominus Iesus, but he obviously assented to all that the document states and he did later confer a curial promotion upon the person believed to be the document’s author.’9 Few scholars are as closely aligned with the development of official Catholic theology since the Second Vatican Council as Ratzinger. Hence, it is reasonable to see the official church documents from the Council onwards as illuminating parallels and as a helpful context. For Ratzinger, the Roman Catholic Church is the true voice of theology. This means that the theologian must remain true to what the magisterium teaches. Much of Ratzinger’s critique of fellow Catholic theologians can be traced back to how they relate to magisterial teaching. There are too many theologians, in his view, who see the magisterium either as a ceremonial institution with no real influence or as an authoritative institution whose statements can be creatively interpreted in any preferred direction.10 Having said this, it is important to bear in mind that the purpose of the present section is not to do full justice to the vast material of research related to magisterial documents from the 20th and 21st century. That is not possible within the scope of this study. Rather, our primary interest is the place of the religious Other in Ratzinger’s eschatology. 8 9 10

Aidan Nichols, The Thought of Pope Benedict XVI: An Introduction to the Theology of Joseph Ratzinger, 2nd ed. (London: Burns & Oates, 2007), 110. Lieven Boeve and Gerard Mannion, eds., The Ratzinger Reader: Mapping a Theological Journey (London: T & T Clark, 2010), 143. Ibid., 45.

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Ratzinger’s theological production ranges from the mid-1950s to the present. It is not unlikely that such an output has been subject to change. Some scholars identify fundamental differences between early and later parts of Ratzinger’s writing. Still, in this context, I do not find it helpful to follow Roberto Tura and others who distinguish between the earlier (pre-Vatican II) and the later (post-Vatican II) Ratzinger.11 This is for several reasons. First, as Boeve and Mannion convincingly argue, the critique against modernist approaches to Christian faith is prevalent even before Vatican II. The principal difference consists, rather, in the increasingly polemical tone that Ratzinger takes.12 Second, the distinction as such is less helpful since the material that I use is almost exclusively written after the Council. Third—and this obviously relates to the previous two points—there is no clear indication of significant changes in the material on eschatology and religious otherness. As a consequence, the following section will treat his oeuvre as a unity. In Eschatology Ratzinger is primarily interested in presenting his view on two topical issues: the political and liberation theologies, in which the kingdom of God is understood as a political concept, and the rejection of the immortality of the soul in contemporary theology. It is in response to these challenges that he presents his general eschatology. In the introduction to this work, Ratzinger complains that it now seems possible to write an eschatology without addressing the ‘classical’ themes of the last things: death, the immortality of the soul, judgement, purgatory, heaven and hell.13 The following analysis of Ratzinger’s eschatology will not follow this approach entirely, but his preferred categories will be clearly visible in the text. First, I shall analyse some of these classical themes and focus on the place of the religious Other. Second, I shall discuss the relation between religious otherness and salvation on the one hand and religious otherness and truth in Ratzinger’s theology on the other. The Kingdom of God as a Christian Kingdom? Ratzinger emphasises that the kingdom of God is not a human enterprise. Hence, he is critical of various forms of political interpretations in which the kingdom of God is seen as, for instance, a Christian or an interreligious struggle against suffering. Rather, the kingdom of God is something one has to wait for, something that will occur when God’s power is manifested on earth. It comes

11 See ibid., 11. 12 Ibid. 13 Ratzinger, Eschatology, Death, and Eternal Life, 4.

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from outside history and is sustained by God.14 It is thereby distinguished from a utopia, which is an instrument for human beings to make the world better. While a utopia provides a rational motivation for human action, Ratzinger sees the kingdom of God as a statement of faith, which motivates receptive patience, based in the belief in Jesus Christ.15 Ratzinger’s position on this issue is obviously a critique of liberation theologians and others. According to Ratzinger, they distort the notion of the kingdom of God and turn it into an intra-worldly concern. Seeing the kingdom of God as a political concept ruins it: ‘The Kingdom of God is not a political norm of political activity, but it is a moral norm of that activity.’16 He argues that the blurring of the rationality of political action on the one hand and the hope of faith on the other perverts both politics and faith. The Vatican II dogmatic constitution on the Church, Lumen Gentium, refers to the kingdom of God and the kingdom of Christ in a way that has encouraged some theologians to see the former as a political reality separate from the Catholic Church. For instance, the kingdom of God is preached by Jesus Christ, whereas the kingdom of Christ is the Catholic Church. 17 Ratzinger is critical of both political and non-christological interpretations of Lumen Gentium. The proper attitude to the kingdom is, rather, to passively await its arrival. Regarding the religious Other, Ratzinger clearly rules out the possibility of conceiving of the kingdom of God as an immanent vision where people of different traditions participate in ‘building’ the kingdom of God. Hence, it seems that the only way to actually share the vision of the kingdom is to be or become a Christian. In Ratzinger’s notion of the kingdom of God, the relationship between the ‘already’ and the ‘not yet’ is of particular interest. The gulf that exists between them has interreligious significance. The question of the kingdom of God finds its answer in ‘no other than the Son in whom the unbridgeable gulf between already and not yet is spanned.’18 Hence, the kingdom of God is manifested

14

Joseph Ratzinger, Church, Ecumenism, and Politics: New Essays in Ecclesiology, trans. Robert Nowell (Slough: St Paul Publications, 1988), 243–47. Originally published in German: Joseph Ratzinger, Kirche, Ökumene und Politik: neue Versuche zur Ekklesiologie (Einsiedeln: Johannes Verlag, 1987). 15 Ratzinger, Church, Ecumenism, and Politics, 237–39. 16 Ratzinger, Eschatology, Death, and Eternal Life, 59. 17 Hans Küng, Islam: Past, Present and Future, trans. John Bowden (Oxford: Oneworld, 2009), 55–56. See also Haight, Jesus, Symbol of God, 392. For an extensive treatise, see Dupuis, Toward a Christian Theology of Religious Pluralism, 330–57. See also Second Vatican Council, Lumen Gentium, §§ 3 and 5. 18 Ratzinger, Eschatology, Death, and Eternal Life, 65.

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through Jesus Christ. In this sense, one could argue that Ratzinger’s notion of the kingdom of God is christologically conditioned. Eventually, all peoples will ‘[bend] the knee before Yahweh in the figure of Jesus’.19 Furthermore, Ratzinger refers to the triumph of Yahweh. This triumph—with the consequence that all people adore Yahweh—takes place on the cross.20 The question can be raised: Does Ratzinger not actually define the kingdom of God more christologically than, for instance, Lumen Gentium does? In the latter, the exact relationship between the kingdom of God and Christ or the Catholic Church is not spelled out. In Dominus Iesus, issued by the Congregation for the Doctrine of Faith in 2000, we find an interpretation of the kingdom of God that seems closer to Ratzinger’s view. The authors of this document emphasise the inseparability of the kingdom of God, the kingdom of Christ, and the Catholic Church. Clearly, the document seeks to reject more pluralistic interpretations that extend the kingdom of God beyond the kingdom of Christ and make a distinction between it and the Catholic Church. Immediately after declaring the inseparability of these three notions, the document identifies the roots of the problem: too many interpretations of the kingdom of God are based on ‘relativistic attitudes towards truth itself’.21 As we shall see, this fundamental critique in Dominus Iesus is one of Ratzinger’s hobby horses when confronted by religious otherness. We can note that Ratzinger expresses the hope that all non-Christians worship God in Christ and are saved, as a consequence.22 Furthermore, the antipolitical thrust of Ratzinger’s presentation goes together with making christology the norm of the kingdom of God. The kingdom of God is not a human enterprise but the result of divine intervention which will result in the glorification and adoration of Christ. It is therefore appropriate to raise the question: To what extent is Ratzinger’s kingdom of God a Christian kingdom? We will return to this issue and its possible consequences below. A Matter of Truth: The Religious Other and Judgement Day Ratzinger distinguishes between what he considers to be two inseparable judgements: individual and general. Individual judgement occurs at death and constitutes the individual’s entry into his or her final destiny. General judgement involves all of creation and takes place on the ‘last day’. According to 19 Ibid., 64. 20 Ibid. 21 Congregation for the Doctrine of Faith, Declaration ‘Dominus Iesus’: On the Unicity and Salvific Universality of Jesus Christ and the Church (Website of the Holy See), § 4. 22 Ratzinger, Eschatology, Death, and Eternal Life, 65.

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Ratzinger, it is not possible to see the ultimate consequences of a person’s life until the history of the world has come to an end. Consequently, the general judgement actually provides information about a person’s ‘final place in the whole’.23 Yet the final destiny of the individual is ‘already’ set in the individual judgement at the time of death. Judgement in both its individual and general senses is a manifestation of truth. The last judgement is a sort of epiphany in which the truth about that person is revealed. It is clear that Ratzinger’s notion of truth has more than one dimension: the judgement is both christological and ecclesiological. It is christological in the sense that Jesus Christ is the criterion of truth: And so God is the criterion of truth for us in and through Christ. Herein lies that redemptive transformation of the idea of judgment which Christian faith brought about. The truth which judges man has itself set out to save him. It has created a new truth for man. In love, it has taken man’s place and, in this vicarious action, has given man a truth of a special kind, the truth of being loved by truth.24 For Ratzinger, the aforementioned ecclesiological dimension is related to the christological. The church is the body of Christ and it follows that the destiny of a human person is dependent on his or her relation to Christ’s body, the church. Lastly, we must bear in mind that Christ is not alone. The whole meaning of his earthly life lay in his building for himself a body, in his creating for himself a ‘fullness’. Since Christ’s body truly belongs to him, encounter with Christ takes place in encounter with those who are Christ’s, because they are his body. And so our destiny, our truth, if it is really constituted theologically, christologically, depends upon our relation to Christ’s body and notably to its suffering members. To this extent, the ‘saints’ are our judge.25 The strong link between the church and salvation makes Ratzinger’s eschatology distinctly ecclesiological. But this does not settle the question of the judgement and its outcome. Ratzinger states that eternal damnation is a possible outcome for those outside the church (indeed, for everyone!) but takes

23 24 25

Ibid., 207. Ibid., 206. Ibid., 207.

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an agnostic position as to who belongs to this category. According to him, God does not bring about damnation; rather, it is the human being who sets the limits of salvation and thereby judges him- or herself.26 Even though the fate of the individual remains open, the ecclesiological determination of eschatology significantly reduces the room for the theological integrity of the religious Other. The final judgement is important in Ratzinger’s eschatology, and it is something that awaits every human being. The religious Other is not addressed separately in his treatise on judgement. Nevertheless, the strong link between judgement, christology, and ecclesiology has interreligious implications. The judgement is christological in the sense that Jesus Christ is the norm of that judgement and in the sense that damnation is the consequence of a person’s final rejection of Christ. It is ecclesiological in the sense that salvation is dependent on one’s relation to the church. The result is that referring to Christ as the criterion of truth reduces the theological integrity of the religious Other. Furthermore, the ecclesiological qualification of the judgement suggests a kind of assimilation of the religious Others whereby they are stripped of their religious otherness for the sake of inclusion. Soteriologically speaking, this means that Ratzinger’s theology is neither strongly open nor closed. As far as eschatological openness is concerned, however, it is limited due to the ecclesiological determination we pointed to above. As we move on, we shall see that this pattern of ecclesiological and christological determination comes up again and again. Christological Purgatory Ratzinger defends the traditional Catholic position that there is a state between the individual’s death and the general resurrection in which the immortal soul undergoes purgatory. The Catechism of the Catholic Church affirms the doctrine of purgatory and states that ‘[t]he Church gives the name Purgatory to this final purification of the elect, which is entirely different from the punishment of the damned.’27 The Catechism, however, does not give a particular christological interpretation of purgatory. To Ratzinger, however, christology is the very basis of purgatory. He perceives purgatory christologically in two respects: first, it is a state of purification for those who are saved through Christ, and, second, the purification in purgatory is actually constituted by the encounter with Jesus Christ. Purgatory is a ‘process of transformation in which a person becomes capable of Christ’.28

26 Ibid. 27 Catechism of the Catholic Church, (London: Geoffrey Chapman, 1995), § 1031. 28 Ratzinger, Eschatology, Death, and Eternal Life, 230.

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According to Ratzinger, when human beings die, they leave history, but they do not lose their relation to history. The individual’s personality is constituted by the network of relationships that he or she has built up on earth.29 Even though a person’s decisions in life are settled in death, and, consequently, his or her eschatological destination is also settled, one does not reach this destiny instantly. For most people, the ultimate and intrinsic decisions are covered by layers of secondary and often arbitrary choices. Hence, the most fundamental decisions need to be laid bare.30 Since human beings are related to history even in death, the consequences of sin and trespasses committed in life still burden them in death.31 Purgatory is therefore a necessary process which makes human beings capable of standing before God.32 Ratzinger affirms purgatory as an intermediate state, and it is reserved for those who belong to Christ. What about those who do not belong to Christ? What about the religious Other who does not become Christian in his or her lifetime? Ratzinger is notably silent on this matter. Nonetheless, it seems evident that his eschatology offers only two alternatives for the religious Other: either hell or the process of ‘christianisation’ through purgatory. In other words, the alternatives for the religious Other seem to be either eschatological exclusion or eschatological assimilation. ‘No Quibbling Helps Here’: Eternal Damnation The possibility of eternal damnation is an explicit part of Ratzinger’s eschatological thinking: ‘No quibbling helps here: the idea of eternal damnation … has a firm place in the teaching of Jesus, as well as in the apostolic writings.’33 He finds clear scriptural support for an eternal hell and rejects the apokatastasis pantōn (restoration of all things) as a mere thought experiment that has never been accepted as a part of Christian teaching. Regarding the existence of hell, there is a clear alignment between Ratzinger’s view and official Catholic documents. Lumen Gentium refers to the ‘eternal fire’ and the ‘gnashing of teeth’.34

29 30 31 32 33 34

Ibid., 182–85. Ibid., 219. Ibid., 189. Ibid., 229–30. Ibid., 215. It is unlikely that the quoted biblical expressions should be understood literally, but, regrettably, Lumen Gentium does not provide any hermeneutical key in this passage. My point here, however, is merely that the existence of hell is affirmed in the Vatican II constitution. See Second Vatican Council, Lumen Gentium, § 48.

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The Catechism of the Catholic Church states that the ‘definitive self-exclusion from communion with God and the blessed is called “hell”’.35 Ratzinger connects the Christian teaching concerning hell to the belief in the freedom of the human being and her ability to reject God. Because each human being is free, the idea of hell must be affirmed. Thus, the two fundamental arguments behind Ratzinger’s position refer to scriptural evidence and (a human being’s) free will.36 Ratzinger explains that the significant dividing line between life and death lies not in biological death but in the distinction between being with God and being isolated from God.37 Christian eschatology is universal and aims at the salvation of all. Even though salvation is offered to everyone, it needs to be actively received.38 The criteria for receiving salvation are not entirely clear, but Ratzinger refers to the individual’s free will as the reason behind that person’s damnation. He is reluctant to deal with other religious traditions in terms of salvation. Elsewhere in Eschatology, Ratzinger states that being with Christ is what believers (Gläubigen) can expect after death.39 Again, it is not obvious what he means by the ‘believer’. Turning to Ratzinger’s collection of essays on theology of religion, Truth and Tolerance, it is nevertheless stated that Christianity ‘sees in Christ the only real salvation of man and, thus, his final salvation.’40 According to Ratzinger, the existence of hell, in the sense of eternal exclusion from God, is the necessary consequence of human freedom. Ratzinger does not want to address the question of the religious Other in terms of salvation, but he does state that Christ and the church are necessary for salvation. I shall further explore this position below.

35 36

37 38 39 40

Catechism of the Catholic Church, § 1033. It should be noted that Ratzinger applies a second, and quite different, meaning to hell: a person’s experience of deep suffering in communion with the suffering of Christ. However, these two ‘hells’ are diametrically opposed with respect to eschatological fulfilment. While the former consists in ultimate exclusion from Christ, the latter is the ultimate communion with him. Due to the scope of this study, the latter understanding of hell, as deep suffering, will not be discussed further. See Ratzinger, Eschatology, Death, and Eternal Life, 217–18. Ibid., 207. Ibid., 65. Ibid., 166. Joseph Ratzinger, Truth and Tolerance: Christian Belief and World Religions, trans. Henry Taylor (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 2004), 19.

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Christ is Heaven According to Ratzinger, heaven is the communion with God where God’s self-giving love and human response interact in what is known as the beatific vision. It is through Christ, who is truly God and truly human, that this relationship is made possible. As a matter of fact, Ratzinger expresses this in even stronger terms: Not only does Christ make heaven possible—Christ is heaven. One is in heaven when, and to the degree, that one is in Christ. It is by being with Christ that we find the true location of our existence as human beings in God…. Christ is the temple of the final age; he is heaven, the new Jerusalem; he is the cultic space for God.41 Heaven is ultimately constituted by the relationship between God and the individual person, where the love of God pervades the human being. In this sense, it is individual, since it is personally perceived by everyone in their own way. Closely linked to the individual aspect of heaven is the union of all who, together, are the body of Christ. In this sense, heaven is a communion (Gemeinschaft) which is the fulfilment of all human relationships.42 Even though Ratzinger sometimes uses spatial terms when speaking of heaven, it is clear that these are not to be understood literally. Heaven is beyond and above in a qualitative sense, not in a spatial sense.43 Like judgement, it is realised in two steps: the first is individual salvation and the second is the salvation of the elect and the cosmos. Thus, not only will some human beings be saved, but salvation includes the completion of the entire cosmos: a new heaven and a new earth. As stated above, Ratzinger is sometimes accused of proclaiming an other-worldly salvation.44 I would agree insofar as there is a tendency in his eschatology towards other-worldliness. Throughout Eschatology, he rejects any attempt to conceive the eschatological fulfilment as something which takes place in this world, in the here and now. He is not, however, as interested in rejecting the opposite position, namely that salvation is an escape from this 41 Ratzinger, Eschatology, Death, and Eternal Life, 234. 42 Unfortunately, the English translation translates Gemeinschaft as ‘society’. Ratzinger does not claim that heaven is a society, which would suggest that it was created by human beings. For the German text, see Ratzinger, Eschatologie, 191. For the English translation, see Ratzinger, Eschatology, Death, and Eternal Life, 234–35. 43 Ratzinger, Eschatology, Death, and Eternal Life, 237. 44 For a critical view, see, for instance, Bradford E. Hinze, ‘Review of Eschatology: Death and Eternal Life’, Theological Studies 50, no. 3 (1989), 584–85.

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world. We can find this in his Das Heil des Menschen where ‘intra-worldly’ is contrasted with ‘Christian’. Here, he explains what a new heaven and a new earth means: ‘i.e., the assurance of a positive fulfilment of the purpose of the cosmos and of history … a holistic meaning into which all meanings enter.’45 It is important to note that it is the purpose and the meaning of both the cosmos and history that will be fulfilled. Hence, the destiny of the physical universe and its supposed relationship to the new heaven and the new earth remain unclear in Ratzinger’s eschatology. The two steps of salvation cannot be thought of without each other. The individual aspect requires the communal and vice versa. But the communal aspect seems to pertain to Christians only: Heaven will only be complete when all the members of the Lord’s body are gathered in…. Let us say it once more before we end: the individual’s salvation is whole and entire only when the salvation of the cosmos and all the elect has come to full fruition.46 Ratzinger does not develop the question of the non-elect. He also does not address those who do not proclaim their loyalty to the Son. This silence is symptomatic in his Eschatology. He refers to the ‘body of Christ’ as all human beings in one organism and to Christ as the true ruler over the entire cosmos.47 Ratzinger conceives of heaven as ‘the finally and wholly Other’.48 Yet, he also states that it ‘must first and foremost be determined christologically’.49 There is a tension between these two claims. By subordinating eschatology to christology, the ‘wholly other-’ ness of the former is actually compromised. Assessed within a larger dogmatic framework, we find that Ratzinger’s eschatology is bound up with his ecclesiology and christology. I would argue that the theological interplay between eschatology and other disciplines determines the extent to which eschatology, or heaven, could be described as ‘wholly other’. In Ratzinger’s case, creation is to be read through Christ who is the ‘second Adam’

45

Ulrich Hommes and Joseph Ratzinger, Das Heil des Menschen: Innerweltlich—christlich (Munich: Kösel, 1975), 42–49. The English translation by David Kirchhoffer is found in Boeve and Mannion, The Ratzinger Reader, 73. 46 Ratzinger, Eschatology, Death, and Eternal Life, 237–38. Here, the German word Heil is translated to ‘salvation’. For the German text, see Ratzinger, Eschatologie, 193. 47 Ratzinger, Eschatology, Death, and Eternal Life, 190, 202. 48 Ibid., 237. 49 Ibid., 234.

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and the final answer to the riddle of what the human being is.50 Creation and its relation to God have been distorted and the only way out of this alienating distortion is salvation, according to Ratzinger. Salvation is made possible only by God, through Christ. In this sense, eschatology expects a kind of restoration of the creation which has been distorted in the Fall. This is further underscored by the fact that Christ as the second Adam is seen as the beginning of the eschaton. There are reasons here to note the difference between considering creation (and ‘the first Adam’) the beginning of the eschaton and, as in Ratzinger’s case, considering Christ (the ‘second Adam’) the beginning of the eschaton. In the former case, the eschaton is a continuation of creation and is not necessarily restricted to a particular religious tradition and its revelation. In Ratzinger’s case, the eschaton starts from a specific Christian teaching, namely, the distortion of creation in ‘the Fall’ and its rehabilitation through Christ.51 In both cases, the eschaton is universal in the sense that it involves all human beings. For instance, Ratzinger states that humanity will be gathered in one single body.52 Nonetheless, he begins with the particular Christian view rather than with creation as experienced by all humankind. This is, I think, close to what John D’Arcy May addresses in his critical response to the papal encyclical Redemptoris Missio and the declaration Dominus Iesus. D’Arcy May finds ‘absolute claims to uniqueness and the universality of this uniqueness’ in

50 51

52

Joseph Ratzinger, ‘In the Beginning …’: A Catholic Understanding of the Story of Creation and the Fall, trans. Boniface Ramsey (Edinburgh: T & T Clark, 1995), 48. I am not arguing that Ratzinger’s position is in any way unique or uncommon to the Christian tradition. On the contrary, his view is by far the most common in the history of Christian theology. The point I am making is merely that there is a difference, with interreligious implications, between these two points of departure. The Catechism of the Catholic Church, for one, declares that faith is the beginning of eternal life. Hence, this position comes close to Ratzinger’s. See The Catechism of the Catholic Church, §  163. The International Theological Commission of the Catholic Church released a document on eschatology in 1992 (Some Current Questions in Eschatology). It lacks the authority of either the Vatican II texts or Dominus Iesus but is an official document from the Vatican and was endorsed by Ratzinger as the prefect for the Congregation of Faith. In this text we learn that ‘The resurrection of those who are Christ’s must be considered as the culmination of the mystery already begun in baptism.’ Again, the eschatological events are linked exclusively to the particular Christian events, such as baptism. See International Theological Commission, ‘Some Current Questions in Eschatology’, www.vatican.va/roman_curia/congregations/ cfaith/cti_documents/rc_cti_1990_problemi-attuali-escatologia_en.html. Joseph Ratzinger, Introduction to Christianity, trans. J.R. Foster (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 2004), 239, 314.

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the magisterial texts.53 In Ratzinger’s case, it means not only that the Church’s eschatological experience of the Church is unique and universal but also that it is conditioned in the sense that no other way to approach or experience the eschaton is possible. We can note that, even though Ratzinger is eager to proclaim the mystery and hiddenness of the eschaton and even though he argues that it is ‘wholly other’, the interplay between eschatology, the Fall, and christology suggests another tendency. The dogmatic framework in which Ratzinger’s eschatology is arranged prevents the eschaton from being wholly other. It could be argued that the eschaton is ‘christianised’ in a way that presents it as a subcategory of christology and soteriology. The Question of Truth Revisited: The Religious Other and Salvation The Vatican Today reports on a sermon given by Pope Benedict XVI in August 2012. One of the key sentences the article quotes is: ‘The Truth is the Truth and there is no compromise’.54 As we have already pointed out above—and others have pointed to this as well: ‘truth’ is one of the key concepts in Ratzinger’s theology. Obviously, it falls outside the aims of this study to thoroughly investigate his concept of truth, but, since he approaches religious otherness in terms of truth, however, it is difficult to ignore this question entirely. Ratzinger is explicitly critical of attempts to discuss other religions in soteriological terms. Salvation begins with a person’s righteousness and is not situated within religions per se but only ‘connected to them, inasmuch as, and to the extent that, they lead humankind toward the one good, toward the search for God, truth, and love’.55 Ratzinger rehearses a similar argument in his earlier book ‘In the Beginning…’, where he argues that no system, religious or ideological, saves a human being. Rather, it is only faith in Christ that is able to supersede all systems.56 In this context, Ratzinger does not think of Christianity as a system, although other religions are viewed as such. Ratzinger’s way of downplaying the significance of religious belonging with respect to salvation and eschatology is surprising, 53

John D’Arcy May, ‘Catholic Fundamentalism? Some Implications of Dominus Iesus for Dialogue and Peacemaking’, in “Dominus Iesus”: Anstößige Wahrheit oder anstößige Kirche? Dokumente, Hintergründe, Standpunkte und Folgerungen, ed. Michael J. Rainer (Münster: Lit, 2001), 131. 54 ‘Audience: The Truth is the Truth; There is No Compromise’, Vatican Radio, www.news.va/ en/news/audience-the-truth-is-the-truth-there-is-no-compro. 55 Ratzinger, Truth and Tolerance, 205. 56 Ratzinger, ‘In the Beginning…, 156.

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given some of his other statements referred to above. If Christ is heaven and if salvation is, at least in some ways, dependent on a person’s relationship to the church, then the claim that salvation is only related to religion insofar as the religion encourages the pursuit of goodness and truth sounds peculiar. Actually, Ratzinger’s argument seems to be that all religions other than Christianity lack salvific significance. These other religions are to be seen, at best, as preparatory for Christianity but insufficient for salvation. A further glance at the relationship between truth and salvation will prove useful, however. Here we find that there is a very strong link between the two in Ratzinger’s thinking. As a matter of fact, Ratzinger is talking about salvific truth.57 The clearest example of the union between salvation and truth is found in his view of the sacraments, where the two are actually united.58 Hence, even though Ratzinger prefers to discuss the religious Other with respect to the issue of truth, the questions of eschatology and salvation are always implicitly included within the discourse. Again, we should point out that the central role of ecclesiology and christology for salvation does not mean that the religious Other has to become Christian in the here and now. Nevertheless, the role of these tradition-specific features in the eschaton suggests that a kind of christianisation of the religious Other takes place. It is reasonable to conclude that, contrary to Ratzinger’s own assertions, the question of religious belonging is relevant to his eschatology. Ratzinger seems to think of Judaism in the same way that he thinks of other religions: One may address [the non-Christian religions] as being provisional and, in this respect, as preparatory to Christianity and, thus, in a certain sense attribute to them a positive value, insofar as they allow themselves to be regarded as precursors. [This attitude] was shown by Christ himself with respect to the faith of Israel, that is to say, the religion of the Old Testament. That this may also, in a way, be done with regard to all other religions has been clearly shown and emphasized only in recent times.59 Thus, in this sense, Judaism is parallel to other religious traditions, and all adherents of those religions will ‘kneel before Christ, as it were, in their persons,

57 Ratzinger, Eschatology, Death, and Eternal Life, 209. 58 Joseph Ratzinger, ‘Die sakramentale Begründung christlicher Existenz’, in Gesammelte Schriften Band 11. Theologie der Liturgie, ed. Gerhard Ludwig Müller (Freiburg: Herder, 2010), 205–10. See also Boeve and Mannion, The Ratzinger Reader, 8. 59 Ratzinger, Truth and Tolerance, 19.

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recognizing itself [the religion] as provisional, or rather as proceeding toward Christ’.60 It should be noted that this view is similar to Ratzinger’s decision as pope to allow the use of the old Good Friday prayer for the Jews in 2007. In this controversial prayer, one prays for the conversion of the Jews ‘that God our Lord should illuminate their hearts, so that they will recognize Jesus Christ, the Saviour of all men.’61 Many scholars have argued that praying for the conversion of the Jews is not in line with Vatican II. Nostra Aetate, The Declaration on the Relation of the Church to non-Christian Religions, says nothing about the conversion of Jews. Rather, it provides an eschatological vision with a quotation from the prophet Zephaniah: In company with the Prophets and the same Apostle [Paul], the Church awaits that day, known to God alone, on which all peoples will address the Lord in a single voice and ‘serve him shoulder to shoulder’ (Zeph 3:9).62 The exact meaning of ‘shoulder to shoulder’ in Nostra Aetate is not clear, but many have argued that it implies a recognition of the Jewish people which dismisses any discussion of conversion.63 Clearly, Ratzinger considers the Roman Catholic Church to be the ultimate path to salvation, superior to all others. In his book on Christianity and the world religions, he appeals to Christian missionaries to acknowledge and understand other religions and their value more profoundly. At the same time, however, he also demands that other religions understand their own role to be a preliminary one and as preparing for belief in Christ.64 What about a person who has been brought up in a culture where Christianity is not present and hence belongs to another religious tradition? Can one demand that she display faith in Christ? Ratzinger considers this a complicated question:

60 61 62

Ibid., 20. For a discussion, see D’Costa, Christianity and the World Religions, 186. Second Vatican Council, Nostra Aetate: Declaration on the Relation of the Church to NonChristian Religions (http://www.vatican.va/archive/hist_councils/ii_vatican_council/ documents/vat-ii_decl_19651028_nostra-aetate_en.html), § 4. 63 For an in-depth article on this issue, see John Connely, ‘The Catholic Church and Mission to the Jews’, in After Vatican II: Trajectories and Hermeneutics, ed. James L. Heft and John O'Malley (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2012). 64 Ratzinger, Truth and Tolerance, 78–79.

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For what each of these religions demands of people is, not just different from, but contrary to what is demanded by others … it becomes quite true that things that contradict each other are seen as leading to the same goal—in other words, that we are once more facing the question of relativism…. Thus, by way of the various theories of salvation, relativism slips in through the back door again: the question of truth is excised from the question concerning religions and the matter of salvation. Truth is replaced by good intentions; religion remains in the subjective realm, because we cannot know what is objectively good and true.65 Ratzinger prefers to discuss the religious Other and his or her otherness in terms of truth rather than salvation. One reason for this is that he fears that a theology that explains how salvation could be achieved within other religious traditions will lead to relativism, which leads in turn to ambiguity regarding the religious Other.66 Yet, as we have seen, the question of salvation is never far away when truth is discussed. The importance of religious belonging is downplayed while the necessity of Christian markers such as faith in Christ and communion with the church are emphasised. To sum up, Ratzinger’s eschatology has only limited room for the theological integrity of the religious Other. We have identified two main reasons for this. First, it neglects the importance of religious belonging while emphasising Christian markers of identity. This implies a marginalisation of the Other with respect to his or her religious otherness. Second, Ratzinger refers to the eschaton and the kingdom of God as ‘wholly other’, but the otherness of the eschaton in his eschatology is reduced by the theological interplay between eschatology, christology, and ecclesiology. To properly understand the consequences of this interplay, it is helpful to recall the distinction between a christologically conditioned eschatology and a christologically conceived eschatology. In the former, christology determines eschatology to such an extent that any non-christological eschatological description is a priori false. In the latter, Christ is seen as the symbol of eschatology, which implies that christology remains indispensable to Christian eschatology and that, for Christians, Jesus Christ is the primary source of eschatological hope. Nonetheless, according to this view,

65 66

Ibid., 203. This is also true of his small book of collected essays on religious plurality. The various religious traditions are primarily discussed in terms of truth. See Joseph Ratzinger, Die Vielfalt der Religionen und der Eine Bund (Bad Tölz: Verlag Urfeld, 2005), 119–20.

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Christ cannot be identified with the eschaton. Rather, for Christians, Christ is the person through whom they view the eschatological hope. Ratzinger’s claims that Christ is the eschaton and that the eschaton should be determined christologically are examples of a christologically conditioned eschatology. This distinction between christologically conditioned and christologically conceived eschatology also applies to another ‘master’ of 20th-century eschatology. We now turn our attention to Ratzinger’s fellow citizen, his senior by one year, Jürgen Moltmann (b. 1926). Hope and the Religious Other: Jürgen Moltmann Introduction Is eschatology possible after Jürgen Moltmann? The rhetorical question raised by Miroslav Volf indicates the massive influence of the German Protestant theologian during the second half of the 20th century.67 Did Moltmann actually develop Christian eschatology to such an extent that no significant tasks remain? I think it is quite the opposite: Moltmann’s writings have furthered the development of eschatological thinking and have been instrumental in keeping the theological conversation on these issues alive. It is one of Moltmann’s general theses that theology always has to have an eschatological dimension. Hence, most of his publications address eschatology, but the monographs in which he deals with it most explicitly are Theology of Hope (1964) and The Coming of God (1995).68 Unlike Ratzinger, Moltmann is generally perceived as a progressive theologian with an open and all-embracing eschatology. He is praised for his ecumenical ambitions and for his openness towards the Jewish tradition.69 Jeremy

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Miroslav Volf, ‘After Moltmann: Reflections on the Future of Eschatology’, in God Will Be All in All: The Eschatology of Jürgen Moltmann, ed. Richard Bauckham (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2001), 233. Jürgen Moltmann, Theologie der Hoffnung: Untersuchungen zur Begründung und zu den Konsequenzen einer christlichen Eschatologie (Munich: Chr. Kaiser, 1965); English translation: Moltmann, Theology of Hope: On the Ground and the Implications of a Christian Eschatology, trans. James W. Leitch. London: SCM Press, 2002; Jürgen Moltmann, Das Kommen Gottes: Christliche Eschatologie (Gütersloh: Chr. Kaiser, 1995); English translation: Jürgen Moltmann, The Coming of God: Christian Eschatology, trans. Margaret Kohl (London: SCM Press, 1996). See, for instance, Peter Althouse, ‘In Appreciation of Jürgen Moltmann: A Discussion of His Transformational Eschatology’, Pneuma 28, no. 1 (2006), and Matthew Ashley, ‘Review of The Coming of God: Christian Eschatology’, Anglican Theological Review 80, no. 1 (1998).

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J. Wynne captures it nicely when he writes that Moltmann’s theology ‘may speak legitimately to the climate of tolerance and pluralism in the West’.70 Still, Wynne is not altogether enthusiastic about the project: ‘it also invites serious re-examination at crucial points’.71 Some of the problems Wynne refers to are related precisely to Moltmann’s openness towards tolerance and pluralism. Actually, Moltmann has been criticised by both evangelical theologians and others, such as the postcolonial feminist theologian Catherine Keller, for being too open.72 Given this reception, it is interesting to examine Moltmann’s eschatology in terms of soteriological and eschatological openness. There are four features of Moltmann’s eschatology that are of particular interest for this study: his concept of hope, his view of judgement and universal salvation, his christological reading of eschatology in general and of the kingdom of God in particular, and his attempts to do eschatology in ‘conversation’ with the Jewish tradition by revisiting the notion of messianism.73

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Jeremy J. Wynne, ‘Serving the Coming of God: The Insights of Jürgen Moltmann’s Eschatology for Contemporary Theology of Mission’, Missiology: An International Review 35, no. 4 (2007), 450. 71 Ibid. 72 Cecil R. Taylor, ‘Review of The Coming of God: Christian Eschatology’, Journal of the Evangelical Theological Society 42, no. 3 (1999), 508: ‘[H]e winds up espousing a hodgepodge of ideas that will strike many evangelicals as unusual and even unbiblical [such as the idea] that the nation of Israel has its own covenant with God that continues in effect alongside the church’s “new covenant”.’ Catherine Keller, ‘The Last Laugh: A Counter-Apocalyptic Meditation on Moltmann’s Coming of God’, Theology Today 54, no. 3 (1997), 387: ‘[B]ecause of the literal future of resurrection of all individuals, does Moltmann’s universal salvation not come into conflict with those longings for justice that gave rise to eschatology in the first place?’ 73 He reflects on his own development in Jürgen Moltmann, ‘How I Have Changed’, in How I Have Changed: Reflections on Thirty Years of Theology, ed. Jürgen Moltmann (London: SCM Press, 1997), 13–21. Here, he does not disassociate himself from any of his previous works. Rather, he thinks of his writings as periods with different objectives. The early Theology of Hope was written in the 1960s as an attempt, inspired by Ernst Bloch and his Principle of Hope, to reinstate hope as a central Christian theme. In the 1980s and 1990s, Moltmann explains how he returns to the central theological themes of Christianity: Trinity, creation, christology, pneumatology and eschatology. The Coming of God is the eschatological contribution to this ‘dogmatic’ period in Moltmann’s writing. See also Jürgen Moltmann, ‘The World in God or God in the World?’, in God Will Be All in All: The Eschatology of Jürgen Moltmann, ed. Richard Bauckham (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2001).

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According to Moltmann, the great eschatological question is whether the ultimate goal is ‘the world in God’ or ‘God in the world’. Is the world ultimately to be taken up into the Trinity, as Hans Urs von Balthasar and others argue, or will God finally dwell within this world, as many liberation theologians suggest?74 Moltmann answers the question with a Lutheran simul: the world in God and God in the world are ‘a reciprocal perichoresis of the kind already experienced here in love: the person who abides in love abides in God, and God in him (1 John 4:16).’75 Moltmann’s eschatology, particularly in The Coming of God, can be seen as an attempt to maintain this reciprocity of the world in God and God in the world. To succeed in this attempt, he needs to keep the three aspects of eschatology together: personal eschatology (whose main symbol is ‘eternal life’), historical eschatology (‘the kingdom of God’) and cosmic eschatology (‘the new creation’).76 Thus, he always relates the question of the individual to that of the cosmos. A consequence of this integrative aspect of eschatology is his universalism, which implies that not only every human being but all of creation are included in the final consummation.77 Moltmann works with three temporal dimensions: the possible (the future), which he prefers to think of as adventus (that which is coming); the realised (the past), and their dividing line (the present) where possibilities are rejected or realised. The reason why a linear concept of time is inadequate is that past and future are not homogeneous concepts: the future consists of an infinite number of possibilities, while the past is a path that has already been realised. To some extent, this also concerns the relation between the beginning (Greek: prōton) and the end (Greek: eschaton). They are not congruent in the sense that the hope of eschaton means the restoration of the original creation. Moltmann is critical of any theology that builds on the myth of a prehistoric Fall where death and sin enters the world. Nor does he believe in an apokatastasis pantōn, a restoration of all things. Rather, creation is moving toward something greater than the beginning. The eschaton will supersede the proton.78 Christian Hope and Other Hopes Few theologians in the 20th century have emphasised hope as strongly as Moltmann. His Theology of Hope starts with an extensive meditation on hope in 74 Moltmann, ‘The World in God or God in the World?’, 37. 75 Ibid., 41. 76 Moltmann, The Coming of God, 131–32. 77 Ibid., xiv–xv. 78 Ibid., 261–64.

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which he states that the ‘eschatological is not one element of Christianity … but … the medium of Christian faith as such’.79 As we shall see, his Christian notion of hope has consequences for the hope of the religious Other and, therefore, his theology of hope is significant in an interreligious way. Moltmann is reacting to what he sees as the other-worldly and escapist tendencies in modern eschatology. He is critical of both optimistic utopias, which do not pay proper attention to evil in the world, and apocalyptical negative assessments in which the world is not worth saving. Ernst Bloch’s influence on Moltmann’s early eschatology is well known. For Bloch, the principle of hope is subversive, something that changes the present.80 Moltmann is convinced that eschatology has a political dimension and that eschatological hope should include an explicit hope for this world. Eschatology involves both the act and the object of hope. Clearly, Moltmann’s political theology has had significant influence on Latin American liberation theology. For example, Gustavo Gutiérrez considers Moltmann’s eschatology to be ‘undoubtedly one of the most important in contemporary theology.’81 Moltmann seeks to articulate a theology that gives a realistic description of the world and yet engages in its future destiny.82 His notion of hope is intimately connected with that of faith. He criticises many modern eschatologies because their notions of hope are ‘very much forgotten or relegated to a modest place in the middle of the treatise “on the virtues”, in which the theology of faith enjoyed the lion’s share’.83 In Moltmann’s theology, faith remains central, but hope is seen as equally important: hope expects what faith asserts. In Moltmann’s words, Without faith’s knowledge of Christ, hope becomes a utopia and remains hanging in the air. But without hope, faith falls to pieces, becomes a fainthearted and ultimately a dead faith.84 Hence, the object of hope is the content of Christian faith. Consequently, it seems as if hope as such is Christian. Moltmann makes an interesting 79 Moltmann, Theology of Hope, 2. 80 Ernst Bloch, The Principle of Hope, trans. Neville Plaice, vol. 1 (Cambridge: MIT Press, 1995), 146. 81 Gustavo Gutiérrez, A Theology of Liberation: History, Politics, and Salvation, trans. Caridad Inda and John Eagleson, 2nd ed. (London: SCM Press, 1988), 125. 82 Moltmann, ‘Hope and Reality’, 77–78. 83 Gutiérrez, A Theology of Liberation, 123. 84 Moltmann, Theology of Hope, 6.

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distinction between (Christian) hope and ‘smaller hopes’. The latter include all sorts of human desires and aspirations. Moltmann argues that these smaller hopes are related to hope to the extent that (Christian) hope includes and relativises them. By including these minor hopes, Christian hope changes their direction and turns them towards Christ.85 Unfortunately, Moltmann does not address the question of other religious hopes and their relationship to Christian hope. Based on his general discussion, however, it is reasonable to draw the conclusion that the eschatological hope of the religious Other is also included, changed, and given a new direction by the Christian hope. Thus, Moltmann’s theology of hope suggests a kind of assimilation of these other hopes. This is not completely true of Judaism, however. In this particular case, Moltmann leaves room for parallel hopes. This issue will be further investigated in the section on messianism below. Moltmann’s eschatology lacks a clear concept of the religious Other. He is not very interested in these kinds of distinctions; there is one eschatological hope for all of humankind. For Moltmann, this hope is christological. The combination of claiming that the one, universal hope will replace every other hope while still emphasising the particularity of that hope by determining it christologically does not affect the degree of soteriological openness in any way but it does reduce the theological space of the religious Other and, as a consequence, limits eschatological openness. The Universality of Salvation As stated above, Moltmann’s eschatology is explicitly universal in the sense that there is no uncertainty as to who will be saved. The eschatological vision of heaven embraces all living things. He emphasises that the judgement is not a matter of God as a neutral judge confronting God’s creatures and judging them according to their lives. Critics have argued that Moltmann turns salvation into something ‘automatic’ and ‘compelled’ and that he underplays ‘the mystery of human resistance to the divine’.86 Well aware of such objections, Moltmann finds his critics’ view of freedom too ‘modern’. His argument is that freedom is not about being able to choose from a large number of options but about being able to do the good.87 Hence, there is only freedom in God, and God is not a distant observer but the one who follows human beings into life,

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Ibid., 18–19. See, for instance, Nigel G. Wright, ‘Universalism in the Theology of Jürgen Moltmann’, Evangelical Quarterly 84, no. 1 (2012), 38–39. Moltmann, ‘The Logic of Hell’, 44.

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death, and resurrection.88 Consequently, in Moltmann’s view, the purpose of judgement is not to separate human beings from each other but to establish heavenly justice. Most theologians would probably agree that the primary purpose of judgement is related to justice, but Moltmann goes further when he declares that hell is a reality on earth and not in the hereafter. Hence, soteriologically, his theology is remarkably open, and the assurance of salvation of the religious Other is more clearly stated than in most eschatologies. Moltmann is eager to integrate personal, historical, and cosmic eschatology. The simple reason for this, he argues, is that they cannot be separated from each other. There is no soul apart from the body, no person outside of humanity, and no humanity separate from nature.89 Therefore, if there is any salvation at all, it must include the entire cosmos. Moltmann views righteousness as an eschatological concept; the righteousness of God heals the relationship of human beings with themselves, with each other and with God. Thus, God’s righteousness establishes a harmonious world. The eschatological hope, the righteousness of God, includes all creation, as any exclusion would be impossible. Salvation is salvation only when everyone is saved, and that is also why we can be certain about an all-embracing eschatology.90 Here we see that the soteriological openness is as wide as can be. In the next paragraph, we shall look more closely at Moltmann’s eschatological openness by analysing the theological interplay between christology and eschatology. The Kingdom of God and Christocracy Moltmann discerns two aspects of the eschatological hope. First, there is the ‘earthly’ hope, which is about the prospering of the church and the Jewish people in history.91 Second, there is the ‘heavenly’ hope directed beyond history.

88 Moltmann, The Coming of God, 250–55. 89 Johanne Stubbe Teglebjærg discusses this aspect of Moltmann’s eschatology from a phenomenological perspective. Her conclusion is that Moltmann’s attempts to overcome the dualism fail due to his insufficient notion of sin and human fallibility. For a comprehensive discussion, see Johanne Stubbe Teglebjærg, Krop og håb: En kritisk tolkning af nyere eskatologi under inddragelse af kropsfænomenologien (Copenhagen: Det Teologiske Fakultet Københavns Universitet, 2009), 118–19. 90 Moltmann, Theology of Hope, 190. 91 Moltmann uses the term ‘Israel’ and states that: ‘By “Israel” I mean here the biblical and theological view of the Jews before God as this is expressed today through religious Judaism in the synagogues and in the land of Israel’. Note that he thereby seems to include only religious Jews in the definition. Moltmann, The Coming of God, 196-97. For the German text, see Moltmann, Das Kommen Gottes, 222.

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Moltmann is critical of any theology that creates a discontinuity between these two. When history and the eschaton are sharply separated, the result is a tendency towards escapism, according to Moltmann. His way of dealing with this alleged dilemma is somehow to bridge them. Here, Moltmann’s solution is somewhat original, and even his otherwise sympathetic interpreter Richard Bauckham raises some concerns here.92 For history to have a meaning, the gap between history and the eschaton has to be bridged, according to Moltmann. He seeks to achieve this by rehabilitating the somewhat marginalised millenarian traditions of Christianity. Admittedly, this is an uncommon move. But there are other theologians, such as Catherine Keller, who have recently developed this strand of eschatology. Like Moltmann, Keller has emphasised the presence of eschatology in the here and now, and actually argued that we are living in apocalyptic times: She declares that ‘We are already there, in apocalypse—in its narrative, its aftermath, its compulsion, its hope.’93 Moltmann distinguishes between historical and eschatological millenarianism. The former alternative is rejected as ‘a religious theory used to legitimate political or ecclesiastical power’.94 Instead, he advocates an eschatological millenarianism that is not about power and authority but about a concrete and political hope for the poor and the suffering. This hope pertains to this world and the re-creation of this world—the two should not be separated, in his view.95 The terminology is innovative, and Moltmann does not use the established categories (although he is well aware of them).96 In more traditional terms, one could perhaps say that he suggests a ‘futurist premillenarianism’. This means that there will be a millenarian kingdom in history in which the poor and marginalised will be revived. But this state of things will not be established through political power (that would be to hope for a Utopia) but through Jesus Christ. Hence, the millenarian kingdom will take place after the coming of Christ (parousia).97 He advances two arguments in defence of his ‘eschatological millenarianism’: first, the millenarian hope is the most promising attempt to express a Christian hope for Israel. Moltmann tries to make theological space for Israel parallel with the church and without the expectation of Israel’s 92

Richard Bauckham, ‘The Millennium’, in God Will Be All in All: The Eschatology of Jürgen Moltmann, ed. Richard Bauckham (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2001), 123–24. 93 Keller, Apocalypse Now and Then, xi. 94 Moltmann, The Coming of God, 192. 95 Ibid. 96 Ibid., 147–48. 97 For a discussion of Moltmann’s terminology in this respect, see Bauckham, ‘The Millennium’, 131–34.

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conversion to Christianity. Here, Christ’s kingdom of peace is thought together with the fulfilment of God’s promises to Israel (this will be further discussed in the section on messianism below). Second, Christ’s kingdom of peace enables hope for this world with political consequences without the church becoming allied with any political power. The historical millenarianism in which a state or a church is seen as Christ’s representative is relativised by the fact that, according to Moltmann, there will be no ‘rule of the saints’ until the parousia of Christ.98 Yet, Moltmann refers appreciatively to a christocracy where Christ’s millennial kingdom of peace constitutes an alternative to pessimistic views of an imminent end of the world. It is precisely in this rule of Christ in history that Moltmann finds the necessary continuity between this world and the world to come.99 The argument of the parallel hope of Israel and Christianity is interesting, but, as will be discussed below, Jews find it less convincing because of its strong christological content. The argument of relativising the church’s or a state’s worldly power applies to historical millenarianism but not to a non-millenarian eschatology. The argument for the continuity between this world and the next is difficult to assess. To what extent is such continuity necessary? And in what sense could there be a qualitative similarity between the millennium and eternity, which is not the case between the world of today and eternity? Ton van Prooijen writes appreciatively of Moltmann’s downplaying the eschatological role of the church. Too often ‘the church is concerned to churchify the world.’100 But in Moltmann’s eschatology, however, this is not the case. Van Prooijen finds instead a promising openness and universality in Moltmann’s ‘exclusively Christocentric’ starting point and is encouraged by the fact that Moltmann thinks ‘even more Christocentrically than Barth.’101 Others have also noted the strong christological character of Moltmann’s eschatology. Matthias Remenyi argues that Moltmann concentrates the entire scope of eschatology in Jesus Christ and that Christ is the kingdom of God

98 Moltmann, ‘The Hope of Israel and the Anabaptist Alternative’. 99 Moltmann, The Coming of God, 201. For a thorough analysis of Moltmann’s millenarianism, see Matthias Remenyi, Um der Hoffnung willen: Untersuchungen zur eschatologischen Theologie Jürgen Moltmanns (Regensburg: Verlag Friedrich Pustet, 2005), 355–69. See also Bauckham, ‘The Millennium’, 136–41. 100 Ton van Prooijen, Limping but Blessed: Jürgen Moltmann’s Search for a Liberating Anthropology (New York: Rodopi, 2004), 58. 101 Ibid., 56.

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in person.102 Timothy Harvie finds in Moltmann’s writings the conviction that there is ‘a christological locus for all theological statements regarding eschatological judgment.’103 Moreover, Harvie ties the notion of the kingdom of God to Moltmann’s view of the judgement: ‘the eschatological judgment of Christ, for Moltmann, is the act which institutes the kingdom of God’s finality.’104 In what sense is Van Prooijen right? What are the implications, with respect to inclusion and exclusion, of Moltmann’s christological eschatology? This is certainly an issue that is interreligiously significant. In Moltmann’s view, his own eschatology does not compromise the religious Other. He or she ‘will not be ecclesiasticized in the process nor will they be Christianized either; but they will be given a messianic direction towards the kingdom.’105 We shall look closer at this claim. It is clear that most of the eschatological symbols in Moltmann’s thinking are determined christologically.106 Christology qualifies not only the millennial kingdom but also heaven and judgement. Jesus Christ is what gives eschatology its meaning and, as Moltmann states in his Theology of Hope, the question whether all statements about the future are grounded in the person and history of Jesus Christ provides it with the touchstone by which to distinguish the spirit of eschatology from that of utopia.107 Moltmann has declared that the basic argument of the Theology of Hope is that ‘[t]here can be no christology without eschatology and no eschatology without christology’.108 In The Way of Jesus Christ, he states that the beginning of eschatology is christology.109 In The Coming of God, the parousia of Christ is the distinctive mark of the realisation of God’s kingdom. In his reflections on

102 Remenyi, Um der Hoffnung willen, 440. 103 Timothy Harvie, ‘Living the Future: The Kingdom of God in the Theologies of Jürgen Moltmann and Wolfhart Pannenberg’, International Journal of Systematic Theology 10, no. 2 (2008), 162. 104 Ibid., 157. 105 Jürgen Moltmann, The Church in the Power of the Spirit: A Contribution to Messianic Ecclesiology, trans. Margaret Kohl (New York: Harper & Row, 1977), 163. 106 For this discussion, see also Bauckham, ‘Eschatology in The Coming of God’, 2–10. 107 Moltmann, Theology of Hope, 3. See also Bauckham, ‘Eschatology in The Coming of God’, 3. 108 Jürgen Moltmann, History and the Triune God: Contributions to Trinitarian Theology, trans. John Bowden (London: SCM Press, 1991), 95, 193 n. 28. 109 Jürgen Moltmann, The Way of Jesus Christ: Christology in Messianic Dimensions, trans. Margaret Kohl (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1993), xiv.

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cosmic christology, we learn that the future fulfilment is actually the unveiling of Jesus Christ or, even more strongly, the eschaton is the Christ.110 Certainly, these are expressions of the strong theological interplay between eschatology and christology in Moltmann’s thinking. I have already introduced a distinction between two different ways of interpreting eschatology christologically: christologically conceived and christologically conditioned eschatology. Hence, the question here is not whether christology plays a central role in Christian eschatology but what kind of central role. On the one hand, Christ can be seen as the sign or symbol through which Christian theology understands eschatology. This interpretation holds that Christian eschatology is understood through Christ but leaves open the possibility of non-christological approaches to eschatology. Thus, christology does not exhaust eschatology as the sole frame for interpreting eschatology. On the other hand, christology can be taken as the criterion for eschatology. In this case, eschatology is christology and every non-christological eschatology is a priori false. As a result of the interplay between eschatology and christology, there are reasons to challenge Moltmann’s own view that he is not christianising the religious Other. Actually, there are indications of a christologically conditioned eschatology in Moltmann’s theology. His claims that there is no eschatology without christology (hence, every non-Christian eschatology is inadequate) and that the millennial kingdom is Christ’s all-encompassing dominion support this interpretation. Given such a reading, two things would follow. First, the theological space of the religious Other is limited. The eschatological hope of the religious Other is not recognised. Such all-embracing universalism does not take into account the eschatological expectations of the religious Other. Since these other eschatological hopes are dismissed, one can raise the question whether there actually is any hope for the religious Other as other in Moltmann’s thinking. Second, and related to the first point, when one examines his eschatological assertions, it seems that what Moltmann describes is actually a kind of ‘eschatological conversion’ to Christianity. The eschatological fulfilment cannot be anything other than the unveiling of Jesus Christ; the eschaton is the Christ. He does not expect the religious Other to convert to Christianity. Yet the call for becoming ‘Christian’ remains, albeit in a new mode: it is mandatory and now part of the eschatological consummation.

110 See, for instance, his argument regarding cosmic christology where he claims that all things will be gathered in Christ as the completion of creation: ibid., 304. See also Moltmann, Theology of Hope, 212–14.

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The christological determination of eschatology illustrates an interesting discrepancy between the degrees of soteriological and eschatological openness. As we have seen, Moltmann’s theology is very open soteriologically. When it comes to eschatological openness, however, I would argue that it is not open at all. There is no room for the theological integrity of the religious Other. In the case of Judaism, Moltmann’s explicit ambition is to leave room for a parallel hope and hence for the theological integrity of the Jewish Other. We shall look more closely at this attempt in the next section. Converging Paths? Jewish Messianism and Jesus as the Christ In Moltmann’s view, Judaism’s relation to Christianity puts it in a different category from other religions. This is spelled out in his attempt to leave room for both the hope of Christianity and of Judaism. In The Coming of God, he applies the notion of messianism to explore the eschatological hopes of Judaism and Christianity. The only way for the church and Judaism to hope together in a constructive way is to maintain the hope for a messianic kingdom in history and thereby the millenarian perspective discussed above. If the church hopes for something greater than itself, it can then draw Israel into its hope. If the church considers itself to be the fulfilment of all hopes, it then shuts Israel out … there is no affirmative community between the church and Israel without the messianic hope for the kingdom. And that then means that there is no adequate Christian eschatology without Millenarianism.111 As we can see, Moltmann downplays ecclesiology to leave room for Judaism. He rejects any ecclesiological triumphalism in which the church replaces the Jewish people. It may therefore come as a surprise that, according to Moltmann, the most fundamental criterion for millenarian eschatology is its christological foundation.112 Hence, among the conditions for a Christian hope for Israel, Moltmann claims that: The promises given to Israel are as yet only fulfilled in principle in the coming of the Messiah Jesus, and in him without conditions, and hence universally endorsed.113

111 Moltmann, The Coming of God, 197. 112 Ibid., 194. 113 Ibid., 197.

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No doubt, there is a specific hope for Israel in Moltmann’s theology. Jewish theologians like Michael Wyschogrod appreciatively acknowledge Moltmann’s emphasis on hope rather than fulfilment. But Wyschogrod does not seem to be unreservedly happy with Moltmann’s project. He is cautious in his overall assessment and states that he finds promising avenues for further development. Indeed, he is not entirely convinced that Moltmann’s theology actually engages Jewish thought: Moltmann insists that he has been profoundly influenced by Jewish thought on these matters.… I am rather puzzled by the inclusion of [Rosenzweig] since I do not think of him, nor did he think of himself, as a Jewish thinker.114 Moltmann develops messianism as a common ground for Jews and Christians. This might sound promising, but he then argues that God’s promises for ‘Israel’ are fulfilled through Jesus of Nazareth. It is hardly convincing to express a unique hope for Jews as Jews when that hope stands in sharp contradiction to the Jewish hope (in short: prophecies fulfilled versus prophecies not fulfilled). A. Ray Eckardt phrases it well: While it is the case that Moltmann laments triumphalism, he does not in fact overcome it. Thus, he maintains (or at least reports the view) that with the parousia of Christ there will be brought the fulfillment of the Christian hope and the Jewish hope alike. Again, he asserts that at the parousia Christ will manifest himself as the Messiah of Israel.115 Out of his experiences in the Second World War, Moltmann develops a theology of Judaism with the ambition of finding something positive in the Jewish ‘no’ to Jesus Christ. He suggests that God has imposed on the Jewish people an inability to recognise the Messiah. The reason behind this thinking is that the ‘failure’ of the Jews led to the mission to the Gentiles.116 One might ask to what extent Moltmann’s way of arguing actually acknowledges the Jewish faith as

114 Michael Wyschogrod, ‘Review of The Coming of God: Christian Eschatology and The Future of Theology: Essays in Honor of Jürgen Moltmann’, Journal of Ecumenical Studies 35, no. 2 (1998), 296. 115 A. Roy Eckardt, ‘Jürgen Moltmann, the Jewish People, and the Holocaust’, Journal of the American Academy of Religion 44, no. 4 (1976), 689. 116 Moltmann, The Way of Jesus Christ, 34.

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such and to what extent the Jewish faith is instrumentalised to serve a higher purpose. The alleged ‘positive’ implications of the Jewish ‘denial’ of Jesus Christ are at the expense of those Jews who, in the meantime, are separated from what Moltmann conceives as the truth. Hence, Moltmann’s messianism displays a tension. On the one hand, he is eager to proclaim hope for ‘Israel’ as such (note that in Moltmann’s universalism, salvation for all of humankind is already secured. What he is aiming at is actually the non-assimilation of Israel: a hope for the Jews as Jews). On the other hand, that hope is expressed in a theological language that is not only alien but possibly even inimical to Jewish theology. As I have tried to argue, Moltmann’s eschatology does show soteriological openness for the religious Other but hardly any eschatological openness. For indeed the believer does not understand himself as the adherent of a religion which is one possibility among others, but as being on the way to true humanity, to that which is appointed for all men. That is why he cannot present his truth to others as ‘his’ truth, but only as ‘the truth’.117 Moltmann maintains this view from his early works on. In his autobiography In a Broad Place, he speaks appreciatively about the Dutch Reformed Church’s division of the apostolic task into three endeavours: the dialogue with the Jews, the mission towards other people, and the continuous work of reformation within the Christian church. Moltmann argues, accordingly, that interreligious dialogue should be reserved for the Christian relationship with the Jews and that the attitude towards other religions should be evangelisation.118 To sum up, let us look at two issues of Moltmann’s eschatology regarding the religious Other. First, Moltmann’s eschatology lacks a clear concept of the religious Other (except for the Jewish Other who is present in his thinking). Given his views as articulated in In a Broad Place, this absence is not very surprising. Nevertheless, this lack leads to a lack of theological space for the religious ­Other in his eschatology. The Other as other is of no interest, and the universal Christian fulfilment of creation happens in spite of his or her religious belonging. Second, the christological language of Moltmann’s eschatology is so strong that religious otherness seems to be erased in the eschatological drama. Due

117 Moltmann, Theology of Hope, 271. 118 Jürgen Moltmann, A Broad Place: An Autobiography, trans. Margaret Kohl (London: SCM Press, 2007), 266–67.

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to the interplay between eschatology and christology, the theological integrity of the religious Other, including the Jews, is significantly reduced. Through this theological interplay, the eschaton tends to be described as ‘Christian’ rather than as ‘other’. History and the Religious Other: Wolfhart Pannenberg Introduction One rarely sees any treatise on contemporary eschatology that fails to mention the Protestant theologian Wolfhart Pannenberg (1928–2014). In fact, that is one characteristic he shares with Jürgen Moltmann. The two Germans belong to the same generation of scholars and have both been instrumental in the revival of eschatology in Christian theology. In his autobiography, Moltmann recalls a conference where he and Pannenberg were invited to New York for a discussion with the then-leading process theologians (the ‘process guys’). In this episode, Moltmann refers to himself and Pannenberg as the ‘hope boys’.119 Furthermore, he states that ‘I was linked with Pannenberg over the years through our similar approach in the eschatology of history and our parallel development of Trinitarian thinking.’120 Yet the relationship between the two was not without tension. Again, Moltmann recalls that, on his 70th birthday, ‘Wolfhart Pannenberg reminded me that, earlier, we had hindered rather than encouraged each other “through rivalry and dispute”.’121 Clearly, there are many similarities between the two scholars. Eschatology is deeply integrated into Pannenberg’s overall system as well. Even though his monumental three-volume Systematic Theology only includes a chapter at the end of the last volume called ‘eschatology’, the subject is deeply integrated into the entire work.122 Like Moltmann, Pannenberg is often recognised for having an open and inclusive eschatology. For example, Lewis E. Winkler argues that Pannenberg’s theology is particularly well suited as a resource for interreligious dialogue, since he ‘desires to see the other as truly other’.123 In this section, I intend to show that the openness we find in Pannenberg’s theology is soteriological and 119 120 121 122

Ibid., 168. Ibid., 106. Ibid., 359. Originally published in German: Wolfhart Pannenberg, Systematische Theologie I-III (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1988–1993). 123 Lewis E. Winkler, Contemporary Muslim and Christian Responses to Religious Plurality: Wolfhart Pannenberg in Dialogue with Abdulaziz Sachedina (Eugene: Pickwick Publications, 2011), 7.

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that there is little or no eschatological openness to be found. Consequently, while I agree with Winkler that Pannenberg has a notion of the religious Other in his theology, I shall challenge his statement that the Other is truly other in Pannenberg’s eschatology. Pannenberg attempts to save faith from being nothing more than a subjective and private matter. If there is a reality behind the concept of God, this must be evident in history. God acts in history in a way that is historically traceable. As is well known, Pannenberg has argued that there is substantial historical evidence for the resurrection of Jesus.124 This view illustrates Pannenberg’s conviction that God’s participation in human history ought to be recognised. But the final how and why of God’s acting is not accessible until the eschatological consummation of creation. Nonetheless, it is still the task of the systematic theologian to determine the truth of the Christian tradition and its various claims in the light of the development of history.125 Thus, theologians are able, to a certain extent, to trace God’s activity in history.126 This theological approach to history characterises Pannenberg’s thinking in general and, as will be clear below, is central to his understanding of eschatology and the religious Other. Nonetheless, Pannenberg seems reluctant to discuss God’s involvement in modern history and his theological illustrations are generally ancient ones. For instance, he returns to Augustine’s old question concerning the fall of Christian Rome. Since it had become a Christian empire, could God not have spared Rome? Was the fall of the Roman Empire an indication of the weakness of the Christian God? To maintain the belief in God’s power and his active role in history, Pannenberg interprets such events in terms of judgement. Thus, there is an eschatological direction in Pannenberg’s theology in which the revelation of God unfolds itself throughout history and is finally disclosed in the eschaton.127 The Religious Other in the Theology of History It was argued above that, to a large extent, Moltmann’s eschatology lacks a concept of the religious Other (except for the Other as the Jew). This is not the case in Pannenberg’s eschatology, in which the religious Other is actually present.

124 Wolfhart Pannenberg, Systematic Theology II, trans. Geoffrey W. Bromiley (Edinburgh: T & T Clark, 1994), 359–63. 125 Wolfhart Pannenberg, An Introduction to Systematic Theology (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1991), 7. 126 Wolfhart Pannenberg, Systematic Theology III, trans. Geoffrey W. Bromiley (Edinburgh: T & T Clark, 1998), 498. 127 Ibid., 506.

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In order to find out how the religious Other is present in his eschatology, we should start with Pannenberg’s theology of history and its relation to eschatology. Indeed, the notion of history is central to Pannenberg’s theology. As F. LeRon Schults rightly states, ‘an emphasis on history must be incorporated in any valid interpretation of Pannenberg’.128 Stanley J. Grenz makes a similar remark when he characterises Pannenberg’s entire theological method as an ‘historical argumentation’.129 For Pannenberg, God actively participates in history and this activity is possible to trace. This is also true of the history of religions. It is not only a history of human conceptions and superstitions, but, Pannenberg argues, it also manifests the divine. Thus, the history of religion moves in the direction of increasing truth. False human views of reality are being outrivaled by the manifestation of the divine reality. Grenz captures this well when he characterises Pannenberg’s theological task as ‘the attempt to grasp the final, eschatological unity of truth.’130 Pannenberg holds that the conception of God in the history of religion is moving towards an increasing unity and universality; monotheism seems more capable of responding to new questions and situations than polytheism, the universal deity more capable than the local deity. Revelation is precisely the manifestation of divine reality and stands in continuous conflict with other religious and ideological truth claims.131 According to Pannenberg, the course of history reveals the truth, or falsehood, of religions in several ways. First, the actual confrontation of faith assertions with human experience prove to be a challenge and a test of the truth of each religious tradition. The transmission of belief from one generation to the next constitutes a particularly crucial test. Second, in the meeting or clash between different cultures, the respective deity and the related truth claims end up in a kind of competition. One deity challenges another in terms of its ability to give intelligible answers to the questions of today. Third, the ability to provide answers to new questions that arise due to changed circumstances is a test of the truth of the respective deity.132 128 F. LeRon Shults, The Postfoundationalist Task of Theology: Wolfhart Pannenberg and the New Theological Rationality (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1999), 90. 129 Stanley J Grenz, Reason for Hope: The Systematic Theology of Wolfhart Pannenberg, 2nd ed. (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2005), 13. 130 Ibid., 55. 131 Wolfhart Pannenberg, Systematic Theology I, trans. Geoffrey W. Bromiley (Edinburgh: T & T Clark, 1991), 171. 132 Ibid., 168–69.

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Consequently, in the course of history some gods disappear due to their inability to respond to the challenges their devotees face. Pannenberg understands this as the human beings’ response to God’s self-demonstration in history. The past has already proven the lack of truth in many polytheistic—now dead—religions whose inability to answer certain theological questions posed by one’s current situation revealed the superiority of (for instance) the Abrahamic religions. The gods of different religions must prove their potency in actual history by acting coherently. In other words, this means that any religious tradition can survive only if it is able to adjust to new circumstances and respond to new challenges.133 Pannenberg’s notion of history has been discussed as being open to otherness. Niels Henrik Gregersen has argued that a problem with Pannenberg’s eschatology is that it actually inhibits temporal differences. The implication is that the divine sphere knows of no such differences and, Gregersen claims, the consequence is ‘that God actually cannot understand the human being as a human being.’134 Brian Walsh is quite explicit in his critique and states that the implication of Pannenberg’s eschatology is that ‘the infinite always invalidates the finite’.135 Following the same train of thought, James K. A. Smith sees a totality in Pannenberg’s eschatology that puts an end to every difference. Thus, human particularity is transcended and Smith, who is critical of these alleged implications of Pannenberg’s thought, raises the question whether his future is more of an ‘in-human notion.’136 I echo these critical remarks since they are related to issues of religious otherness. We can easily see the implicit consequences: the totality that Pannenberg’s eschatology allegedly proclaims results in the invalidation of every religious tradition and, thus, of religious otherness as such. Admittedly, religious otherness is not the explicit topic that Gregersen, Walsh, and Smith discuss. Moreover, it should be pointed out that my critical assessment of Pannenberg’s eschatology is not dependent on their interpretations. Actually, Benjamin Myers argues convincingly that there is no contradiction between the view that the eschatological consummation is a sort 133 Ibid., 170. 134 Niels Henrik Gregersen, ‘Einheit und Vielfalt der schöpferischen Werke Gottes’, Kerygma und Dogma 45, no. 2 (1999), 124. The German text reads: ‘daβ Gott die Menschen eigentlich nicht als Menschen verstehen könnte.’ [The English translation above is mine]. 135 Brian J. Walsh, ‘Pannenberg’s Eschatological Ontology’, Christian Scholar’s Review 11, no. 3 (1982), 248. 136 James K. A. Smith, The Fall of Interpretation: Philosophical Foundations for a Creational Hermeneutic, 2nd ed. (Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2012), 78.

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of unified totality and that this totality consists of distinct particulars. Antje Jackelén concurs with this reading of Pannenberg and discusses the issue in the relationship between the three persons of the Trinity and time. According to Jackelén, Pannenberg insists that God must be understood as a differentiated unity.137 Consequently, the unified totality does not have to abolish the existence of the individual. In Myers words: ‘The whole, then, is not the antithesis of the particular. Rather, it is the context of the whole that endows each individual thing with its own “unexchangeable” particularity.’138 The argument is that the totality can be differentiated and that the differentiation does not abolish the totality. As a matter of fact, it is the other way around: not only is particularity possible in Pannenberg’s totality but the particularity is necessary to maintain totality. Again, Myers states, ‘for Pannenberg, there can be no question of the ultimate elimination of difference in totality, since the elimination of the particular would, eo ipso, be the elimination of the whole.’139 Therefore, it might well be that Myers is right and that individuality and differentiation exist eschatologically. This view is further supported by Pannenberg. In the third volume of Systematic Theology, he writes: Not only the individualities of creaturely reality but even the differences of moment of time and the tenses are, not erased, but no longer seen apart. God is the future of the finite from which it again receives its existence as a whole.140 Nonetheless, on the issue of religious otherness, my conclusion is close to that of Gregersen, Walsh, and Smith. I argue that these kinds of differences are not included in Pannenberg’s vision but are erased in the eschatological process. Or, to put it more bluntly, Pannenberg describes a kind of interreligious Darwinian ‘survival of the fittest’, where the religious tradition of the Christian and the religious Other struggle against each other in history. The eschaton, as the ultimate verification and revelation of truth, will eventually ‘select’ the winner of the battle. Obviously, if understood correctly, Pannenberg leaves very little room for religious otherness. 137 Antje Jackelén, Time & Eternity: The Question of Time in Church, Science, and Theology (Philadelphia: Templeton Foundation Press, 2005), 100. 138 Benjamin Myers, ‘The Difference Totality Makes: Reconsidering Pannenberg’s Eschatological Ontology’, Neue Zeitschrift für Systematische Theologie und Religionsphilosophie 49, no. 2 (2007), 150. 139 Ibid. 140 Pannenberg, Systematic Theology III, 607.

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The eschaton is the instance of final verification. According to Sam Powell, this suggests that the purpose of history and the content of the final verification are left unsettled. Consequently, in Pannenberg’s theology he finds an opening for the possibility that there is no God ruling history. Actually, Powell interprets Pannenberg as saying that ‘all events remain contingent and their meaning provisional until the final eschatological consummation of history.’141 But one could ask if Powell is not taking Pannenberg’s notion of prolēpsis or anticipation of the eschaton too lightly. This notion was developed as early as the 1950s in Pannenberg’s work and has remained important ever since.142 In 1962 Pannenberg wrote that ‘the proleptic character of the Christ event [implies that] the resurrection of Jesus is indeed infallibly the dawning of the end of history’.143 In this sense, the historical process is anticipated, and Pannenberg already knows the outcome of history. A clearer picture emerges when we consider another interpretation of Pannenberg. According to Winkler, Pannenberg’s theology implies that ‘all Christian truth claims remain hypothetical and testable until the full eschatological revelation of God’s kingdom.’144 If we take a closer look at what Pannenberg actually argues, we find that there is something tentative and provisional about all knowledge until the eschatological consummation. In this sense, Powell and Winkler are right. Nonetheless, it is important to note that the prolēpsis as such is not questioned. Rather, it is the coming of Christ that will reveal the truth of history. Yet in the coming and work of Jesus we do not have merely a preliminary disclosure of the future. The central factor in Jewish expectation, the coming of God’s kingdom, is already here a power that shapes the future.… In this special sense we can speak of an anticipatory revelation, in Christ’s person and work, of the deity of God that in the future of his kingdom will be manifest to every eye. To say this is to say more than the NT revelation schema does.… The eschatological consummation which is the goal of God’s plan for history has dawned already with Jesus Christ, and to that extent so, too, has the eschatological revelation of the deity of

141 Sam Powell, ‘History and Eschatology in the Thought of Wolfhart Pannenberg’, Fides et Historia 32, no. 2 (2000), 26. [Italics original]. 142 Winkler, Muslim and Christian Responses, 98. 143 Wolfhart Pannenberg, Basic Questions in Theology II, trans. George H. Kehm (London: SCM Press, 1971), 24. 144 Winkler, Muslim and Christian Responses, 97.

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God, the revelation of his glory, the final manifestation of which Jewish hope associated with end-time events.145 Hence, the anticipation of the eschatological revelation of Jesus Christ is not provisional, open, or uncertain, as Powell and, to some extent, Winkler indicate. The eschatological future is disclosed in Jesus Christ. Paul O’Callaghan is right regarding Pannenberg’s eschatological verification of theological truth. He acknowledges that truth can only be verified eschatologically, yet he stresses that these truths are anticipated christologically. In his own words: Our dogmatic affirmations of Christian truth are anticipations of the eschaton, indeed, but they are anticipations based on the fact that the eschaton has already appeared and made its presence felt within human history through the life, death and, especially, the resurrection of Jesus Christ. The process of verification of revelation by means of Christian systematic theology is therefore essentially Christological.146 Given Pannenberg’s christology, it is clear that the eschatological revelation of Jesus Christ is not an uncertain possibility but an evident fact. Consequently, Pannenberg’s proleptic stance implies that the Christian is in the process of history and yet at the same time already foresees its purpose and end. It is a delicate position, and one may wonder where the privileged knowledge comes from. Pannenberg refers to the revelation of God in Christ and it is here that Pannenberg’s view of the resurrection of Christ comes into play. The resurrection of Christ is a historical event and its historicity and facticity can be derived by historical methods, according to Pannenberg.147 Needless to say, the claim of divine revelation in history is hardly unique to Christian tradition. Nevertheless, the proleptic move that predicts the increasing marginalisation of other religious traditions clearly affects the theological integrity of the religious Other.148 In other words, in Pannenberg’s eyes, other religious traditions are little more than religious forms of Homo Neanderthalensis or Cro-Magnons preparing the way for Homo Sapiens, i.e., Christianity.

145 Pannenberg, Systematic Theology I, 247. 146 Paul O’Callaghan, ‘Whose Future? Pannenberg’s Eschatological Verification of Theological Truth’, Irish Theological Quarterly 66, no. 19 (2001), 25. [Italics original]. 147 Pannenberg, Systematic Theology II, 351–63. 148 Grenz actually seems to support this view when he writes that Pannenberg ‘finds other religions as “provisional forms”’ (Grenz, Reason for Hope, 43).

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We should recall that Pannenberg considers historical development, in which some religious traditions simply fail to adapt to new circumstances, as a way to distinguish false religions from the true religion. Nevertheless, in this case, it does not bother Pannenberg that Islam is a ‘further development’ of Christianity and has proven capable of adapting to different circumstances and is even growing at least as fast as Christianity in some parts of the world. Nor does he consider the fact that there are new religions emerging and that atheism, according to a growing number of adherents, is adaptable and able to answer the questions of today. Pannenberg discusses Judaism separately. He does not support Moltmann’s idea of parallel paths of salvation and argues that the Jews must be evangelised too, albeit in a different manner than the ‘Gentiles’: the Christian mission to Jews cannot be of the same kind as those to Gentile peoples. This truth is self-evident inasmuch as Jews already believe in the one true and living God.149 Based on this line of argument concerning the belief in one God, Muslims could also be discussed as a separate case, but Pannenberg does not do this. As a matter of fact, his eschatology only has room for one people of God. But this people is not synonymous with the Christian church. Rather, it embraces ‘not only members of the church but the Jewish people and the “righteous” of all the nations who stream in from every culture to the banquet of the reign of God.’150 Pannenberg’s view of the history of religions is influenced by Hegelian dialectics.151 This influence actually results in the close link between the history of religions and eschatology. Pannenberg’s eschatology entails the hope that the religious Other will become a member of the one people of God. Consequently, his theology is rather open soteriologically. But when it concerns eschatological openness, another picture presents itself. The theological space of the religious Other as other is constantly decreasing in the course of history. Finally, when the eschaton reveals the truth of Jesus Christ and proves the nontruth of other religious traditions, this space will vanish. 149 Pannenberg, Systematic Theology III, 474–75. 150 Ibid., 477. 151 For a critical discussion of the Hegelian influence on Pannenberg’s theology, see Nicholas Adams, ‘Eschatology Sacred and Profane: The Effects of Philosophy on Theology in Pannenberg, Rahner and Moltmann’, International Journal of Systematic Theology 2, no. 3 (2000), 286-92. Pannenberg discusses Hegel and the truth of religions in Pannenberg, Systematic Theology I, 172–75.

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A Distinctive Christian Hope Hope is as fundamental a category in Pannenberg’s eschatology as in Moltmann’s. Pannenberg refers appreciatively to Moltmann who, he argues, contrasts the Jewish and Christian hope from hopes derived from experiences of our existence here and now.152 I would argue, however, that there is a significant difference in their approaches to the notion of hope. While Moltmann stresses the relationship between the Christian eschatological hope and lesser hopes (they cannot be separated from each other), Pannenberg emphasises their qualitative difference: The close link of Christian hope to faith gives it its unique character in distinction from human hopes that have a different basis. This fact comes to expression in the way its content exceeds all that we may hope for or expect according to human experience.153 The tension between Pannenberg and Moltmann concerns the distinctiveness of Christian hope and its relation to ‘minor’ political hopes. This is clear in their respective views of political and liberation theologies which emphasise hope for this world. By way of example, one can look at Pannenberg’s evaluation of the 1978 Bangalore statement from the Faith and Order Commission of the World Council of Churches. According to Pannenberg, the Bangalore statement gives priority to social issues of this world at the expense of Christian eschatology, allowing different groups of people to express hope on the basis of their own interest. The many different hopes contradict each other and detract from the focus on the only hope that can unite all Christians, the eschatological hope.154 According to Pannenberg, Christian hope is grounded in God and directed towards God. It is distinct from human hopes, and its uniqueness stems from the interrelation between Christian hope and faith. While human hopes are based on human experiences, Christian hope stems from faith in God. It is precisely 152 Pannenberg, Systematic Theology III, 175. Admittedly, Pannenberg recognises that he and Moltmann differ on the notion of hope with respect to the relationship between the present and the promised future. Grenz sheds light on this discussion in Grenz, Reason for Hope, 260. The point I am trying to make, however, is that there is a notable difference in their respective views of the relationship between ‘lesser hopes’ and eschatological hope. 153 Pannenberg, Systematic Theology III, 174. 154 Ibid., 181. See also Wolfhart Pannenberg, ‘Faith and Disorder in Bangalore’, Worldview 22(1979), 38.

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the Christian faith that makes possible the hope for that which exceeds every human expectation, what lacks every analogy to human experience. In this context, Pannenberg acknowledges that the Jewish eschatological hope is on the same level as Christian hope: both are based on God and God’s promises.155 Christian hope can never be reduced to an individual’s hope or to that of the Christian community. It is always a hope for the transformation of this world, for this humanity, and only because of this is it a hope for oneself. Accordingly, Pannenberg keeps the communal and individual aspects of eschatology together, arguing that the one is not possible without the other.156 Grenz points out that Pannenberg is eager to proclaim the positive relationship between the eschatologically promised future and the present situation.157 Even though there is hope for this world in Pannenberg’s eschatology, it should not be over-emphasised. The potential for significant change in this world is limited. It is only the eschatological hope beyond history that is able to create real change, and it is only this hope that is able to unite all Christians.158 There is Christian hope for the salvation of creation and thus there is hope for the religious Other. Pannenberg acknowledges a close link between hope and love and argues that it is possible to love others only if one also hopes with and for them.159 Certainly, the Christian is called to love the religious Other, and Pannenberg’s eschatology clearly states that there is hope for her. To hope with the religious Other, however, seems to imply some kind of acceptance of her religious otherness, that there would be room for the theological integrity of the religious Other. As has been clear throughout the analysis of Pannenberg, this is not the case. One can only regret that Pannenberg does not discuss this issue of hoping with the Other further. The Kingdom of God and the Religious Other A central theme of Pannenberg’s eschatology is the kingdom of God. It is the ‘resounding motif of Jesus’ message [and it] must be recovered as a key to the whole of Christian theology.’160 Moreover, the kingdom of God is actually the 155 Pannenberg, Systematic Theology III, 174–75. 156 Ibid., 177. 157 Grenz, Reason for Hope, 260. 158 Wolfhart Pannenberg, ‘Constructive and Critical Functions of Christian Eschatology’, The Harvard Theological Review 77, no. 2 (1984), 124–25. The argument is repeated in Pannenberg, Systematic Theology III, 180. 159 Pannenberg, Systematic Theology III, 182. 160 Wolfhart Pannenberg, Theology and the Kingdom of God (Philadelphia: Westminster Press, 1977), 53.

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goal of history as such. Pannenberg also uses the term ‘salvation’ (Heil) to refer to it. The kingdom is fundamentally transcendent and will not be fully realised until God creates a new heaven and a new earth. Nonetheless, Pannenberg’s writings contain three interrelated meanings of the kingdom of God. First, the kingdom of God is the fulfilment of human society. When God reigns, the creatures of God’s creation are able to reach their full potential. Thus, the kingdom of God is the fulfilment of both individuals and of human society. What is required for the kingdom of God to be realised is a new heaven and a new earth; a renewal of the world and the resurrection of the dead. Thus, the kingdom of God is intimately linked to the end of time. If the kingdom of God were nothing other than a kingdom in history, it would only include the living generation. Therefore, Pannenberg argues that the end of time and the resurrection of the dead are necessary conditions for the kingdom of God to be fully realised.161 Second, the kingdom of God is the end of history. In this sense, it is a historical event which completes and ends history.162 Third, the kingdom of God is the coming of eternity into time. The eschatological future makes it possible for human beings to ‘become themselves’. In this sense, the kingdom of God is active here and now to some extent. It should be noted that Pannenberg restricts the immanent ‘here and now’ aspect of the kingdom of God to Christians: The inbreaking of the present of the coming kingdom is granted to others also insofar as they accept the message of Jesus and open themselves to his work…. The Johannine Christ says the same thing relative to the eschatological future of the resurrection and the judgment: Those who hear his word and believe in him who has sent him have eternal life and will not come into judgment, but have already passed from death into life (John 5:24).163 The immanent aspect of the kingdom is important in Pannenberg’s eschatology, and, yet, humanity’s full potential cannot be reached in this life. A person enters eternity at the moment of death. The totality of their existence, however, is not reached until the end of time, together with all human beings. In this sense, the kingdom of God is primarily a concept which belongs to the

161 Pannenberg, Systematic Theology III, 580–86. 162 Ibid., 586. 163 Ibid., 604.

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end of time. In this latter understanding, it is not exclusively for Christians. The kingdom of God brings with it perfected love between human beings and between them and God.164 This happens through the return of Christ and the final judgement. In this particular context, namely the return of Christ and the fulfilment of the kingdom of God, Pannenberg repeatedly refers to ‘the believers’ (die Glaubende).165 This is somewhat surprising, given his almost universalistic approach. As a matter of fact, the term ‘believer’ for those involved in the eschatological process seems to support precisely the point I am making, namely, that an eschatological ‘conversion’ of the religious Other takes place. Pannenberg describes it as the ‘glorifying of believers [and] their transforming by the light of the divine glory [which] draws them into the eternal fellowship of the Father and the Son by the Spirit.’166 It also leads to the glorification of the believers and their inclusion in the trinitarian communion. The consummation of creation in the kingdom of God is about being drawn into communion with the triune God. In Pannenberg’s view, this seems to imply an eschatological transformation in which the religious Other becomes ‘a believer’ and where there is little or no room for her theological integrity. The Judgement as the End of Religious Otherness? In his theology, Pannenberg attaches at least three different aspects to the term ‘Judgement’. The first aspect is God’s action in history against wrongdoing and failures. God acts against injustices and moral failures by actually intervening in history and in human lives. To some extent, this can be observed by every human being, but the Christian who already counts on God’s involvement in history is more likely to discern these divine interventions.167 A second aspect is eternity as such. Opposed to everything that is temporal, eternity is the destruction of what is finite. In the encounter with eternity, the human being is purified from whatever is not compatible with God, such as sin and evil.168 A third aspect is what is often referred to as the final judgement. Here, Pannenberg sticks to the standard picture of two distinct outcomes, heaven and hell. John Hick, to whom we shall return below, has actually criticised Pannenberg for limiting the scope of eternal life to those who believe in Christ. 164 Ibid., 585. 165 Ibid., 626; see also Wolfhart Pannenberg, Systematische Theologie III (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1993), 672. 166 Pannenberg, Systematic Theology III, 626. 167 Ibid., 498. 168 Ibid., 610–11, 19.

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According to Hick, Pannenberg ‘makes salvation depend exclusively upon the saving encounter with Jesus.’169 We should not, however, understand this as a kind of exclusivism where only Christians are part of the eschatological future. It seems clear that Pannenberg’s hope of heaven is not only for Christians but for all human beings. There are statements throughout his works that tend towards universalism, such as: We have said already that there can be no fulfillment for individuals without the kingdom of God in the world and in human society, but also conversely that there can be no fulfillment of humanity as a species without the participation of all individuals in modes in keeping with their differences.170 Notwithstanding, Hick is right to the extent that Pannenberg’s theology is not as soteriologically open as Moltmann’s. Pannenberg does not want to completely rule out the possibility that some will be lost. Rather, he refers to statements in the New Testament that warn against false salvific hopes. In some cases, he argues, there may be nothing left when the cleansing fire of Jesus Christ has burnt everything not compatible with God.171 Nevertheless, in Pannenberg’s view, salvation—that is participation in the kingdom of God—is open not only to Christians, but to everyone who lives a good and righteous life: ‘The message of Jesus is the norm by which God judges even in the case of those who never meet Jesus personally.’172 It may seem surprising to articulate openness for the religious Other in the eschatological judgement by advancing Jesus as the norm of that judgement; this might in fact be the reason for Hick’s unexpected criticism. The message of Jesus is by no means a neutral criterion. Yet Pannenberg actually seeks to articulate a soteriological openness that is not dependent on religious belonging or belief. To do so, he distinguishes between the view where Jesus’s message is a ‘criterion of God’s eternal judgment’ and the view where it is an ‘indispensable means, the explicit acceptance of which would be a precondition of participation in the kingdom of God’.173 Obviously, Pannenberg favours the former perspective.

169 John Hick, Death and Eternal Life, 2nd ed. (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 1994), 225. 170 Pannenberg, Systematic Theology III, 628. 171 Ibid., 620. 172 Ibid., 615. 173 Pannenberg, ‘Constructive and Critical Functions of Christian Eschatology’, 136.

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He states that ‘all to whom the Beatitudes apply (Matt. 5:3ff.; Luke 6:20ff.) will have a share in the coming salvation whether or not they ever heard of Jesus in this life.’174 Like Moltmann, Pannenberg is optimistic regarding the eschatological fulfilment of the religious Other. But, unlike Moltmann, Pannenberg holds open the possibility of damnation for both Christians and non-Christians. Moltmann’s soteriology is a symmetrical universalism: he holds that everyone will be saved and that no one will be damned as equal facts. Pannenberg’s soteriology is asymmetrical in the sense that salvation and damnation are non-congruent. In Pannenberg’s eschatology, damnation is a possibility and salvation is a fact.175 So far, we have seen that the religious Other is present in Pannenberg’s eschatology and that it contains a large degree of soteriological openness. Moreover, we have seen that scholars have commended Pannenberg’s theology for being particularly fruitful in its ability to acknowledge the otherness of the Other. The question of who will be saved is not related to religious belonging nor is it ecclesiologically determined. But religious traditions other than the Christian will perish at the judgement. This means that Pannenberg’s view of history, and of eschatology as the verification of history, imply that the judgement, although not concerned with religious belonging, will in fact erase the religious otherness of the Other. Pannenberg is aware of these kinds of consequences and he discusses the question as to whether they are compatible with being tolerant of the religious Other. His conclusion is that it is possible to hold that salvation can only be obtained through Jesus Christ while remaining tolerant of other religious traditions.176 Pannenberg’s eschatology deals with the challenge of religious plurality and it includes a notion of the religious Other. But Pannenberg’s theology of history deeply effects his eschatology and the place of the religious Other. The eschaton as the verification of the truth of Jesus Christ relates to hope, judgement, and the kingdom of God. In these eschatological symbols, it is clear that there is no room for the theological integrity of the religious Other: religious otherness gradually diminishes until it finally vanishes as part of the eschatological hope. Compared to Ratzinger, Pannenberg’s eschatology contains a larger degree of soteriological openness, but, like Ratzinger’s and Moltmann’s approaches,

174 Pannenberg, Systematic Theology III, 615. 175 This concurs with Rahner’s well-known hermeneutics of eschatological statements. See Karl Rahner, Foundations of Christian Faith: An Introduction to the Idea of Christianity, trans. William V. Dych (New York: Crossroad, 2005), 443–44. 176 Pannenberg, An Introduction to Systematic Theology, 54.

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Pannenberg’s is eschatologically closed. Given history’s orientation towards increasing truth and the anticipation of Christ’s disclosure as the truth of history, one may actually ask if Pannenberg is even more eschatologically closed than Ratzinger and Moltmann. His theology of history illustrates with great clarity a situation in which the theological space of the religious Other gradually decreases in the course of history and, as a consequence, how the eschaton leaves no room for religious otherness. Actually, in Pannenberg’s case, it is not necessarily a theological interplay that causes the lack of theological space. Rather, the crucial element is his dialectical theology of history. Nonetheless, we can see that, regardless of different theologies of religions, Ratzinger, Moltmann, and Pannenberg find themselves in notable agreement: all three articulate very little, if any, eschatological openness. In the next section (2.2.4), I shall analyse the eschatology of one of the most prolific and well-known pluralist thinkers, John Hick. Not only has Hick written extensively on eschatology, he has also developed a pluralistic position in theology of religions. One could expect his eschatology—which is ‘designed’ to be religiously pluralistic—to also be eschatologically open. Let us now turn our attention to these questions. The Real and the Religious Other: John Hick Introduction The British philosopher of religion John Hick (1922-2012) described his own theological journey as starting in exclusivism and the conviction that there is no salvation and truth except through Jesus Christ. In his own words, he was ‘strongly evangelical and indeed fundamentalist’.177 Gradually, Hick’s thinking evolved towards a pluralism, and in Death and Eternal Life he outlined the implications of his pluralistic position for eschatology.178 The method and perspectives of Hick’s eschatology are somewhat different from those of Ratzinger, Moltmann, and Pannenberg. Although he declares that he is making a Christian contribution, Hick strives to find a balance between the particular perspective and the meta-perspective. On the one hand, he claims to speak ‘from a Christian standpoint’ and that his study is ‘a Christian contribution’.179 On the other hand, this contribution is not to Christian theology but to ‘global or human theology’.180 In a later article, he claims to

177 John Hick, God Has Many Names (London: Macmillan, 1980), 2. 178 Hick’s theological development is also narrated in Gavin D’Costa, John Hick’s Theology of Religions: A Critical Examination (Lanham: University Press of America, 1987), 5–16. 179 Hick, Death and Eternal Life, 27. 180 Ibid.

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address the question of the relationship between all the religions, trying to explain the fact that there is a plurality of religions.181 And in yet another article, he understands his pluralism as ‘a meta-theory about the relation between the historical religions.’182 This ambiguity is also reflected in the reception of Hick’s theology. S. Mark Heim describes Hick’s theology as a ‘meta-theory of religion, like those derived from Freud or Marx.’183 Wolfhart Pannenberg, on the other hand, considers Hick’s proposal to be mistaken, even though he argues it ‘on the basis of Christian theology itself.’184 Hick’s intention is not to create a new, global religion. Rather, he wants a global theology constituted by a number of assertions, or hypotheses, about the Real which ought to be the common ground for all the religions of the world.185 He admits that it is not possible to transcend one’s own culture, philosophy or religion entirely, and therefore he finds an abiding value in the particular religious traditions. Hence, even though Hick suggests a global theology, he still thinks that religious ceremonies and worship can take place within the established religious traditions and institutions.186 The meta-perspective already mentioned indicates that there are significant differences between Hick’s eschatology and the three that we have considered above. But this does not disqualify Hick’s proposal from being included in this study. Rather, the reasons for considering it should be quite evident: more than most theologians, Hick has dealt with the issue of eschatological expectations and religious differences. Even though there are several pluralist positions that are more recent than Hick’s, none has treated the issue of eschatology as thoroughly and comprehensively. Moreover, the pluralist paradigm is generally considered to be very open to different religious traditions and thus to having

181 John Hick, ‘Exclusivism Versus Pluralism in Religion: A Response to Kevin Meeker’, Religious Studies 42, no. 2 (2006), 207–08. 182 Hick, ‘The Possibility of Religious Pluralism’, 163. 183 Heim, Salvations: Truth and Difference in Religion, 30. 184 Wolfhart Pannenberg, ‘Religious Pluralism and Conflicting Truth Claims: The Problem of a Theology of the World Religions’, in Christian Uniqueness Reconsidered: The Myth of a Pluralistic Theology of Religions, ed. Gavin D’Costa (Maryknoll: Orbis Books, 1998), 98. 185 Originally, Hick applied the term ‘Ultimate Reality’ to the supreme power of his global theology. However, this was changed in later writings and replaced by ‘the Real’. This change is to be seen as a move from a concept of a personal deity to a concept of a transcendent reality where the distinction personal-impersonal does not apply. Here we will follow his later praxis and refer to ‘the Real’. See Hick, ‘The Possibility of Religious Pluralism’, 163–64. 186 Hick, Death and Eternal Life, 29–30.

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an open eschatology.187 It is therefore pertinent to analyse the implications of Hick’s eschatology for hope and otherness. Difference and Otherness One of the cornerstones of Hick’s pluralistic paradigm is the belief in a common ground for all religious traditions. In Hick’s view, this is a move from a theology centred on one religion to a theology centred on reality itself. It is a Copernican revolution that leaves the Ptolemaic view behind. As is well known, Ptolemaic astronomy was geocentric, viewing the earth to be the centre of the universe. The religious equivalent, as Hick sees it, is the conviction that one’s own religion is the centre of the religious universe and in possession of the full truth. Copernicus revised the astronomic worldview and presented a heliocentric view in which the earth is one among many other planets moving around the sun. Hick seeks to do the same thing in the world of religions. His pluralistic paradigm holds that the religions are different and overlapping responses to the Real. This religious Copernican revolution has consequences for various aspects of all religions, including their eschatologies.188 In this context it should be pointed out that not all religious traditions are appropriate responses to the Real. The criterion that Hick applies is soteriological in the sense that it concerns the extent to which the individual develops from self-centredness to reality-centeredness. Specifically, Hick’s criterion could be summed up in the question: what are the results, in terms of individual development, of a religious praxis? Hick is thereby able to reject violent and destructive religions and ideologies as being false.189 Later pluralist thinkers developed these aspects of pluralism further. Paul F. Knitter introduces a soteriological criterion of truth. Yet, contrary to Hick’s somewhat spiritual, individual, and human-centred criterion, Knitter’s criterion is liberational and eco-theological. ‘Soteria’ is a universal criterion which holds whatever promotes ‘human and ecological well-being’ to be true.190 As we have seen, Hick navigates between being a Christian theologian and an interreligious thinker of global theology. He declares the Western Christian tradition as his Sitz im Leben, but does not consider his task to be the evaluation of Christian theology in the light of other religious traditions. Rather, it 187 See for instance the chapter on pluralism in Race, Christians and Religious Pluralism, 70– 105. 188 Hick, Death and Eternal Life, 30–32. 189 Ibid., 408–14. 190 Knitter, One Earth, Many Religions, 185, note 17. Despite the soteriological focus of Knitter’s criterion for truth, he did not deal more thoroughly with either Christian theological aspects of soteriology or the wider issues of eschatology.

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is to put forth a hypothesis about the interrelationship between all religious traditions, giving account for their weaknesses, strengths, and actual ends. Who is the religious Other in Hick’s eschatology? This seemingly simple question is surprisingly difficult to answer. Although Hick claims to speak as a Christian, his meta-perspective suggests something else. Hick observes religious differences, and to some extent they constitute the point of departure for his thinking. Thus, differences are central to Hick’s eschatology. Nevertheless, the religious Other is not really prominent. This has to do with his meta-perspective and with the lack of a religious ‘I’. As discussed in the introductory chapter, while ‘differences’ refer to an observer’s perspective, ‘Other’ and ‘otherness’ refer to a participant’s perspective. The ambiguity in Hick’s perspective is correlated with the absence of the religious Other in his eschatology. I will return to this below. The Foundational Eschatological Options It should be noted that Hick’s notion of eschatology is quite restricted. It does not have the wider connotations found in, for instance, Moltmann—which includes not only the objects of hope but hope in itself and where eschatology is seen as the medium of Christian faith as such. Rather, in Hick’s thinking, ‘eschatology’ is generally a synonym for post-mortem expectations. This is actually part of Pannenberg’s criticism of Hick. According to Pannenberg, Hick’s eschatology lacks the communal aspects of ‘the eschatological judgment of God and … participation in the communion of his kingdom.’191 An even stronger criticism comes from Rosemary Radford Ruether whose general criticism, i.e., that Christian eschatology has been too focused on the individual and its eternal existence, hits Hick particularly hard since this is precisely his focus. Ruether wonders whether the ‘endless flight into the future’ results in an unfortunate dualism that ‘fails to respect the relational patterns of our bodies as ground of holy being.’192 Her suggestion is that we should not focus on ‘immortality but a blessed longevity’.193 This kind of criticism is repeated by other feminist theologians and applies to Christian eschatology in general. As

191 Pannenberg, ‘Religious Pluralism and Conflicting Truth Claims’, 101. 192 Ruether, Sexism and God-Talk, 254. 193 Ibid., 239. Among the eschatological symbols, Ruther prefers ‘resurrection’ to that of ‘immortality’. In her view, resurrection is when ‘[o]ne generation of earth creatures die and disintegrate into the earth so another may arise from its womb.’ Rosemary Radford Ruether, Introducing Redemption in Christian Feminism (Cleveland: The Pilgrim Press, 2000), 120.

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mentioned above, later pluralist theologians have addressed these issues and so developed more ‘ecologically informed’ versions of pluralism.194 Hick distinguishes between three basic alternatives with regard to eschatology. He is well aware of the great number of diverging views within these alternatives, but discerns three fundamental eschatological views. First, there is the Eastern belief in the continuous rebirth of the ‘soul’, followed by a fulfilment in which one’s personal identity is realised and yet obliterated. Second is the Western and Semitic belief in the survival of personal identity beyond death. The third is the materialist and humanist belief in death as the ultimate end, and hence the rejection of anything beyond death.195 Hick applies two principles when considering these options. The first is to spell out possibilities.196 Here, the advantages and disadvantages of every alternative are evaluated. The second principle is ‘openness to all data’.197 This means that the teachings of all religious traditions, psychology, anthropology, genetics, parapsychology, and other disciplines must be taken into account. There is no a priori hierarchy between the sources: they are all assessed equally. Hick dismisses the materialist belief that death is the ultimate end, on empirical grounds. Even though his argumentation is interesting, it is beyond the scope of this study to give an account of it here.198 The two religious alternatives, Western and Eastern, are in fact converging, according to Hick. His pluralistic position has sometimes been seen as a relativistic position which claims that everything is equally right and in the end the same. Undoubtedly, it is a delicate task to define the notion of relativism. Nevertheless, sweeping criticism and references to ‘Hick’s relativism’ need to be clarified and qualified to reveal their cogency.199 Hick’s explicit dismissal of the materialistic position

194 See, for instance, Sallie McFague, The Body of God: An Ecological Theology (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1993). See also her more recent A New Climate for Theology: God, the World, and Global Warming (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2008). I have already mentioned Knitter, One Earth, Many Religions. 195 Hick, Death and Eternal Life, 27–28. 196 Ibid., 22. 197 Ibid., 26. 198 See ibid., 152–67. 199 See, for instance, Michael Jinkins, Christianity, Tolerance and Pluralism: A Theological Engagement with Isaiah Berlin’s Social Theory (London: Routledge, 2012), 225, note 104. Ratzinger refers to Hick’s position as ‘a prominent representative of religious relativism’. Interestingly, in Ratzinger’s view, the primary characteristic of Hick’s relativism is not a general absence of values and truth claims but the ‘relativist elimination of Christology, and most certainly of ecclesiology’. See Ratzinger, Truth and Tolerance, 121.

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alone suffices to question such critique. The soteriological truth criterion—albeit soft and vague—further complicates the matter. Pareschatology Hick thinks that one reason why the eschatologies of various religious traditions seem to be so different is a failure to distinguish between the intermediate state after death and the final state. The Eastern belief in rebirth or reincarnation should not to be compared with the Christian belief in heaven but rather with purgatory. Hence, Hick distinguishes between eschatology (the last things) and pareschatology (next to the last). He develops his pareschatology in dialogue with both Eastern and Western beliefs and presents a new alternative based on insights drawn from both.200 As both a synthesis and a third option, Hick suggests a series of rebirths in multiple worlds. He hereby claims to overcome some of the difficulties with reincarnation and identity. The fact that the next life takes place in another world brings the Western belief in resurrection closer to the Eastern notion of rebirth.201 By distinguishing eschatology from pareschatology, he also claims to overcome tensions within the Christian tradition. According to Hick, anthropocentric eschatological visions—such as the kingdom of God, the ideal community, and the heavenly banquet, images that involve a continued personal identity—refer to the pareschaton and to rebirths in other worlds. Theocentric visions on the other hand—such as the beatific vision, where personal identity does not necessarily persist—refer to the ultimate end, i.e., the eschaton.202 One of Hick’s fundamental ideas is that the purpose of human life, according to all religious traditions, is to develop and eventually fulfil human personhood. This involves letting go of the self-centred ego in favour of a more generous and reality-centred I. But no such development can be discerned in the average human life, which means that there must be a continuation of a person’s existence. We can think of this as either a relatively short life followed by an infinitely long life or many equally short consecutive lives. Since a host of aspects of human life, such as love, courage, and fear, are connected to the factual necessity of death, a series of limited existences in different worlds makes it easier to postulate human growth.203 Thus,

200 Hick, Death and Eternal Life, 399–423. 201 Ibid., 456. See also ibid., 279–85. 202 Ibid., 206–07. 203 Ibid., 408–13.

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the persisting self-conscious ego will continue to exist after bodily death. We shall not however, in most cases, attain immediately to the final ‘heavenly’ state. Only those whom the religions call saints or buddhas or arhats or jivanmuktas have fulfilled the purpose of temporal existence, which is the gradual creation of perfected persons—their perfection consisting … in a self-transcending state beyond separate ego-existence. But those of us who die without having attained to our perfection continue further in time as distinct egos.204 Hick compares what happens in death to entering a dreamlike state. The individual enters this dreamlike state, which allows for a plurality of experiences according to a person’s post-mortem expectations. The beliefs in purgatory, karma, the day of judgement, and death as ultimate end are all echoed here. The conservative Christian might encounter the Lamb of God sitting on a throne, whereas an atheist might not even notice that she is dead. Hick describes this post-mortem state as conscious, dreamlike, and solipsistic.205 We can note that many eschatological assertions of different religious, and non-religious, traditions become true in this state between death and rebirth, albeit under subjective and dreamlike conditions. In the end, Hick admits, this state is nothing but an illusion. The dreamlike experience is followed by a new embodiment. The pareschatological scheme is repeated over and over again, not as a desolate repetition of the same but as a gradual process aimed at human perfection. It is not entirely clear, however, why every new life necessarily means spiritual progression. Would it not be plausible for spiritual regression to take place? This would result in a future of endless repetition, not unlike Sisyphus’ labour. Hick does not discuss such questions but remains firm in his conviction that this process will eventually reach an end. If a person is prepared—after one life or thousands—the eschaton is still waiting. The Eschaton That All Religions Seek? As we have seen, Hick thinks of the Christian belief in heaven and hell as a dreamlike illusion. But he also considers eternal life to be the ultimate human destiny and strongly rejects any separation of humanity in this final state. He finds the idea of a place or state of eternal punishment or judgement outrageous. Salvation is the salvation of all human beings from an unsatisfactory world.

204 Ibid., 399. 205 Ibid., 415–16.

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Hick’s eschatology is universal, but it does not include any particular hope for this world or for the cosmos.206 To the contrary, the focus is on individual human beings: Although in the end the individual cannot be saved in isolation from the society of which he is ultimately a part, yet still society is composed of individuals and it is individual people who are to be saved.207 Hick admits that the pareschatology he develops is a third option beside the two main options of Eastern and Western religions but finds greater agreement among the religious traditions when it comes to the eschaton. He argues that the Christian concept of visio beatifica converges with Eastern views of the final state. The beatific vision, like nirvana and moksha, is a state in which God is no longer outside the individual human being but within her or him. Christian, Hindu, and Buddhist eschatologies all point towards something beyond the known: What Christians call the Mystical Body of Christ within the life of God, and Hindus the universal Atman which we all are, and Mahayana Buddhists the self-transcending unity in the Dharma Body of the Buddha, consists of the wholeness of ultimately perfected humanity beyond the existence of separate egos.208 Thus, Hick claims that Eastern and Western eschatologies can be harmonised. One of the most fundamental obstacles in the way of this is, of course, the question of the continued existence of the individual. Hick is looking for a path between two extremes: the belief in the immortality of the individual and the belief in the complete dissolution of the individual. To reconcile the two positions, Hick turns to the Christian tradition for help. The theological term ‘perichoresis’ denotes clinging together or dwelling in each other. The term is generally used to describe the relationship between the three persons of the Trinity, but Hick applies it to the relationship between the individual and the

206 Later pluralist theologians challenged this aspect of Hick’s thinking. We have already mentioned. Knitter and his notion of ‘soteria’. Sallie McFague develops an ecotheology in which the eschatological fulfilment is not about individual perfection but an ecologically sustainable future for this world. See McFague, The Body of God, 198–201. 207 Hick, Death and Eternal Life, 455. 208 Ibid., 464.

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Real. The two aspects exist together without confusion, division, or separation. In the eschaton [t]here will be many persons, in the sense of many centres of personal relationship, not however existing over against one another as separate atomic individuals but rather within one another in the mutual coinherence or interpermeation (perichoresis, circuminsessio) which has been predicated of the Persons of the Trinity. The many persons will accordingly no longer be separate in the sense of having boundaries closed to one another. They will on the contrary be wholly open to one another.209 The eschatological goal that Hick describes includes each and every human being. In a creative synthesis, it is neither a wholly personal nor a totally impersonal fulfilment but a combination of both. Again, we can note that this is a strictly anthropocentric fulfilment. Before concluding this analysis of Hick’s eschatology, I would like to make two critical remarks. First, there is an inconsistency in terms of perspective. The Copernican revolution was not the last to occur in the history of astronomy. The paradigm includes the proposition that there is a neutral standpoint from which independent observations can be made. But since Einstein and others, we now know that there is no neutral vantage point in physics. Rather, any description or assertion depends on the relative position and speed of the observer. Although we are used to saying that the earth orbits the sun, it is also possible to say that the sun ‘orbits’ the earth; it is a matter of perspective and starting point (although it requires more advanced mathematics to describe the universe according to the latter perspective). Is there perhaps a similar problem in Hick’s eschatology? From what vantage point does he make his observations? For whom does he create his global theology? As I have pointed out, the perspective from which Hick observes and speaks is not entirely consistent throughout his work. He claims to speak as a Christian philosopher and consequently from a Christian perspective. And to a certain degree, this is true. For instance, his arguments against eternal punishments and the existence of hell are grounded in the Christian tradition. But Hick’s perspective changes sometimes, and he adopts a meta-perspective surveying all religious traditions from above, such as, for instance, when he argues that the post-mortem expectations from all religious traditions are in reality one and the same and their differences illusory. As a result, Hick does not articulate 209 Ibid., 461.

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the integrity of the religious Other anymore than Ratzinger and Moltmann do. Hick’s meta-perspective allows him to construct a synthesis, but it does not account for the particular hope of any religious tradition. This relates to the second issue to be raised, namely, that of theological interplay. With respect to content and structure, Hick’s eschatology can be reduced to a philosophical prediction about death and life after death which is based on his careful and systematic reading of religious texts from some of the great religious traditions and para-psychological testimonies about life after death. The result is a high degree of soteriological openness (Hick affirms the ‘salvation’ of all human beings). But what of eschatological openness? It is evident that there is no theological interplay between eschatology and christology or ecclesiology that would suggest a ‘christianisation’ of the eschaton. Yet, there is something in the way Hick articulates his eschatological hope that leaves no room for the theological integrity of the religious Other. This could perhaps be phrased as an interplay between Hick’s eschatology and his meta-perspective. If so, the result is that his intention to survey all religious traditions, to leave room for everyone soteriologically, and to create a synthesis between all eschatological views decreases eschatological openness. There is little or no room for the theological integrity of the religious Other, precisely due to this ‘interplay’. Even though Hick seeks to acknowledge other religious traditions to a greater degree than Moltmann and Pannenberg, for instance, it is interesting to see that his eschatology does not take the question of the religious Other much further than that. In the terminology of this study, all of these figures maintain a significant degree of soteriological openness and little to no eschatological openness. Pannenberg and Moltmann acknowledge the eschatological hope of one tradition (their own), while Hick seeks to acknowledge almost all of them. His hypothesis is brave and accounts for the beliefs of many religious traditions. It takes these positions seriously and relates them to each other. In the end, however, these different positions are illusions or seemingly different ideas that in the end converge. In this sense, he hardly succeeds in his efforts. Although Hick orients his eschatology towards all religious traditions in an astonishing attempt to speak for them all, in the final analysis he seems uneasy with religious otherness, seeking to replace it with uniformity. We have now come to an end of the above survey of religious otherness in these four major eschatologies. We have seen that the correlation between soteriological openness and eschatological openness is not very strong. We have also seen that the notion of the religious Other is hardly developed in the eschatologies of Ratzinger and Moltmann, whereas, in the eschatologies

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of Pannenberg and Hick, however, the question of the religious Other is more visible. Nevertheless, despite the many virtues of these eschatologies, none of them actually articulates the theological integrity of the religious Other. Having said this, we must again remind ourselves that this task was never one they claimed to pursue. Still, one can sense an asymmetry, at least in Moltmann’s and Pannenberg’s thinking, between how the religious Other is viewed in the here and now on the one hand and, on the other, in the eschaton. Both Moltmann and Pannenberg seek to articulate theological integrity for the religious Other in the here and now, which is not maintained in the eschatological future. No eschatology has emerged in recent years that has been as influential as those studied above. Nevertheless, the subfield of eschatology has become increasingly more informed by religious plurality. Two names immediately suggest themselves: the Catholic scholar Gavin D’Costa and the Evangelical theologian S. Mark Heim. Their impressive work in integrating the issue of the religious Other into Christian eschatology makes them particularly interesting for our study. The question is how D’Costa and Heim articulate theological integrity in their respective eschatologies. Both have developed a trinitarian theology of religions, but even though there are substantial similarities between their respective positions, the differences are just as striking. In the next section we shall see how D’Costa elaborates on the eschatological notion of limbo in order to articulate the place of the religious Other. 2.3 The Rise of the Notion of the Religious Other in Christian Eschatology ‘Old Doctrines for New Jobs’: Gavin D’Costa Gavin D’Costa has developed a Christian eschatology that explicitly addresses the question of the religious Other. Unlike the more narrow soteriological focus in theology of religions in general, his Christianity and the World Religions: Disputed Questions in the Theology of Religions deals with eschatology as such. D’Costa’s proposal entails some novelties, albeit not as striking as those found in Heim’s thought. Both start in theology of religions and are then led to reflect further on explicitly eschatological issues. D’Costa seeks to explore the possibilities of providing room for the religious Other within the boundaries of official Catholic doctrine. He strives to explain in greater detail the meaning of the well-known statement from Lumen Gentium: ‘those who, without blame on their part, have not yet arrived at an explicit knowledge of God’ still might

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be saved.210 D’Costa’s question is how this openness towards those who have ‘not yet’ become Christians can be reconciled with the necessity of the church and of Christ for salvation. In this regard, D’Costa’s proposal has been appreciated by other Catholic thinkers. For instance, Stephen Bullivant considers it ‘a true high point … of all postconciliar theologizing regarding the salvation of non-Christians.’211 D’Costa wants to keep three components together in his eschatology. The first is that Christ, the Trinity, and the church are necessary for salvation. The second component is that non-Christian religions should not be diminished and that the possibility of salvation for the religious Other should not be denied. Third, D’Costa states that the salvation of non-Christians takes place ‘after’ death.212 This means that the question for D’Costa is how the religious Other can be ‘saved’ through Christ, the Trinity, and the church without actually choosing to become Christian. Moreover, D’Costa searches for the answer to ‘when’, theologically speaking, this takes place in the eschatological process. The way this question is posed relates directly to our issues of soteriological and eschatological openness. It examines not only the possibility of ‘salvation’ for the religious Other but also how this assumed salvation is related to the religious otherness of the Other. In what follows, the ‘when’ of D’Costa’s investigation is of particular interest. As already indicated, how D’Costa deals with the eschatological issues requires a rather realistic approach. His argument rests on both chronological and spatial aspects of eschatology. Still, he considers these elaborations of time and space to be metaphorical. In the end, the result is a somewhat ambiguous argument. D’Costa takes the Christian notion of hell as the point of departure for his investigations. Like Catholic theologians before him—Hans Urs von Balthasar and Joseph DiNoia, to mention two—D’Costa is interested in Christ’s descent into hell as related in the Apostles’ Creed. This descent is combined with the conviction that hell ‘has four different aspects, which are given differing spatial and geographical tropes, but contain fundamentally ontological and epistemological claims.’213 The four different aspects of hell that D’Costa refers to are ‘hell’ (the place of eternal damnation), limbo (of the unbaptised infants), limbo (of the just), and 210 Second Vatican Council, Lumen Gentium, § 16. 211 Stephen Bullivant, ‘Review of Christianity and World Religions: Disputed Questions in the Theology of Religions by Gavin D’Costa’, New Blackfriars 91, no. 1032 (2010). 212 D’Costa, Christianity and the World Religions, 161. 213 Ibid., 165.

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purgatory. Each of these four aspects or levels of hell have implications for the place of the religious Other in D’Costa’s eschatology. In one way or another, all four aspects are used to answer the ‘when question’ I have referred to. For our purposes, it will suffice to focus on the limbo of the just and purgatory. The Limbo of the Just and the Religious Other In Christian tradition, the ‘limbo of the just’ or the ‘limbo of the fathers’ (limbus patrum) as it is also called, is thought of as a place where the holy and righteous people who lived before Christ stayed after death. This applied primarily to the Jews but did include Gentiles. When Christ descended into hell, it was believed that he preached to the ones in the limbo of the just so that they could be saved. Adopting this meaning of limbo, D’Costa adds a theological novelty: he extends the range of limbo to all those who lived and live after the resurrection of Christ. Thereby, D’Costa makes ‘limbo of the just’ his theological key for understanding the destiny of the religious Other and for resolving his ‘when question’. Regarding Christ’s descent into the limbo of the just, D’Costa declares that it solves many of the problems I want to address: the necessity of Christ and his church as a means of salvation and the explicit relationship of the unevangelized to the Blessed Trinity that is a precondition of salvation.214 D’Costa found the idea that the limbo of the just continues to exist even after Christ’s descent in the works of the 13th-century German scholar Albertus Magnus. But the latter considered the limbo of the just to be empty after Christ’s resurrection since the righteous people for whom Christ descended were already redeemed. Thus, according to D’Costa, Albertus Magnus’ assertion pertained to the substance of the limbo rather than its function. What D’Costa is seeking is a way to articulate the possibility of salvation for the religious Other who does not become a Christian in his or her lifetime. Therefore, he somewhat adjusts the purpose of this limbo and claims that it remains an eschatological destiny for the religious Other even after Christ’s descent. It operates ‘analogically … in teaching that the just are never lost and await the Lord’s coming after their death, just as do Christians.’215 Unfortunately, D’Costa does not spell out the meaning of this ‘analogical’ truth of the limbo. The fact that he considers the four aspects of hell to be ‘ontologically’ and ‘epistemologically’ true does

214 Ibid., 171. 215 Ibid., 178.

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not make things any clearer. Is the notion of limbo, for instance, more ‘analogical’ than the notion of heaven? If so, is the eschatological fulfilment of the religious Other also more analogical than Christian eschatological fulfilment? We shall return to these questions below. In and through the limbo of the just, the religious Other enters a kind of relationship with the church and with Christ. But this does not imply any pre- or post-mortem conversion, according to D’Costa. Rather, what takes place is ‘a coming to maturation and completion.’216 Here, D’Costa elaborates on this by means of a distinction between objective and subjective truth. His argument is that in ‘objective reality … the limbo of the just is empty’.217 Yet, in ‘subjective reality … there are many who subjectively still exist in the state of those who entered the limbo of the just.’218 The terminology is not easy to follow. It seems as if limbo does actually (ontologically and literally) exist, but should be analogically conceived and its present function is required only in a subjective sense. D’Costa’s argument that his eschatology does not entail any post-mortem (or other) conversions needs to be examined more closely. By way of example, D’Costa comments on Pope Benedict XVI’s decision to allow the old Good Friday prayer for the salvation of the Jews. He defends this decision and argues that it has nothing to do with missionary activities. On the contrary ‘it recognizes the hope that all may enter into the church … it affirms the salvific instrumentality of both Christ and the church.’219 Given the hope that all shall enter into the church, I find it difficult to understand D’Costa’s rejection of post-mortem conversion. If the religious Other (post-mortem) enters the eschatological church as a member, what prevents us from calling this event a ‘post-mortem conversion’? Be that as it may, it seems as if D’Costa’s argument is that no deliberate change in religious affiliation takes place, neither as a result of missionary activities in this life nor after death. Still, the eschatological hope consists of entering into the church and into a relation with Christ. Thus, instead of a conscious conversion, D’Costa expects an eschatological christianisation of the religious Other that is not an act of choice. 216 Ibid., 179. 217 Ibid. 218 Ibid. 219 Ibid., 186. D’Costa’s defence of this prayer and, more generally, of Christian evangelisation of the Jews has been criticised by Jewish and Catholic scholars alike. From both sides comes the argument that continued evangelisation is not compatible with the integrity of the Jewish people. See Edward Kessler, ‘A Jewish Response to Gavin D’Costa’, Theological Studies 73, no. 3 (2012). See also John T. Pawlikowski, ‘A Catholic Response to Gavin D’Costa’, Theological Studies 73, no. 3 (2012).

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On the one hand, D’Costa is remarkably realistic in his eschatological interpretations and in his conversations with Christian thinkers such as Augustine and Albertus Magnus. On the other hand, he downplays the literalness of his theological work: I have not tried to rehabilitate the limbo of the just in any literal sense suggesting a pre-heavenly waiting room, but have tried to recover the theological datum contained in this teaching to establish that a post-mortem solution regarding the final destiny of non-Christians has important and long-standing precedence in the history of the church.220 It must be assumed that D’Costa views these categories as valid and meaningful, albeit not true in their temporal and spatial claims. D’Costa continues the discussion on the eschatological destiny of the religious Other. Like many Christians, the religious Other will in most cases need the kind of purification that purgatory offers. Hence, an immediate transfer from the limbo of the just to heaven is unlikely, the argument goes. Consequently, we will now turn to purgatory. Christological Purgatory Purgatory, in Catholic tradition, is a place for those already in relation with Christ through the church. The Catechism of the Catholic Church states that: All who die in God’s grace and friendship, but still imperfectly purified, are indeed assured of their eternal salvation; but after death they undergo purification, so as to achieve the holiness necessary to enter the joy of heaven. The Church gives the name Purgatory to this final purification of the elect, which is entirely different from the punishment of the damned.221 This is also why D’Costa, unlike Joseph A. DiNoia and Alyssa Lyra Pitstick, among others,222 refuses to ‘place’ non-Christians in purgatory. Purgatory is

220 D’Costa, Christianity and the World Religions, 187. 221 Catechism of the Catholic Church, § 1030–31. 222 DiNoia, The Diversity of Religions. See also Alyssa Lyra Pitstick, Light in Darkness: Hans Urs von Balthasar and the Catholic Doctrine of Christ’s Descent into Hell (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2007).

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seen as a sort of anteroom to heaven.223 As a consequence, the view that the religious Other enters purgatory is, implicitly, universalistic. The debate between Pitstick and D’Costa concerns the relationship between purgatory and limbo. Pitstick suggests that purgatory was the preparatory state where non-Christians ended up prior to the limbo before Jesus’ death and resurrection.224 D’Costa criticises Pitstick, arguing that the christological and ecclesiological nature of purgatory is lost if it includes people outside the church. D’Costa’s position is the reverse of Pitstick’s: limbo is the gathering place for the just religious Others, after which purgatory is still relevant as a Christological purification. The novelty in D’Costa’s proposal is the connection between limbo and purgatory, a move that, he admits, has little support in tradition.225 D’Costa’s aim was to argue for an eschatology that keeps three things together. First, the necessity of Christ, church, and the Trinity for salvation, second, that non-Christian religions should not be denigrated, and third, that the possibility of salvation for the religious Other is not denied. Obviously, the first and the third objectives have been met. The second objective is also formulated as an aim, namely that his eschatology does not result in a denigration of non-Christian religions (but rather, the openness to recognize their profound differences and possible similarities).226 Whether other religious traditions are denigrated or not is subject to debate.227 Clearly, however, there is no eschatological future for other religious traditions or for the Other as religiously other. In this sense, we find a certain degree of soteriological openness, but little or no eschatological openness in D’Costa. Hence, one can wonder whether he actually takes the issue of eschatology and religious otherness beyond a traditional inclusivist position like Moltmann’s. The benefits of D’Costa’s proposal can be found, rather, in the rigorous and

223 Given that D’Costa sees purgatory as a ‘place’ for those in Christ, which is the traditional Catholic view, it is surprising that he still sees it as one of the aspects of hell. See D’Costa, Christianity and the World Religions, 166. 224 Pitstick, Light in Darkness, 50. 225 D’Costa, Christianity and the World Religions, 192–94. 226 Ibid., 161. 227 Elsewhere, D’Costa has discussed the notion of tolerance and argued that his own trinitarian theology of religions is compatible with a certain understanding of tolerance. See D’Costa, The Meeting of Religions and the Trinity, 134–38.

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creative defence of salvation extra ecclesiam within the boundaries of official Catholic doctrine. His hermeneutics of eschatological statements leaves something to be desired. A certain lack can be felt when D’Costa maps the ‘geographical’ route that the religious Other has to take to achieve eschatological fulfilment. This route goes through the limbo of the just where Christ will descend and preach to its inhabitants. But what is this limbo? Is it for everyone or only for the non-Christians who will eventually be ‘saved’? What does Christ’s preaching in the limbo of the just mean? Is it a revelation of the nature of God or is it something else? There are ontological and epistemological claims tied to the theology of limbo. Yet these claims are ‘analogical’ truths. These questions are all in need of clarification, and all point—I argue—to the purpose of D’Costa’s eschatology. It seems as if his method is to seek eschatological answers to ecclesiological problems. In other words, there is a theological interplay between traditional ecclesiology and eschatology that affects the theological integrity of the religious Other. Veli-Matti Kärkkäinen has noted something similar when he criticises D’Costa’s approach as being ‘too tradition-specific’. He finds D’Costa’s theology ecclesio-ideological, in support of the views advanced by the hierarchy … when compared to the methodologies of Rahner and Dupuis, D’Costa has really explicitly chosen the narrow path of the current ecclesial teaching office.228 D’Costa begins with the ecclesiological issues and then turns to eschatology in order to see how soteriological openness can be maintained. He succeeds in this respect by and large, but the religious Other ‘pays’ in terms of eschatological openness. There is very little room for the theological integrity of the religious Other in D’Costa’s eschatology. This also relates to the question of ‘when’ mentioned above. The theological ‘when’ refers precisely to when the religious Other is ‘saved’ through Christ, the church, and the Trinity. This is actually an event that does away with their religious otherness and welcomes religious Others into the eschatological church. Given this analysis, it is of less importance whether we call this event ‘conversion’ or something else. D’Costa’s proposal leaves a range of questions unanswered, and he does not relate his theological reflections on the religious Other and eschatology

228 Veli-Matti Kärkkäinen, Trinity and Religious Pluralism: The Doctrine of the Trinity in Christian Theology of Religions (Burlington: Ashgate, 2004), 77.

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to some of the traditional Christian eschatological terms, such as judgement and the kingdom of God. Yet his eschatology is both coherent and faithful to (D’Costa’s interpretation of) the Catholic magisterial texts. It does express hope for the religious Other as an individual (soteriological openness), although it leaves little room for the theological integrity of the religious Other (eschatological openness). In the next section, I shall discuss another trinitarian theology of religions—that of S. Mark Heim. His eschatology actually seeks to provide what I have called ‘eschatological openness’, which I have argued is absent from D’Costa’s eschatology. Respecting Other’s Religious Ends: S. Mark Heim One of the central ideas of S. Mark Heim’s eschatology is as simple as it is thought-provoking: if we take the eschatological visions of other religious traditions seriously, why could they not all be true? What if Christ was the only way to heaven, whereas Buddhism is the one true path to nirvana? Hence, Heim’s eschatological vision entails not one ultimate end but a plurality of ends. Heim’s eschatology is clearly informed by the questions of theology of religions. He is critical of Hick and other pluralists for, on the one hand, not being pluralistic enough (in the sense that they assume one single salvation) and, on the other, not being faithful enough to the ‘one and only’ aspect of Christian theology (particularly the uniqueness of Christ).229 His theology has affinities with particularism, which was discussed in the first chapter, and he is influenced by thinkers such as George Lindbeck, Paul Griffiths, and Francis X. Clooney. One could argue that he draws insights from the paradigm of particularism and takes them to their eschatological conclusions. Heim works explicitly with the issue of theological integrity in Christian eschatology, and, in this sense, his work responds to the central questions of our study more directly than any other theologian in this chapter. In his own words: I believe that it is inevitable and appropriate that religions interpret each other and the world within the categories of their own tradition. My interest is that they include in what they interpret the true difference, the true otherness of alternative religious life. The aim of a theology of religions is to find, however imperfectly, an understanding of the other in its own integrity within the faith that is part of one’s own integrity.230 229 See particularly Heim, Salvations, 124–26. 230 S. Mark Heim, The Depth of the Riches: A Trinitarian Theology of Religious Ends (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2001), 6.

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Heim relates the plurality of religious ends to his concept of God: just as there is diversity in God, so we can assume a diversity of religious ends. It is obvious, he argues, that different religious traditions seek different religious ends. Is it really necessary to hold that only one of them is true? Consequently, Heim’s hypothesis is that nirvana, heaven, and other eschatological expectations are different and yet ontologically true, permanent religious ends. Heim develops his thinking on this in two books. The first is entitled Salvations: Truth and Difference in Religion, and, here, he argues for the notion of a plurality of salvations. In the second book, The Depth of the Riches: A Trinitarian Theology of Religious Ends, he reserves the term ‘salvation’ for Christian hope—communion with the triune God—whereas ‘religious end’ is the more general term applied to any particular tradition’s eschatological goal.231 The primary reason for this distinction is that ‘salvation’ is not always a proper description of a tradition’s religious end. Another reason is that Heim actually needs a term specific to the Christian tradition in order to mark its distinctiveness. Heim’s hypotheses might sound speculative—and to some extent they are—but he works hard to ground his bold speculations in the Christian tradition (both medieval eschatology and more recent trinitarian theology). The central idea is to respect both the integrity of other faith traditions and particularly their respective religious ends on the one hand and the ultimate significance of Jesus Christ for salvation on the other. Rather than the binary construct of salvation or no salvation, Heim introduces four alternative eschatological outcomes: an ultimate religious fulfilment, paths converging to the ultimate fulfilment, other religious fulfilments different from the ultimate end, and finally the lack of fulfilment. The first two alternatives constitute the traditional inclusivist position where Christians and righteous individuals from other faiths (or no faith) reach the Christian fulfilment. We will take a closer look at the third outcome below, as it represents the novelty of Heim’s proposal. The fourth outcome—lack of fulfilment—corresponds to the Christian notion of hell.232 It should be noted that Heim does not elaborate on the differences between other religious traditions’ symbols of perdition. He does not take the integrity of Jahannam (Islam) or Naraka (Buddhism) into account. This could be seen as an inconsistency in Heim’s proposal. Arguably, it could be assumed that the view of hell and damnation varies between the different religious traditions. Nevertheless, in Heim’s thinking the fourth outcome is a kind of interreligious ‘hell’ where, it is presupposed, the damned of all religious traditions end up. 231 Ibid., 19. 232 Ibid., 7.

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The assumptions of Heim’s eschatology can be summarised in four theses that should be kept together. First, he seeks to provide reasons to study other traditions of faith on their own terms. Second, he wants to accept truth claims that differs from Christian truth claims. Third, Heim seeks to acknowledge the superiority and the ‘one and only’ aspect of the Christian tradition. Fourth, he intends to give a credible account of the plurality of religious traditions.233 It is debatable, however, whether Heim has succeeded in his ambitions to maintain all four theses. As we shall see, Knitter has challenged the first thesis. One could also raise concerns regarding the second thesis, namely, that the truth claims of other traditions are accepted. It is true regarding other eschatological expectations, yet these expectations are all grounded in a trinitarian notion of God. We shall proceed further with Heim’s trinitarian foundation in order to look more closely at what the consequences are for theological integrity and how this foundation relates to our tools of theological space and theological interplay. A Trinitarian Foundation for All Religious Ends Heim argues that, since each person’s relationship with God is unique, salvation is also different for each person. Consequently, there is already diversity within Christian tradition regarding salvation. Heim takes this a step further and suggests that there is not only diversity with respect to the Christian view of salvation but also diversity with respect to different religious ends.234 Heim uses Dante’s Divina Commedia, to further strengthen the case for multiple religious ends. In Dante’s hell, the limbo of the fathers is not a temporal but an eternal destiny where the virtuous who have not accepted (or even heard of) Christ dwell. Thus, Heim finds a way to think of an end apart from salvation and yet not characterised by suffering or punishment: The vestibule of indecision and the limbo of the virtuous non-Christians are two eternal human ends, neither identical with hell in the normal sense. There is no savor of punishment about either of them, and limbo is a gracious and idyllic place in every respect save in comparison with paradise.235 But it should not be forgotten that in Dante, limbo is part of the inferno, of hell. This can serve as an important illustration of the fact that, to Heim, these

233 Ibid., 28–33. 234 Ibid., 76. 235 Ibid., 106.

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other ends are inferior and deficient compared to Christian salvation. Since these other ends do not include communion with God as triune, they could be viewed as dimensions of eternal perdition. The trinitarian approach leads Heim to distinguish between three particular dimensions of God’s triune life. On the basis of this distinction, he develops different religious ends. The first dimension actually comprises two: the impersonal dimension could either be apophatic (conceived of in terms of emptiness) or unitive. The emptiness of the apophatic variation is caused by each person in the Trinity making space for the others. The unitive variation ‘is grounded in the coinherence or complete immanence of each of the divine persons in the others.’236 Heim considers the Buddhist nirvana to be an example of this kind of dimension where personal communion is ruled out. The second dimension is ‘iconic’ and Heim describes it as an encounter with the unitary agency of the other. We directly meet the distinctive products of personality: words, thoughts, intentions, aesthetic expressions, feelings. These are sent by one and received by another. This may be a face to face event, emphasizing bodily and vocal communication. But the outward personal expression can also precipitate in a medium (like writing or art) that opens this dimension of relation even between those who never physically meet.237 Heim presents illustrations of this second dimension: asking a stranger for directions, or reading the work of a poet from a different century. The third dimension is designated as ‘communion’ and involves not only meeting face to face but also sharing in the divine life. It is best illustrated by deep relationships of love between family members or close friends.238 Note that Heim’s three dimensions of the triune God do not suggest that each dimension corresponds to one of the persons of the Trinity. In this respect, his position differs profoundly from Raimundo Panikkar whose trinitarian theology of religions holds that each person of the Trinity corresponds to a different concept of God.239 In Heim’s view, the life of the triune God can be encountered in these three ways. These three dimensions are also visible in Jesus’ relationship to God, according to Heim. The impersonal dimension 236 237 238 239

Ibid., 210. Ibid., 184. Ibid., 184–85. Raimundo Panikkar, The Trinity and the Religious Experience of Man: Icon-Person-Mystery (New York: Orbis Books, 1973), 54–55.

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is present in the overwhelming abandonment of the cross (‘My God, my God why have you forsaken me?’). The iconic dimension is exemplified in Jesus’ prayer to God (as Abba) and in his way of distancing himself from God (‘Why do you call me good? No one is good but God alone’). Finally, the dimension of communion and ‘sharing with’ is reflected in Jesus acting with divine authority (as when he forgives sins).240 Here, we can note that Heim emphasises the ‘three-ness’ more than the ‘oneness’. One could even get the impression that the oneness of God belongs to the strictly monotheistic traditions such as Islam and Judaism whereas the ‘three-ness’ is characteristic of the Christian religious end. Knitter argues along these lines when he criticises Heim for going half-circle only. According to Knitter, what is lacking in Heim’s trinitarian approach is the half that ‘swings back to oneness’ and acknowledges the common ground among the three divine persons.241 Furthermore, Knitter states that the trinitarian approach implies that there is ‘the real possibility of common ground—a common ground that recognizes different paths, but not different final goals.’242 This argument is slightly beside the point, however. Heim is not claiming that each person of the Trinity represents a distinct religious end but that the trinitarian approach encompasses both the diversity and unity of the Christian way of relating to God and, hence, of the Christian notion of salvation. This remark, however, does not save Heim from further criticism. As a whole, Kärkkäinen finds Heim’s trinitarian eschatology unsatisfactory. In his attempt to apply the notion of the Trinity to the question of religious pluralism ‘Heim has the tendency to overstate his case.’243 Kärkkäinen argues that the support for Heim’s proposal in the Christian tradition is too weak. Moreover, he considers the conclusion that diversity in God implies diversity of religious ends unwarranted. It is hard to challenge Kärkkäinen on these issues. In particular, historical support for a plurality of religious ends is weak. Where does this leave us? How many religious ends are there? Heim steers away from such questions: There is no effort here to specify exhaustively what qualifies as a religious tradition and how many religious ends there might be. I use several examples, but that broader question must wait for another time.244 240 Heim, The Depth of the Riches, 200. 241 Knitter, Introducing Theologies of Religions, 231. 242 Ibid. 243 Kärkkäinen, Trinity and Religious Pluralism, 146. 244 Heim, The Depth of the Riches, 9.

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One of the more important and fundamental issues regarding Heim’s proposal of a plurality of ends, as I see it, is the relationship between the iconic (second) and the communal (third) dimension of relationship to God. There is a kind of normative progression inherent in the three dimensions. The hierarchy (a word Heim does not approve of) between the different religious ends actually affects the theological integrity of the religious Other. I shall develop and further discuss this matter below. A Christian View of the Other Religious Ends The idea of a normative progression is further supported by Heim’s characterisation of Christian salvation as representing primarily the communal dimension. Heim himself rejects seeing the three dimensions in terms of evolution. He prefers to visualise them as three corners of a non-hierarchical triangle rather than as a linear progression.245 Yet, there is a tension in this respect in his thinking. On the one hand, none of the three dimensions belongs to the Christian tradition in its fullness.246 On the other hand, the third dimension—communion with God as Trinity—is not only unique to the Christian tradition; it is also the most ultimate religious end. In his earlier Salvations, Heim states: Christians may rightly continue to view the achievement of these alternative religious ends as something to be avoided, even in cases carrying some measure of the meaning of ‘damnation’. That is, they are not positive evils … but they are aims different than the best that Christians know and hope for.247 Even though Heim is more reluctant to compare the different religious ends with each other in his later The Depth of the Riches, similar statements can be found there. Here Heim leaves open the possibility of assessing the other religious ends as ‘an elaboration of what Christians mean by damnation, the absence of salvation.’248 What makes the Christian religious end superior, according to Heim, is the fact that it consists of ‘communion with God in a fuller range of God’s being’249 As the quote indicates, Heim claims that the Christian way of describing God and the Christian religious end are superior to all other traditions. The fact that Heim emphasises that his statement is uttered from a 245 Ibid., 197. 246 Ibid., 213. 247 Heim, Salvations, 163. 248 Heim, The Depth of the Riches, 258. 249 Heim, Salvations, 165.

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particularistic position and that the religious Other (such as the Buddhist) is encouraged to make corresponding claims from her perspective does not really change things significantly. Nevertheless, Heim acknowledges and respects other religious ends in the sense that he develops theological explanations to how they can be ontologically true. Heim is convinced that the kind of relationship one has with God determines the nature of the religious end.250 Thus, what distinguishes (Christian) salvation is that it consists of communion with the triune God. The religious end of Islam, according to Heim, refers to the second dimension of God, the iconic or ‘the collective “I” of the Trinity’.251 Despite the many similarities between the Muslim religious end and Christian salvation (he mentions that both ends are personal, relational, and communal), they constitute different and separate ends. The triune God is manifested to the Muslims in a strictly monotheistic way (the ‘I’ of the Trinity). The tradition-specific features of Christian theology (Trinity and incarnation) distinguish Christianity from Islam and the Christian end from the Muslim end. Heim is eager to take the otherness of the Muslim religious end seriously. Unfortunately, Heim does not use any contemporary Muslim theological sources to analyse the Muslim religious end but relies heavily on the works of the Anglican priest Kenneth Cragg.252 Nevertheless, according to Heim, the iconic dimension is the most fundamental in the Muslim tradition. Islam embraces both the impersonal and communal dimensions, but these are subordinate to the iconic dimension.253 The result of Heim’s emphasis on the differences between these two traditions is the alienation of the two eschatological hopes; since they are different, they cannot include any hope for each other. Even though Christian salvation in Heim’s understanding involves communion with other persons, this does not include communion with the Muslim Other. On the contrary, the only way for her to be ‘saved’—as Heim uses the term—is through Jesus Christ.254

250 Heim, The Depth of the Riches, 59. 251 Ibid., 230. 252 For a critical Muslim perspective on Cragg’s works, see Fazlur Rahman, ‘Some Recent Books on the Qur’an by Western Authors’, The Journal of Religion 64, no. 1 (1984), 81–83. See also his own works, such as Kenneth Cragg, Muhammad and the Christian: A Question of Response (London: Darton, 1984). 253 Heim, The Depth of the Riches, 234. 254 Ibid., 235.

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Heim illustrates the various ways of relating to God by comparing them to different family relationships, which are all genuine but different in terms of closeness: I could be parent to a child, someone’s business client, a blood plasma donor … a colleague’s collaborator. These are all human relations and, in principle, positive ones. But they are distinct; the benefits of one are not identical with those from another.255 Analogously, God is experienced differently and yet authentically in different religious traditions. The consequence of this way of respecting otherness seems to be that the respective religious ends are vastly different. Hence, Heim’s concept of Christian salvation does not entail communion with Muslims nor does the Muslim end entail communion with Christians. Consequently, the way to think of love and communion with the religious Other is restricted to the possibility of inclusivism and the anonymous salvation of Muslims and others. Heim rightly states that The conclusion that a different religion is ‘another way to the same end’ is no necessary recipe for amity. It can sometimes heighten conflict, for it is just as easy to quarrel over which is the better way as over which is the better end.256 While it is true that postulating a common end is no guarantee of amity, it is hard to see in what sense separating the Christian heaven from a Muslim paradise could achieve that. In this respect, one may ask if Heim’s proposal actually achieves what it claims with respect to the recognition of otherness and genuine dialogue between religious traditions?257 The Theological Integrity of the Religious Other Heim respects the integrity of other religious ends in the sense that he accepts their truth claims. But when he makes analogies between hell and nirvana, one can ask in what sense the Christian is allowed to hope with and for the religious Other. To what extent is nirvana a fulfilment and to what extent is

255 Ibid., 237. 256 Ibid., 237–38. 257 See also Heim, The Depth of the Riches, 29.

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it not? Heim does not resolve the ambivalence. To consider nirvana a sort of ‘damnation’ might motivate evangelisation, but it hardly stresses ‘the religious significance of careful study of faith traditions in their particularity’ (which is one of Heim’s prerequisites).258 The relationship between eschatological and soteriological openness in Heim’s proposal is interesting. Unlike eschatologies such as those of Moltmann and Pannenberg, Heim’s thinking actually has a higher degree of eschatological openness and a somewhat lower degree of soteriological openness (due to his unambiguous references to eternal loss). Again, we find support for the observation that there is no strict correlation between the two. Both aspects of eschatology affect the religious Other, and yet they are not dependent on each other—hence the choice in this study to discuss not only soteriological openness but also eschatological openness. Heim articulates a theological integrity for the religious Other. As a matter of fact, this integrity is emphasised so strongly that one could ask whether the result is not a theological isolation rather than merely leaving room for the religious Other. To find out, let us look more closely at the two questions of theological space and theological interplay. There is theological space for the religious Other as other in Heim’s eschatology. The religious Other is clearly acknowledged, and his or her eschatological expectations are accounted for. Moreover, there is no ‘eschatological conversion’ implicit in Heim’s proposal. He argues that there will be eschatological destinies in which these other people may be in a relationship with God, albeit not with the full range of God’s being. This certainly makes the character of the theological space somewhat peculiar. In the end, it has little to do with ultimate fulfilment. The trinitarian nature of God is hidden from the religious Other and he or she is isolated from the Christians who enjoy ultimate salvation in communion with God in a fuller range of God’s being. The theological interplay between his trinitarian theology and his eschatology leads to the subordination of all religious ends but the Christian end. It follows from his concept of God that only the Christian fulfilment knows God as trinitarian. As a consequence, this religious end is superior to all others. Heim argues that God can be known as triune, as a personal and singular ‘I’, and as impersonal. In a sense, all these ways of knowing God are true. But it is only the Christian faith that knows God as triune and in the other aspects as well. This is reflected in the different religious ends. The interplay between theology (in the narrow sense of ‘speaking of God’) and eschatology results in 258 Heim, The Depth of the Riches, 29.

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the deficiency of the other religious ends and their isolation from each other. As D’Costa points out, the trinitarian grounding of other religious ends compromises one of Heim’s primary objectives, namely, the acceptance of their self-description.259 Many Christian theologians would agree with Moltmann that there can be no humanity separate from nature and that salvation must include the entire cosmos.260 The question is what happens to the non-human parts of creation in Heim’s proposal. The ‘cosmic’ and communal dimension of his eschatology is nearly absent. His theory is anthropocentric. To some extent this is inevitable; all eschatological reflections are grounded in the experiences and conditions of human beings. Yet the strong anthropocentric perspective poses a problem for Heim. His proposal of different religious ends is unable to account for the destiny of the non-human part of the cosmos. It can be argued that, followed through to its end, Heim’s position implies that whatever a person desires will be his or her eschaton. As we have seen, one obvious danger of such an approach is that the eschatological visions of relationships with God and with fellow human beings are radically individualised. When eschatological hope is so closely tied to one’s own expectations, it can lead to a view where the religious ends consist of little more than isolated monads of individuals separated by their different post-mortem expectations. Heim does further the discussion of eschatology and the religious Other in at least two respects. First, from a theology of religions perspective, he clearly recognises some of the problems inherent in the more classical approaches to eschatology. Second, he develops a Christian eschatology where the theological integrity of the religious Other is actually articulated differently and more clearly than in the approaches discussed above. Nevertheless, in terms of theological integrity, Heim’s eschatology suggests a theological isolation of the religious Other that may actually prove contrary to his intentions. 2.4 Conclusion: Heuristic Tools Let us conclude. The task set forth at the beginning has been to look more closely at mechanisms of exclusion and inclusion of the religious Other in Christian eschatologies. One purpose was to widen the discussion of ‘salvation’ and to examine the way the theological integrity of the religious Other is 259 Gavin D’Costa, ‘Review of “The Depth of the Riches: A Trinitarian Theology of Religious Ends”’, Modern Theology 18, no. 1 (2002), 139. 260 Moltmann, Theology of Hope, 190. See also The Coming of God, 150.

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articulated. I have tried to show that there is no particular correlation between what I have termed ‘soteriological openness’ and ‘eschatological openness’. By way of example, both Ratzinger and Moltmann articulate little or no eschatological openness for the religious Other, yet their positions clearly differ with respect to soteriological openness. This fact gives further legitimacy to a more generally perceived investigation of the religious Other in eschatology. In short, at the crossroads of theology of religions and eschatology, there is more to be considered than the soteriological question. Throughout this chapter, I have repeatedly argued that there is a certain kind of theological interplay between eschatology and other Christian ‘doctrines’. In D’Costa’s thinking, this interplay was provided by ecclesiology. For Pannenberg, his theology of history fills this role, whereas it is christology that does so for Moltmann. Ratzinger’s thinking combines ecclesiology with christology. Needless to say, some kind of interplay or exchange between different theological areas is to be expected. In the case of eschatology, however, I have argued that these interplays may affect and condition eschatology to the extent that the theological integrity of the religious Other is jeopardised. Hence, regardless of soteriological openness, there is another kind of openness at play. This results in descriptions of the eschaton that are (over)determined with respect to their tradition-specificity. D’Costa actually understands the consequences when he speaks of welcoming the religious Other into the eschatological church. Moltmann and Pannenberg are not as explicit, but their eschatologies reveal a similar pattern. Interestingly, Heim’s eschatology seems to bear no signs of this kind of interplay—at least, not at first glance. His acknowledgment of other possible religious ends allows for eschatological descriptions in which the religious Other remains religiously other and where his or her otherness is not christologically or otherwise assimilated. But a closer examination has shown that Heim’s trinitarian approach actually views other religious ends as inferior. Besides the theological interplay, a second aspect has been discussed throughout this chapter: theological space. Overlapping but not synonymous with each other, these two aspects sum up significant parts of what is meant by theological integrity. In Heim’s case, I noted that the kind of theological space given to the religious Other was peculiar: it is not only deficient and imperfect, but it also implies an eschatological isolation from ultimate fulfilment and from fellow human beings. Hence, this ‘space’ as such is flawed. Nonetheless, both D’Costa and Heim clearly acknowledge the religious Other as other, and this in itself provides a certain degree of space. John Hick also explicitly addresses religious plurality in his eschatology. In Hick’s case, however, I argued that the Other was not acknowledged as other since all religious differences

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were treated as illusory. Thus, the theological space of the religious Other is significantly limited. The difference between Ratzinger, Moltmann, and Pannenberg on the one hand and Heim, D’Costa, and Hick on the other is apparent. In the former group, the notion of a religious Other is not as explicit. Interestingly, this relative absence proves to have theological consequences for their eschatology. This is perhaps most obvious in the case of Moltmann. His development of an eschatology where religious otherness is not accounted for results in very little theological space for the religious Other. Something similar can be found in Ratzinger’s eschatology, whereas Pannenberg has a somewhat more developed notion of religious otherness. As a result, there is more theological space in Pannenberg’s theology in general, but this theological space gradually decreases in the course of a historical development towards increasing truth. The conclusion to be drawn in this chapter is that Christian eschatology rarely succeeds—regardless of whether it is an actual aim or not—in articulating the theological integrity of the religious Other. Two interrelated aspects were identified: theological space and theological interplay. In the next chapter, these two aspects will be applied as heuristic tools in the subsequent analyses. By turning to Muslim and Jewish eschatologies, I shall further investigate how the mechanisms of inclusion and exclusion of the religious Other work in eschatology. Important in itself, this comparison also addresses an imbalance in theology of religions where, arguably, too little attention has been paid to the voice of the religious Other. Moreover, we hope that the different ways of approaching religious otherness in these eschatologies may shed some light on the challenges for Christian theologians. That, however, will be the concern of the fourth chapter.

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A Wider Horizon: Hope and Otherness in Muslim and Jewish Eschatologies 3.1 Introduction Up till now I have discussed the religious Other in Christian eschatologies. One of the conclusions in the second chapter was that the place of the religious Other as other is marginal, regardless of whether the eschatology in question is universal (affirming salvation for all of humankind) or ‘particular’, in which case some people might be eternally lost. It is, of course, possible to limit this study to this analysis and simply focus on how religious otherness is approached in the Christian tradition. That, however, would be to repeat the widespread academic practice of doing theological reflection on the Other while paying little attention to the perspectives of these Others. To tackle the question somewhat differently, this third chapter will focus on contemporary Muslim and Jewish eschatologies and their ways of relating to otherness. Our purpose is to find out how and to what extent Muslim and Jewish eschatologies address the challenge of religious otherness. There are several reasons for choosing this approach. First, the theology of religions is a young and growing area of research in Muslim and Jewish theology, which is why this third chapter may constitute a contribution, however preliminary, to these fields. Second, the question of hope and otherness is most effectively addressed from more than one perspective. This forces the Christian tradition not only to focus on ‘the Other’ but also to take into account that Christians are ‘the Others’ to the Other. In a way, as a fact, this is trivial, but, as a hermeneutical and theological task, it remains an issue for further reflection. Third, the Christian tradition can learn from other religious traditions. Consequently, the ways in which Muslim and Jewish theologies approach eschatology and religious otherness are significant for Christian eschatology. This relates to the methodological discussion in the introductory chapter, where the method of correlation was brought up and advanced as a framework for approaching other religious traditions. Methodologically, as a scholar of Christian systematic theology, it is quite a different thing to approach Muslim and Jewish theological texts on issues and subjects that are outside one’s area of expertise. This means that my ability to discern between different interpretations of classical texts or to discuss the

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credibility of a certain position in the wider Muslim or Jewish community is limited. Thus, the following discussion is primarily an analysis of individual Muslim and Jewish thinkers, even though I do attempt to discuss their place in and relevance to their respective traditions. As I have argued in previous chapters, the heuristic tools of ‘theological space’ and ‘theological interplay’ establish a correlation between chapters two and three. In chapter two, I identified significant aspects of religious otherness and eschatology in Christian theology. In this third chapter, I bring these aspects to the centre of my investigations of Muslim and Jewish eschatologies. These aspects will then be brought to bear in our discussion of Christian eschatology in chapter four. Hence, the analyses of Islamic and Jewish eschatologies are not carried out free of prejudice but are structured correlationally with the help of these heuristic tools. The choice to discuss Muslim eschatologies before Jewish eschatologies might surprise some readers. This is primarily because I want to emphasise the thematic and contemporary focus of the present study. As we shall see, there are affinities between Christian and Muslim ways of relating to religious otherness that justify this sequence. Moreover, to suggest a chronological approach in which Jewish eschatology is ‘first’ would be misleading, not least since my analysis begins with Christian eschatology. Clearly, the historical order of the three traditions has implications for their contemporary thinking as well. Nonetheless, I am not presenting a history of ideas in which one tradition’s eschatology is held to be more sophisticated than the other. Rather, I am presenting contemporary perspectives on eschatology and religious otherness. 3.2

Hope and Otherness in Muslim Eschatologies

Introduction One of the influential scholars on Islam in the 20th century, Fritz Meier, declared that Muslim reflection on eschatology is not ‘characterized by any particular originality’ and, consequently, it is ‘no more satisfying than the corresponding Judeo-Christian one.’1 On the basis of such a statement, one could assume that there is no significant difference between Christian and Muslim eschatologies. As a matter of fact, this seems to be the point John Renard is making when he states that ‘Christian and Islamic traditions nowhere intersect more clearly 1 Fritz Meier, ‘The Ultimate Origin and the Hereafter in Islam’, in Islam and its Cultural Divergence: Studies in Honor of Gustave E. von Grunebaum, ed. Girdhari L. Tikku (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1971), 112.

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than in their conceptions of the “four last things”—death, judgment, heaven and hell.’2 But the intimate relationship between christology and eschatology that was explored in the second chapter is not, for obvious reasons, an issue in Islamic eschatology. Therefore, one can assume that there are at least some significant differences. Moreover, I think that there is some truth to Nerina Rustomji’s statement that ‘Islamic eschatology provides an afterworld, while Christian eschatology focuses on an afterlife.’3 She argues that, as a consequence of the vivid and detailed descriptions of the future world, Muslims articulated both the realities that informed their earthly lives and their expectations of the otherworldly conditions that would provide them utter respite in the Garden or intensified toil in the Fire.4 In what follows, these supposedly differing aspects will be examined. Rustomji captures what has been repeatedly stressed throughout this study: eschatological expectations are not merely concerned with an alleged hereafter. On the contrary, eschatology—regardless of whether it is Muslim, Jewish, or Christian—reflects and affects how a person values and chooses to live her life. In the following sections, I shall first briefly discuss the wider setting of contemporary Muslim thinking. I shall then introduce some of the voices in the growing field of Muslim theology of religions. This introduction serves the purpose of providing a context for the three scholars who are investigated more closely below. A Taxonomy of Contemporary Muslim Thinkers A common strategy for categorising Muslim thinkers in general is to assess their approach to modernity and its influence on the Islamic tradition. Like most categorisations, this has its strengths and weaknesses. The labels can seem arbitrary, and a thinker can be placed in a category regardless of what she might think of that placement. Another weakness is that neither modernity nor the Islamic tradition is easily defined. Yet describing a thinker based on, for instance, whether he belongs to the Sunni or Shi‘a tradition does not say very much with respect to his theological approach. Moreover, a number of recent books on contemporary Muslim thinkers suggest various versions of 2 John Renard, Islam and Christianity: Theological Themes in Comparative Perspective (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2011), 97. 3 Nerina Rustomji, The Garden and the Fire: Heaven and Hell in Islamic Culture (New York: Columbia University Press, 2009), xvi. 4 Ibid., xiv.

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a taxonomy focusing on how modernity is valued.5 This taxonomy leaves us with four different approaches, all of which can be further expanded in subcategories. Here I will follow William Shepard’s terminology for the four categories: modernism, radical Islamism, traditionalism, and secularism.6 Shepard rightly states that ‘a given person may be said to have different orientations in different areas’.7 By briefly discussing this taxonomy of contemporary Muslim thinkers, I want to provide something of a context for the thinkers who will be explored below. This will make their respective places in the contemporary debate clearer. Rejecting polarisation, the modernist approach seeks to harmonise the relationship between Islam and the increasingly developing and changing technological, cultural, and economic processes called modernity.8 Rightly conceived, Islam ‘is rational, encourages science and learning, rejects the blind acceptance of authority and allows a wide range of interpretation.’9 Hence, true Islam is compatible with liberalism and values such as democracy, economic progress, and equality. Rather than rejecting ideas coming from the West, Islamic modernists seek to accommodate liberalism and give it an Islamic form and expression. One such modernist is the Muslim thinker, Fazlur Rahman, whose theology will be discussed below. More recent forms of modernism are often referred to as neo-modernism to distinguish them from early forms of modernism of 5 William Shepard, ‘The Diversity of Islamic Thought: Towards a Typology’, in Islamic Thought in the Twentieth Century, ed. Basheer M. Nafi and Suha Taji-Farouki (London: I.B. Tauris, 2004), 63; Mehran Kamrava, ‘Reformist Islam in Comparative Perspective’, in The New Voices of Islam: Rethinking Politics and Modernity: A Reader, ed. Mehran Kamrava (London: I.B. Tauris, 2009), 13; Suha Taji-Farouki, ‘Introduction’, in Modern Muslim Intellectuals and the Qur’an, ed. Suha Taji-Farouki (Oxford: Oxford University Press (in association with the Institute of Ismaili Studies, London), 2010), 9; Derek Hopwood, ‘Introduction: The Culture of Modernity in Islam and the Middle East’, in Islam and Modernity: Muslim Intellectuals Respond, ed. John Cooper, Ronald L. Nettler, and Mohamed Mahmoud (London: I.B. Tauris, 2000), 4; Charles Kurzman, ‘Liberal Islam and its Islamic Context’, in Liberal Islam: A Sourcebook, ed. Charles Kurzman (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998), 5. 6 Shepard, ‘The Diversity of Islamic Thought’, 64–84. 7 Ibid., 64. 8 In other works on contemporary Muslim thinking, this approach is called ‘Liberal Islam’ or ‘Progressive Muslims’, although this latter term tends to include a wider scope of thinkers than ‘modernist’ does. For a more detailed discussion, see Kurzman, ‘Liberal Islam and its Islamic Context’, 5. See also Omid Safi, ed. Progressive Muslims: On Justice, Gender and Pluralism (Oxford: Oneworld, 2008), 17–18. 9 Shepard, ‘The Diversity of Islamic Thought’, 70.

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the late 19th and early 20th centuries. From this point of view, Rahman is a neo-modernist thinker: the ethical perspective from which he (re)interprets the Islamic tradition illustrates the neo-modernistic paradigm with respect to his relationship to tradition. Characteristically, he argues that ‘a more positive and a more open Muslim attitude towards the others can only be achieved if Muslims hearken more to the Qur’an than to the historical formulations of Islam.’10 But this reinterpretation cannot be achieved through a literal approach to the Qur’an: The implementation of the Qur’an cannot be carried out literally in the context of today because this may result in thwarting the very purposes of the Qur’an and that, although the findings … should be seriously studied and given due weight, it may well be found that in many cases their findings were either mistaken or sufficed for the needs of that society but not for today. This approach is so revolutionary and so radically different from the approaches generally adopted…. But this would seem to be the only honest method…. Failing this, this writer does not see any alternative for Islam except, in course of time, to be reduced to a set of rites which will claim emotional attachment for some time to come.11 Hence, Rahman’s suggestion is that to a certain extent Islam must adapt to modernity if it is to remain relevant. As Shepard points out, radical Islamism is modern in a certain sense, namely, in that it originates in a modernist context and thus takes modernity as a fact.12 While secularists and modernists accept Western modernity, radical Islamists seek to replace it.13 Islamism is commonly seen as ‘the belief that Islam should guide social and political as well as personal life.’14 Obviously, not all forms of Islamism are radical: there are also moderate Islamisms. Sayyid Qutb, the Egyptian Muslim Brotherhood ideologue, is an example of radical Islamism. He rejects every attempt to build a society that is not founded on Islam:

10 11 12 13 14

Fazlur Rahman, ‘The People of the Book and the Diversity of “Religions”’, in Christianity through Non-Christian Eyes, ed. Paul J. Griffiths (Maryknoll: Orbis Books, 1990), 110. Fazlur Rahman, ‘The Impact of Modernity on Islam’, Islamic Studies 5, no. 2 (1966), 127. Other terms that overlap with ‘radical Islamism’ to a large extent are ‘fundamentalism and ‘revivalism’. For a discussion, see Kurzman, ‘Liberal Islam and its Islamic Context’, 5. Shepard, ‘The Diversity of Islamic Thought’, 74. Sheri Berman, ‘Islamism, Revolution, and Civil Society’, Perspectives on Politics 1, no. 2 (2003), 257.

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Islam knows only two kinds of societies, the Islamic and the jahili. The Islamic society is that which follows Islam in belief and ways of worship, in law and organisation, in morals and manners. The jahili society is that which does not follow Islam and in which neither the Islamic belief and concepts, nor Islamic values or standards, Islamic laws and regulations, or Islamic morals and manners are cared for.15 Radical Islamism is not represented in this study (nor is any corresponding radical Christian or Jewish thinker), mainly because this approach has little to contribute to the issues we are exploring.16 Traditionalism constitutes quite a large and imprecise category of Muslim thinkers.17 It includes both the more conservative scholars who forcefully reject modernity and the Sufi scholars influenced by perennial philosophy, such as Seyyed Hossein Nasr.18 In general, Shepard prefers to denote the latter group Neo-traditionalists. Both forms of traditionalism assign less importance to modernity and the West.19 Furthermore, they ‘are strongly loyal to the traditional practices and past consensus, finding in them a wisdom which is not to be lightly rejected.’20 The Iranian scholar Mujtaba Musavi Lari, whose eschatology will be discussed below, is probably best described as a traditionalist of the conservative kind. He is explicitly critical of modernity and the West. Among other things, he states that these non-Muslim ways of life ‘actually destroy and 15 16

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Sayyid Qutb, Milestones, trans. Mohammed Moinuddin Siddiqui, 2nd ed. (Salimiah: Al Faisal Press, 1989), 173. Needless to say, the radical branches of each respective religious tradition are radical in their own distinct ways. Hence, I do not suggest that there are Jewish thinkers who demand that the halakhah should be implemented universally in the same way that radical Islamists demand the implementation of shari‘a. But there are groups in both Christianity and Judaism that are particularly unaccommodating vis-à-vis the religious Other. Other related terms are ‘customary Islam’ and ‘conservative’. See, for instance, Kurzman, ‘Liberal Islam and its Islamic Context’, 5. The term Philosophia perennis was probably coined in the 16th century, but it is a tradition with neo-platonistic roots. It is often associated with thinkers such as René Guénon (1886-1951), Frithjof Schuon (1907-1998) and Seyyed Hossein Nasr (b. 1933). A central belief is that all religious traditions have a common core of divine knowledge. See for instance James S. Cutsinger ‘Perennial Philosophy and Christianity’, in Christianity: The Complete Guide, ed. John Bowden (New York: Continuum, 2005), 912–914. Sayyid Qutb, ‘War, Peace, and Islamic Jihad’, in Contemporary Debates in Islam: An Anthology of Modernist and Fundamentalist Thought, ed. Mansoor Moaddel and Kamran Talattof (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2002), 244–45. Shepard, ‘The Diversity of Islamic Thought’, 63.

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cast away the basic elements which nature itself included in man’s composition.’21 His solution to the deficiencies he observes is to support the Islamic tradition and its eschatological dimension as the better alternative.22 While it is important to discuss secularism with regard to the relationship between state and religion, the category does not meaningfully apply to the present survey of Muslim theology. Some scholars suggest that there is a new approach developing, in addition to the ones that Shepard mentioned. If so, the closest neighbour to this new trend is traditionalism. Yet these other thinkers interpret the tradition in a more dynamic and context-driven manner than the traditionalists in Shepard’s taxonomy. In Carool Kersten’s words, this group constitutes a cluster of ‘thinkers who believe that Arabic-Islamic culture requires a renewal rather than a radical change to accommodate modernity’.23 An appropriate label for these defenders of the Islamic heritage is ‘traditional Islam’. Abdal Hakim Murad is one of the leading figures in this group.24 This branch of contemporary Islamic thought is still in its first phases and thus descriptions are necessarily provisional. If we recognise Traditional Islam as a particular branch of contemporary Islamic thinking, we find that it differs from traditionalism by promoting a more dynamic and comprehensive view of the Islamic tradition and by applying modern tools when interpreting this tradition. These thinkers distinguish themselves from modernism by refusing to adapt the Islamic tradition to conform to certain modern values. Moreover, they emphasise that the true Islamic tradition is passed down from former generations of religious leaders. Hence, they are critical of a modernistic epistemology which acknowledges the individual’s ability to acquire the Islamic tradition by him- or herself. They are deeply familiar with both the Islamic tradition and Western academic institutions. The reason why Traditional Islam is of some interest in this study is that William C. Chittick, who will be discussed below, can be associated with this group. At the very least, Chittick has had some influence on one of the leading

21 22 23 24

Mujtaba Musavi Lari, Western Civilisation Through Muslim Eyes (Guildford: F. J. Goulding, 1977), 51. Ibid., 141. Carool Kersten, Cosmopolitans and Heretics: New Muslim Intellectuals and the Study of Islam (New York: Columbia University Press, 2011), 4. On a website for presenting their view of Islamic thinking, Shaykh Nuh Keller and he claim the website to be ‘One of the Web’s Leading and Original Resources for Traditional Islam since 1996’ (italics added). See ‘Masud’, http://www.masud.co.uk/.

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figures in this group, Hamza Yusuf.25 Yusuf speaks reverently of Chittick and his work in his lectures on Islamic theology and The Vision of Islam.26 Hence, the three theologians I shall discuss can be said to represent three different orientations in Muslim thought (neo-modernist, traditionalist, and traditional Islam). Moreover, they represent different Muslim denominations (Sunni and Shi‘a). Nevertheless, the most important and obvious criterion by which these scholars were selected is their significant contributions to the field of eschatology. Introducing Muslim Theologies of Religions Like Christianity, the historical situation in which Islam originated was pluralistic. In the Qur’an and the early Islamic tradition, we encounter a number of theological notions that reflect this plural situation: kafir (the unbeliever), ahl al-kitab (the People of the Book), and dhimmis (non-Muslims who enjoy legal protection in an Islamic state, primarily Jews and Christians), to mention three.27 Hence, it is hardly surprising that there are also contemporary Muslim theological reflections on other religions. That being said, the theology of religions discourse arises by and large in a Christian theological context and is therefore shaped by Christian concerns. Of course, this does not stand in the way of the classification of Muslim thinkers as, exclusivists, inclusivists, or pluralists. The Christian scholar Lewis Winkler makes such an attempt in the introduction to his book on Abdulaziz Sachedina and Wolfhart Pannenberg.28 Winkler himself is eager to note that the taxonomy he uses is ‘not strictly Christian in nature.’29 Hugh Goddard applies the same taxonomy and relates it to contemporary Muslim scholars. Goddard actually finds it difficult to name any Muslim thinker who is a pluralist, though he does discuss some ‘proto-pluralists’.30 25

For what it’s worth, the latter was considered the world’s most influential Muslim scholar in 2009 in ‘The 500 Most Influential Muslims’. The official website can be found at ‘The Muslim 500’, http://themuslim500.com/. Yusuf remains present on these lists and is #33 in 2017. 26 The entire series of recorded lectures can be found at Hamza Yusuf, ‘Lectures on ‘The Vision of Islam’’, http://www.ilookisee.co.uk/Lectures/CD%20Lectures/Hamza%20Yusuf %20-%20Vision%20Of%20Islam.htm. 27 As Mona Siddiqui remarks, ‘Christians’ are not referred to explicitly in the Qur’an. Rather, they are included in the term ‘People of the Book’. Moreover, the name ‘Nazarenes’ (nasara) occurs about fourteen times in the Qur’an. Mona Siddiqui, Christians, Muslims, and Jesus (London: Yale University Press, 2013), 21–22. 28 Winkler, Muslim and Christian Responses, 35–41. 29 Ibid., 33, footnote 68. 30 Hugh Goddard, A History of Christian-Muslim Relations (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2000), 166.

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The American Muslim scholar Mohammad Hassan Khalil investigates the soteriological fate of non-Muslims in the works of the three ‘classical’ Muslim thinkers al-Ghazali, Ibn al-‘Arabi, and Ibn Taymiyya, and the modern thinker Rashid Rida.31 Khalil’s rich study illustrates the diversity of Muslim approaches to soteriology. Moreover, he rightly distinguishes between pluralism (or, for that matter, exclusivism or inclusivism) regarding truth and pluralism regarding salvation. It is clear, however, that the threefold paradigm does not sufficiently reflect the Muslim theological context. A good illustration of this is Reza Shah-Kazemi, whose views Khalil characterises as ‘perennial pluralism’.32 Nonetheless, Khalil refers to other assessments of Shah-Kazemi’s work, which state that it is ‘universalistic’ and upholds ‘aspects of exclusivism’ and that it is an ‘inclusive sufi approach’. Shah-Kazemi himself argues that all three approaches, including the exclusivist, are sanctioned by God.33 The perennial philosophical tradition that characterises Shah-Kazemi’s theology is difficult to fit into the threefold paradigm: it is certainly not exclusivist, and it is even more appreciative of other religious traditions than the inclusivist approach typically is. But it is not pluralistic—at least not in any way that John Hick’s position is. For example, according to Shah-Kazemi, Islam is better than any other tradition, and yet those other traditions (including Buddhism and Hinduism) are true and sanctioned by God. Hence, even though the various paths are equally true, it is possible for an adherent of Islam, such as Shah-Kazemi, to consider one’s own tradition to be superior.34 Having stated that the threefold paradigm is meaningful, albeit not ideal in an Islamic context, I shall try to present one Muslim scholar from each position. This will further illustrate the diversity of Muslim responses to religious plurality. In the line of contemporary thinkers we find Sayyid Qutb, the Egyptian thinker who was a leading figure of the Muslim Brotherhood in the 1960s. Regarding other religious traditions, Qutb declares that Islam is not the inheritance of any single nation or country. It is the religion of God and is for the whole world. It must have the right to shatter all those impediments that are found in the form of traditions and systems, and that fetter the freedom of choice of human beings…. As such it becomes obligatory for Islam to put an end to all such systems that serve 31 32 33 34

Mohammad Hassan Khalil, Islam and the Fate of Others: The Salvation Question (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012). Ibid., 140. Ibid., 140 and 210, note 159. Ibid., 140.

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as obstacles in the way of complete freedom of mankind. Religion can be established for God in all its fullness only in this way.35 The quote above is obviously exclusivist: not only do all other religions fail to lead to God and freedom, but the best way for a Muslim to approach them is by defeating them.36 An example of what is usually labelled Islamic pluralism is found in the writings of the South African scholar Farid Esack. Influenced by, among others, John Hick and Paul Knitter, Esack seeks support within the Muslim tradition for a more pluralist approach. Esack’s theology is an important illustration of the variety of theological responses to religious otherness among Muslim scholars. In his Qur’an, Liberation & Pluralism, he elaborates on significant Muslim terms like iman, islam, and kufr in order to reassess their meaning and implications. He argues that when they appear in the Qur’an, these terms apply to individuals and their qualities. They represent qualities that anyone can obtain and, therefore, are subject to change. Esack’s conclusion is that the Islamic tradition is far more conservative and exclusivist than the ‘true’ Islam found in the Qur’an. What was originally thought of as an individual quality was distorted and used to distinguish one’s own group from others.37 Esack argues that iman should be understood as a dynamic and mutable term for someone who is sincere and of good faith rather than as a descriptive term of any individual within the Muslim community.38 With respect to islam, Esack discusses the possibility of taking it as a verb rather than a noun. This would enable far more pluralistic interpretations of the Islamic tradition and thereby renegotiate religious identities. Following this line of thought, islam is the activity of devoting oneself to God: The Qur’an portrays a muslim as someone who submits to a divinity beyond, and more abiding, than that muslim and beyond reified religion. God is akbar (greater than) any conception of Him or any form of 35

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Sayyid Qutb, ‘War, Peace, and Islamic Jihad’, in Contemporary Debates in Islam: An Anthology of Modernist and Fundamentalist Thought, ed. Mansoor Moaddel and Kamran Talattof (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2002), 244–45. See the introduction (1.2.2) for a more thorough presentation of the threefold paradigm in a Christian setting. Farid Esack, Qur’an, Liberation & Pluralism: An Islamic Perspective of Interreligious Solidarity Against Oppression (Oxford: Oneworld, 1997), 115. Ibid., 117–25.

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institutionalized or non-institutionalized service to Him. It is to God that the Qur’an persistently requires islam.39 A third term of central importance to Esack is kufr. In Muslim theology, it often refers to the rejection of the signs of God in the Qur’an, i.e., unbelief. A classic example concerns the Pharaoh of Moses’s time who, in the Qur’an, makes a late confession in the hope that he will not drown in the Red Sea (‘I believe that there is no god but He in whom the Children of Israel believe; I am of those that surrender’).40 The question is whether this kind of utterance is enough to escape kufr. Esack’s position is that kufr has to have a broader significance beyond the question of whether or not a person believes the message of Muhammad. Consequently, Esack relates kufr to sociopolitical justice rather than to doctrinal matters. This is not to suggest that doctrinal matters are of no concern to kufr or the kafir (the one who commits kufr). Rather, the doctrinal matters should be understood in the light of ethics. The denial of God, for instance, is linked to corruption and the breaking of promises. Furthermore, kufr is not simply being outside the Muslim community but having a hostile attitude to all those who submit to God. In sum, Esack discusses three fundamental terms in Muslim eschatology and tries to demonstrate how they are all related to an ethical attitude rather than doctrinal convictions. Several critics have remarked that Esack fails to do justice to the Islamic tradition.41 One can also question the degree of pluralism in Esack’s approach. It is clear that he downplays the soteriological importance of doctrinal convictions and religious adherence in favour of ethics. But this leads to a certain exclusion of those who do not promote social justice. In between these two positions are a number of different inclusivist positions. The Tunisian scholar Muhammad al-Talbi is one example. He is positive regarding the possibility of salvation for non-Muslims, and he refers 39 40

41

Ibid., 134. Q. 10:90. For a discussion, see, for instance, Eric Ormsby, ‘The Faith of Pharaoh: A Disputed Question in Islamic Theology’, in Reason and Inspiration in Islam: Theology, Philosophy and Mysticism in Muslim Thought, ed. Todd Lawson (London: I.B. Tauris, 2005). Timothy Winter, ‘The Last Trump Card: Islam and the Supersession of Other Faiths’, Studies in Interreligious Dialogue 9, no. 2 (1999), 135; Sajjad H. Rizvi, ‘A Primordial e pluribus unum? Exegeses on Q. 2:213 and Contemporary Muslim Discourses on Religious Pluralism’, Journal of Qur’anic Studies 6, no. 1 (2004), 30–32; Khalil, Muslim Scholarly Discussions on Salvation and the Fate of ‘Others’, 207. In particular, Khalil criticises Esack’s interpretation of Rashid Rida. In a later and published version of his dissertation, Khalil edits this part and leaves out the strong criticism of Esack. See Khalil, Islam and the Fate of Others.

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appreciatively to Karl Rahner’s notion of anonymous Christians (‘I do not feel myself very far from Rahner’s general frame of thought’).42 But Talbi is explicitly critical of pluralistic attempts like Hick’s (‘his Copernican Revolution … has little chance of prevailing’).43 Hence, it is quite possible to find Muslim representatives of the different positions in the threefold paradigm. Another good example of the plurality within the Muslim responses to religious plurality is the edited volume of the Gerald Weisfeld Lectures in Glasgow 2006, Islam and Inter-Faith Relations.44 This book consists of Muslim theological assessments of other religions (Judaism, Christianity, Hinduism, and Buddhism) followed by a response from a theologian from the respective tradition and a joint discussion. Muhammad Kalish argues that the Muslim tradition must be rethought with regard to its claims of truth and salvation. He states that religion is a human invention and that God is not concerned with the question whether one is a Muslim, Hindu, or Shamanist. Ataullah Siddiqui takes a somewhat more traditional approach when he claims that the Qur’an is the communication of God to humankind and that Muhammad is the paradigmatic example of how a life should be lived. Siddiqui emphasises, however, that it is important for Muslim theologians to understand the otherness of the Other if mutual engagements are to take place.45 These and other works provide an important background for the explicit purpose of this chapter: to examine the place of the religious Other in Muslim eschatologies.46 I intend to show that this analysis is related to but not dependent on the underlying theology of religions. Hence, the eschatological exclusion or assimilation of the religious Other is not simply the result of a particular theology of religions. It also depends on other factors intrinsic to eschatology, such as how the eschaton is described. I shall now apply the heuristic tools and let them guide our readings of Mujtaba Musavi Lari, Fazlur Rahman, and William C. Chittick. 42

Mohamed Talbi, ‘Unavoidable Dialogue in a Pluralist World: A Personal Account’, Encounters: Journal of Inter-Cultural Perspectives 1, no. 1 (1995), 64. 43 Ibid. 44 Lloyd V. J. Ridgeon and Perry Schmidt-Leukel, eds., Islam and Inter-Faith Relations: The Gerald Weisfeld lectures 2006 (London: SCM Press, 2007). 45 Ataullah Siddiqui, ‘A Muslim View of Christianity’, in Islam and Inter-Faith Relations: The Gerald Weisfeld Lectures 2006, ed. Lloyd V. J. Ridgeon and Perry Schmidt-Leukel (London: SCM Press, 2007), 135. 46 Additional volumes that address Islamic theology of religions in general include Roger Boase, ed. Islam and Global Dialogue: Religious Pluralism and the Pursuit of Peace (Burlington: Ashgate, 2005); Muhammad Suheyl Umar, ed. The Religious Other: Towards a Muslim Theology of Other Religions in a Post-Prophetic Age (Lahore: Iqbal Academy Pakistan, 2008).

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Picturing Paradise: Mujtaba Musavi Lari Introduction The Iranian scholar Mujtaba Musavi Lari (1925-2013) never actually held a position at any university. Nonetheless, he had a degree in the Islamic sciences from Qum and worked on questions of religion, theology, and society throughout his career. Musavi Lari was a recognised Shi‘ite voice, and his works have been translated into some 25 languages.47 Several of his books have been translated into English by Hamid Algar, a former professor of Persian studies at University of California, Berkeley. In his speeches and writings, Musavi Lari addresses the relationship between the ‘Islamic world’ and ‘the West’. In one of his early books, he argues that Islamic civilisation is superior to the West’s.48 In Resurrection Judgment and the Hereafter he gives a detailed account for his eschatology.49 Eschatological Hermeneutics The relationship between this life and the next is one of the most important tasks for a human being to reflect on, according to Musavi Lari. It is imperative to see the two lives in relation to each other. When this life is assessed in light of the hereafter, the urgency of living it properly and righteously becomes evident. Moreover, the understanding of paradise influences this life. In Muhammad Surty’s words, the view of paradise may actually help ‘human beings to establish socioeconomic justice in the world’.50 According to Musavi Lari, the incomparable grandeur the hereafter is revealed when it is assessed in light of this life. In fact, this life could be seen as a game or a cultivation that prepares one for the hereafter. Life on earth is thus a means to achieve a higher goal, and death need not be so threatening.51 Musavi Lari’s thinking shows a hierarchy in the relationship between this world and the hereafter. One of the chapters in his work is called ‘The Sovereignty of the Spirit’, and here it is argued that the world is dualistic and that its spiritual realm is prior to the material.52 This dualism should not, however, result in a contempt of the material world nor of the body. Charles Le Gai Eaton elaborates on this point when he compares this 47 48 49 50 51 52

Many of these are available online, see www.musavilari.org/. Musavi Lari, Western Civilisation Through Muslim Eyes. Mujtaba Musavi Lari, Resurrection, Judgment and the Hereafter, trans. Hamid Algar (Qum: Foundation of Islamic C.P.W., 1992). Muhammad Surty, ‘Reflections on the Qur’anic Concept of Paradise’, Islamic Quarterly 30 no. 3 (1986), 183. Musavi Lari, Resurrection, Judgment and the Hereafter, 13, 27. Ibid., 95–104.

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world and the hereafter: it is not that the former is unreal and the latter real but that the hereafter is incomparably more intense in terms of experience. Hence, the relationship between the two may be likened to that of dreaming in relationship to wakefulness.53 Musavi Lari seeks to formulate a position where this world is neither considered an end in itself nor disregarded as irrelevant: The Noble Qur’an warns men not to make this unstable world the object of their worship and their ultimate goal… . Islam, then, does not devaluate this world; even grants nobility to the activities of man in this world. The fact that man’s gaze should be fixed on the next world as his ideal does not mean that he should have no share of this world.54 Although justice is a central notion in Musavi Lari’s writing, he does not think that it is accomplished in this life. On the contrary, neither the righteous nor the sinner is fully rewarded in this life.55 Consequently, Musavi Lari argues that justice needs to be thought of eschatologically. Paradise and hell serve to finally establish this justice. Moreover, paradise and hell also have pedagogical functions in the present life, preventing people from committing sins: Since, then, the absence of fear of God leads to corruption and sinful behaviour, religion prescribes that man should alternate between hope and fear: while hoping for God’s infinite mercy and generosity, man should reflect carefully and soberly on the consequences of his deeds, fearing their possible outcome.56 Hence, it is necessary for the human being to contemplate the hereafter and the two possible outcomes. Fear of hell should also be present within the believer. The relationship with God and the belief in the hereafter may result in good deeds and the lack of this belief might have fatal consequences: As soon as man’s inward relationship with God begins to weaken, and he begins to distance himself from a firm rooting in faith, the entirety of his being becomes a hunting ground for demons who rob him of all virtue, piety and the capacity for salvation.57 53 54 55 56 57

Charles Le Gai Eaton, Islam and the Destiny of Man (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1985), 225. Musavi Lari, Resurrection, Judgment and the Hereafter, 229. Ibid., 44. Ibid., 155. Ibid., 153. Jakob W. Wirén - 978-90-04-35706-8 Downloaded from Brill.com 04/04/2024 03:34:15PM via University of Wisconsin-Madison

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In a sense, the sheer belief in a hereafter is a means for salvation since it can provide the human being with the proper perspectives and a reasonable amount of fear from which he or she can benefit. Hence, Musavi Lari prescribes a mixture of encouragement and fear as theological medicine and states that corporeal descriptions of the hereafter and its rewards and punishments are necessary for ‘the masses’ to understand the severe eschatological consequences of one’s acts here and now.58 This view resembles the old Islamic notion of the diverse degrees of revelation. According to this notion, there is a particular form of revelation which takes the simplest intellects into account.59 Justice and the Religious Other As already stated, one of the keys to Musavi Lari’s eschatology is to see how it is linked with justice. His eschatological vision aims at the establishment of justice. The day of judgement is at the centre of this process. It is a recapitulation of a person’s entire life, every act and every thought; nothing will remain hidden. Musavi Lari reminds his readers of the Qur’anic verses according to which even human organs and skin will testify against the individual.60 This justice is simultaneously something to fear and to hope for. The role of God in establishing eschatological justice is somewhat elusive. Musavi Lari repeatedly stresses that God is the agent who produces justice, yet it is striking how intimately linked a person’s deeds and their consequences are. Is God reduced to a principle or natural law that simply carries out the unavoidable effects of our acts? This question is actually discussed among Muslim theologians.61 Musavi Lari states that, while God’s benevolence and mercy are universal, His justice requires Him to give to everyone in accordance with his need and his state; it is this wise principle, this all-encompassing law of divine justice, that ensures the firm orderliness of the world.62 Thus, the justice that God is bound to is God’s justice. In this context, Musavi Lari also refers to the well-known Qur’anic verses which declare that not an 58 59 60 61

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Ibid., 139. Yahya Michot, ‘Revelation’, in The Cambridge Companion to Classical Islamic Theology, ed. Tim Winter (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008), 182. Musavi Lari, Resurrection, Judgment and the Hereafter, 136. The verses are 41:20–21. See, for instance, Umar F. Abd-Allah, ‘Theological Dimensions of Islamic Law’, in The Cambridge Companion to Classical Islamic Theology, ed. Tim Winter (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008), 250. Musavi Lari, Resurrection, Judgment and the Hereafter, 153. Jakob W. Wirén - 978-90-04-35706-8 Downloaded from Brill.com 04/04/2024 03:34:15PM via University of Wisconsin-Madison

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atom’s weight of good or evil will remain unaccounted for.63 When he describes the hereafter, however, Musavi Lari refers to it as the fruit of the actions of the individual rather than a gift from God: what the pure and the virtuous come to enjoy is nothing other than the fruit and the effect of their deeds. Through the piety and the veracity they have practised, they have themselves produced the happiness that they enjoy both in this world and the hereafter.64 Musavi Lari states that the relationship between the deed and its eschatological consequences is ‘ontological’, which means that ‘the latter [is] the fruit and result of the former’.65 There are two sides to Musavi Lari’s argument regarding deeds and their eschatological consequences. On the one hand, the ‘ontological’ relation between deeds and the hereafter suggests that a person is not judged according to his or her beliefs. If that is so, then religious affiliation is not an important issue. One could even argue that the ethical emphasis of his eschatological vision provides space for religious otherness. Yet, on the other hand, he refers to belief in the afterlife as an advantage due to the fact that it prepares the ‘believer’ for the judgement. Musavi Lari frequently mentions ‘the unbeliever’ in his works. Here, we find the antithesis of the good and righteous Muslim. There is a hopeful future for believers and terrible consequences for all Others: ‘When we look in the other direction, we see anxiety and terror of impending punishment engulfing the sinners.’66 Hence, it is important to keep this recurring discourse of self and Other in mind. It is a discourse in which one is promised the pleasures of paradise and the other the dread torments of hell. As Mahmoud Ayoub points out, there are other Shi‘ite sources that make this more a question of religious belonging, where Jews and Christians have to choose between becoming Muslims and falling victim to the sword.67 Musavi Lari’s position is clearly different. There is, nevertheless, a tension between these two sides—between the strong 63

64 65 66 67

Ibid., 154. See, for instance, Q. 99:6-8: ‘Upon that day men shall issue in scatterings to see their works, and whoso has done an atom’s weight of good shall see it, and whoso has done an atom’s weight of evil shall see it.’ Ibid., 225. Ibid., 220. Ibid., 211. Mahmoud Ayoub, Redemptive Suffering in Islam: A Study of the Devotional Aspects of Ashura in Twelver Shi‘ism (The Hague: Mouton, 1978), 228.

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ethical focus and the horrific stories of what awaits the unbeliever. The tension is not easily solved, but it is important to point out that the unbeliever is not primarily the religious Other. Rather, the unbeliever is someone who denies the resurrection or does not believe in the afterlife.68 Hence Musavi Lari’s eschatology does not necessarily imply that the fate of the religious Other is to suffer the torments of hell. On the contrary, he uses the term ‘unbeliever’ as a synonym for a person who commits evil deeds.69 Given this we should look at the kind of ethics he is referring to. For example, he reflects on ‘God's punishing the unbelievers, criminals and tyrants with an eternity in hellfire.’70 In addition to this, he states that all human beings will ‘meet their Creator in a way determined by their deeds’.71 Needless to say, it is not always possible to make a clear-cut distinction between faith and ethics. The two are often intertwined, and this is the case in Muslim tradition as well. Is it, for instance, an evil to be a polytheist or to deny the message of Muhammad? Musavi Lari is not explicit on this matter in his eschatology, but from his other writings it seems that he would consider polytheism an evil act.72 If this is the case, his ethical emphasis actually implies that some people of other faiths are destined for hell. But the expression ‘all divine religions’ does include the Christian Other, the Jewish Other, and possibly additional religious Others. With respect to these, he states that all their deeds are subject to a final reckoning and that: They [the prophets and the messengers of the divine religions] have further commanded their followers to make use of their potentialities for growth, development and change in order to let all dimensions of their existence flourish and to prosper and attain salvation. They have warned them against doing anything which would earn them misery and wretchedness in the hereafter and cause them to burn in the fire of eternal regret.73 68 69

70 71 72

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Musavi Lari, Resurrection, Judgment and the Hereafter, 138. Musavi Lari is not the only Muslim thinker who is ambiguous with regard to the term ‘unbelief’ (kufr). Hamza Yusuf is also careful not to equate the unbeliever with the religious Other. Rather, he offers a rich discussion of the concept and its possible interpretations. Yusuf discerns several types of kufr in the Qur’an, none of which applies directly to religious otherness. On the contrary, it concerns ethical behaviour, hypocrisy, and the rejection of any belief. See Hamza Yusuf, ‘Who are the Disbelievers?’, Seasons, no. 2 (2008). Musavi Lari, Resurrection, Judgment and the Hereafter, 220. Ibid., 36. See, for instance, Mujtaba Musavi Lari, Hidden Truths in God’s Word: Some New Derivations from Qur’anic Concepts, trans. Abbas Jaffer (Qom: Foundation of Islamic C.P.W., 2009), 163. Available at http://www.musavilari.org/files/pdf/0612.pdf. Musavi Lari, Resurrection, Judgment and the Hereafter, 31.

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Musavi Lari sees it as a great advantage to believe in the hereafter since it provides a person with the proper perspective and awareness of the importance of living truthfully and righteously. The fact that he, as someone who is not primarily interested in questions of religious diversity, still reflects on the Christian Other, ‘all divine religions’, and the messengers of other religions is partly the result of these terms being present already in the Qur’an and the early Islamic tradition. As we saw in the second chapter, Joseph Ratzinger and Jürgen Moltmann, for instance, rarely mention the religious Other in their eschatologies. Later in this chapter (3.2.7), I shall argue that the early awareness of the religious Other in the Muslim tradition is a ‘hermeneutical privilege’, compared to the Jewish and the Christian traditions. Note, however, that my point is not that the hermeneutical privilege implies that the religious Other is necessarily respected or acknowledged as a fellow believer. My argument concerns the more basic fact that there is an awareness of the Jewish and Christian Other, with the result that they are often theologically present in the (eschatological) discussion.74 The emphasis in Musavi Lari’s eschatology on this matter is ethical. As we have seen, the consequences are manifold. First, the religious Other is not explicitly affirmed or acknowledged. Second, it seems that the religious Others who espouse ‘polytheism’ are doomed to eternal punishment. Third, the religious Others who adhere to the divine religions will be judged according to their deeds and can possibly share in the joys of paradise. The belief in a hereafter puts the Muslim, the Christian, and the Jewish Other in a somewhat better position; the eschatological door is opened with ethical keys, rather than faith-based ones. Therefore, even though Musavi Lari does not address the question of religious pluralism in particular, and even though his eschatology clearly disregards any positive future for the ‘unbelievers’, there is no a priori rejection of the Christian and Jewish Other. Quite the contrary: the intention of the individual is what regulates one’s relationship—including a Muslim’s—with God.75 74

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In the introduction to her Reader in Christian-Muslim Relations, Mona Siddiqui surveys different phases and aspects of interactions between Christians and Muslims. Her account is nuanced and testifies to encounters of hostility and disinterest as well as more peaceful and respectful conversations. Yet, notwithstanding this diversity of expressions, she mentions the primary dictum of what I call hermeneutical privilege: ‘As the youngest of the three monotheistic faiths, from the outset Islam developed in both confrontation and conversation with Christians.’ Mona Siddiqui, ‘Introduction’, in The Routledge Reader in Christian-Muslim Relations, ed. Mona Siddiqui (Abingdon: Routledge, 2013), 1. Se also the chapter ‘Muslim Awareness of Other Religious Communities’ in John Renard, Islamic Theological Themes: A Primary Source Reader (Oakland: University of California Press, 2014), 77–102. Musavi Lari, Resurrection, Judgment and the Hereafter, 191.

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In order to choose the path of justice and true happiness, to reach the shore of salvation it is therefore enough to follow the path that our indwelling and essential nature has traced out before us.76 God’s role seems restricted due to the strong insistence on justice which is meted out as a consequence of one’s deeds. To avoid misinterpreting Musavi Lari, however, we need to see that the gift of God is justice. This means that it is not possible to separate God’s gift or one’s relationship with God from a justice constituted by the relationship between deeds and consequences. Two Eternal Destinies Musavi Lari clearly affirms two eschatological destinies for humanity. These two destinies are to be understood as eternal places. This means that the idea of annihilation is clearly ruled out. Each human being will reach the kind of fulfilment he or she seeks. Without such a fulfilment, human life would have been meaningless, according to Musavi Lari. But not all human beings will be rewarded with ‘paradise’.77 Musavi Lari refers to those for whom there will be no salvation in different ways, but most often he relies on ethical descriptors like ‘black-hearted’,78 ‘evil’79 or ‘impure’.80 He is quite explicit regarding the state of damnation that is called ‘hell’: the pain and horrors its inhabitants will face are beyond words, just like the pleasures of paradise. This means that the horrific images of torment and sorrow in hell are no more than images insofar as they do not adequately describe the terrible state of those in hell. Musavi Lari connects this line of thought with a discussion in Muslim theology on whether hell is eternal.81 He does not argue at any length but finds support from some

76 77 78 79 80 81

Ibid., 226. Ibid., 33–34. Ibid., 37. Ibid., 177. Ibid., 128. Some Muslim thinkers see hell as a temporary state. For a discussion, see Eaton, Islam and the Destiny of Man, 236–37. Eaton argues that only God is eternal and that hell at best (worst) can be of ‘indefinite duration’. Be it of temporal or indefinite duration, God can and will put an end to the suffering of the damned, Eaton argues. Jon Hoover addresses the same issue in an article on the 14th-century Muslim thinker Ibn Qayyim al-Jawziyya. He shows that Ibn Qayyim argues in favour of eternal damnation in his earlier writings but changes position and declares in later works that the torments of hell will eventually come to an end: Jon Hoover, ‘Islamic Universalism: Ibn Qayyim al Jawziyya’s Salafi Deliberations on the Duration of Hell-Fire’, The Muslim World 99, no. 1 (2009).

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Qur’anic verses and refers to ‘bloodthirsty tyrants who have blackened the pages of history’ as examples of people who deserve damnation.82 The interpretation that the punishments of hell are somehow limited or temporary is ‘unacceptable and unrealistic’.83 Hence, he considers hell to be as eternal as paradise. Again, it seems that Musavi Lari’s argument is keyed more to moral conduct than religiously specific practices. What matters most is not one’s identity as a Muslim or the practice of shari‘a. Rather, what lasts eschatologically are a person’s good intentions and the quality of her or his deeds. Barzakh Barzakh refers to the intermediate realm between death and the day of judgement in Muslim eschatology. Musavi Lari follows a well-known pattern in his description of barzakh. In death, the soul departs from the body and exists separately until the day of judgement. In Muslim theology this is sometimes thought of as the third phase of human life (the first being in the mother’s womb, the second between birth and death and the fourth refers to the hereafter).84 John Renard compares barzakh to the Christian notion of limbo.85 The parallel works in the sense that it symbolises a state that is neither earth nor heaven. But the comparison is not totally satisfactory since the Christian notion of limbo represents a state that is eternal and irrevocable (and actually seen as part of hell rather than heaven). In this respect, barzakh is better thought of as an Islamic parallel to the role purgatory plays in Catholic theology. It is a foretaste of the hereafter, and Musavi Lari compares it to taking a nap before noon, i.e., a small pause before something much more significant.86 An event associated with barzakh and commonly referred to in the Muslim tradition is an interrogation in which two angels ask the deceased: Who is your Lord? Who is your prophet? What is your religion?87 Given the interreligious significance of an interrogation that specifically raises the issue of religious affiliation, it is worth noting that Musavi Lari does not mention this narrative element of Muslim eschatology. Nonetheless, his way of categorising people in 82 83 84

Musavi Lari, Resurrection, Judgment and the Hereafter, 151–54. Ibid., 216. See, for instance, Ahmad H. Sakr, Life, Death and the Life After (New Dehli: Islamic Book Service, 1992), 5–10. 85 Renard, Islam and Christianity, 97. 86 Musavi Lari, Resurrection, Judgment and the Hereafter, 179. 87 Jane Idleman Smith and Yvonne Yazbeck Haddad, The Islamic Understanding of Death and Resurrection (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002), 41–42.

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barzakh has some interreligious implications. Due to the correlation between this life and barzakh, every individual belongs to his or her own ‘world’ in the intermediate realm. A person is still connected to near and dear ones, as well as the deeds that person committed on earth. Thus, the intermediate state is individually experienced by everyone.88 Nonetheless, it is possible to distinguish broadly between three categories of people. The first of these encompasses the pure and virtuous. The second category comprises unbelievers and evildoers. While the first category is focused on ethics, the second concerns questions of belief, although—as we have seen—it is not specified who the ‘unbeliever’ is. The third category sheds some further light on this, since it includes people between belief and unbelief and those who have not had a proper opportunity to learn about Islam and recognise its truth. Persons in the first and second category will experience a sort of preview of paradise and hell respectively, while those in the third enter something in-between, an intermediate realm where they will not ‘be punished nor will they enjoy blessings; they will simply wait for their destiny to be clarified.’89 Given this third category, it seems that no non-Muslim should be included in the first category; rather, they will have to wait for a later assessment. It is not made entirely clear what the central criterium is for distinguishing a person from the first and the third category, but it is possible that the interrogation mentioned earlier is an underlying assumption in Musavi Lari’s theology as well. Barzakh is beyond both time and space, which means that it could be experienced in its entirety all at once. It is possible for the souls of the deceased to perceive each other and to perceive the living. According to Musavi Lari, this is part of the reward. While those in the first category experience good things in these ‘encounters’, those in the second category experience terrible things. And, one might expect, those in the third category do not experience anything at all.90 Musavi Lari’s theology of barzakh raises the question of the believer and the non-believer much more than his eschatology does elsewhere. Questions familiar to the Christian theologian arise, such as: What about those who have never received our witness? Musavi Lari does not explain what determines the fate of people in the third category. Are they somehow to surrender to the message of the Qur’an, or is it the quality of their lives that will be examined? Musavi Lari refers in passing to ‘all divine religions’ in this context.91 His

88 89 90 91

Musavi Lari, Resurrection, Judgment and the Hereafter, 178. Ibid., 181. Ibid., 178–79. See ibid., 31.

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argument is that there are several religions (the expression is well known in Muslim tradition, and the extension of the term ‘divine religions’ here is somewhat disputed)92 that promote the ‘responsibility and accountability of man’.93 Based on the guidance within these religions, man sows in this life the seed of his life in the hereafter; he determines himself the fate that will be his in the next world. To express it differently, his eternal life is formed from the materials he himself provides in advance.94 For now, it is enough to state that there is a tension in the way Musavi Lari assesses the religious otherness of the Other in his theology. While it seems mandatory to embrace the message of Muhammad, other religious traditions are still capable of preparing one for the hereafter. The Characteristics of Paradise Musavi Lari’s vision of paradise is a good example of Rustomji’s observation quoted above that Muslim eschatology is more concerned with an afterworld than with an afterlife.95 Musavi Lari argues that paradise and hell are realities that exist in parallel with the here and now and independently of any human beings on earth. This certainly emphasises the communal and bodily aspects of the hereafter, as distinct from a belief in the eternal life of the individual. It relativises the question of the individual and his or her destiny. The eschatological future is the future of a world, not of separate individuals. Even though the centrality of the place of the individual in the hereafter is challenged, there is still something of a discrepancy in Musavi Lari’s eschatology with regard to individual human beings and eschatology. On the one hand, paradise is filled with material and spiritual pleasures and beauty. Musavi Lari does not avoid these very concrete, figurative, and realistic descriptions of the hereafter.96 On the other hand, he clearly states that these images offer no more than an approximation of paradise and hell. The hereafter is fundamentally incomprehensible to human beings: 92

For a theological discussion on this term, see Osman Zümrüt, ‘Some Reflections on Islamic View of Other Divine Religions within the Context of Inter-religious Dialogue’, Journal of Religious Culture, no. 91 (2007). 93 Musavi Lari, Resurrection, Judgment and the Hereafter, 31. 94 Ibid. 95 Rustomji, The Garden and the Fire, xvii-xviii. 96 Musavi Lari, Resurrection, Judgment and the Hereafter, 148–51.

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Only a pale and inevitably deficient portrayal of the blessings of paradise can be given for the inhabitants of this finite world. [We can have no more than] an approximate and allusive description of paradise.97 The discrepancy between the highly realistic images of the hereafter and the conviction that it is not possible to capture the essence of the hereafter in human language might reveal something of the purpose of eschatological statements in Musavi Lari’s theology: its pedagogical function. This is not to deny the assurance with which he puts forth his eschatological assertions, but they also serve to regulate the Muslim community in the here and now. This idea receives further support when we look more closely at his view of paradise. He declares that not everyone is equal or experiences paradise in the same way. Rather, a person’s ‘place’ in paradise is determined by that person’s deeds, by the character and quality of her life. It is possible to experience regret in paradise, as when one looks upon those who have reached a higher degree of fulfilment. Obviously, this does not deny the perfection of paradise, but it should compel everyone to strive for moral perfection in this life. This is supposedly precisely the reason why Musavi Lari sticks to concrete eschatological narratives. Our languages do not adequately describe spiritual pleasure or horror, and, therefore, the concrete descriptions of food, wine, and gardens (or torment, suffering and fire) can serve to motivate the individual to live good and pious lives.98 The communal aspect is central in Musavi Lari’s afterworld. Paradise will gather people to eat, drink and be happy together. Two of the key concepts in his eschatology are peace and security and these are both concepts which can only be applied to communities. Within this communion of security and peace, the human being is able to grow in his or her likeness to God. The eschatological future is not merely a continuous personal existence, but a transformed existence in a world of God’s creation. In Rustomji’s words: an afterworld offers the structure of a world, the rhythm of daily life, and the complexity of interaction experienced in the earthly world. Eschatological dramas in Islamic narratives promise a future afterlife and detail an existent afterworld.99

97 Ibid., 148–49. 98 Ibid., 150–51. 99 Rustomji, The Garden and the Fire, 21.

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With respect to the analyses in chapter two, where it was shown that the eschaton is sometimes christologically conditioned by Christian theologians, it is important to see how Muslim theologians describe the eschaton. Interestingly, Musavi Lari does not come close to a corresponding ‘Islamisation’ of the eschaton. There is no attempt to consider the hereafter as a gathering around the Qur’an nor as an eternal mosque. Actually, not even the prophet Muhammad seems to play a major role. Moreover, Musavi Lari mentions neither prayer nor other religious commitments such as almsgiving or fasting. As will be clear, this is a characteristic that is shared among all three of the Muslim thinkers analysed in this chapter. The Islamic institutions and the distinguishing features of Muslim life are absent from the eschaton. What remains a distinctive characteristic of the Garden is the individual’s peaceful relationship with God and other human beings.100 The comparison does not in any way suggest that Christ and the Qur’an are equivalent. Rather, the argument, which will be discussed further below, concerns how and in what way eschatological descriptions are conditioned at all. The relationship between paradise and this world is important in both Christian and Muslim eschatology. In chapter two, I discussed some implications of the tendency in Christian theology to somehow consider the eschaton to be a restoration of creation’s original shape. It can be noted that Musavi Lari also views paradise as the restoration of creation. He refers to the Qur’anic verses where it is stated that God restores the creation to its original form after death.101 Since the Fall and the concept of inherited sin do not apply (at least not in the way they do in Christian tradition) to Muslim eschatology, however, one must ask what kind of restoration it refers to. According to Musavi Lari, the primary goal of resurrection is for human beings to reach the final stage of their development and thereby gain happiness. Hence, the restoration is more about fulfilment and overcoming death than about retrieving a state that was lost due to transgression and sin.102 After all, there is no transgression to which all human beings plead guilty. Therefore, in precisely this respect, the implications for the religious Other seem to be limited. Musavi Lari’s eschatology has revealed a strong rejection of the evil or unbelieving Other. The vivid descriptions of hell’s eternal punishment serve as 100 The observation is not limited to Musavi Lari only but seems to apply to Islamic eschatology more generally. See ibid., 90–91. 101 Q. 30:27: ‘And it is He who originates creation, then brings it back again, and it is very easy for Him. His is the loftiest likeness in the heavens and the earth; He is the All-mighty, the All-wise.’ See also Musavi Lari, Resurrection, Judgment and the Hereafter, 79. 102 Ibid., 139.

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a contrast which makes the pleasures of paradise seem even more fabulous. Musavi Lari is also convinced that the descriptions of hell have a deterrent effect on many people, preventing them from doing evil. But this is not the entire picture. When it comes to theological space, we have seen that Musavi Lari’s eschatology does not leave much room for religious otherness. Unbelievers and polytheists are thought to be literally punished in the eschaton. The ethical emphasis might leave some room for the Christian and Jewish Other (through their belonging to the ‘divine religions’). As already argued, the less tradition-specific and non-Islamising descriptions of paradise relate to the issue of theological interplay and will be further discussed at the end of this chapter. Eschatology and Ethical Criteria: Fazlur Rahman Introduction The Sunni theologian Fazlur Rahman (1919-1988) was born in what is now called the Islamic Republic of Pakistan. He earned his doctorate at the University of Oxford and served as Professor of Islamic Thought at the University of Chicago for nearly two decades. As mentioned in the introduction to this chapter, Rahman belongs to the neo-modernist branch of Muslim scholars. He holds that the Islamic tradition needs to be subject to continuous reformation. This reformation, in his view, must always be centred on ethics, according to Rahman. In fact, he states that ethics is the essence of the Qur’an.103 The standard picture of Islamic eschatology is central in Rahman’s thinking as well: the joy of the Garden and the punishments of hell constitute the eschatological horizon for all human beings. Contrary to Musavi Lari’s view, paradise for Rahman is not an already existing entity separate from this world.104 He does not believe in the destruction of the universe but in its transformation. Thus, the paradise Rahman refers to is this world, albeit fundamentally changed and renewed. It is still God’s creation, but taken to a higher level. Interestingly, Jane I. Smith and Yvonne Y. Haddad argue in favour of Musavi Lari’s position and state that ‘[w]e read in the orthodox creeds the clear statement that the Garden and the Fire are a reality and that they are already created and in existence.’105

103 Fazlur Rahman, Islam and Modernity: Transformation of an Intellectual Tradition (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1982), 154. 104 Fazlur Rahman, Major Themes of the Qur’an, 2nd ed. (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2009), 111. 105 Smith and Haddad, The Islamic Understanding of Death and Resurrection, 92.

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Rahman does not subscribe to a dualistic view in which non-material souls will live eternally. On the contrary, he repeatedly stresses that the entire human being will be recreated in the hereafter.106 An Islamic Garden? Rahman is certainly not detailed in his descriptions of the Garden and the Fire. In contrast to Musavi Lari, Rahman merely summarises the traditional descriptions of the beautiful Garden with its trees and rivers. Rather than actually describing the Garden and the pleasures of being there, he reflects on the extent to which these descriptions are to be seen as literal characterisations. His way of holding on to the traditional images without replacing them, and yet while challenging the way they are to be understood, creates a certain distance between the reader and the eschatological narrative. The reader is not allowed to believe in the pleasures of the Garden literally, but these pleasures are still ‘real’ to some extent. Rahman makes clear that, with regard to the Garden and the Fire, it is ‘their spiritual aspect that is supreme’.107 At the same time, ‘the happiness and the torture of the hereafter is certainly not just spiritual’.108 The Islamic view of the afterlife consists of physical happiness and physical torment, and the reason for this, according to Rahman, is that these are the effects of spiritual pleasure and pain. Rahman explains: ‘There are thus literal psycho-physical effects of the Fire, without there being a literal Fire’.109 Again, it seems that Rahman’s modern interpretation challenges a more literal Islamic eschatology but avoids actually replacing its tenets. For the purposes of this study it is important to point out that, in his somewhat brief descriptions of the Garden, Rahman’s view shares some fundamental characteristics with Musavi Lari’s. The absence of specifically religious elements, such as the formal worship (salah), the common place of worship (the mosque), or the holy book (the Qur’an) is striking. Like Musavi Lari’s eschatology, Rahman’s vision of paradise entails little more than human beings’ relationship with each other and with God. It should be mentioned that, as Smith and Haddad point out, ‘[w]hile the Qur’anic descriptions of the Garden do not specifically mention God, they clearly promise that the faithful will gaze upon His face’.110 Rahman’s position could be phrased such that his Islamic eschatology does not include any Islamised vision of the Garden. 106 Rahman, Major Themes of the Qur’an, 111–12. 107 Ibid., 113. 108 Ibid., 112. 109 Ibid., 113. 110 Smith and Haddad, The Islamic Understanding of Death and Resurrection, 86.

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The judgement is the fundamental event that initiates these eschatological rewards and punishments. In Rahman’s theology, three main purposes for judgement can be discerned: first, it establishes justice; second, it elucidates the meaning of life; third, it solves ongoing human conflicts.111 How, then, are judgement and religious otherness related? The initial answer could be that Rahman’s notion of judgement is not concerned with questions of religious belonging, this is not completely true, however. Thus, in what follows we will approach this and other questions through the heuristic tools identified in the second chapter. This means that our primary concern is to look more closely at how eschatology interacts, theologically, with other elements of Muslim thinking and look at the theological space of the religious Other as other in Rahman’s eschatology. Theological Interplay and Taqwa A vital notion related to the question of theological interplay is taqwa. Rahman is clear concerning personal responsibility with regard to the rewards of the hereafter. Indeed, the interconnectedness of eschatology and ethics is strong in Islamic theology in general,112 and Rahman is no exception. One purpose of human life is to develop taqwa, a capacity to know what is right and to act accordingly. Taqwa is similar to—but not identical with—notions such as conscience and the fear of God. It involves the moral sense of what is right, but it is not limited to that sense: it is also about choosing whose voice to obey. Thus, taqwa involves not only moral instincts but an active choice in letting God guide one’s conscience. Rahman follows the established Muslim view when he argues that each human being is personally responsible for his or her deeds and that there is no original sin.113 There is no need for a general reconciliation nor for intercession and certainly not for any saviour, according to Rahman.114 His dismissal of any kind of intercession reflects Rahman’s 111 Rahman, Major Themes of the Qur’an, 116. 112 See, for instance, the discussion in Willem A. Bijlefeld, ‘Eschatology: Some Muslim and Christian Data’, Islam and Christian-Muslim Relations 15, no. 1 (2004), 37–38. 113 It is well known that Islam lacks the concept of original sin, at least in a way that corresponds to Christian tradition. Adam and his wife made a slip, but they were forgiven and ‘the slip’ was nothing that affected them and their descendants. The Qur’an indicates that from the beginning God created human beings capable of great achievements and terrible deeds. For a discussion based on relevant Qur’anic passages, see Ziauddin Sardar, Reading the Qur’an: The Contemporary Relevance of the Sacred Text of Islam (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), 89–93. 114 Rahman, Major Themes of the Qur’an, 19.

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modernistic approach that was discussed in the introduction to this chapter. In short, Rahman finds no room for the notion of ‘salvation’ in Islamic eschatology.115 Instead, the question is about succeeding or failing in the effort to build a new world order.116 Hence, the ethical framework of Rahman’s thinking has a clear eschatological dimension. As Abdullah Saeed shows, Rahman understands ethical statements from the Qur’an as either ideal or contingent. The former sort of statement comprises an eschatological dimension since it is an ideal to strive for and not necessarily something that can be realised in this life.117 It is clear that Rahman believes in two eschatological destinies, but paradise does not involve being rescued from this world. Quite the opposite: it is the achievement of the new world order. This also contributes to the central role that taqwa enjoys in his theology: Thus, the real problem lies within man himself, for he is a blend of good and evil, ignorance and knowledge, power and impotence…. The key to man’s defence is taqwa, which literally means defence but which … is a kind of inner light, a spiritual spark which man must light within himself to distinguish between right and wrong, seeming and real, immediate and lasting, etc.118 The final judgement and its criteria are ultimately beyond human comprehension, but it is linked to taqwa in the sense that taqwa also makes this particular knowledge possible. One of the arguments in chapter two was that, depending on how the interplay between protology and eschatology is constructed, the ‘christianisation’ of the religious Other is a possible result. It was claimed that this actually is the case in the eschatologies of Pannenberg, Moltmann, and Ratzinger. The role of taqwa in Rahman’s theology creates a different kind of interplay in which the ‘islamisation’ of the religious Other does not necessarily follow. The individual is accountable to God, and judgement is preceded by al-sa‘a, a moment in which every person will be made aware of her deeds and their consequences.119 Rahman refers to a passage in the Qur’an where 115 It should be noted, however, that he sometimes uses the term ‘saved’ as a synonym of the eschatological fulfilment. See, for instance, ibid., 166. 116 Ibid., 63. 117 Abdullah Saeed, ‘A Framework for Interpreting the Ethico-Legal Content of the Qur’an’, in Modern Muslim Intellectuals and the Qur’an, ed. Suha Taji-Farouki (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010), 49. 118 Rahman, Major Themes of the Qur’an, 127–28. 119 Ibid., 106.

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taqwa is praised as a key to paradise; this passage states that those who have developed taqwa towards God are granted a place in the Garden.120 It seems, then, that taqwa is not a gift reserved solely for Muslims. Admittedly, there is a meta-perspective of taqwa which requires belief of some kind in God (so that one makes the deliberate choice to let God control one’s actions). But the fundamental essence of taqwa is the human capacity to resist evil and to seek the truth. In this respect, Rustomji makes an observation that is particularly helpful. She identifies a tension in Muslim theology in general between the necessity of faith in the shahada, the confession that ‘there is no god but Allah and Muhammad is the Messenger of God’, and other Muslim sources that merely stress the importance of ethical criteria. In Rustomji’s words, is faith in the shahada sufficient criterion for entering the Garden? Some hadiths record that belief in the shahada results in placement in the Garden, while others suggest that it is only righteous or ethical deeds that will insure the entry into the Garden.121 It is clear that Rahman leans towards the latter alternative. His emphasis on taqwa leaves little room for strictly faith-based criteria. He states that the eschatological fulfilment certainly includes those ‘from any section of humankind—who believe in God and the Last Day and do good deeds’.122 This ethical focus can also be seen in Rahman’s apprehension of kufr—which, again, is a common term in Islamic tradition for unbelievers. Rahman understands this in an ethical context: kufr is ‘another name for the total loss of moral energy.’123 The Theological Space of the Religious Other The previous section demonstrated that the interplay between eschatology and other theological beliefs do not suggest an islamisation of the religious Other in the same way that christianisation is sometimes discernible in Christian eschatology. We will now look closely at whether and how Rahman’s eschatology may provide theological space for the religious Other. 120 Ibid., 110. See also Q. 39:73: ‘Then those that feared their Lord shall be driven in companies into Paradise, till, when they have come thither, and its gates are opened, and its keepers will say to them, “Peace be upon you! Well you have fared; enter in, to dwell forever”’ (italics added). 121 Rustomji, The Garden and the Fire, 57–58. 122 Rahman, Major Themes of the Qur’an, 166. 123 Ibid., 27.

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Rahman makes explicit theological references to Judaism and Christianity and clearly states Islam’s dependence on these traditions. Furthermore, he states that Muhammad was convinced that the Torah and the gospels were of divine origin. In fact, Rahman comes close to a ‘perennial philosophy’ perspective when he argues that different prophets have come to different peoples and nations at different times, but their messages are universal and identical. All these messages emanate from a single source: ‘The Mother of the Book’ (43:4; 13:39) and ‘the Hidden Book’ (56:78).124 Muhammad is considered to be the last prophet, however. Not to believe in his message is in fact to deny the entire line of genuine prophets and hence to reject the messages of all other traditions as well. Muhammad believed in all the prophets, and therefore everyone must believe in him.125 Moreover, Judaism and Christianity are theologically present in his thinking and recognised as valid religious communities, albeit not equal to Islam.126 This position moves away from the tradition of perennial philosophy and towards an ‘inclusivist’ position. Another indication of a more ‘inclusivist’ attitude is that Rahman repeats the familiar Muslim claim that, since no global religious movement arose after Islam, this fact alone clearly indicates that Muhammad is the ‘seal of the prophets’.127 Rahman does not see his use of the term ‘People of the Book’ as an ecumenical declaration concerning the similarities between religious traditions or as an end in itself. On the contrary, ‘People of the Book’ is a platform for like-minded communities that they can build ‘a certain kind of ethico-social world-order’ on together.128 In this context, Rahman actually criticises Christian tradition for forcing its view of ecumenism and salvation upon interreligious discourse: It is striking, indeed, that even in ‘ecumenism’, Christianity, which never envisioned any social order, thinks inevitably in its own terms and will 124 Ibid., 163. 125 Ibid., 163–64. 126 Fazlur Rahman, ‘Islam’s Attitude Toward Judaism’, Muslim World 72, no. 1 (1982), 5. 127 Rahman, Major Themes of the Qur’an, 81. 128 Ibid., 63. Mahmut Aydin expresses a similar concern when he states that ‘together with them [the People of the Book], they sould [sic] seek ways of establishing a multifaith and multicultural society in which every group can live together in peace.’ Mahmut Aydin, ‘Reconciliation in Islamic Theology’, Journal of Ecumenical Studies 39, no. 1 (2002), 147.

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envisage inter-confessional relationships only within the parameters of those terms which primarily surround the cult of Jesus.129 Rahman’s way of relating to differences theologically is complex. Having noted the ‘inclusivist’ traits of Rahman’s theology, we shall now return to his expressions of a deeper acknowledgment of differences and their value. The differences between religious traditions should be seen as the will of God, according to Rahman. Why this is so, however, remains hidden in its entirety: Humankind had been a unity, but this unity was split up because of the advent of divine messages at the hands of the prophets. The fact that the prophets’ messages act as watersheds and divisive forces is rooted in some divine mystery, for if God so willed, He could surely bring them to one path.130 Rahman reminds his readers that plurality is not only a fact between religious traditions, but also within them. Furthermore, Rahman does not ascribe particular tools governing the eschatological consummation to the Muslim community (umma). Rather, guidance towards eschatological perfection is not the task of communities but God’s. No single community or individual can claim to be the unique guide to paradise. Rahman also considers the umma to be one community among others, arguing that a valid purpose of there being different religious communities is that they compete with each other in terms of goodness. In this context, Rahman expresses his criticism of the idea of election. To choose some persons or a single ‘people’ and to give them separate treatment goes against God’s justice, he argues. Although the intention of such a statement might be to acknowledge the religious Other by downplaying any signs of Muslims as an elected community, it also results in rejecting similar claims from other religious traditions—not least of all the Jewish community, where the notion of election plays an important role.131 Regarding the theological space for the religious Other, Rahman’s eschatology is ambiguous. On the one hand, the rejection of any kind of election as well as the conviction that Muhammad must be recognised alongside other prophets could be seen as a marginalisation of the religious Other in his or her otherness. On the other hand, Rahman argues concretely for the positive value of differences and considers the umma to be one community among 129 Rahman, Major Themes of the Qur’an, 63. 130 Ibid., 164. 131 Ibid., 165–67.

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others. Moreover, the descriptions of paradise are, like Musavi Lari’s, devoid of explicit islamising features, and hence do not imply any eschatological conversion. Thus, there are several ideas in Rahman’s eschatology that can shed light on the corresponding challenges within Christian eschatology: the religious Other is theologically present in accordance with the hermeneutical privilege discussed in Musavi Lari’s eschatology above, his narrative vision of paradise, the value of difference, the role of the umma, and the theological interplay between taqwa and eschatology. The Vision of Islam: William C. Chittick Introduction William C. Chittick (b. 1943) is an American-born Islamic scholar whose writings have had a significant influence on contemporary Islamic thinking. Chittick pursued undergraduate studies in Beirut and doctoral studies in Tehran under the supervision of Seyyed Hossein Nasr. Since 1983, he has been teaching at Stony Brook University in New York. Chittick is an academic whose approach to Islamic theology is theological in the sense that it is concerned with fidelity to the Islamic tradition and the inner coherence and intelligibility of statements of faith today. For example, it is said of Chittick that his worldview is, first and foremost, shaped by the traditions of Sufism and Islamic philosophy, when he attempts to offer a solution to a contemporary problem, he does so from the perspective of classic Islamic thought.132 Thus, he interprets and discusses Islam in a theological way. One of Chittick’s works, an introduction to Islamic theology, The Vision of Islam, is co-written with his wife, Sachiko Murata. Because this present chapter includes other works by Chittick, what will be presented as Chittick’s ideas should not make us forget Murata’s contributions to (at least) that book, The Vision of Islam. Given his independent role as a Muslim scholar, Chittick does not belong to any single tradition. He is influenced by the Sufi tradition—Nasr’s impact cannot be ignored—and he draws upon both Sunni and Shi‘ite sources.133 Moreover, his work is appreciated and acknowledged by Sunni and Shi‘ite scholars alike. 132 Mohammed Rustom, Atif Khalil, and Kazuyo Murata, ‘Editors’ Introduction’, in In Search of the Lost Heart: Explorations in Islamic Thought (New York: State University of New York Press, 2012), xiii–xiv. 133 For example, he refers to both Sunni hadith collections, such as Bukhari and Ibn Maja, and Shi‘ite sources, such as Nahj al-balagha. See Sachiko Murata and William C. Chittick, The Vision of Islam (London: I.B. Tauris, 2011), 241, 347.

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In an attempt to broadly categorise his work and his theological position, one reviewer characterised it as traditional, as opposed to modernist or fundamentalist: In presenting Islam from the traditional point of view, Murata and Chittick render a great service in that they show implicitly that traditional Islam is very different from the two other current manifestations of Islam, namely fundamentalism and modernism.134 Some scholars emphasise the affinity with Nasr and include Chittick among the perennialists.135 Though I will not find it necessary to settle the question, I would still challenge this classification. There is influence from perennial philosophy no doubt, but I cannot see Chittick’s theology of religions as explicitly perennial, and it is certainly not pluralistic. At least, Chittick holds Islam and the Qur’an to be superior to other religious traditions and sacred texts.136 So far, we have mentioned Chittick’s attempt to steer between modernism and fundamentalism, the influence of Nasr and Sufism in his works, and Chittick’s impact on a younger generation of Muslim scholars (such as Hamza Yusuf), who are part of a movement sometimes referred to as ‘Traditional Islam’. We shall now look more closely at Chittick’s theological project. Chittick identifies three dimensions of Muslim theology: islam (submission), iman (faith), and ihsan (doing what is beautiful). For him, these three dimensions cover almost all of Islamic thought.137 But Chittick also adds a fourth category: eschatology. This fourth dimension implies ‘a view that sees history full of divine meaning and that makes definite statements about beginning and, especially, ends.’138 Eschatology is thereby connected to other parts of Islamic theology and is not easily removed from them. The Return to God Chittick refers to the covenant of Alast where, prior to creation, human beings promise to serve God as their Lord.139 The eschatological hope is, in this view, 134 Cedrik Schurich, ‘Review of The Vision of Islam: The Foundations of Muslim Faith and Practice’, Journal of Qurʼanic Studies 3, no. 1 (2001). 135 See, for instance, Rizvi, ‘A Primordial e pluribus unum?’, 32. 136 Murata and Chittick, The Vision of Islam, 175. 137 Ibid., xxxii. 138 Ibid., xxxix. 139 Alast is Arabic for the opening words of the question ‘Am I not?’ For more information and Qur’anic references, see ibid., 136–37.

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a fundamental return to God.140 Moreover, eschatology is also considered to be the indefeasible companion to tawhid, God’s unity, and prophecy. In fact, The Return to God lies in the background of all Islamic beliefs and practices. It is impossible to grasp the significance of tawhid and prophecy without reference to it, just as it is impossible to grasp the significance of the Return without reference to tawhid and prophecy. The three principles of faith amplify the meaning of the basic creed, and that in turn expresses the sense of the word God as it has been revealed through the Koran.141 As the word ‘return’ suggests, human beings have their origin in God and will again come back to God. But this return is not exclusively about dying. Rather, there is a ‘voluntary’ return whereby people can choose to return to God in this life. When we live as servants of God, the eschatological dimension of life is actualised and the return to God anticipated. Hence, this return will inevitably take place in death but can already be experienced through voluntarily serving God. In Chittick’s theology we thus find a clear interplay between creation and eschaton, between origin and return. This interplay, however, is not characterised primarily by the theme of sin and salvation. Even though Chittick discusses the Garden as a kind of original state, the return to the Garden is not a ‘going back’ to a state before a decisive fall. On the contrary, the human being was created for the earth and not for that Garden. Hence, Chittick emphasises divine providence and argues that all is part of God’s plan.142 Clearly, he discerns a tragic dimension in the disobedience that puts an end to humanity’s life in Eden, but Chittick does not see any universal human guilt emerging from this disobedience (and as a consequence, he does not discuss any means by which humans can be acquitted of guilt).143 On this point, he differs from Musavi Lari: while Musavi Lari considers the vision of paradise as presenting hope for the retrieval of the original state of creation, Chittick sees it as part of an ongoing creation towards greater perfection in which different phases succeed each other in accordance with God’s plan. 140 Ibid., 193. See also William C. Chittick, ‘Muslim Eschatology’, in The Oxford Handbook of Eschatology, ed. Jerry L. Walls (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008), 143–46. 141 Murata and Chittick, The Vision of Islam, 193. 142 Ibid., 143. 143 Matt Moser compares Islamic and Christian hamartiologies and argues that they are fundamentally incompatible and constitute a ‘theological chasm between the two faiths’. See Matt Moser, ‘Cataclysmic Fall or a Fumbling Slip? A Christian Engagement with Islamic Hamartiology’, Dialog 48, no. 3 (2009), 236.

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In passing, Chittick refers to the different messages of different prophets and asserts that people are responsible to their prophet.144 This is a motif that is well known in the Islamic tradition. It is a motif that also appears in a more explicitly eschatological context. For instance, Ahmad H. Sakr connects judgement with what he calls ‘the day of assembly’. This ‘day’ consists in the gathering of all people before they approach God who will judge them.145 They will assemble in different groups behind their leaders, mentors, celebrities, philosophers, prophets, messengers, and Murshids, accordingly…. The Qur’an is very explicit about the idea of having witnesses from each nation, group and faith.146 Here, Chittick’s notion is developed in an eschatological context. The quotation is not to be understood in a pluralist sense (neither Sakr nor Chittick is a pluralist in a Hickean sense). Still, it can be seen as an example of how the religious Other as other is inscribed in a particular Muslim eschatological narrative. We will return to this issue below. Chittick refers to heaven and hell on the one hand and paradise and hell on the other. The two pairs denote slightly different things. Paradise and hell (janna and jahannam) are used to name the ultimate return to God and designate the destinies that will be fully experienced only at the day of judgement and after. Heaven, however, exists parallel to the earth and will, just like the earth, be transformed in the eschatological process. These terms ‘refer to the situation of the cosmos from the time of this world’s creation until the Last Day.’147 Hence, we can conceive of heaven as referring to a realm which is more powerful and pure than the earthly realm. It ‘represents a concentrated, undifferentiated, and immaterial power’.148 ‘The Garden’ is one of the frequent names used for paradise, both in the Qur’an and in Chittick’s writings. It does not refer to a destination entirely separate from this world. Again, we can note the difference between Chittick and Musavi Lari. The latter argues that the Garden exists parallel to this world and that it was created 144 Murata and Chittick, The Vision of Islam, 165. 145 For a discussion of Sakr’s eschatology, see also Jakob Wirén, ‘Stereotypes in Christian Theology: Methodological and Eschatological Aspects’, in Religious Stereotyping and Interreligious Relations, ed. Jesper Svartvik and Jakob Wirén (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2013), 119–21. 146 Sakr, Life, Death and the Life After, 92. 147 Murata and Chittick, The Vision of Islam, 80. 148 Ibid.

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by God at the same time as the earth was created.149 Chittick holds that the whole universe will be rearranged and transformed and that this process turns the world into the Garden. A major difference between their positions hinges on the way this world is assessed. The view of Musavi Lari is more likely to result in a depreciation of this world and a desire to escape it for something better. In contrast, Chittick indicates that this world has a future and a positive eschatological purpose. The implication for the religious Other is not quite as obvious in Chittick’s works, but the more positive assessment of the world as such applies to all of creation and implicitly, at least, to the religious Other. Nonetheless, there is also an element of instrumentalisation of this world in Chittick’s thinking: it exists as a preparation for the Garden.150 The transformation of the whole of creation is, in fact, one way to describe resurrection in the Islamic view. The resurrection takes place on ‘the Last Day’, and Chittick explores the passages from the Qur’an that state that all human beings rise from their graves and face God. In that moment, God’s light will cover the earth and transform it entirely.151 Portrayals of Paradise Chittick’s portrayal of the Garden is of particular interest, given the observation that was made in the second chapter, namely, that Christian theologians tend to describe and determine the hereafter christologically to the extent that heaven is imagined as ‘Christian’. In this context, it is worth pointing out that Chittick’s presentation is concerned with aesthetics. The primary hallmark of the Garden is its beauty.152 Ultimately, beauty is an attribute of God. Thus, by stressing the beauty of the Garden, Chittick also states the intimate relationship between God and paradise. Like Musavi Lari, Chittick describes the Garden as a place of peace and of relationships between human beings and between God and human beings. There are few, if any, tendencies towards ‘islamisation’. On the contrary, there is no eschatological Mosque, no specific references to fasting or even prayer in the Garden. Neither the Qur’an nor the prophet seems to play any significant role in paradise in Chittick’s writings. 149 150 151 152

Musavi Lari, Resurrection, Judgment and the Hereafter, 160–61. Murata and Chittick, The Vision of Islam, 204. Ibid., 205. Chittick’s former teacher Nasr argues along the same lines in: Seyyed Hossein Nasr, The Garden of Truth: The Vision and Promise of Sufism, Islam’s Mystical Tradition (New York: HarperOne, 2008), xv. For a more thorough discussion on the Garden and its aesthetic dimension, see Rustomji, The Garden and the Fire.

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As already indicated, one’s resurrection can lead to one of two different ends: paradise and hell. Chittick explains the difference between the ends for human beings by referring to various traditional Islamic images. These are almost exclusively concerned with a person’s ethical qualities and include depictions of God weighing a person’s deeds on the scales of justice. Moreover, all people will walk the path (al-sirat).153 Some of those who walk the path will fall into the fire below, whereas others will easily pass to the Garden. Hence, the Return is not a happy event for everyone. Chittick mentions and rejects the view articulated in some hadiths that the vast majority of people will end up in the fire. He refers to other hadiths which emphasise God’s mercy, but he does not make any clear statement on this particular issue (‘a good deal of ambiguity remains’)154. Chittick states that if belief in God’s tawhid can be established, one can be certain of having a place in the Garden. He does, however, consider tawhid to be the message of all the prophets. Chittick does not settle the question regarding those who are unaware or ignorant of tawhid. His view on whether the punishments of hell are eternal is far from clear. But unlike Musavi Lari, Chittick entertains the possibility that the punishments of hell are temporary.155 He also elaborates on a scenario in which ‘hell plays the role of a purgatory for those who have accepted tawhid but have committed major sins.’156 In another work, Chittick refers to Ibn al-‘Arabi’s idea that the fire of hell will cool eventually.157 It is clear, then, that Chittick does not provide any unambiguous picture of who, if anyone, will be forever damned to hell. He seems to lean towards a position that takes the duration and effects of hell to be somehow limited, although he remains fundamentally agnostic in this question. The primary purpose of this analysis is not to discern what Chittick’s general theology of religions looks like. Sajjad H. Rizvi, for one, places him in the perennial tradition. As mentioned in the introduction to this section, Rizvi argues that Chittick leans towards pluralism. He states that Chittick holds that all religious traditions have the same origin and strive towards a singular end.158 But Rizvi may be drawing too heavily on Chittick’s accounts of Ibn al-‘Arabi. Another view can be found in Chittick’s more general works on Islamic theology. 153 Murata and Chittick, The Vision of Islam, 207–08. 154 Ibid., 209. 155 Ibid. 156 Ibid. 157 William C. Chittick, Imaginal Worlds: Ibn al-‘Arabī and the Problem of Religious Diversity (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1994), 113. 158 Rizvi, ‘A Primordial e pluribus unum?’, 33.

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Here, he leans towards an inclusivist attitude towards other religious traditions. For example, Chittick argues that the Qur’an is relatively clear on the status of other religious traditions. According to his interpretation, it is neither possible to state that Islam has exclusive rights to the truth nor to say without qualification that other religious traditions are valid.159 Truly, there are ‘inclusivist’ views in Chittick’s writings—the conviction that the Qur’an fulfils all other religions and sacred texts is but one example.160 From a perennial position, however, it would not have been necessary to see the Qur’an as superior to other sacred texts; they would have been considered as equally valid. Moreover, Chittick puts forth the possibility that those who are dissociated from God cannot exist by themselves. Rather, they are gradually diminishing and, eventually, the diversity of religions will ‘dissipate itself into nothingness’.161 This contributes to a somewhat more detailed picture of hell in Chittick’s thinking. Thus, even if he does not hold a universalistic position, he does not favour the belief in eternal punishment. Rather than eternal punishment, Chittick’s position could suggest a kind of eventual annihilation for those who are ‘lost’. An Eschatological Purpose of Religious Diversity? How much religious diversity is acceptable? Chittick recalls a rather harsh hadith with the message that ‘my community will divide into seventy-two sects; all but one will enter the Fire.’162 Chittick admits that there are many Muslim sources with a similar message, but there are also many sources with a message of greater openness towards religious otherness. According to Chittick, [o]ne of the common tactics of those who are offended by disagreement is to claim consensus … on their own favourite interpretation, but there is certainly no consensus on the meaning of consensus.163 Rather than searching for consensus, Chittick ponders the question: did God will religious diversity? He argues that if there were such a thing as one unique saving message, the vast diversity of religious views would prove that God has failed completely.164 159 160 161 162

Murata and Chittick, The Vision of Islam, 168. Ibid., 175. Ibid., 234. William C. Chittick, ‘The Ambiguity of the Qur’anic Command’, in Between Heaven and Hell: Islam, Salvation and the Fate of Others, ed. Mohammad Hassan Khalil (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 65. 163 Ibid. 164 Ibid., 84. Jakob W. Wirén - 978-90-04-35706-8 Downloaded from Brill.com 04/04/2024 03:34:15PM via University of Wisconsin-Madison

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Chittick turns to the work on Ibn al-‘Arabi and analyses it in the light of questions of religious diversity. I shall discuss two of the notions that Chittick elaborates on: ‘non-delimited belief’ and ‘the circle of religious diversity’. What Chittick finds interesting is Ibn al-‘Arabi’s distinction between delimited and non-delimited belief. He reviews al-‘Arabi’s position, which is that a human being necessarily is delimited in his or her views. God is not restrained by any of these beliefs, however. Therefore, the diversity of religious convictions is not an indication of God’s failure. Rather, God is present in every belief. Or, as Chittick explains in a more recent work, it is necessary to remember the distinction between tawhid and nubuwwa. As mentioned above, tawhid refers to the oneness and absoluteness of God. The notion of nubuwwa refers to the guidance that God has granted all people through the prophets. This latter notion of guidance must be conceived as relative and therefore as necessarily diverse, according to Chittick. Thus, even if Chittick views the message of Muhammad as the final message that completes the messages of earlier prophets and thus in a certain sense as superior, he still considers every message—Muhammad’s included—to be relative and contingent.165 On the basis of his interpretations of al-‘Arabi, Chittick states that each way of portraying God (or the eschaton) is limited and delimiting. Still, he also claims that the message of the prophet Muhammad represents ‘the immediate path to felicity’.166 This leads to a circle of religious diversity. Chittick makes clear that there is not one single theological explanation for religious diversity; rather, there is a sequence of answers, each of which generates a new question which is then followed by a new answer. We learn that ‘every community does in fact have a right way and a revealed law brought to it by its prophet and messenger’.167 It is nevertheless also to be noted that ‘God’s relationship to Muhammad in what he revealed to him as religion is different from His relationship to any other prophet’.168 Hence, the revealed religions are diverse, and this is due to the diversity of the human states. This kind of diversity is caused by the diversity of epochs, which is a result of the diversity of movements. This diversity is itself caused by the diversity of attentiveness which is a result of the diversity of goals. Chittick identifies the diversity of God’s selfdisclosure, as described by Ibn al-‘Arabi, as the reason behind the diversity of goals. 165 Ibid., 67. 166 Chittick, Imaginal Worlds, 155. 167 Ibid., 158. 168 Ibid. Jakob W. Wirén - 978-90-04-35706-8 Downloaded from Brill.com 04/04/2024 03:34:15PM via University of Wisconsin-Madison

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Thus, even though the message of the prophet is presented as distinct from other messages, Chittick finds an intra-theological appraisal of religious diversity in the Muslim tradition. Chittick suggests this as a theological way to motivate religious pluralism, but he does not present us with a line of thought but with a circle, which means that there is a reason behind the diversity of God’s self-disclosure, namely, the diversity of the revealed religions: ‘Each revealed religion is a path that takes [us?] to God, and these paths are diverse. Hence, self-disclosures must be diverse’.169 To some extent, God is by necessity revealed in a way that relates to the particular belief of the group in question in order to be at all intelligible. Consequently, it is not only that the plurality of God yields different beliefs, but the plurality of beliefs also requires God to communicate in different ways. Hence, Chittick argues that the diversity of religious traditions and the ambiguity within these traditions may be seen as manifestations of the infinite extension of God’s mercy, reaching out to all people in their diversity.170 It is crucial to note that Chittick’s argument is based on a theological awareness of Judaism and Christianity. As a matter of fact, we have seen—not only in Chittick’s eschatology but also in the works of Musavi Lari and Rahman—that the Christian Other and the Jewish Other are never entirely forgotten. These Others are inscribed in the theological reflection from the very beginning of the Muslim tradition. This, I have argued, is a kind of hermeneutical privilege which derives from the fact that Islam is younger religion than the other two religions.171 Revisiting the Heuristic Tools The purpose of the chapter on Islamic eschatology was to consider the Other’s perspective, to assess the place of the religious Other in religious traditions other than Christianity. It can be noted that, on the level of soteriological openness, Rahman’s modernistic approach is more open than Musavi Lari’s traditionalistic approach. This result is hardly surprising. On the level of eschatological openness, however, no such differences can be found. On this level, the three thinkers articulate a similar position. In this respect, it seems as if the question of eschatological openness is not clearly related to the approach the theologian is associated with. The comparative approach is interesting in itself and a number of significant features have been highlighted. Our task, however, also includes analysing 169 Ibid., 160. 170 Chittick, ‘The Ambiguity of the Qur’anic Command’, 73. 171 For a theological discussion on other religious traditions in the Qur’an, see Sardar, Reading the Qur’an, 104.

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the Muslim theologians through the specific prism that I have chosen to call ‘heuristic tools’. Responding to Theological Space Our first heuristic tool, called ‘theological space’, addresses the question concerning the extent to which the religious Other is described as other and yet included within eschatological visions. In the second chapter, I argued that contemporary Christian theologians, in different ways, do not grant theological space to the religious Other in their eschatologies. Joseph Ratzinger downplays the question of religious otherness and yet emphasises ecclesiological and christological aspects of eschatology. Jürgen Moltmann does not have any clear notion of the religious Other and, as a result, he tends to see all human beings according to a Christian paradigm. Wolfhart Pannenberg attempts to provide space for the religious Other, but the eschatological direction of history is structured in a way that gradually shrinks this space. John Hick’s eschatology is pluralist and certainly interreligiously informed. As was argued above, however, it is not very successful in terms of sensitivity towards religious otherness: religious otherness is reduced to illusory conceptions of God and the future of the world. The pluralist paradigm is the only proper interpretation of eschatology. In the Islamic eschatologies, we have seen that their inner dynamics work differently with regard to religious otherness. The first and perhaps most striking aspect of the Muslim response to the question of theological space in eschatology is what I would describe as a hermeneutical privilege. By virtue of being the youngest of the major religious traditions, Islam developed in the shadow of Judaism and Christianity. According to Rahman, ‘Muhammad was absolutely convinced of the divine character of the earlier revealed documents [of the Jewish and Christian traditions] and of the divine messengership of the bearers of these documents’.172 Moreover, Rahman continues, the awareness of the diversity of religions so persistently and painfully pressed itself on [Muhammad’s] mind that from the beginning of this awareness until well into the last phase of his life, the Qur’an treats this question at various levels.173 As a consequence, the Jewish Other and the Christian Other are present in the Qur’an itself and therefore unquestionably present in the later Muslim traditions. It should be pointed out that a similar hermeneutical privilege can be 172 Rahman, Major Themes of the Qur’an, 163. 173 Ibid., 164.

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found in the Christian tradition relative to Judaism (but not relative to Islam). Clearly, Islam has existed during much of Christian history and has therefore occasionally been included in Christian theological reflection. Yet the situation in the Muslim tradition is different. Here, the Jewish Other and the Christian Other are necessarily present through notions such as the People of the Book and the acknowledgment of a shared belief in the day of judgement.174 We can see from chapter two that contemporary Christian thinkers are still struggling, with varying degrees of success, to include the religious Other in their theologies. But there can be no doubt that Musavi Lari, Rahman, and Chittick all have a notion of the religious Other inherent in their eschatologies. For instance, this notion is found in Chittick’s views regarding the moment prior to the judgement. According to Chittick, each prophet will be able to intercede before God for the members of his community. Without pushing the interpretation of this image too far, it can at least be stated that religious diversity is acknowledged and applied to the theological notion of judgement. A further example concerns the well-known expression ‘People of the Book’. The Muslim theologians discussed here apply the expression differently, yet the terminology itself serves to acknowledge (some of) the religious Other(s) and their eschatological role. Certainly, the question of theological space is not played out by merely mentioning the religious Other. As we have seen in the eschatologies of Pannenberg, Hick, and Heim, other aspects affect the degree of theological space. In many ways, the Muslim theologians proclaim a prosperous future for their own community, whereas ‘the Others’—be they Jews, Christians, or non-believers—are in a less privileged position. Thus, the mention of the religious Other does not by necessity imply a genuine recognition of the religious Other. As a matter of fact, in some cases it may have been—as David M. Freidenreich claims regarding the medieval Muslim discussions about the religious Other—that the theologians’ debates are not really concerned with non-Muslims. In Freidenreich’s view, ‘Jews, Christians, Zoroastrians, idolaters, and so on frequently function as screens upon which Islamic ideas are projected.’175 Still, one consequence of the hermeneutically privileged position 174 See the discussion in 3.2.4-3.2.6 above. See also Q. 3:56 and Q. 2:59. 175 David M. Freidenreich, ‘The Food of the Damned’, in Between Heaven and Hell: Islam, Salvation and the Fate of Others, ed. Mohammad Hassan Khalil (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 256. Freidenreich rightly states that these soteriological discussions on the religious Other also concern what kind of Muslim theology the discussants prefer. However, he goes so far as to state that these questions have nothing to do with the religious Other. In this case, I wonder if Freidenreich does not underestimate the impact that philosophical and theological convictions may have on everyday life. See ibid., 258. Jakob W. Wirén - 978-90-04-35706-8 Downloaded from Brill.com 04/04/2024 03:34:15PM via University of Wisconsin-Madison

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is that the Jewish and Christian Other are at least theologically present in Muslim eschatology. This very fact grants some degree of theological space. Our conclusion with regard to the first heuristic tool is that, for most part, the Muslim eschatologies assessed here share a tendency with the Christian eschatologies that provides little or no theological space for religious otherness. The exception worth mentioning is the different hermeneutical position Muslim theologians find themselves in. That acts as a point of departure for the question of theological space. Responding to Theological Interplay The second heuristic tool is the theological interplay between eschatology and other ‘doctrines’. In particular, we have seen that the issue of primary focus is ‘the otherness of the eschaton’, that is, how eschatological fulfilment is described. The Christian theologians discussed in the second chapter hold that eschatology is intimately linked to protology and christology. In my analyses there, I argued that eschatology was not only intimately linked to but actually subsumed under and conditioned by these theological sub-disciplines. Arguably, the most important response to the second heuristic tool from the Muslim theologians is what we can call a narrative vision of the Garden. Musavi Lari, Rahman, and Chittick describe what I would argue is an Islamically conceived—but not Islamically conditioned—paradise. None of them places a Mosque, or a Qur’an, or any other Islamic symbol in the Garden. Nor do they suggest that Muhammad will be the great leader in the hereafter or that everyone will be fasting. On the contrary, they hold on closely to the Qur’anic narrative of the Garden and its pleasures while at the same time stating that the hereafter is beyond human comprehension and therefore ultimately unknown. As mentioned earlier, the comparison does not by any means suggest that the different ways of supposedly conditioning the eschaton are equivalent. The role of christology in Christian thinking cannot easily be translated into Islamic theology, and the Qur’an does not have any exact counterpart of Christian tradition on this score. Having said that, it is important to look at how and in what way various descriptions of the eschaton are conditioned. The consequence, in terms of theological integrity of the religious Other, is that the more tradition-specifically conditioned the eschaton is, the more an eschatological ‘conversion’ of the religious Other is implied. And this is so regardless of whether the conditioning element is christology, ecclesiology, or the Qur’an. Moreover, in the interplay between the distortion of an original creation (primarily in Ratzinger’s theology) and its eschatological fulfilment, a narrative is created in which Christian tradition diagnoses all of humanity and states that its condition requires a particular cure which can only be found in the Christian Jakob W. Wirén - 978-90-04-35706-8 Downloaded from Brill.com 04/04/2024 03:34:15PM via University of Wisconsin-Madison

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tradition. By making this diagnosis, Christian theologians create a situation where the door to the eschatological future is locked with Christian keys. A different approach is found in Muslim eschatologies, not least in the thinking of Rahman. Their (or his) strong ethical emphasis does not rule out other religious communities a priori as paths to eschatological fulfilment. On the contrary, the criterion for judgement in his theology has less to do with religious affiliation than with ethical behaviour. Taqwa is the central concept in this respect, and it provides a defence against immoral behaviour and evil acts in the here and now. Rahman is explicit in his argument that any religious (or non-religious) community is able to foster taqwa. Musavi Lari argues along the same lines and states that the relationship between how a person lives his or her life and his or her eschatological destination is ‘ontological’. Still, as I have pointed out earlier, it is important to bear in mind that the distinctions between ethics and faith, like those between moral behaviour and religious belonging, are not without ambiguity. Actually, there are at least two aspects of this that deserve further attention. First, ethics can be conceived in such a way that it is morally wrong not to embrace a particular faith. If so, an emphasis on ethics and one on doctrinal beliefs have the same consequence in terms of excluding the religious Other. In Musavi Lari’s theology, we find a close connection between unbelievers and evildoers. But Musavi Lari’s argument is not that unbelief is evil but that belief in God often leads to good deeds. Unbelief, on the other hand, tends to have immoral consequences. In Rahman’s case, it is even clearer that the religious Other is not an evildoer per se. On the contrary, in ethics he finds a helpful approach and to some extent a common ground between Muslims and the religious Other. Second, ethics can be as tradition-specific as theological statements. Again, an emphasis on ethics rather than on religious belonging may betray the fact that ethics, just like other aspects of religion, can work towards excluding the religious Other. For instance, we could ask: is a certain interpretation of the shari‘a presupposed as part of living a morally good life? Would the kind of ethics endorsed be genuinely Islamic in character? In Rahman’s thinking, this is clearly not the case. The ethics he relates to taqwa is of a more general character—he actually speaks of ‘universal goodness’176—and is focused primarily on reaching out to other people, the poor in particular.177 This being said, he conditions the universality with the belief in ‘one God and the Last Day’.178 The qualification serves to include the Christian and the Jewish Other and people 176 Rahman, Major Themes of the Qur’an, 166. 177 Ibid., 31. 178 Ibid., 166.

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of other faiths, even though Rahman hesitates to cite further examples. Ethics does not play as important a role in Chittick’s eschatology as in Rahman’s and Musavi Lari’s, but he does not impose Islamic ethics or Islamic law on the religious Other. Quite the contrary: ‘the rulings of the Muslim Shariah [do not] have any universality (despite the claims by some Muslims).’179 By way of conclusion, we observe that Muslim eschatologies do in some respects reduce the space of the religious Other in ways that are familiar to those who study Christian theology. Exclusivist tendencies also thrive in the Muslim tradition, and paradise is not available for all of humankind. In other respects, we do find that Muslim eschatologies respond differently to the heuristic tools identified in the second chapter. Three major traits have been identified: a hermeneutically privileged position, a non-Islamised vision of the Garden, and an ethical emphasis. As I have pointed out, these specific factors are of particular interest to the question of the theological integrity of the religious Other. These differences, I argue, are important in themselves. They contribute to our understanding of exclusion and inclusion with regard to the religious Other. They illustrate the distinction between soteriological openness and eschatological openness that I have suggested. From this comparison we learn that the discipline of theology of religions not only needs to examine the question of ‘salvation’ but also, more specifically, needs to investigate how eschatological hope is articulated. It also makes clear that there are different levels of eschatological exclusion. In the fourth chapter, I shall explore how these differing features can be related to Christian tradition: How and to what extent can Christian theologians learn from this comparison? We shall return to this issue, but before that, we will explore Jewish eschatology and the religious Other in the following section. 3.3

Jewish Eschatologies

Introduction According to statistics in the US, Jews are often identified as the religious group with the lowest rate of belief in a hereafter. Clearly, believing in a hereafter is not as much a question of orthodoxy as it is in Christianity and Islam. To quote David Hartman, ‘eschatological beliefs are not constitutive of the Sinai covenant’.180 We learn something similar from Abraham Heschel, namely, that 179 Murata and Chittick, The Vision of Islam, 166. 180 David Hartman, A Living Covenant: The Innovative Spirit in Traditional Judaism, 2nd ed. (Woodstock: Jewish Lights Publishing, 2010), 257.

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Judaism affirms belief in an afterlife but that we cannot know anything about it.181 Nevertheless, there are a number of renowned theologians who side with American Jews who do not believe in any hereafter. That the shoah experiences have had a significant impact on late 20th-century and early 21st-century Jewish thought is true not only with respect to the hereafter but also with respect to perceptions of the Messiah. Some argue that God did not keep the promises of the covenant, and hence the entire covenant is needs to be questioned. As one of the characters in Elie Wiesel’s novel The Gates of the Forest famously says as the persecution of Jews intensifies: ‘If the Messiah doesn’t hurry, he may be too late; there will be no one left to save.’182 Later in the novel, expectations have clearly changed. The main character Gregor states: ‘Whether or not the Messiah comes doesn’t matter; we’ll manage without him.’183 The novelist and shoah survivor Elie Wiesel develops this argument, and the main character declares that the Messiah is not one man; rather, the Messiah is something within all human beings.184 There are Jewish thinkers who recognise the situation described above and regret the development. When discussing the hereafter, David Kraemer states that the inability to believe in life after death ‘distances us from the beliefs and experiences of our ancestors, perhaps more than anything else’.185 Many agree with Neil Gillman who says that ‘[f]rom the age of the Talmud on … these ­doctrines—the resurrection of the body and the immortality of the soul—are accepted as authoritative Jewish teaching’.186 Gillman admits, however, that Jewish thinkers sometimes are unwilling to speak of eschatology.187 The present chapter investigates this ambiguity of contemporary Jewish thinking on eschatology and looks at the place of the religious Other in the eschatologies of Michael Wyschogrod, Steven Schwarzschild, and Neil Gillman. Before looking closer at eschatological issues, I shall provide a brief introduction to some important aspects of contemporary Jewish theology.

181 Abraham Joshua Heschel, Moral Grandeur and Spiritual Audacity: Essays, ed. Susannah Heschel (New York: Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 1996), 411. 182 Elie Wiesel, The Gates of the Forest, trans. Frances Frenaye (New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1969), 41. 183 Ibid., 223. 184 Ibid. 185 David Kraemer, The Meanings of Death in Rabbinic Judaism (London: Routledge, 2000), 143. 186 Neil Gillman, Sacred Fragments: Recovering Theology for the Modern Jew (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1990), 257–58. 187 Ibid., 247.

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Contemporary Jewish Theology Introduction Two modern events have influenced and continue to influence contemporary Jewish thought: the shoah and the founding of the State of Israel. More than any other, these two events have had and are having a profound impact on Jewish life and culture in general. Needless to say, these events raise questions of theological concern that give rise to the widespread post-shoah theology.188 Interestingly, both events have an immediate connection to eschatology. The horrors of the shoah bring to the fore several central eschatological issues: justice, guilt, redemption, life and death—and of course, life after death. The messianic notions related to the city of Jerusalem and the State of Israel also touch upon eschatological issues of messianism and related visions of hope. Therefore, it comes as no surprise that eschatological questions are a major concern to many contemporary Jewish scholars. Yet, one should bear in mind that these are not always explicitly articulated as matters of ‘eschatology’ and are therefore sometimes easily missed. Obviously, there are several ways to distinguish between different approaches to Jewish thought, and I shall briefly mention a common categorisation that focuses primarily on the epistemological starting point of theology. The distinction between rationalistic and existential approaches to Jewish theology is frequently referred to in contemporary works. Eugene B. Borowitz, for one, suggests a taxonomy of six different types of Jewish thought, four of which are rationalistic (neo-Kantianism, religious consciousness, nationalism, and naturalism) and the last two non-rationalistic (existentialism and neo-traditionalism).189 In modern times, the existentialist-rationalist encounter is best illustrated in the arguments between Hermann Cohen and his student Franz Rosenzweig. Cohen’s rationalism is expressed in his attempts to articulate a universal ethics and universal reason on the basis of monotheistic and particularly Jewish sources.190 Rosenzweig, on the other hand, is less enthusiastic about these universalising attempts and focuses on what is particular to the Jewish tradition. The three fundamentals of Rosenzweig’s theology are 188 Post-shoah theology is theology that displays awareness of the shoah in its reflection. Thus, the term ‘post’ refers not only to chronology but also to consequences. 189 Eugene B. Borowitz, Choices in Modern Jewish Thought: A Partisan Guide (New York: Behrman House, 1983), 27–183. 190 See, for instance, his comparison between Kant’s ethics and Judaism: Hermann Cohen, ‘Affinities Between the Philosophy of Kant and Judaism’, in Reason and Hope: Selections from the Jewish Writings of Hermann Cohen, ed. Eva Jospe (Cincinatti: Hebrew Union College Press, 1993), 77–89.

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God, the world, and the individual human being. In his theological system, the interrelationships between these are called creation (God-world), revelation (God-human being), and redemption (human being-world).191 Of the three thinkers investigated below, Gillman and Wyschogrod lean towards the existentialist approach, whereas Schwarzschild is more influenced by Hermann Cohen and Jewish rationalism. Perhaps the most well-known taxonomy of Jewish thought is that of Reform, Conservative, and Orthodox Judaism. While the distinction between rationalism and existentialism refers to an epistemological starting point, these three approaches are distinguished from each other much more by the respective relationship between tradition and modernity they exhibit. Hence, there are both rationalistic and existentialistic versions of, for instance, Orthodox Judaism. Orthodox Judaism One could say, as Norman Solomon does, that Orthodox Judaism cannot be defined, other than to say that it is an umbrella term for all those forms of traditional Judaism which were left behind when first Reform, then Conservative Judaism, set up organizations dedicated to specific programmes in some way critical of traditional Judaism as commonly interpreted.192 It should also be pointed out, however, that, before the rise of Reform Judaism, there was no Orthodox Judaism either. Originally, the name ‘Orthodox’ was coined in Germany by Reform Jews who argued against a more traditional position. In this sense, Orthodox and Reform Judaism appeared simultaneously.193 Orthodox Judaism emphasises the divine origin and eternal applicability of the Torah. Although it is in need of constant rereading and reinterpretation, the Torah is viewed as the Word of God. Asher Lopatin states that the Orthodox Jew needs ‘rigour and discipline’ in relation to the many rituals and obligations 191 These three notions constitute the structure of the second part of his magnum opus. See Franz Rosenzweig, The Star of Redemption, trans. William W. Hallo (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 2007), 112–253. 192 Norman Solomon, Judaism: A Very Short Introduction (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), 105. 193 Jacob Neusner, A Short History of Judaism: Three Meals, Three Epochs (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1992), 185.

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of the Torah.194 He argues that, to be a true interpreter of the tradition, one has to be a preserver of the tradition. While the commitment to the halakhah lies at the heart of modern Orthodox Judaism, one need not be as concerned with theology. Or, to put it differently, there is a significant amount of diversity and tolerance towards different theological positions. This concurs with what Emmanuel Rackman observes, namely that ‘eschatology generally receive[s] very little attention from Orthodox Jewish thinkers.’195 It is true for all branches of Judaism that there is a significant amount of diversity within each one of them. Certainly, Orthodox Judaism is no exception. Haredi Judaism, also known as ultra-Orthodox Judaism, is also an expression of contemporary Orthodox Judaism which deserves to be mentioned, although it is not represented in this study.196 As we shall see in the analysis and discussion of the Orthodox scholar Michael Wyschogrod, he fits the description of Orthodox Judaism in so far as his eschatology is less explicit than his theory of revelation. But Wyschogrod’s theology is intricate and even though ‘eschatology’ is rarely mentioned in his work, his rich discussion of election certainly comprises a substantial eschatological reflection. Reform Judaism Reform Judaism, or progressive Judaism, stresses the autonomy of each human being. It dates back to the early 19th century and views revelation in a more progressive and dynamic way than Orthodox Judaism does. This means that the commandments need to be reinterpreted and adapted to new circumstances. Thus, one could say that the individual Jew ought to follow the commandments, but the commandments also have to ‘follow’ the individual Jews and their contexts. Rabbi Evan Moffic captures this in his claim that true Judaism requires both personal autonomy and mitzvot (the commandments). The commandments are subject to change, and, consequently, the Torah is not 194 Asher Lopatin, ‘Five Pillars of Orthodox Judaism or Open Charedism’, in Jewish Theology in Our Time: A New Generation Explores the Foundations and Future of Jewish Belief, ed. Elliot J. Cosgrove (Woodstock: Jewish Lights Publishing, 2010), 84. 195 Emmanuel Rackman, ‘Orthodox Judaism’, in Contemporary Jewish Religious Thought: Original Essays on Critical Concepts, Movements, and Beliefs, ed. Arthur A. Cohen and Paul R. Mendes-Flohr (New York: The Free Press, 1987). 196 For a short introduction, see, for instance, Jacob Neusner, Judaism: The Basics (New York: Routledge, 2006), 155. For a more thorough presentation from an anthropological perspective, see Samuel Heilman, Defenders of the Faith: Inside Ultra-Orthodox Jewry, 2nd ed. (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2000).

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primarily the written text but the negotiation or dialogue between what has been written and the individual’s personal life. Thus, to a certain extent each individual is his or her own final authority, his or her own Torah. Keeping what Rabbi Moffic calls ‘the ritual laws’ is secondary in relation to living authentically according to the ethical demands of the Torah.197 Eugene B. Borowitz, one of the most well-known contemporary Jewish Reform voices, presents a similar picture emphasising personal autonomy. According to Borowitz, the Torah is a human discovery rather than a divine revelation. Therefore, Judaism is not defined on the basis of traditional observance but on the basis of the ‘dynamic response’ to tradition.198 Among the three thinkers investigated more closely in this chapter, Steven Schwarzschild belongs to the Reform tradition. He was a member of the Reform Central Conference of American Rabbis (although he was simultaneously a member of a Conservative assembly).199 The differences in eschatology between these three branches concern their messianic beliefs and their notions of resurrection and immortality. In general, the difference is that while Orthodox Judaism teaches the coming of the Messiah, Reform Judaism tends either to reject the notion entirely or to downplay the belief in a personal Messiah and speak more of a messianic age. Moreover, Reform Judaism is traditionally less inclined to speak of the resurrection. In the words of the 19th-century Pittsburgh Platform: We reassert the doctrine of Judaism that the soul is immortal, grounding the belief on the divine nature of human spirit, which forever finds bliss in righteousness and misery in wickedness. We reject as ideas not rooted in Judaism, the beliefs both in bodily resurrection and in Gehenna and Eden (Hell and Paradise) as abodes for everlasting punishment and reward.200 This picture does not apply perfectly to Schwarzschild: as we shall see, he does not want to give up on the notion of resurrection.201 197 Evan Moffic, ‘A Progressive Reform Judaism’, in Jewish Theology in Our Time: A New Generation Explores the Foundations and Future of Jewish Belief, ed. Elliot J. Cosgrove (Woodstock: Jewish Lights Publishing, 2010), 56–58. 198 Borowitz, Choices in Modern Jewish, 256–59. 199 Menachem Kellner, ‘Introduction’, in The Pursuit of the Ideal: Jewish Writings of Steven Schwarzschild (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1990), 1. 200 ‘Pittsburgh Platform’, www.jewishvirtuallibrary.org/jsource/Judaism/pittsburgh_program .html. (1885). 201 Steven Schwarzschild, ‘On Jewish Eschatology’, in The Pursuit of the Ideal: Jewish Writings of Steven Schwarzschild, ed. Menachem Kellner (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1990), 217.

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Conservative Judaism In an attempt to steer between Reform and Orthodox Judaism, a sort of middle path developed in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. Conservative Judaism—or Masorti Judaism, as it is sometimes called to avoid the political connotations of ‘conservative’—was established in the United States.202 Even though Conservative Judaism only plays a truly important role in the United States, its roots are, as Daniel Gordis points out, found in 19th-century Germany.203 Like Orthodox and Reform Judaism, Conservative Judaism does not constitute a single movement or organisation. But there have been joint declarations that seek to articulate the heart of Conservative Judaism. A central issue in one such document—Emet ve‘emunah: Statement of Principles of Conservative Judaism—describes their approach to the halakhah:204 Conservative Judaism emphasises both its authority and its changeable and ever-changing nature of the halakhah. Furthermore, the ‘ritual’ aspect of Jewish law and practice is downplayed in favour of the palpable importance of ethics.205 Emet ve‘emunah, which is ascribed to a number of conservative organisations in the United States, also makes some interesting remarks on eschatology. As we shall see below, the document concurs in general with what the Conservative theologian Neil Gillman argues in his writings. First, it declares that it is a common human impulse to create idealised visions of the future. Second, it emphatically stresses that ‘no one knows what will happen “in the days to come”’.206 Third, the document thinks it perfectly reasonable to consider these idealised visions to be metaphors that express ‘deep-seated human and communal needs’.207 Fourth, it nevertheless rejects the idea that death means extinction and oblivion for the individual human being. Thus, as metaphors, the symbols of

202 Gerson D. Cohen, ‘Conservative Judaism’, in Contemporary Jewish Religious Thought: Original Essays on Critical Concepts, Movements, and Beliefs, ed. Arthur A. Cohen and Paul R. Mendes-Flohr (New York: The Free Press, 1987), 91–92. 203 Daniel Gordis, ‘Conservative Judaism: The Struggle between Ideology and Popularity’, in The Blackwell Companion to Judaism, ed. Jacob Neusner and Alan J. Avery-Peck (Malden: Blackwell Publishing, 2003), 334. 204 The Jewish Theological Seminary of America et al., Emet ve‘emunah: Statement of Principles of Conservative Judaism (New York: Jewish Theological Seminary of America, 1990), www.icsresources.org/content/primarysourcedocs/ConservativeJudaismPrinciples.pdf. 15. 205 Ibid. 206 Ibid., 25. 207 Ibid.

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the resurrection of the dead, the immortality of the soul, and the final judgment do tell us that God’s ‘ability to touch us is not cut off by the grave’.208 Even though the well-known three-part taxonomy of Reform, Conservative and Orthodox Judaism does not completely cover the different theological positions of Judaism, it is still adequate. Therefore, we will look at the thinking of an Orthodox Jew, a Reform Jew, and a Conservative Jew more closely in what follows. I do not claim that these scholars are necessarily typical representatives of their respective traditions. On the whole, as we have just seen, it is a delicate task to discern these traditions’ exact content and to distinguish ­between each respective approach’s eschatology. As is often the case with ­taxonomies, one cannot rule out the possibility that differences within each category are as great as those between them. Introducing Jewish Theologies of Religions Jewish tradition encompasses a rich source of material regarding the religious Other. In this sense, there are many theologies of religions to consider. Still, there has never been a unified Jewish approach to ‘the Gentiles’. As Robert Goldenberg points out, ‘[n]o biblical passage condemns other Israelites for having the wrong attitude toward gentile nations’ religious lives’.209 The question was never settled in Jewish tradition, and the issue remains open in contemporary debate as well. David Novak’s doctoral dissertation explores the image of the non-Jew in Jewish tradition.210 He elaborates on the Noahide laws as a kind of general revelation given to all human beings and the revelation at Sinai as the specific revelation of Judaism. The covenant of Noah refers to Genesis 9, where God establishes a covenant with Noah and his family and promises that he will not allow another flood to destroy the earth. In Jewish tradition, this covenant is often seen as applicable to all of humanity, since the story of Noah precedes the story of Abraham and the forming of the Jewish people. The Noahide laws are explicitly presented in the Tosefta. The seven commandments are: establish a juridical order; do not commit idolatry; do not blaspheme God; do not engage in sexual immorality; do not murder; do not steal; and do not eat a limb torn from a living animal.211 208 Ibid., 26. 209 Robert Goldenberg, The Nations That Know Thee Not: Ancient Jewish Attitudes towards Other Religions (New York: New York University Press, 1998), 29. 210 David Novak, The Image of the Non-Jew in Judaism: An Historical and Constructive Study of the Noahide Laws (New York: Edwin Mellen Press, 1983). 211 Tosefta Avodah Zarah 8:4. See also Novak, The Image of the Non-Jew in Judaism, 3–4.

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Novak criticises Hermann Cohen for making the Noahide laws the necessary and sufficient criteria of Judaism. To Novak, Cohen’s universalistic approach threatens the particularity of the Jewish tradition. Novak sees the Sinai and the Noahide covenants as two essential elements of Jewish tradition.212 As Novak’s study shows, there is a vast amount of material in the classical Jewish sources and among traditional commentators. Nevertheless, Jewish activity in contemporary ‘theology of religions’ has not been as intense as Christian involvement. In Alan Brill’s words: When the dialogue first started, theology was not on the Jewish agenda, and so there were no Jewish equivalents of Rahner, Panikkar, or Kung [sic], not to mention Knitter and Hick … there should have been a Jewish response…. But there was not.213 Brill’s point is not that there is no contemporary Jewish theology of religions but that responses to the Christian theological development in particular came relatively late. One of the early Jewish responses was Dan Cohn-Sherbok’s Judaism and Other Faiths, published in 1994. In this work, Cohn-Sherbok discusses the threefold paradigm and applies it to Jewish theology. He criticises Jewish exclusivism and inclusivism for not recognising the full validity of other religious traditions. With a distinction that comes close to John Hick’s terminology of the Ultimate and different human perceptions of the Ultimate, Cohn-Sherbok argues that the divine can be known in many different ways and that the Jewish tradition must not claim superiority in any way.214 There has been some development in the last decade or so, and Brill’s own work stands out as one significant contribution. It is interesting to note that Jewish theologies of religion are not particularly concerned with the issue of personal ‘salvation’. Thus, when the threefold paradigm is discussed, it is not as a way to organise various soteriological views. Rather, the question concerns revelation and truth. This does not imply that Jewish soteriology—or better, Jewish eschatology—lacks interreligious significance. Far from it. Actually, my choice to study eschatological texts in particular is supported by a combination of the facts that, on the one hand, Jewish theologians prefer to apply the threefold paradigm to the question of whether

212 Ibid., 411. 213 Brill, Judaism and Other Religions, 9. 214 Dan Cohn-Sherbok, Judaism and Other Faiths (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1994), 153.

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there is only one true religion and that, on the other hand, there are significant interreligious implications in Jewish eschatologies. Brill is one of the Jewish thinkers who apply the threefold paradigm to Jewish theology. He contends that we can easily find representatives of each position in Jewish tradition. Interestingly, he argues that there is a fourth category in the Jewish tradition beyond exclusivism, inclusivism, and pluralism that is lacking in Christianity (as preoccupied as it is with the question of belief in Christ). Brill calls this fourth category ‘universalism’.215 It should be noted that when Brill applies the threefold paradigm to Jewish theology he does not do so primarily with reference to the question of salvation (very few thinkers in the Jewish tradition have denied ‘the righteous Gentile’ a place in the world to come), but a question of the scope and nature of the Jewish faith.216 To the exclusivist, the significance of the Jewish belief lies in its particularity and in the Jews as ‘the sole bearers and oppressed proclaimers of the truth of God’s unity.’217 The inclusivist and the universalist have a truth that ought to be communicated to the rest of the world, while the pluralist represents the human point of view, rather than a divine message. The universalist position can be located between inclusivism and pluralism. It differs from inclusivism by accepting a universal truth that is available to all people, beyond any religious boundaries; it rejects a pluralism that considers all religions to be limited human attempts to approach God. On the contrary, monotheism and ethics are part of God’s revelation to humankind, and therefore it is possible for all human beings to reach the one truth.218 In his survey, Brill provides classical sources from past centuries as examples of exclusivism, inclusivism, and universalism. When it comes to pluralism, however, he only mentions contemporary scholars. The choice seems to reflect Brill’s conviction that the pluralist approach does not have support in the Jewish tradition and that it is more of a Western liberal phenomenon. Even though Brill primarily seeks to describe different positions, he certainly does not favour the pluralist or the exlusivist approaches. On the contrary, he deems exclusivism and pluralism to be the two extremes that any sober theologian should avoid.219

215 Brill, Judaism and Other Religions, 21. 216 For the claim that the righteous Gentiles have a share in the world to come, see Tosefta Sanhedrin 13:2. 217 Brill, Judaism and Other Religions, 21. 218 Ibid. 219 Ibid., 98.

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Here, we should distinguish ‘between the alien religion’s mark on historical reality and its anticipated influence in the eschatological future’.220 Aviezer Ravitzky captures well the tension between acknowledging (or not acknowledging) religious plurality in the here and now and acknowledging (or not acknowledging) religious plurality in the eschaton. For instance, is it true (as Maimonides and others have argued) that Christianity and Islam are ‘trailblazers for messianic redemption’221 but of little or no eschatological value? If so, they may contribute to the messianic age, but eventually, in the eschatological process, they will accept the Torah and disappear as religious traditions. Ravitzky identifies three areas of Jewish thought that are foundational for the relationship with other religious traditions: creation, covenant, and redemption.222 Obviously, it may seem a little arbitrary to single out three concepts as foundational, but these three notions articulate the universal dimension (creation), the partial and particular dimension (covenant), and the eschatological dimension (redemption) of Jewish thought. Ravitzky is right in the sense that a Jewish theology of religions needs to take all of these dimensions into consideration. I have already explained why the threefold paradigm of exclusivism, inclusivism, and pluralism is not of primary interest in this study (chapter 1.2.3). Instead, I shall concentrate on three themes that are of central importance to Jewish eschatology and have significance for religious otherness. These themes will be analysed within the theological world of individual Jewish thinkers. The themes in question are: election and ‘chosenness’, which will be examined in the writings of Michael Wyschogrod; messianism, which is prominent in the theology of Steven Schwarzschild; and death and resurrection, as worked out in the theology of Neil Gillman. In accordance with Ravitzky’s claim of three indissociable dimensions to Jewish theology, we shall see that there is a universal, a particular, and an eschatological dimension in each of our three chosen themes. Moreover, the methodological approach that is recognised from the earlier chapter will also be applied. These themes are consistently approached with the heuristic tools of theological space and theological interplay which guide my reading.

220 Aviezer Ravitzky, ‘Judaism Views Other Religions’, in Religions View Religions: Explorations in Pursuit of Understanding, ed. Jerald D. Gort, Henry Jansen, and Hendrik M. Vroom (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2006), 99. 221 Ibid., 92. 222 Ibid., 75.

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Election: Michael Wyschogrod and the Chosen People Introduction The theological theme of election interestingly bridges the questions of religious otherness and eschatology. In one of the key Jewish texts on election, Exodus 19:5, Israel is announced by God as being ‘my treasured possession among all the peoples.’ Thus, the election of a particular people necessarily involves, in some way, the other peoples. Moreover, it is often believed that the election of the Jewish people plays an important role in the eschatological drama. Few contemporary thinkers express this relationship more clearly than David Novak: ‘The ultimate consequent of the election of Israel is the final redemption itself.’223 Therefore a study of the intersection of eschatology and election in the Jewish tradition can hardly be an indifferent matter to the Christian and Muslim traditions. The German-American scholar Michael Wyschogrod (1928-2015) was an important voice in Orthodox Judaism. At the heart of his eschatological thinking lies the conviction that God has elected the Jewish people and that this election serves an eschatological purpose. Divine election is foundational for the Jewish identity and is the very basis of Judaism. Hence, Judaism is not a set of beliefs and election is not based on ethical or ideological qualities. Rather, it is all about being part of the family of Abraham.224 Needless to say, this view has not gone unchallenged in contemporary discussions. Specifically, many Reform Jews avoid the notion of election entirely. Eugene B. Borowitz, for one, suggests that Jewish theologians should concentrate on the notion of covenant rather than election, thus downplaying the allegedly exclusive connotations of election. Furthermore, the notion of covenant ties together ‘the central affirmation of Jewish belief: that there is a pact between God and the People of Israel’ with ‘the role of circumcision’ and ‘that of keeping Shabbat’.225 But Wyschogrod does not pit the one against the other: in his view, covenant and election are closely related. Eliezer Schweid is one of the many Jewish thinkers who argue that the horrible experiences of the shoah make it impossible to understand the notion of election in the same way as before. He is critical of precisely the position that Wyschogrod represents: ‘the Orthodox understanding of the idea of a chosen 223 David Novak, The Election of Israel: The Idea of the Chosen People (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), 252. 224 Michael Wyschogrod, The Body of Faith: God and the People of Israel (Northvale: Jason Aronson, 1996), 57. 225 Eugene B. Borowitz, Judaism after Modernity: Papers from a Decade of Fruition (Lanham: University Press of America, 1999), 195–96.

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people became meaningless … after the Shoah.’226 But Schweid does not reject the notion of election itself. The idea of a ‘chosen people’ is indispensable for Jewish identity, he argues, and thus it should not be abandoned. As is common in Jewish tradition, he views election as a moral obligation rather than a religious privilege. Jews have a moral obligation to serve and to mend the world (tiqqun ‘olam).227 Schweid’s critique certainly applies to Orthodox theology, but it does not directly affect Wyschogrod’s thinking. For Wyschogrod as well, the election of the Jewish people involves a moral obligation. Wyschogrod does not, however, play this side of election against the other, namely, that God somehow chose Israel as God’s own people. Other modern thinkers, such as Mordecai Kaplan and Hugo Bergman, hold that the notion of election is incompatible with God’s justice228 Also, Or N. Rose refers to the contemporary experience of interreligious encounters and argues that these encounters teach us that no one religion can claim superiority over others.229 At one point, Wyschogrod concurs: claims of superiority and exclusiveness may have unfortunate consequences in relation to the religious Other. In a critical remark, Wyschogrod states that Jewish tradition has not properly ‘understood the depth of the gentile’s feeling of exclusion.’230 Yet, in his view, election is not a question of justice or superiority. He does not agree with Jewish thinkers who argue that there is a qualitative difference between Jews and other people and that the Jewish people have a special capacity for religion and religious life.231 Wyschogrod emphasises that there are no such distinguishing characteristics, be they cultural or ideological. Rather, election is primarily grounded in God’s love for Abraham: 226 Eliezer Schweid, ‘Is There a Religious Meaning to the Idea of a Chosen People after the Shoah?’, in The Impact of the Holocaust on Jewish Theology, ed. Steven T. Katz (New York: New York University Press, 2005), 11. 227 Ibid., 12. 228 Mordecai M. Kaplan, Dynamic Judaism: The Essential Writings of Mordecai M. Kaplan (New York: Schocken Books, 1985), 195. See also S. Hugo Bergman, ‘Israel and the Oikoumene’, in Studies in Rationalism, Judaism & Universalism: In Memory of Leon Roth, ed. Raphael Loewe (London: Routledge, 1966), 47–63. 229 Or N. Rose, ‘Spiritual Mappings: A Jewish Understanding of Religious Diversity’, in Jewish Theology in Our Time: A New Generation Explores the Foundations and Future of Jewish Belief, ed. Elliot J. Cosgrove (Woodstock: Jewish Lights Publishing, 2010), 69. 230 Michael Wyschogrod, Abraham’s Promise: Judaism and Jewish-Christian Relations, ed. R. Kendall Soulen (London: SCM Press, 2006), 200. 231 An early example of this is Abraham Geiger, a 19th-century figure. See Jacob B. Agus, Modern Philosophies of Judaism: A Study of Recent Jewish Philosophies of Religion (New York: Behrman’s Jewish Book House, 1941), 10–11.

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In the Bible, it is not Abraham who moves toward God but God who turns to Abraham with an election that is not explained because it is an act of love…. [God] sees the face of his beloved Abraham in each and every one of his children.232 Wyschogrod ponders the fact that the promise to Abraham is that he will have many children, not eternal life as such. He argues that this helps the Jewish theologian rightly understand the relationship between election and the hereafter.233 Being part of the elected people is foundational and the resurrection of the dead is only derived from that. Thus, Wyschogrod’s view is to a large extent ‘particular’ in the sense that it concerns the Jewish people primarily. The implications of this particularity for the religious Other will subsequently be analysed below. Election and Redemption Like David Novak in the quote above, Wyschogrod relates the election of the Jewish people to the redemption of the world. This election is therefore not primarily something for the Jewish people to look back on; it is a vision that reaches towards an eschatological future and the coming of the Messiah. Wyschogrod discusses the relationship between election and sin. While the consequences of a human being’s sin may be disastrous, these consequences do not affect God’s relationship to the Jewish people nor God’s redemption of the world.234 The question of whether or not one is elect is separate from the issue of sin. This is important with respect to the religious Other since not being elected does not imply remaining in a sinful state. Rather, the election of the Jewish people is part of God’s plan for all of humankind, according to Wyschogrod. Hence, the election and God’s eschatological plan will never be cancelled. We thus see the limit of human freedom. This limit consists of the inability of man to modify the fundamental program: the election and redemption of Israel and through Israel of mankind.235 A question that arises is why the God of the universe chose to elect a particular people rather than to be the impartial God of all people (Exod. 19:5). As we have seen, some Jewish scholars are critical of this idea. They argue that 232 Wyschogrod, The Body of Faith, 64. 233 Ibid., 22, 123. 234 Ibid., 212–13. 235 Ibid., 213.

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the situation today requires that this way of understanding election be downplayed. Wyschogrod is certainly familiar with the discussion, and he approaches the issue in terms of love. His argument is that election always implies some sort of exclusion of those not elected. Even though this might sound cruel, a love that is equal for everyone is hardly a better option. A love that does not require anything in return is detached and dispassionate. A love that is undifferentiated and distributed equally to all does not do justice to the actual person in his or her singularity. The consequence, according to Wyschogrod, is that God’s love becomes a principle. This is a treacherous route to take: History abounds with example, such fantastic loves directed at abstract creations of the imagination. In the names of these abstractions men have committed the most heinous crime against real, concrete, existing human beings.236 Therefore, any love, to be adequate, must be exclusive and directed to the particularity of the Other.237 This exclusive trait of love is the founding idea behind election. Each relationship is necessarily unique and cannot be replicated. Wyschogrod draws the conclusion that this necessarily implies that there must be a hierarchy of relationships: some are loved more than others.238 It is interesting to note that, while Wyschogrod emphasises that the particularity of each relationship implies that they are all different, he nevertheless insists on comparing them. One could question if the particular trait of each relationship undermines the possibility of comparison. Wyschogrod obviously seeks to avoid a more pluralistically conceived particularism in which each religious tradition is equally valid. He supports his argument with the bold anthropomorphism that no parents can love their children equally, and that this is also true of God’s relationship to people.239 David Novak has challenged Wyschogrod on the issue of sin. He is critical of the way the Torah and election correlate in Wyschogrod’s theology. Keeping the mitzvot is obviously not a criterion for election. Novak argues that ‘[t]he Jewish 236 Ibid., 61. 237 The Christian theologian Werner G. Jeanrond discusses the peril of turning love into an abstract principle in his Theology of Love. In this book, Jeanrond argues that prominent Christian theologians seek to control love by separating ‘Christian love’ from other ‘loves’. Thereby, (Christian) love can help strengthen ‘self- identity’ (at the expense of others). See Werner G. Jeanrond, A Theology of Love (London: T & T Clark, 2010), 105–34. 238 Wyschogrod, The Body of Faith, 61. 239 Ibid., 64–65.

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people is at least as much for the sake of the Torah as the Torah is for the sake of the Jewish people.’240 This is not the case in Wyschogrod’s theology, however, according to Novak. Here, the Torah is made subordinate to the Jewish people and God’s election. According to Novak, then, Wyschogrod’s problem is that ‘the Torah is solely for the sake of affirming the election of Israel’.241 The risk he sees in Wyschogrod’s approach is that the Torah loses its broader relevance and critical voice and becomes nothing more than an internal Jewish concern. Novak insists that the Torah must also apply to non-Jews to some extent. If this is not the case, he claims that ‘the only relationship possible, then, is one where gentiles accept Jewish sovereignty and dominance’.242 In other words, Novak objects that the subordination of the Torah to the Jewish people reduces the space of the religious Other. Novak’s argument assumes that the Torah necessarily mediates the relationship between God, the Jews, and other peoples. One may wonder if Wyschogrod actually shares this presupposition. It might be that Novak fails to see the consequences of two important components in Wyschogrod’s theology: first, his emphasis on the particularity of the Jewish tradition, and, second, the close affinity between Judaism and Christianity in Wyschogrod’s thinking. Both of these issues will be discussed in the next section. Election and Religious Otherness What does Wyschogrod’s theology of election imply for the religious Other? As stated above, that some are elect necessarily implies that others are not. How is this ‘exclusion’ related to eschatology? Wyschogrod reminds the reader that the Hebrew Bible is Israel’s history and is partial to the Jewish cause. In this sense, it is the Jewish story that the Hebrew Bible tells.243 The exclusion is thereby relativised since the relationship with others is not properly addressed. The consolation of the gentiles is the knowledge that God also stands in relationship with them in the recognition and affirmation of their uniqueness. The choice, after all, is between a lofty divine love equally distributed to all without recognition of uniqueness and real encounter, which necessarily involves favorites but in which each is unique and addressed as such.244 240 Novak, The Election of Israel, 246. 241 Ibid., 247. 242 Ibid. 243 Wyschogrod, The Body of Faith, 64. 244 Ibid.

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This relativisation is interesting since it suggests something that is neither absolute nor entirely relative: here, particularity merely brackets the exclusion of the religious Other. It seems as if Novak’s criticism regarding the exclusion of non-Jews does not follow from the relationship between the Torah and election. After all, in Wyschogrod’s thinking, the Torah is not the only way God communicates with human beings. Novak criticised Wyschogrod for subordinating the Torah to the Jewish people and thereby eliminating the possibilities for non-Jews to establish a relationship with God and the Jewish people outside of becoming Jews. Wyschogrod’s approach to Christian theology, however, reveals a certain openness to the indwelling of God in Jesus Christ. Even though Wyschogrod is very critical of some aspects of Christian theology and preaching, his view of Christianity reveals that he accepts the possibility of approaching God via ways other than the Torah.245 Wyschogrod compares Christianity and Judaism and claims that the former teaches a completed story, whereas the latter does not. In its proper context, this means that the promises of Christian theology are fulfilled through Jesus of Nazareth and that the eschatological promises of Judaism remain unfulfilled.246 Jacob Neusner shares this view of Judaism’s unfulfilled promises and states that, while Christianity claims absoluteness, Judaism claims uniqueness.247 Neusner takes pains to reject the close affinities between Judaism and Christianity. Most interesting in this discussion is perhaps the two Jewish scholars’ way of characterising their own faith, namely as incomplete and particular. David Hartman also emphasises the particularity of the Jewish tradition. His way of reasoning builds on the distinction between creation and history: ‘The universal God is the God of creation. But it is God as the Lord of history who enters into specific relationships’.248 Hartman’s position is not pluralistic

245 Hardly surprisingly, Wyschogrod rejects any Christian thinking that does not recognise the legitimacy of the Jewish people today. Supersessionism has rightly been referred to as ‘the acid test’ of Wyschogrod’s assessment of Christian theology. See Kendall Soulen, ‘Michael Wyschogrod and God's First Love’, The Christian Century 121, no. 15 (2004), 25. Wyschogrod himself writes ‘The Church’s claim of being the new people of God—a claim the Vatican II declaration under discussion [Nostra Aetate] specifically reiterates—is, from the Jewish point of view, another example of the nation’s protest against the election of the stock of Abraham.’ Cf. Wyschogrod, Abraham’s Promise, 184. 246 Wyschogrod, The Body of Faith, 69. 247 Neusner, Jews and Christians, 94. 248 David Hartman, A Heart of Many Rooms: Celebrating the Many Voices within Judaism (Woodstock: Jewish Lights, 1999), 164.

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in the same way that John Hick’s theology is, but it does view each revelation as limited and particular since it is part of history: ‘because of this inherent particularity, it need not invalidate the faith experience of other religious communities.’249 Wyschogrod is less explicit than Hartman on these matters, but he does emphasise the particularity of the Jewish faith. As a consequence, Wyschogrod does not provide what I would call a ‘meta-perspective’; he does not make any universalising attempts to explain the condition and destiny of the religious Other and the validity of his or her tradition. Moreover, he does not see the Torah as a necessary means for relating to God, as suggested in Novak’s argument above. Wyschogrod discusses Judaism and other nations, rather than other religions. In the contemporary debate, however, many Jewish scholars discuss the questions concerning non-Jews with respect to religion.250 Obviously, both approaches are possible, and one reason for Wyschogrod’s choice is probably that the concept of ‘nation’ is more familiar to the biblical world. An additional reason might have to do with his critical evaluation of religion as, more often than not, signifying something world-denying. Many religions share a lack of interest in politics and in the present world order, according to Wyschogrod.251 As a consequence, one should not be surprised to find the eschatologies of these religions to be world-denying as well. Nonetheless, he insists that Jewish eschatology can never consist of the hope of being rescued from the world to a distant heaven (which is how he views Christian eschatology). Rather, Redemption must take place in the world in which men live, and if death is conquered, it is not conquered by the immortality of a Platonic soul freed of its material cover, but by the promise of resurrection into the materiality of human existence.252 Wyschogrod’s argument is that, in order to proclaim hope for the entire human being, there must also be some sort of hope for her history: thus hope for the nations. National election is a sign of God’s understanding of the human 249 Ibid. 250 For four recent examples, see Brill, Judaism and Other Religions; Cohn-Sherbok, Judaism and Other Faiths; Ravitzky, ‘Judaism Views Other Religions’; and the many authors in Alon Goshen-Gottstein and Eugene Korn, eds., Jewish Theology and World Religions (Oxford: Littman Library of Jewish Civilization, 2012). 251 Wyschogrod, The Body of Faith, 9. 252 Ibid., xxxiv.

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context. It is as impossible to dissociate a human being from his or her (national) community as it is to dissociate a human soul from her body, he argues.253 Hence, Wyschogrod actually proclaims hope for the ‘redemption of the historical order’.254 The more precise implications of this are not easily discerned. As we have already seen, Wyschogrod’s notion of redemption is neither about humanity being rescued from a sinful state (as in some Christian theologies) nor from this world as such. Rather, redemption is about conquering death, and this includes not only human beings but all of God’s creation. Wyschogrod is critical of what he sees as a tendency of early Christianity to believe in redemption from an unredeemed world.255 Wyschogrod’s view of redemption is evidently a way to express hope for Israel, but the implications for other ‘nations’ are not clear. It is also a way to acknowledge the value of history as such. Obviously, in an increasingly global world, one might wonder if it is possible to dissociate a nation from the surrounding nations and hence from the world as such. Is it not only a matter of postponing the same problem? In any case, it is clear that Wyschogrod’s theology comprises a strong national emphasis and that ‘nation’ is as important a category as ‘religion’. Particularity and Redemption The election of Israel is a sign for humanity that speaks to the vulnerability and ‘human’ character of God’s love. This is to the extent that Wyschogrod states that God cannot be defined except in reference to the people of Israel. Wyschogrod explicitly rejects any theology that ‘does too much’, such as explaining why God chose this or that and why this particular choice was God’s only possibility.256 The particularity in Wyschogrod’s theology is further stressed by his way of referring to God. Like many other Jewish thinkers, Wyschogrod applies paraphrases to avoid saying the Tetragrammaton. One of these paraphrases is Hashem, which means ‘the Name’ and signals the reluctance in Jewish theology to utter the name of God. Wyschogrod uses Hashem only when the intimate relationship between God and the Jewish people is discussed: Hashem lives among and in the Jewish people, both individually and collectively […] The election of Israel and the biblical focus on the history of Israel are therefore, in a sense, the means chosen by Hashem for the redemption of humanity. Nevertheless, the working involvement of 253 Ibid., 68. 254 Ibid. 255 Ibid., 178–79. 256 Ibid., 58.

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Hashem is with the people of Israel. The others, for the time being, are in the background.257 Note that Wyschogrod does not place universalism over against particularism. On the contrary, his Judaism is established in the dialectical tension between the two. Gabriele Boccaccini shares this view and declares that the opposite of universalism ‘is not particularism or nationalism, but dogmatism and intolerance’.258 Ethics is central to Wyschogrod’s eschatology, but he is critical of the modern tendency to reduce Judaism to ethics. Neither Jewish theology in general nor eschatology in particular consists solely of ethics, according to Wyschogrod. Crucial to the Jewish identity is the Jewish nation, and, with that, the land and the language. Judaism is not an abstract philosophy but is bound up with a concrete people, and therefore neither the Jewish land nor language is easily replaceable.259 There are two implications to Wyschogrod’s notion of particularity. On the one hand, it accentuates the borders between the Jew and the religious Other without any explicit attempts at invitation. On the other hand, this notion of particularity leaves room for the otherness of the religious Other. Wyschogrod’s narrative does not make any attempt to assimilate or adapt other narratives. These particularistic traits of Wyschogrod’s theology will be related to redemption and to eschatological fulfilment below. As stated above, what is central to Wyschogrod’s thinking is not the body of Jewish texts nor a set of beliefs, but the family relationship of the entire Jewish people. The purpose of this relationship and of an elect people, however, is the redemption at once of both Israel and the redemption of humankind. It is worth noting that the strong emphasis on election and particularity in Wyschogrod’s thinking in fact provides theological space for the religious Other. Thus, Wyschogrod is not advocating the conversion of non-Jews. (Since the essence of Judaism is the family relationship, the conversions that actually occur are best described as biological miracles; the converts become true heirs of Abraham.) Wyschogrod does not solve the question of the redemption of the religious Other. He assumes they are redeemed and states that the ‘consolation of the gentiles is the knowledge that God also stands in relationship with them in the recognition and affirmation of their uniqueness.’260 257 Ibid., 103–04. 258 Gabriele Boccaccini, Middle Judaism: Jewish Thought, 300 B.C.E. to 200 C.E. (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1991), 265. 259 Wyschogrod, The Body of Faith, 222–23. 260 Ibid., 64.

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The kind of universalising meta-perspective that is prevalent in many Christian theologies and, as I have argued, reduces the theological space of the religious Other, is not to be found in Wyschogrod’s theology. The Jewish people are a sign of God or rather the sign of God: The circumcised body of Israel is the dark, carnal presence through which the redemption makes its way in history. Salvation is of the Jews because the flesh of Israel is the abode of the divine presence in the world. It is the carnal anchor that God has sunk into the soil of creation.261 The quotation above, with its implicit reference to John 4:22, expresses this tension. On the one hand, the Jewish people are not given as one sign (or one people) among others but as the sign (and people). The particularity of the Jewish people is such that nothing can be measured against it. On the other hand, the Jewish people are also an instrument of God’s presence in the other peoples on earth. Hence, what we have seen in the Christian eschatologies in chapter two is what I would call a particularistic universality, where the religious Other is invited into this actual universality in order to be part of the universal redemption. In Wyschogrod’s theology, we meet what could be termed a universalistic particularity in which the particularity is visible to all others, without necessarily including them. The somewhat dense terminological distinction may seem little more than wordplay, but the difference between the terms is significant. Perhaps we can visualise the two approaches by thinking of a cone. In the case of particularistic universality, the base of the cone is facing us: it is wide and is intended to include everyone. But it does so by narrowing down the diversity and hence coordinating the different religions into one. In the case of universalistic particularity, however, the narrow end of the cone is facing us. It is thus narrow, particular, and not aimed at all. But its shape reminds one of a megaphone: the sound that comes out is broad and universally relevant as a message for the many. In general, Wyschogrod’s position is shared by many Jewish thinkers. Michael Kogan, a scholar who has written explicitly on Judaism’s relationship to Christianity and whose claims resemble Wyschogrod’s, states that ‘while Judaism views itself as the true faith of the Jewish people, it does not insist on a world in which everyone is Jewish.’262 On the topic of revelation, Kogan 261 Ibid., 256. 262 Michael S. Kogan, Opening the Covenant: A Jewish Theology of Christianity (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008), 232.

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declares that ‘Jews are in possession of the word of truth through revelation, but that is not to say that theirs is the final word.’263 Through his notion of election, Wyschogrod pronounces a universalistic particularity in which the election of the Jewish people does not eschatologically exclude the religious Other or try to assimilate him or her into the elect people. The Apocalyptic Nature of Eschatology In Wyschogrod’s thinking, the tension between historical continuity (the redemption of the nations) and discontinuity (apocalyptic waiting for the unknown) is apparent. As a consequence, the hope for the nations does not remain unchallenged. The apocalyptic character of Wyschogrod’s eschatology serves as a critique of every aspect of the present world order, nations included. The envisioned eschatological future is not a natural future. It is not the continuation of the present world order but an apocalyptic interruption, a divine intervention that transforms nature.264 Thus, the eschatological hope is truly hope for all nations and hope for history—but it is not the result of an ongoing process inherent in history. Eschatology can never be extracted from the past: ‘It is the realm of possibility, not a veiled actuality.’265 The apocalyptic transformation has not yet happened, and Wyschogrod refers to it as ‘redemption’ and as the coming of the Messiah. Although the religious history of Judaism contains many significant events, none of them is salvific—or redemptive (Wyschogrod uses the terms interchangeably)—according to Wyschogrod. Judaism is characterised by waiting: This central event, the advent of the Messiah and the redemption of Israel and the world, has not yet taken place. It is still being awaited, and it is this waiting that characterizes the condition of humanity. To wait for someone is not to live toward a future that is totally empty, completely dark. He for whom we wait casts his presence over the landscape from which he is perceived as absent.266 The fundamental redemptive act is the coming of the Messiah. Wyschogrod distinguishes between minimalist and maximalist interpretations of this event. The former involves little change to the present order whereas the latter 263 Ibid., 236. 264 Wyschogrod, The Body of Faith, 226–27. 265 Ibid., 227. 266 Ibid., 225.

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means that the Messiah will change everything, including the place and significance of the Torah. Through the Messiah, history will reach its climax, and redemption will take effect in human beings’ relations with each other and with God. According to Wyschogrod, all this suggests that a proper Jewish theology entails a maximalist understanding of the Messiah.267 The belief that the Torah will not keep its present role in the eschaton parallels the conclusions in the discussion on the Qur’an and the hereafter above. Wyschogrod does not explicitly discuss the role of the Jewish people in the eschaton. On the one hand, the messianic event changes everything, and hence the idea of a ‘Jewish eschaton’ seems far from Wyschogrod’s thinking. On the other hand, the election of the Jewish people is based on God’s love for Abraham and his descendants, and it is not obvious why God’s love would not remain centred on the Jewish people even in the eschaton. Closing the discussion on election, we have seen how profoundly this notion is connected to eschatology and the question of the religious Other. The arguments between Novak and Wyschogrod have revealed two contemporary positions, both of which defend the idea of the Jewish people as elected. There is an exclusion imbedded in the two views of election, but, in both cases, this exclusion must be understood via the relationship between universality and particularity in their thinking. As argued above, Wyschogrod’s particularistic universality enables the claim that the Jewish people are elected and that there is theological space for the religious Other. Through our discussion of Wyschogrod’s theology of election we have already come across another major eschatological topic in Jewish theology, namely, messianism. This is the topic of the next section: the notion of the Messiah and its implications for the religious Other. The Messiah: Steven Schwarzschild and a Theology of Waiting Introduction One of the most characteristic features of Jewish eschatology—indeed, of Jewish theology in general—is the notion of messianism. This notion has proven capable of adapting to remarkably different circumstances. As much as it ties Judaism, Christianity, and Islam together, it also reveals their profound distinctiveness. R. J. Zwi Werblowsky compares the plurality of understandings within the Jewish tradition alone to the rings of an old yet still growing tree to which

267 Ibid., 255.

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new and different levels of understanding are constantly being added.268 Jewish messianism is certainly no exception to the saying that Jews do not travel light, since they hardly throw any texts or ideas away.269 Be that as it may, a common notion to most understandings of messianism is its inherent call to change the order of things. It is, as Werblowsky states, born of the actual experience of suffering and exile. Gerschom Scholem stresses this side of messianism more forcefully: Jewish Messianism is in its origin and by its nature—this cannot be sufficiently emphasized—a theory of catastrophe. This theory stresses the revolutionary, cataclysmic element in the transition from every historical present to the Messianic future.270 Hence, messianism is almost always a critique of the present and the hope for a coming change. Given the many different conceptions of the Messiah, there are of course a vast number of ways to categorise these ideas. As will be discussed further below, one parameter concerns whether the Messiah is viewed in personal or impersonal terms. David Novak makes another broad categorisation which is independent of the question whether the Messiah is personal or impersonal, distinguishing between apocalyptic messianism and extensive messianism. Both of these types have reasonably strong support in the Jewish tradition. Moreover, they can both be said to reactions to the present situation. In extensive messianism, the coming of the Messiah is a process that involves political activity by human beings which aims at the establishment of a peaceful messianic reign in the here and now. The apocalyptic version of messianism, on the other hand, is not a process but an event. Here, the messianic era is not the result of the effort of the Jewish people; rather, human beings ought to hope for the coming of the Messiah.271

268 R. J. Zwi Werblowsky, ‘Messianism’, in Contemporary Jewish Religious Thought: Original Essays on Critical Concepts, Movements, and Beliefs, ed. Arthur A. Cohen and Paul R. Mendes-Flohr (New York: The Free Press, 1987), 601. 269 Brill, Judaism and Other Religions, 13. 270 Gershom Scholem, The Messianic Idea in Judaism and Other Essays on Jewish Spirituality, trans. Michael A. Meyer (New York: Schocken Books, 1971), 7. 271 David Novak, ‘Is There a Theological Connection between the Holocaust and the Reestablishment of the State of Israel?’, in The Impact of the Holocaust on Jewish Theology, ed. Steven T. Katz (New York: New York University Press, 2005), 255–56.

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Neither of these categories truly clarifies the characteristics of the Jewish Messiah. It might well be, as Scholem suggests, that ‘his character is over-determined and therefore has again become uncertain.’272 In what follows, I shall discuss one such ‘uncertain’ messianism, the one found in Steven Schwarzschild’s writings. The Jewish theologian and philosopher Steven Schwarzschild (1924-1989) was born in Germany and came to the US in 1939. He served for many years as Professor of Philosophy and Judaic studies at Washington University, St. Louis. As a rabbi, he was a member of both the Reform and Conservative rabbinic assemblies, though he was usually associated with the former.273 The Messianic Nature of Eschatology Schwarzschild’s eschatology is fundamentally and intrinsically messianic. Other eschatological concepts are also vital for him, but none of them can be understood except through the messianic hope. In his early article ‘The Personal Messiah’, Schwarzschild reflects on the character and content of this hope. As the title indicates, he argues that the Messiah should be conceived of in personal terms, as an individual.274 If we apply Novak’s categories, Schwarzschild’s notion of messianism is apocalyptic, rather than extensive. As we shall see, the Jewish people ought to wait for the messianic event rather than attempt to establish a messianic age through political battles. In this way, Schwarzschild distinguishes himself from those who see the messianic age as the effect of a natural process.275 But waiting for the messianic event is not an indifferent or passive attitude. Rather, Schwarzschild’s is an active form of waiting.276 Louis Jacobs, the founder of the Conservative branch of Judaism in Britain, also known as Masorti Judaism, is one of the critics of personal messianism. Jacobs’ reasoning is political in nature, pointing to the troublesome consequences of giving Messianic significance of the house of David: ‘The purpose of a special royal person, elevated above all others by reason of birth, to rule over all others, is hard for us to fathom.’277 Jacobs nevertheless acknowledges the 272 Scholem, The Messianic Idea in Judaism, 17. 273 See, for instance, Neil Gillman, Doing Jewish Theology: God, Torah & Israel in Modern Judaism (Woodstock: Jewish Lights Publishing, 2008), 71. 274 Schwarzschild, ‘The Personal Messiah’. 275 This view is held by many thinkers associated with Reform Judaism and Zionism. For a brief discussion, see Louis Jacobs, A Jewish Theology (London: Darton, Longman & Todd, 1973), 298. 276 Schwarzschild, ‘The Personal Messiah’, 21–26. 277 Jacobs, A Jewish Theology, 300.

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strong tradition in support of a personal Messiah and does not want to settle the question completely. Instead, he calls for a ‘degree of religious agnosticism’, admitting that it is simply not possible to know what the messianic future will be like. 278 Schwarzschild energetically defends the notion of the personal Messiah: a personal Messiah is the insurance that eschatological hope is real. The alternative, to see the Messiah as an impersonal age, ‘leaves humanity swimming desperately in the ocean of history without a shore where he might eventually reach safety.’279 Certainly, these two Conservative Jewish thinkers are both critical of the other’s position. But Schwarzschild escapes most of Jacobs’ critical remarks regarding a personal Messiah and its royal connotations, not least because he downplays the political and royalist elements of a personal messianic hope and conceives of the messianic kingdom quite differently. For Schwarzschild, the messianic hope is about establishing the messianic kingdom. This kingdom is to be understood in ethical categories: the striving for ethical perfection in this life. The coming of the Messiah is precisely this never-completed ‘spiritualisation’ of the universe. Even though Schwarzschild argues in favour of a personal Messiah, he does not refer to a particular person who intervenes in history and rescues his people. Nor is the messianic kingdom an entirely human project of creating a just society. Rather, it describes a complex interaction of divine and human endeavours. Actually, Schwarzschild’s notion of pseudo-messianism comes much closer to the messianism Jacobs rejects: pseudo-messianism separates messianism from ethics and calls an actual person ‘the Messiah’.280 Thus, on the one hand, Schwarzschild emphasises the importance of the Messiah as a personal being. On the other hand, he emphatically dismisses every attempt to declare a particular person ‘the Messiah’, referring, for instance, to the Christian position as pseudo-messianism.281 The messianic nature of Schwarzschild’s eschatology implies hope for this world and its inhabitants. From this perspective, even the proclamation of a false Messiah may serve as a reminder of the actuality of that hope. The Messiah Who Will Always Be Coming In his early works it is clear that Schwarzschild believes that the Messiah will actually come—there will be a time in history when the Messiah will have 278 Ibid. 279 Schwarzschild, ‘The Personal Messiah’, 19. 280 Schwarzschild, ‘On Jewish Eschatology’, 226. 281 Schwarzschild, ‘The Personal Messiah’, 20.

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arrived. In his later writings, however, he maintains the belief in a personal Messiah but distances himself from the idea that the Messiah will come in history. According to Schwarzschild’s later writings, one of the few plain facts of Jewish messianism is that the Messiah has not arrived. This shift is fundamental and illustrates two lines in contemporary Jewish eschatology. His earlier works sided with Franz Rosenzweig and others who declare that the Messiah will come one day.282 His later position followed Hermann Cohen who opted for the eternal delay of the Messiah. Schwarzschild defends his new position with two different arguments. The delay—or as he elegantly puts it, ‘the eternity of the pre-Messianic “interim”’—prevents the kind of mythologising in which human beings deify themselves, as he thought had happened in Christian tradition.283 Furthermore, it promotes ethics to a more central role. Otherwise, ethics tends to be restricted to assignments during the interim period. Thus, in his later works, Schwarzschild holds that the imminent coming of the Messiah fosters not only poor theology but also ill-fated politics.284 The enterprise of building an eschatology on the hope for a Messiah who, according to the same hope, will never come may sound peculiar. According to Schwarzschild, the very idea of the Messiah is the expectation of his coming, and not the Messiah’s coming as such. Rather than predicting a date, it is true to say that the Messiah is coming every day and forever. Like the runner who takes his position at the starting block, outwardly still but with every muscle straining toward the coming race, the human being ought to be alert and prepared. Again, this alertness is not about waiting passively but about anticipating the Messiah’s arrival by working hard to repair the world. Notably, Schwarzschild’s messianism differs significantly from how the Messiah is conceived in the Christian eschatologies analysed in the second chapter of this study. The primary focus is not on the person who will come but on the people who are waiting for this coming. In the previous chapter, we saw how Messiah- or Christ-centred eschatologies determined their eschatological descriptions, and I argued that this was in fact a kind of christological over-determination or ‘christianisation’ of the eschaton. In Schwarzschild’s theology, the focus is on the people who are waiting and on the activity of waiting. Hence, a different picture develops. The eschaton is certainly not over-determined or ‘Judaised’. On the contrary, very little is actually determined about 282 See, for instance, ibid., 17–18. 283 Schwarzschild, ‘On Jewish Eschatology’, 211–12. 284 For a discussion, see Steven Schwarzschild, The Pursuit of the Ideal: Jewish Writings of Steven Schwarzschild, ed. Menachem Kellner (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1990), 356, n. 15.

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the eschatological future. Let us return to Schwarzschild’s passage on eschatological hermeneutics and quote it in its entirety. The striving toward total human morality on earth (‘the Messianic kingdom’) continues beyond any and all individual human lives: this is what we call ‘history’, and it consists of the infinite and, therefore, never-completed spiritualization of the human universe. The regulatively postulated completion of that infinite historical process of spiritualization is what is called ‘the coming of the Messiah’.285 To call this process of spiritualisation ‘the coming of the Messiah’ may appear to a matter of depersonalising the Messiah. Yet Schwarzschild’s argument is that this expectation as such transforms the world and this expectation is more forceful when it is directed towards personal hope. These sentences on eschatological hermeneutics provide a somewhat dense picture. In the next section, I shall analyse its details. Hope—For What? The messianic hope in Schwarzschild’s thinking has both immanent and transcendent components. It is clearly hope in and for this world, and yet it survives the death of the individual. The fundamental aspect of messianism is the establishment of the messianic kingdom. This is an ethical goal in which human beings ought to work for a more perfect world. Schwarzschild designates this goal ‘asymptotic’, meaning that it can never be accomplished. Nonetheless, ‘Messianism in fact operates, therefore, as a direct producer of moral values and as an intermediate criterion of proper action in any and every situation’.286 None of the eschatological symbols in Schwarzschild’s theology can be properly understood apart from ethics and halakhah, and they cannot be separated from God’s acts. Immortality, for instance, is a quality of human existence that depends on ethics and one’s relationship to God. By ethicising his or her life, the human being moves toward ha‘olam haba, the world to come. This ‘world to come’ is an expression of the complex interaction just mentioned. It exists always and is received by the ethicising of one’s life. Still, the individual cannot, however, actually attain that infinite (infinitely moral, spiritual) world in the material world by himself. Therefore, at the end of an

285 Schwarzschild, ‘On Jewish Eschatology’, 215. 286 Ibid., 218.

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individual’s lifetime his infinite human potential (‘soul’) is eternalized…. That is what is called ‘immortality’.287 Again, the combination of apocalyptic messianism and the call to ethicise human life indicates a theological interplay in which religious belonging or religious beliefs are not at the heart of things. As Schwarzschild acknowledges, his entire eschatology could be summarised as a vision of God’s kingdom transforming and perfecting the world (‘the Jewish eschatological vision is then perhaps best summarised in the liturgical phrase: letakken ‘olam bemalchut shaddai’).288 In an interesting distinction between apocalypticism and messianism, he declares that the two are not opposite but complementary aspects of Jewish eschatology. Apocalypticism proclaims the end of history through a catastrophe that will bring history and the world to an end. Messianism, on the other hand, holds that the end comes from within history, that there is an intrinsic link between human history and its goal.289 The complementary perspectives of apocalypticism and messianism represent the establishment of the messianic kingdom through divine intervention (grace) and human action (morality). This highlights the central features of Schwarzschild’s messianism, namely, the belief that the Messiah will always be coming in the future, and that this coming is ethically conditioned. The tension between the stress on a personal Messiah and the belief that his arrival is always postponed remains unresolved in Schwarzschild’s thinking. This is not to be seen as a logical flaw but as a spiritual motivation that nurtures ethical improvement. Hope—For Whom? What of the religious Other in Schwarzschild’s eschatology? It is clear that there is no particular interreligious focus in his treatises on eschatology. Yet there are brief references to ‘non-Jews’ and statements with implications for the religious Other in general and for the Christian in particular. Schwarzschild’s terminology is rich when it regards the religious Other. There are, as we shall see, several degrees of otherness between the Jew and the non-Jew. Some of them presuppose a certain degree of conversion or acceptance of the Torah, whereas others do not. Most applicable to our study are the terms ‘non-Jew’ and ‘members of the Noahide covenant’. The non-Jews who accept the Noahide 287 Ibid., 215. 288 Schwarzschild translates the phrase as follows: ‘to repair/perfect the world by means of the kingdom of God.’ ibid., 225. 289 Ibid.

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laws, including the prohibition of idolatry, are referred to as ‘semi-converts’ or ‘resident-strangers’. The way these Others are treated in Schwarzschild’s eschatology provides a good background for the questions of theological space and theological interplay in his thinking. The question of theological space for the religious Other in this early version of Schwarzschild’s messianism depends on how we are to understand the alleged requirements of keeping the Noahide laws. Schwarzschild refers to Maimonides who states that the actual fulfilment of that law insures divine approval. Thus, it is not enough to know the law; one must also practise it.290 Again, we find examples of the ethical emphasis in Schwarzschild’s eschatology. This can also be seen in the criteria that govern whether ‘at the end of an individual’s lifetime his infinite human potential (“soul”) is eternalized’.291 The criteria are God’s will, whether the individual is a Jew, and whether the individual is a righteous non-Jew.292 These three criteria reveal the clear distinction between Jews and non-Jews in Schwarzschild’s eschatology. The first criterion should be seen as a reservation that brackets the latter ones. Since the eschatological future is in the hands of God, no clear-cut models can unambiguously anticipate this future. Nonetheless, the question in Schwarzschild’s thinking is not actually whether or not the non-Jew can be saved (‘all the righteous of the nations of the world have a share in the world to come’).293 Rather, his position is that there is a certain amount of what we can call ‘ethical particularity’, namely, different criteria depending on whether one is a Jew or not. These criteria relate to the different covenants that, according to Schwarzschild, apply to the Jew and the religious Other. The messianic kingdom will be divided into thirteen parts in which each of the twelve tribes will receive their share and the Messiah will have the final one. The latter symbolises the right of the non-Jew to have a share in the messianic kingdom.294 In the terminology Schwarzschild uses, the ‘resident-stranger’ or the ‘semi-convert’ is a non-Jew who accepts the seven Noahide laws and lives according to them because God has commanded them in the Torah. Schwarzschild discusses the religious Other primarily in his writings on Maimonides and Hermann Cohen, and mentions several religious types. Here is the Jew (the righteous and the wicked), the convert, and the ‘semi-convert’. Common to all of these categories is that they acknowledge the authority of 290 Schwarzschild, ‘Do Noachites Have to Believe in Revelation?’, 59. 291 Schwarzschild, ‘On Jewish Eschatology’, 215. 292 Ibid. 293 Ibid. See also Tosefta Sanhedrin 13:2. 294 Schwarzschild, ‘A Note on the Nature of Ideal Society’, 102.

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the Torah (possibly except for the wicked Jew). The question of the righteous Gentile remains. In Schwarzschild’s terminology, this is a person who lives according to the Noahide laws but does so on the basis of rational or other considerations, without reference to the Torah. There is no explicit recognition of the religious Other except within the framework of the Noahide laws. It is here, in relation to the Noahide laws, that Schwarzschild finds room for the non-Jews. Schwarzschild’s reasoning with respect to the messianic kingdom obviously presupposes his early conception that the messianic era actually takes place in history. Here, we find a particular and restricted space for the religious Other. There is no place for semi-converts in Jerusalem. Rather, they have their own share of the kingdom and hence do not need to ‘seek asylum’ in Jerusalem.295 This statement may be seen as a rejection of the kind of inclusivism that assimilates the religious Other and turns him or her into a member of one’s own tradition. Schwarzschild refers to a universalistic aspect of Judaism and explains that ‘the non-Jewish nations of the world will, in one way and one degree or another, be encompassed in its benefits.’296 In context, however, it is clear that the non-Jews that Schwarzschild’s discussion refers to are persons who have converted to Judaism. The assurance that one thirteenth of the land in messianic times belongs to the Messiah illustrates this: the reason is ‘primarily so that even in respect to land-property, converts will be equals of all native Jews.’297 Schwarzschild actually considers this kind of messianism to be a religious term for ‘what we today call socialism’.298 As already mentioned, redemption involves the religious Other (‘all the nations of the world’), according to Schwarzschild.299 Clearly, there is a national and a universal dimension of redemption. The messianic kingdom is universal in the sense that it involves the whole world. This means that the salvation of the Jews has soteriological consequences for the religious Other: As every person in Israel was grasped by the prophetic spirit at Sinai, so all humanity will be in the messianic hour—n.b., all dependent on their morality.300

295 Ibid., 107. 296 Ibid., 102. 297 Ibid., 107. 298 Ibid., 108. 299 Schwarzschild, ‘Shekhinah and Eschatology’, 249. 300 Ibid.

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Thus, the relevant criterion for the religious Other seems to be his or her ethical qualities. Let us very briefly comment on the theological evaluation of Christianity. First, it is clear that the Christian as Christian does not benefit from any privileged status in Schwarzschild’s eschatological thinking. As shown above, Schwarzschild discusses questions about non-Jews within the framework of the Noahide covenant. The Abrahamic covenant which relates particularly to Christianity, Islam, and Judaism is not developed any further in this soteriological context. Rather than seeking similarities and commonalities, Schwarzschild emphasises the features that distinguish Judaism and Christianity from each other. The traditional christology of Christianity is referred to as pseudo-messianism, and he does not hesitate to state that Jewish messianism scandalises the Christian equivalent.301 There is not a great deal of concurrence among contemporary Jewish thinkers regarding these questions on the covenant. Clearly, some of them follow Schwarzschild, whereas others follow Michael Wyschogrod who argues that there is a unique covenant between God and the Jewish people and another between God and Christians that is just as unique.302 In the previous section, I suggested that Wyschogrod’s eschatology may be called universalistic particularity, which means that his eschatological narrative is particular and concerned with the Jewish people, without making claims to tell a universal narrative that includes all people. That said, his particularistic story claims to make a universal contribution as a sign for everyone. We can note a similar trait in Schwarzschild’s eschatology. His messianism lacks a genuine meta-perspective and is focused on the waiting Jewish people, rather than on the destiny of the entire human race. The different degrees of religious Others, the convert, the semi-convert, and the non-Jew, express the recognition of different worldviews and ethical criteria. Schwarzschild’s messianism is, to a certain extent, an attempt to present a Jewish view without forcing everyone to become a Jew. A Specific Hope for the Jewish People? What, then, is the role of the Jewish people and Israel in Schwarzschild’s eschatology? Here we find that Schwarzschild’s position resembles Wyschogrod’s theology of election. He develops his ideas on the purpose of the Jewish people 301 See Schwarzschild, ‘The Personal Messiah’, 20. and Schwarzschild, ‘On Jewish Eschatology’, 211. 302 For a more thorough discussion on covenant and the religious Other, see Alan Brill, Judaism and World Religions: Encountering Christianity, Islam, and Eastern Traditions (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2012), 77–111.

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around the notion of God’s shekhinah, a Hebrew word that denotes God’s presence or radiating glory. To Schwarzschild, the shekhinah is the functioning relationship between the transcendent God, on the one hand, and, on the other hand, humanity in general and the people of Israel in particular (the latter as the normatively fullest realization of humanity).303 In this regard, there is no doubt that there is a normative distinction between the Jewish people and others. Schwarzschild moves on and argues that ‘the Jewish people are, or are part of, the shekhinah’.304 This means that other people may come to know God through the Jewish people. This way of seeing one’s own religious community as having a particular assignment comes close to contemporary Catholic Christian theology in which the church is seen as the sacrament of God and of salvation.305 In Schwarzschild’s thinking, shekhinah theology is not so much descriptive as it is prescriptive.306 Thus, it pertains primarily to a special task. According to Schwarzschild, the special task of the Jewish people is to be those ‘who are commanded by, obligated to, God’s law to be perfect human beings and who, of course, never in their worldly lives accomplish that task.’307 To summarise briefly the aspects of Schwarzschild’s eschatology that are most relevant to my heuristic tools, I shall examine the notion of the ever-delayed Messiah more closely. I have already argued that Schwarzschild’s focus on the people who hope—rather than comparing the exact content of that hope—leaves room for the otherness of the eschaton. Thus, Schwarzschild’s eschatology is certainly not a Jewish overdetermination of the eschaton. But can we draw any conclusions from this fact? Two critical questions arise. First, is Schwarzschild’s position actually different from a meaningless waiting for ‘the void’? Is not the transformative power of hope dependent on a sincere belief in this hope? Can hope in something have an effect if no one actually believes in it? Second, does the ethical emphasis actually promote a theological space, or is it just another way of excluding the religious Other? First, it is important to point out that the shift from the early to the late Schwarzschild concerning messianism is not a shift from believing in a Messiah 303 Schwarzschild, ‘Shekhinah and Eschatology’, 235. 304 Ibid., 246. 305 Catechism of the Catholic Church, § 1131. 306 Schwarzschild, ‘Shekhinah and Eschatology’, 246. 307 Ibid.

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to not believing in a Messiah. Rather, it is a question of whether the Messiah comes in history or is expected in an eschaton that is beyond history. Thus, the transformative character of hope may still exist since that hope aims at an eschatological future. The position that Schwarzschild develops refuses to describe the eschaton in clear terms yet holds that there is an eschatological future to hope for. Nonetheless, the fundamental issue in the here and now, according to Schwarzschild, is not what to expect but how to await it. A question posed by many Jewish thinkers is whether ‘the future messianic redemption is destined to overcome particularity and finally put an end to the multiplicity of religions’308 Schwarzschild resolves the issue as such by emphasising the eternal delay of the Messiah and thus opens up the possibility that different religious communities may share in the waiting without declaring that all will become Jews in the eschatological process.309 Second, Schwarzschild emphasises ethics to the extent that his own words on Levinas become relevant: ‘ethics is an eschatological optics.’310 The ethics that Schwarzschild applies as the criterion for redemption is by definition for non-Jews. In Jewish theology, it is an open question and complex discussion as to how the Noahide laws relate to the religious Other.311 In the Talmud they constitute a set of moral and religious obligations that apply to all humankind. In Ravitzky’s interpretation, the Noahide laws do not require non-Jews to worship the one God, but neither do these laws permit them to worship other gods. Moreover, they do not have to bless Israel’s God, but they should, at the very least, not curse Israel’s God.312 The question is how to understand these commandments. Are they compatible with being a faithful Muslim or a faithful Christian? The issue has been subject to debate in the Jewish tradition. Certainly, many contemporary scholars agree that other religious traditions can be evaluated through ethical criteria or through the Noahide laws. This 308 Ravitzky, ‘Judaism Views Other Religions’, 85. 309 This attitude actually resembles the advice given by Anthony Kelly who argues that religious communities would do well to focus not so much on inter-faith dialogue and the differences in creedal statements but more on inter-hope dialogue and the dynamics of hope as such. See Kelly, Eschatology and Hope, 16. 310 Schwarzschild, ‘On Jewish Eschatology’, 363, note 61. See also Steven G. Smith, The Argument to the Other: Reason Beyond Reason in the Thought of Karl Barth and Emmanuel Levinas (Chico: Scholars Press, 1983), 86–94. 311 Several contemporary Jewish theologians make Noah the starting point of their theology of religions. See, for instance, David Novak, Jewish-Christian Dialogue: A Jewish Justification (New York: Oxford University Press, 1992), 26. See also Jonathan Sacks, The Dignity of Difference: How to Avoid the Clash of Civilizations (London: Continuum, 2002), 57. 312 Ravitzky, ‘Judaism Views Other Religions’, 82.

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is how Alon Goshen-Gottstein interprets the notions of ‘the righteous among the nations’ and ‘the righteous gentile’—as notions applicable to the Christian Other and the Muslim Other.313 Even though Schwarzschild’s eschatology has universal implications, it is fundamentally particular in the sense that it is a Jewish eschatology addressing the Jewish people without any clear prescriptions for the religious Other. Schwarzschild’s theology is not supersessionist with respect to other religious traditions. This seems to hold both for the here and now and in the eschaton. Like Wyschogrod’s, Schwarzschild’s eschatology represents a universalistic particularity rather than a particularistic universality. The theological interplay between eschatology and other areas of faith does not result in any particular, tradition-specific determinations of the eschaton. As a result, there is room for the theological integrity of the religious Other. The ever-delayed coming of the Messiah and Schwarzschild’s reluctance to characterise the Messiah in greater detail add to the theological integrity. In Schwarzschild’s eschatology, the ethical emphasis provides theological space for the religious Other. From his way of discussing the Noahide laws, it is clear that pious Muslims and Christians are included in the Noahide covenant. By way of example, Schwarzschild argues that, unlike Christianity, Judaism ‘emphasizes morality more than belief and … does not condemn others just because they do not adhere to its law and faith.’314 In an article on the Noahide laws, Schwarzschild argues explicitly that Muslims and Christians are included in the Noahide covenant.315 In this context, he refers to the above-mentioned passage from the Tosefta, indicating that the righteous of all nations have a share in the world to come.316 The reference to ‘the world to come’ raises questions of resurrection and eternal life, issues with some interreligious significance and to which we will now devote our attention. 313 Alon Goshen-Gottstein, ‘Towards a Jewish Theology of World Religions: Framing the Issues’, in Jewish Theology and World Religions, ed. Alon Goshen-Gottstein and Eugene Korn (Oxford: Littman Library of Jewish Civilization, 2012), 9. 314 Schwarzschild, ‘Do Noachites Have to Believe in Revelation?’, 29. 315 ‘In view of the strict monotheism of Islam, Muslims were considered as Noachides … whereas the status of Christians was a matter of debate. Since the later Middle Ages, however, Christianity too has come to be regarded as Noachide, on the ground that shittuf (“associationism”—this was the Jewish interpretation of Trinitarianism) is not forbidden to non-Jews.’ See Steven Schwarzschild, ‘Noachide Laws’, in Encyclopaedia Judaica, ed. Fred Skolnik (New York: Macmillan, 2007), 284. 316 Schwarzschild, ‘Do Noachites Have to Believe in Revelation?’, 29. See also Tosefta Sanhedrin 13:2.

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The Resurrection of the Dead: Neil Gillman and the Hereafter Introduction The resurrection of the dead might strike some as a peculiar choice when identifying central Jewish eschatological themes. It is widely agreed that the resurrection of the dead is part of the Jewish tradition, but its place in contemporary Jewish theology is more contested. Arthur A. Cohen writes that the belief in resurrection today ‘strikes us as … unpersuasive’.317 In fact, the belief in the resurrection has been ‘all but lost as a central teaching ever since the close of the medieval discourse.’318 Martin Sicker shares this view and comments on its development: ‘In the post-talmudic period the notion of bodily resurrection, notwithstanding its doctrinal support, yielded priority of place to that of the immortality of the disembodied soul’.319 One can speculate, as does Jon D. Levenson, why many Jewish thinkers have preferred to articulate their eschatological hope in terms of immortality rather than resurrection. The fact that the notion of resurrection is at the heart of Christian eschatology and closely associated with the belief in the particular resurrection of Jesus Christ might be part of the explanation in that some Jews may be ‘eager to differentiate their tradition from its major rival among the world religions’.320 In his seminal study, Where Judaism Differed, Abba Hillel Silver argues that the notion of resurrection in Judaism is nothing but the result of the inability of ancient Judaism to resist popular conceptions.321 It is interesting to note that while Levenson and Cohen agree on the marginal status of resurrection in Jewish thought, they also agree on its continued validity and importance in contemporary Jewish theology. Cohen is more cautious and includes the belief in resurrection among those beliefs that lack a sound explanation but still ought to be believed. Even though it may scandalise reason, it ‘must be kept a private belief shared only with God in prayer.’322 Levenson is critical of the modern Jewish preference for immortality:

317 Cohen, ‘Resurrection of the Dead’, 809. 318 Ibid., 807. 319 Martin Sicker, Pondering the Imponderable: Jewish Reflections on God, Revelation, and the Afterlife (New York: iUniverse, 2010), 147. 320 Jon D. Levenson, Resurrection and the Restoration of Israel: The Ultimate Victory of the God of Life (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2006), 2. 321 Abba Hillel Silver, Where Judaism Differs: An Inquiry into the Distinctiveness of Judaism (New York: Macmillan, 1989), 273–78. 322 Cohen, ‘Resurrection of the Dead’, 812.

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With this, the focus shifts dramatically from God’s covenantal faithfulness to his people Israel in history and onto the moral strivings of the deracinated, supposedly universal individual.323 Thus, Levenson argues with Cohen that the doctrine of resurrection is part of the Jewish tradition and therefore should be professed. Moreover, he finds a particular Jewish and Jewish-focused eschatology in the doctrine of resurrection. According to Levenson, the resurrection was and is dependent on the restoration of Israel as the sign of the eschatological fulfilment and vice versa.324 A thinker who has emphatically stressed the importance of the notion of resurrection for Jewish eschatology is Neil Gillman (b. 1933). As Associate Professor of Jewish thought at the Jewish Theological Seminary, New York, he is one of the leading theologians associated with Conservative Judaism and a former member of the Commission on the Philosophy of Conservative Judaism. Gillman wrote his doctoral thesis on the Catholic philosopher Gabriel Marcel, and the influence of Marcel’s works on hope is visible in Gillman’s approach to eschatology and eschatological hermeneutics. Gillman acknowledges that: it was in Marcel’s writings that I first came across the issue of my relationship with my body [and learned that] philosophy should take seriously our intuitive inclination to hope for some kind of individual destiny beyond our death.325 The notion that a human being does not have a body but is a body is expressed in what is perhaps the most central notion in Gillman’s eschatology: resurrection. This symbol reflects the victory over death and the possibility of justice. The theological argument of resurrection is linked to the notion of God’s omnipotence. If death were final, it would actually have been omnipotent and everlasting; death would have been God. Although God’s power seems limited in the biblical narratives of the history of the Jewish people, the eschatological perspective is that God will eventually triumph over death.326 Thus, we can see how Gillman’s eschatology emphasises life after death. Actually, he does so even more than Schwarzschild and Wyschogrod, whose notions of election and messianism are primarily directed towards the here and now. 323 Levenson, Resurrection and the Restoration of Israel, 22. 324 Ibid., 229. 325 Neil Gillman, The Death of Death: Resurrection and Immortality in Jewish Thought (Woodstock: Jewish Lights Publishing, 2006), 11–12. 326 Ibid., 257.

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A Hermeneutics of Eschatology According to Gillman, the proper approach to eschatological statements is to consider concepts such as resurrection, the last day, and so forth as myths. To be viewed as mythical is not to be confused with being viewed as untrue or strictly fictional; rather, Gillman means that eschatological statements cannot be seen as objectively true propositions. Instead, they are a bearer of identity and are true in the sense that to some extent they mirror the world as we see it. Moreover, Gillman argues that they are existentially true, which means that they become true depending on the relationship between the eschatological myths and our lives. Simcha P. Raphael points out that the notion of resurrection soon made headway in Jewish thinking because it ‘synthesized individual and collective eschatology’.327 In Gillman’s view, this ability to adapt to present circumstances makes notions such as ‘resurrection’ useful. The myths are true as long as we maintain ways of life based on them and as long as they help us structure and organise our lives as individuals and in communion with other people in a meaningful way.328 According to Gillman, when the human concepts of time are confronted by eschatological ‘time’, one is reminded of the mythological character of all eschatological statements. With the postmodern critique of modernity, he sees an opportunity to ‘re-enchant the world’ and to return to the concept of resurrection which deals with some of the central issues of postmodernity: death, the human body, the scandal of reason, and the end of history.329 The nature of the eschatological language in Gillman’s thinking also has interreligious significance. The otherness of the religious Other, in this case his or her own eschatological expectations, is not necessarily in conflict with Gillman’s expectations due to the ‘soft’ claims of truth attached to them. It is at least possible to describe God’s eschatological fulfilment of humanity and cosmos with other, different but equally valid, ways. For this ‘openness’ to have any meaning relative to Christian and Muslim eschatology, theologians from different traditions need to conceive of their own eschatological statements in the same manner. Thus, Christian and Muslim theologians who see the statements of their tradition as cognitively and objectively true and as the only valid descriptions of the hereafter do not recognise themselves in Gillman’s view of mythological language. Gillman’s eschatology bears some resemblance to John Hick’s position (the strengths and weaknesses of which were discussed in 2.2).

327 Simcha P. Raphael, Jewish Views of the Afterlife (Northvale: Jason Aronson, 1994), 74. 328 Gillman, The Death of Death, 27–28. 329 Ibid., 220.

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While Hick applies his theological (and eschatological) hermeneutics in an attempt to harmonise all (or most) eschatological assertions, however, Gillman chooses a different path. He applies his hermeneutics to the Jewish eschatological narrative. The result is that Gillman does not apply a meta-perspective but sees Jewish eschatology as a particular perspective, along with the claim that this is a legitimate way—though not the only way—of articulating eschatology. Resurrection as Justice The relationship between resurrection and ethics is strong in Gillman’s eschatology. The moral implications of the resurrection do not have to do primarily with punishment but with reward and compensation. The belief in resurrection is also the hope that all those who died an all too early death or those who were not able to live a proper life will have this opportunity at last: ‘Resurrection becomes the means whereby God’s justice will ultimately triumph.’330 Gillman’s eschatology is based on two fundamental arguments. We have already referred to the theological argument, which rests on the notion of God’s omnipotence. The anthropological argument relates to two distinct doctrines: bodily resurrection and the immortal soul, two beliefs that are sometimes seen as opposed. For instance, Reform Jews usually reject resurrection and accept immortality.331 There are other Jewish thinkers, however, such as Louis Jacobs, who seek to retain the notions of resurrection and the immortality of the soul together. Jacobs argues that criticising the doctrine of ‘immortality’ because of its Greek origin is not convincing since the doctrine of ‘resurrection’ is most likely of Persian origin: thus, both doctrines have foreign roots. These influences must be judged on their own merits, not with respect to their origin.332 Here, Gillman represents a third approach when he argues that the resurrection of the body and the soul forms a full picture of Jewish anthropology. Thus, Gillman does not believe that a soul can exist independently of the body. Consequently, the notion of the immortality of the soul is, if not explicitly rejected, significantly reinterpreted, as we shall see. The resurrection of the body is bound to a theological recognition of human embodiment. Gillman ties his conviction that human beings are—rather than have—a body to the Jewish belief in resurrection and argues that the denial of the latter is also a denial of the former. His critique of the notion of the immortality of the soul is also anthropologically motivated. He affirms the existence of a human soul and, to a certain extent, accepts the term ‘immortal’ but with 330 Ibid., 89. 331 Jacobs, A Jewish Theology, 320. 332 Ibid., 318–19.

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the significant caveat that the soul cannot be intrinsically immortal. If so, the soul would have been detached from God whose only remaining task then is to unite the soul with the body at the end of days.333 Thus, when a person dies, the body and the soul die, and when God resurrects a human being, the body and the soul are resurrected together. In Gillman’s words: ‘God gives new life to the totality of me, to my body together with my soul.’334 In sum, Gillman does not subscribe to the idea that the soul is independently immortal. Rather, he argues that the body and the soul, conceived through the symbol of resurrection, form a totality from the standpoint of Jewish anthropology and, hence, eschatology. The hope of resurrection is not limited to Jews only but is also available to the religious Other. Eschatology and the Noahide Covenant Throughout this study, I have distinguished between the religious Other’s possibilities of salvation and his or her theological integrity within a particular eschatology. This also applies to Gillman’s thinking. Concerning the possibility of salvation for the religious Other, Gillman states that the Jewish tradition comprises both exclusive and inclusive approaches. Gillman sides with the latter and declares that non-Jews can be redeemed as well as resurrected: True, Judaism always had its partisan nationalists and its universalists.… But the consensus of rabbinic opinion … reflects the triumph of the universalist position. It testifies to Judaism’s readiness to accommodate the non-Jewish ‘other’ within the scope of God’s redemptive work.335 Thus, according to this Jewish narrative, all humanity descends from one human being and therefore, Gillman argues, salvation is not dependent on religious affiliation. He is nonetheless reluctant to proclaim universal salvation. Rather, the salvific path is conditioned by the framework of ethics: Though Judaism never once abandoned its conviction that it alone represented God’s unwavering will, it nevertheless included within the scope of God’s concern, those non-Jews who accepted and lived according to certain basic principles of the Jewish religion, even though they did not formally belong to the community of Israel.336 333 Gillman, The Death of Death, 270. 334 Ibid., 271. 335 Ibid., 134. 336 Ibid.

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The space of the religious Other is partly understood within the framework of the Noahide covenant. The righteous Gentile who keeps the seven Noahide laws, has a share in the world to come. Save for a short reflection on this Noahide covenant, no particular attention is given to religious otherness. As I discussed earlier in this chapter, the seven Noahide laws are not unambiguously open to the religious Other. For instance, we have seen that commandments like the prohibition of idolatry require greater scrutiny to discern the exact consequences for the religious Other. Gillman does not further specify his Noahide approach, and the primary reason for this is probably that, even though he is open to the possibility of viewing the religious Other through the Noahide covenant, he is also open to the possibility of viewing other religious traditions as bearers of other, unique covenants with God. As a consequence, the specific details of the Noahide covenant and what the covenant requires of non-Jews in terms of the prohibition of idolatry become less important. Rather, the notion of parallel covenants provides the possibility of recognising the validity of the religious Other’s tradition per se. The Relationship between Protology and Eschatology It is well known that, unlike Jewish tradition, Christian theology has often interpreted the third chapter of Genesis as a narrative about a ‘fall’. Christian theologians have considered death to be one of the consequences of sin. As a result, they have presented a scheme in which eschatology, through Christ’s redemption, is a restoration of the original creation before the fall (apokatastasis pantōn; restoration of all [things]).337 The second chapter of this study made clear, however, that this picture is not entirely accurate. Jürgen Moltmann and Wolfhart Pannenberg view the narrative in Genesis 3 differently and argue that eschatology is more than a return to an original state of creation.

337 A good example of this is the question discussed in many dogmatic treatises, namely, whether the incarnation would have taken place if Adam had not sinned. In John P. Galvin’s words: ‘The answer of the Thomist school is negative: the Word would not have become flesh had Adam not sinned. The motive of the incarnation is the overcoming of sin; without sin to overcome, the incarnation would not have taken place.… The Scotists hold the opposite position: the Word would have become flesh even if Adam had not sinned. The motive of the incarnation is the perfection of creation.’ Thus, in the Thomist reading, the story of the fall in Genesis 3 is the only thing that separates protology from eschatology. See Francis Schüssler Fiorenza and John P. Galvin, Systematic Theology: Roman Catholic Perspectives, 2nd ed. (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2011), 278.

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Gillman engages with these questions of God’s original creation, the mortality of all living things, and sin. In many ways, his approach displays similarities with Christian theology—probably more so than Wyschogrod’s and Schwarzschild’s do. With respect to protology, he regrets the tendency among some Jewish thinkers to distance themselves from any view associated with Christian eschatology.338 He discerns four different views on the reason for death in God’s creation: Death is punishment for sin; it is part of God’s original creation of man; it is the inevitable result of humanity achieving self-awareness and the power of discrimination; or it is an independent power over which God does not yet exercise full control.339 In the first three views, God is responsible for the existence of death to some extent, and, in the fourth, death is beyond God’s control. Gillman argues that there is not enough theological and biblical support for the fourth view, i.e., death as a force independent of Gods’ will. This would limit God and he would certainly not be omnipotent. The position favoured by Jürgen Moltmann, for instance—that death is a part of God’s original plan—seems awkward to Gillman: ‘Why did God create us to die?’340 Hence, the only two viable alternatives that remain are death as a punishment for sin or death as a logical consequence of being human. In neither of these alternatives is death part of God’s original plan. In the second chapter, I discussed the interreligious implications of the interplay between eschatology and other religious beliefs. For instance, Christian protology has sometimes been interpreted in a way that sees eschatology as a return to an ideal original state which can only be obtained through Jesus Christ. Moltmann and Pannenberg reject such interpretations and argue that death is not the result of original sin but part of God’s creation. In Gillman’s case, we find that he concurs with the view of a ‘fall’ and a restoration of an original state. Gillman ties the existence of death to the narrative of Adam and Eve eating the fruit of the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil in the Garden of Eden. Rather than considering death to be a punishment for a contingent and unspecified rebellion against God, he prefers to see death as a consequence of being human. Thus, the result of eating from the Tree was moral awareness, knowledge of good and evil. The result of this knowledge, however, is death. It 338 Gillman, The Death of Death, 52. 339 Ibid. 340 Ibid. [Italics original].

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is ‘the inevitable trade-off for the emergence of human self-awareness.’341 Thus, Gillman finds ‘a certain symmetrical elegance’ in the relationship between protology and eschatology.342 The latter is a restoration and recapitulation of the former. As a consequence, it could be argued that Gillman comes closer to a ‘traditional’ Christian view of ‘the fall’ than Moltmann and Pannenberg do. The interplay between protology and eschatology in Gillman’s thinking, however, does not include any parallel to the role of christology in the Christian tradition. Gillman’s protology is universal, and he describes the situation for all of humankind but does not present any particular Jewish criteria for the eschatological restoration. His theology is pluralistic in the sense that the Jewish ‘myths’ do not exclude other, parallel myths. There is no more powerful testimony to Judaism’s insistence that it is precisely the single human being in all his or her individuality that is most precious to God. It is that individuality that God will preserve forever. I insist, as well, that God’s economy of salvation knows no religious distinctions. We are all descendants of ‘one single person’, and it is precisely our individual ‘person-hood’ that makes each of us worthy of God’s ultimate concern.343 Thus, it is not a religiously particularistic solution for a universal problem, as we saw some Christian theologians argue in the second chapter (particularistic universality). Nor is it a clear example of a universally relevant solution to a particularistic problem as in Wyschogrod’s case (universalistic particularity). Rather, Gillman reflects on a universal problem (death) and its likewise ‘universal’ solution—the hope of resurrection and eternal life for all of humankind—without any particularistic qualifications. Ethics as First Eschatology Perhaps the most striking similarity between the eschatologies of Gillman and Schwarzschild is the central role of ethics. The ethical dimension of eschatology is fundamental to both. Though Schwarzschild relates this to the coming of the Messiah, the notion of the Messiah is almost absent from Gillman’s eschatology. The ‘death of death’, i.e., the resurrection, is the primary eschatological category in Gillman’s theology. Ethics, and more specifically halakhah, anticipates the resurrection. According to Gillman, halakhah is a kind of ‘realised eschatology’: 341 Ibid., 44. 342 Ibid., 55. 343 Ibid., 272.

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If the goal of an eschatological description is to describe a structured world, then it seems to me that halakhah provides such structures in the here and now…. The only way one can appreciate it is by living it.344 To a certain extent, halakhah provides a foretaste of eschatology, according to Gillman. One could ask if this foretaste, based on halakhah, is unavailable to the religious Other. The halakhah is an anticipation of the eschaton just as, according to Louis Jacobs, the Sabbath, sexual intercourse, and a sunny day ‘afford a foretaste in miniature of the bliss of the World to Come’.345 It is a sign for other people and for other ways of anticipating eschatological fulfilment; it is not the criterion of this fulfilment. Thus, while it is true that this particular kind of anticipation is not available to the religious Other, other kinds of ‘foretastes’ are possible, according to Gillman. To summarise briefly the discussion of Gillman, let me return to our heuristic tools. Regarding the theological space of the religious Other, we can note that the question of religious otherness is not of fundamental interest to Gillman. As a matter of fact, the religious Other tends to disappear in his eschatology. Nontheless, his view of eschatological statements as metaphorical provides a certain amount of theological space. The eschatological fulfilment is not limited to the Jewish people nor is the Jewish eschatological narrative the only valid eschatology. Gillman is not a pluralist in the same sense as John Hick, though he explicitly and appreciatively refers to Hick’s notion of myth.346 An important difference is that Gillman does not construct the kind of metaperspective that Hick does. Gillman articulates a Jewish theology and states that his particular approach to Jewish tradition and to theological statements leaves room for other interpretations and for other religious traditions to make their eschatological assertions. This approach implies a somewhat relativistic view of theological statements. At the same time, Gillman also rejects what he calls the more fundamentalist approaches to Jewish tradition. He does not, however, attempt to reformulate Muslim or Christian eschatologies. In short, his eschatology actually provides some theological space for the religious Other. With respect to the theological interplay between eschatology and other statements of faith, we have seen that Gillman is notably agnostic in his eschatology. He refers to ethics and halakhah as anticipations of the eschaton. There might be other, equally valid, ways to anticipate the eschaton, however. As a 344 Gillman, Doing Jewish Theology, 64. 345 Jacobs, A Jewish Theology, 309. 346 Gillman, The Death of Death, 26.

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consequence of this agnostic approach, there are no clear tendencies of tradition-specific determinations of the eschaton. Moreover, there are no tendencies to describe the eschaton as something exclusively Jewish or exclusively for Jews. Nevertheless, as with the critique of John Hick, one can argue that the metaphorical approach to eschatological statements rejects non-metaphorical attempts to articulate eschatological statements. If so, it is not the theological interplay as such that reduces the theological integrity of the religious Other but Gillman’s eschatological hermeneutics. Nonetheless, we must not forget the fundamental difference between Hick and Gillman, i.e., the lack of a meta-perspective in Gillman’s theology. Revisiting the Heuristic Tools We identified two issues in the second chapter that received particular attention in this chapter. These were the theological space allowed to the religious Other, and how the theological interplay between eschatology and other areas of faith works. Theological Space One of the most striking features of the Jewish eschatologies we examined with regard to theological space is the emphasis on election. While being significantly stronger in Wyschogrod’s eschatology and less so in Gillman’s, it highlights the particularity of the Jewish hope. On the one hand, it could be argued that the notion of election is not very open towards otherness since it is only the self (the Jewish people) and not the Others that are elect. When considered more carefully, however, the notion of election in Wyschogrod’s theology does not appear to exclude the religious Other. As a matter of fact, it turns out that Wyschogrod’s notion of election does not replace every other eschatological hope or theological narrative. Election constitutes a strong eschatological claim for the Jewish people without imposing this claim on other people. As a consequence, the election of the Jewish people does not rule out the possibility of further covenants between God and other peoples. This possibility is also evident in Gillman’s thinking. In this sense, the emphasis on election actually provides theological space for the religious Other. Here, we distinguished between particularistic universality and universalistic particularity. The notion of election in Wyschogrod’s thinking is an example of the latter, which means that the election of the Jews does not subsume every other theological narrative (cf. the image of the cone with the pointed end facing us). The fact that Wyschogrod acknowledges that the Jewish theological story is incomplete further underscores the possibility of providing theological space for the religious Other as other in his eschatology.

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One could object that the particularistic emphasis in Jewish theology leads to ‘interreligious apathy’ or at least to a lack of interest in other religious traditions. As we have seen in this chapter, however, this is not necessarily the case. Rather, in the eschatologies assessed in the present study, it seems that the particularistic emphasis of the Jewish theologians actually results in more theological space for the religious Other. Theological Interplay Theological interplay concerns the question of how eschatology is interrelated to other parts of the Jewish faith. As was shown in the second chapter, in Christian theology, the questions of christology and ecclesiology influence eschatology to the extent that the possibility of describing the eschaton as other is compromised. Obviously, christology and ecclesiology do not play any particular role in Jewish eschatologies. As a consequence, it is interesting to see corresponding dynamics in the Jewish tradition. Here, we noted that the role of the Messiah in eschatological reflection actually emphasised, rather than compromised, the otherness of the eschaton. In Wyschogrod’s eschatology, history will reach its climax and human beings will be redeemed—their relations with each other and with God will be repaired—through the Messiah. His messianic expectations, however, are not very detailed. As a matter of fact, Wyschogrod’s main point seems to be that the coming of the Messiah will change everything. Notably, this includes traditionspecific elements such as the place and significance of the Torah. Thereby, the ‘Jewish’ character of the eschaton is left unsettled. It is important to point out that Wyschogrod does not argue that the Torah will lose its significance but that, from a Jewish point of view, he is not able to anticipate and clarify its eschatological role. Schwarzschild’s theology of the Messiah is also relevant for the issue of theological interplay. Arguably, his notion of the Messiah emphasises the otherness of the eschaton even more strongly than Wyschogrod’s. His emphasis on the ever-delayed coming of the Messiah prevents Schwarzschild from determining the eschatological future (and thereby delimiting it). Like Wyschogrod, Schwarzschild proclaims an eschatological hope that is not tradition-specific, at least not distinctly so. Of course, it could be argued that Schwarzschild conditions the eschaton with his non-realised messianism and that the claim of an ever-delayed Messiah is also a claim that conditions the eschaton. This does not do justice to his argument, however. The eternity of the ‘pre-messianic interim’ is not a statement about the eschaton as such but a conviction about what precedes (or actually what does not precede) the eschaton. Thus,

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the pre-messianic interim accentuates the apophatic dimension of the eschaton. It is a particular Jewish hope but does not result in a ‘Jewish eschaton’. 3.4

Conclusion: Heuristic Tools

In conclusion, we can discern three aspects from Muslim eschatologies and three aspects from Jewish eschatologies. In the Muslim eschatologies reviewed here, the focal themes are the hermeneutically privileged position, the ethical emphasis, and the narrative vision of the Garden. In the Jewish eschatologies we discussed the themes particularistic universality, the notion of election, and the messianic approach to the eschaton. Evidently, not all ‘challenges’ arising in and from the second chapter find their counterpart in this third. In some respects, the three traditions share a structure of exclusion or non-acknowledgment of the religious Other. In several other respects, however, the Muslim and Jewish eschatologies analysed here reveal profoundly different ways of responding to religious otherness. Still, these results are particular to the Muslim and Jewish traditions and therefore cannot be uncritically incorporated within the Christian tradition. To carry out the correlation, the fourth chapter will reflect further on the possibilities and implications of these results within Christian eschatology. These six aspects will constitute a major part of the material developed in the fourth chapter. Nonetheless, the reassessment of Christian eschatology in light of the interreligious situation will require other resources as well. Thus, particularly in relation to the first heuristic tool—namely, theological space—insights from the area of interreligious hermeneutics will also be brought to bear.

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Towards a Christian Eschatology with Theological Integrity for the Religious Other 4.1 Introduction In 1964 Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel addressed a statement to the Second Vatican Council while it was taking place. Frustrated over the process of Nostra Aetate and concerned about the content in one of its drafts, Heschel declared that [a] message that regards the Jew as a candidate for conversion and proclaims that the destiny of Judaism is to disappear will be abhorred by Jews all over the world…. As I have repeatedly stated to leading personalities of the Vatican, I am ready to go to Auschwitz any time, if faced with the alternative of conversion or death.1 As this statement indicates, the question of theological integrity was of fundamental importance for Heschel. Assurances of friendly relations with the Catholic Church and positive treatment on an ethical level were not enough. He defended Jewish theological integrity so strongly that he actually compared Christian attempts to convert Jews to the horrors of Auschwitz. In this present chapter, we shall look at Heschel’s concerns and reflect on theological integrity and ways to articulate it in Christian eschatology. It has become clear that the three traditions discussed in this study share, in various ways, the challenges and difficulties of articulating theological integrity for the religious Other. Yet the investigation so far has also shown that there are significant differences in terms of how the religious Other’s integrity (and lack thereof) is expressed. Our present chapter is concerned with these differences and their possible implications.

1 Quoted in Judith Herschcopf Banki and Eugene J. Fisher, eds., A Prophet for our Time: An Anthology of the Writings of Rabbi Marc H. Tanenbaum (New York: Fordham University Press, 2002), 309. See also Mary C. Boys, ‘The Salutary Experience of Pushing Religious Boundaries: Abraham Joshua Heschel in Conversation with Michael Barnes’, Modern Judaism: A Journal of Jewish Ideas and Experience 29, no. 1 (2009), 22.

©  koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2018 | doi 10.1163/9789004357068_005 Jakob

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We will approach this as follows. First, I shall reintroduce the question why the religious Other is of concern in Christian eschatology (4.1). Second, and this is the most extensive part of the chapter, I shall explore what resources are available for leaving room for the theological integrity of the religious Other. To carry out this second task, we will need to employ the heuristic tools we used in chapters two and three. I shall further examine these tools by discussing the two interrelated topics of the otherness of the religious Other in eschatology (theological space), and the otherness of the eschaton in eschatology (theological interplay). It would seem that none of the three Abrahamic traditions deals sufficiently with the former. As regards the latter, the otherness of the eschaton, the Muslim and Jewish theologians prove to be more helpful and, hence, I shall engage even more closely with them later in this chapter (4.3). As far as the first tool is concerned, I shall apply Paul Ricœur’s notion of linguistic hospitality with the purpose of specifying characteristics of the eschatological assertions that actually make theological space for the religious Other. The section on linguistic hospitality is followed by one in which I look at death as a theological theme. The aim here is to explore the possibilities of seeing death as ‘a third’ in the tradition of Emanuel Levinas and Luce Irigaray and thereby creating theological space through a reassessment of religious otherness. Regarding the second heuristic tool, theological interplay, I shall also use perspectives from the Christian apophatic tradition to discuss the otherness of the eschaton. In the subsequent section, the argument continues with a close look at tradition-specific elements of eschatology. I will examine primarily the christological character of Christian eschatology. Third, I shall suggest the notion of a heavenly banquet as an eschatological symbol that connects most of the issues discussed throughout the chapter. Hence, by elaborating on this symbol, I will illustrate my argument with an example that may add some concreteness to the discussion (4.4). Fourth, I shall close the chapter with a reflection on theological integrity and eschatology (4.5). Earlier in this book, I argued that the notion of the imago Dei provides a suitable starting point for reflection on otherness. In short, my argument was that the theological conviction that human beings are created in God’s image implies that the human being has value and dignity. This value is shared equally by all human beings and must be recognised and respected. Recognition is more than tolerating the Other despite his or her otherness. Rather, it is a matter of acknowledging the Other in his or her otherness. According to Honneth, recognition, if it takes place at all, has to be practised on several levels, including the sphere of particular traits through which a person is able to contribute to society (a person’s ‘otherness’). Thus, the recognition of otherness includes the recognition of religious otherness. Therefore, the

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argument goes, it is not possible to separate a person from (his or) her religious otherness, just as it is not possible to separate her from her gender, cultural background, or sexual orientation. Consequently, I have raised the issue whether it is possible to express eschatological hope for the religious Other without also leaving room for the theological integrity of the religious Other. Admittedly, none of these different levels of otherness are static, but none of them are redundant or easily minimised. 4.2

Theological Space: Religious Otherness Reassessed

Introduction Religious otherness has been at the centre of our discussions so far. The distinction between the religious self and the religious Other has been important in the analysis of contemporary eschatologies. This distinction serves not only to differentiate theologies but also to pay more attention to the religious Other from within a particular theology. Eschatologies which lack a concept of the religious Other do not seem ‘open’ to the Other. Rather, the lack of reference to the religious Other may just as well lead to the exclusion or the assimilation of those who belong to other religious traditions. The sheer presence of the notion of otherness sometimes serves as a warning against exclusion and assimilation. Hence, it seems there are reasons not to ‘de-other’ the Other. As I have mentioned above, this complies with the fundamental rules of interreligious dialogue where the acknowledgment of difference is crucial.2 The tendencies of exclusion (by not expressing any hope for the Other) or assimilation (for instance, by making the Other a Christian) have been discussed above, in chapters two and three. Many of the eschatologies analysed in these chapters share the inability to relate eschatologically to the religious Other as other. One of the reasons for the problem of relating to the religious Other as other has to do with the relationship between self and Other. In the case of assimilation, this distinction is erased, and the religious Other becomes ‘the same’. In the case of exclusion, the tendency is to express the distinction between the Other and the self too sharply. In Jürgen Moltmann’s eschatology, we encountered a universal soteriological openness and a perspective that embraces the entire cosmos. But we also found a notable absence of references to the religious Other. Both major eschatological works by Moltmann lack any concept of the religious Other. As a result, Moltmann’s universalistic statements on how Christian eschatological 2 See p 62 with notes.

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hope changes the direction of all other ‘minor hopes’ affect the theological space of the neglected religious Other. In this case, it seems as if the very fact that the religious Other is not clearly thought of and referred to has implications for his or her theological space. The pattern is repeated throughout Moltmann’s eschatology: it claims a universal range, it has a christological focus, and there is a distinct lack of references to the religious Other. If Moltmann’s eschatology—in this particular way and with a somewhat derogatory connotation—assimilates the religious Other, then another picture emerges in Joseph Ratzinger’s eschatology. He does not develop a notion of the religious Other either, but he does emphasise the importance of a person’s relationship to the church and distinguishes between the elect and the damned. Mechanisms of exclusion are operative in Ratzinger’s eschatology when he states that all the members of the church will gather in heaven and the Others are not mentioned in that context. Despite the substantial differences between the two theologians, the theological space of the religious Other is limited in Ratzinger’s eschatology for reasons that are similar to those in Moltmann’s. Contributions from Muslim and Jewish Eschatologies In Muslim and Jewish eschatologies, we saw that there were elements of exclusion that resembled some of those discussed in the chapter on Christian eschatologies. In Musavi Lari’s eschatology, we found theological views and statements that were more explicitly exclusive or ‘violent’ towards the religious Other than in the other eschatologies assessed. Musavi Lari distinguishes consistently between the believer and the unbeliever and refers to the unbeliever’s terrible eschatological future of horror, anxiety, and everlasting punishment. This is certainly the most illustrative example, though there are others, to demonstrate a lack of theological space for the religious Other in Muslim and Jewish eschatologies. Hence, the challenge posed by religious otherness is shared among the theologians discussed in chapters two and three. Nonetheless, there are also features in the Muslim and Jewish eschatologies that offer a somewhat different perspective. Specifically, there are three themes from the third chapter that are especially connected to the heuristic tool of theological space, and these three themes appear in various degrees throughout the rest of section 4.2. Related to the discussion of theological space are the hermeneutical privilege and the ethical emphasis of the Muslim tradition; the notion of election in Jewish tradition. The purpose here is not to discuss these themes at length but merely to identify and introduce the themes that apply more directly to this part of the chapter. I shall now recall these features and briefly comment on their applicability to Christian tradition.

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The hermeneutical privilege of Muslim theology consists in the fundamental fact that the Jewish and Christian traditions already existed and were known at the time of the formation of early Islam. Consequently, from the very beginning, the Muslim tradition was aware of the Jewish and the Christian Other, and thus they are theologically present in the Qur’an and other early Muslim texts. As I have argued, this does not automatically lead to the affirmation, inclusion, or welcome of the Jewish and the Christian Other. It does, however, mean that the religious Other is very often present in theological reflection. Thus, in the Muslim tradition, we do not find references to and reflections on the religious Other solely in works on theology of religions. Rather, as we saw in the third chapter, the religious Other is present in the Muslim eschatologies assessed. Naturally, this is not the case with Islam and the Muslim Other in the early Christian texts. If there are to be reflections on the Muslim Other within Christian theology, it is a deliberate work that needs to be done. At least, it does not spring automatically from theologians’ engagement with ancient Christian sources, such as the biblical texts or the early patristic writings. For instance, as we have seen, this deliberate work has not been carried out in the eschatologies of Ratzinger and Moltmann. The emphasis on ethics privileges certain ways of life rather than specific religious affiliations, as we have seen in Rahman’s theology. This ethical emphasis enables a certain theological space for the religious Other by not imposing specific theological views on others. Yet, as I discussed in section 3.2 above (p 180ff), this remains somewhat ambiguous. As a theme, it can, as in the case of Rahman, provide theological space for the religious Other by focusing on common human virtues and by celebrating religious differences. There is actually no significant difference, however, between theology and ethics in this regard. Like theology, ethics can be tradition-specific in different ways and to varying degrees. Hence, the ethical emphasis is a treacherous companion in our context. The third theme I have highlighted relative to the heuristic tool of theological space is the notion of election in the Jewish tradition. As I have argued regarding Wyschogrod, the notion of the election of the Jewish people results in a particularity that provides rather than prevents space for the religious Other. According to Wyschogrod, the Jewish people are elected as a sign of God’s love for all people. This election does not suggest that the religious Other ought to be a member of the elected people but that she can benefit from this election without being elected. Moreover, in principle, election does not preclude any other forms of particular relationships with people of other religious traditions. Through the notion of election, Wyschogrod develops a theology in which the election of the Jewish people neither eschatologically excludes

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the religious Other nor tries to assimilate her as part of the elected people (the reader should recall the image of the cone with the pointed end facing us. These Muslim and Jewish eschatologies contain traces of a different way of conceiving the space of the religious Other than was observed in chapter two. To what extent are these approaches applicable to Christian eschatology? I would argue that, in Christian theology generally, there are attempts to reassess religious otherness in ways that concur with our discussion. It seems, however, that Christian eschatological thinking is not yet informed by these results. Paul Ricœur is well known for his thinking on otherness and identity. Although he does not discuss interreligious questions in particular, his ideas have been employed by theologians and other scholars involved in the theology of religions.3 One such proposal is suggested by Marianne Moyaert in a contribution to interreligious hermeneutics.4 Moyaert’s reading of Ricœur will prove helpful to our discussion of theological space and a different relationship between otherness and selfhood in eschatology. It should be noted that in the following section I shall not provide any specific argument for why linguistic hospitality should include the religious Other. Arguments for respecting religious otherness are discussed in the first chapter (1.5). Here, I assume that it is at least worthwhile to attempt to further articulate the theological integrity of the religious Other. Given this assumption, Ricœur’s work on identity and otherness will be helpful in the search for how this integrity can be articulated. Hence, Ricœur’s notion of linguistic hospitality structures and supports our pursuit for eschatological assertions that provide theological space for the religious Other. Linguistic Hospitality Ricœur approaches the question of the continuity of an identity over time—and thereby the question of the relationship between selfhood and otherness—through the distinction between idem and ipse. Together, they constitute two interrelated aspects of personal identity: idem refers to sameness and has to do with the constant aspects that guarantee stability and identity across changing circumstances, whereas ipse designates selfhood and does not imply any idea of a constant or unchanging personality. Rather, ipse 3 Actually, in one of his last publications, Ricœur states that his notion of linguistic hospitality could serve as a model for interreligious dialogue. See Paul Ricœur, On Translation, trans. Eileen Brennan (London: Routledge, 2006), 23–24. 4 Marianne Moyaert, ‘Absorption or Hospitality: Two Approaches to the Tension between Identity and Alterity’, in Interreligious Hermeneutics, ed. Catherine Cornille and Christopher Conway (Eugene: Cascade Books, 2010).

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emphasises that identity is something that is always changing, regardless of whether we are talking about a single human being or a group of persons.5 This aspect of personal identity, then, acknowledges changes over time. Ipse is relational in the sense that it ‘implies otherness to such an intimate degree that one cannot be thought of without the other’.6 As Moyaert suggests, this is applicable to group identities and hence to religious communities as well.7 The immediate consequence is a reminder that Christian selfhood is not something static or unchanging. Ricœur’s proposal indicates that the relationship between selfhood and otherness is more intricate than the eschatologies that have been analysed might suggest. As we have seen, Joseph Ratzinger links the kingdom of God to belief in Jesus Christ (see p 69ff). The only way for the Other to participate in the anticipation of the kingdom is by following Jesus Christ—in other words, by denying their religious otherness. Similarly strong and dense distinctions between oneself and the Other can be found in Musavi Lari’s eschatology when he distinguishes the believer from the unbeliever and argues that the latter will be eternally punished for his or her wickedness (see p 153ff). Ricœur’s thinking implies that the dynamic, developing identity of the Christian community is to some extent dependent on the religious Other. In other words, the otherness of the Other contributes to the constitution of the Christian identity. Consequently, the relationship between the Other and the self is neither one of exclusion nor one of assimilation (the latter suggests a critique I directed at Moltmann and Hick in chapter two). Rather, Ricœur’s hermeneutics reveals a porous distinction which maintains the self/other asymmetry but is critical of a stronger separation between the two. The Other is neither excluded nor absorbed by the self. In Moyaert’s thinking, this leads to another important term in Ricœur, namely linguistic hospitality. In its original setting, linguistic hospitality refers to the problem of translation with its double commitment to the original language and to the language into which the text is translated. According to Ricœur, there is always an asymmetry between the familiar and the foreign, between one’s own language and the Other’s. Linguistic hospitality avoids absorbing the other tradition, turning it into one’s own tradition. It also avoids emphasising the distinction between the traditions to such a degree that translation is impossible. Rather, Ricœur sees in translation an ethical challenge 5 Paul Ricœur, Oneself as Another, trans. Kathleen Blamey (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1992), 2. 6 Ibid., 3. 7 Moyaert, ‘Absorption or Hospitality’, 77.

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which includes the responsibility to bring the author to the reader and the reader to the author. This task is performed with linguistic hospitality only if both the reader and the author are acknowledged and respected.8 Faced with the choice between emphasising untranslatability on the one hand or the possibility and validity of translation on the other, Ricœur leans, albeit hesitantly, towards the latter alternative: I confess that I am still perplexed. I am inclined to favour entry through the foreign door, that is for sure. Have we not been set in motion by the fact of human plurality and by the double enigma of incommunicability between idioms and of translation in spite of everything? And then, without the test of the foreign, would we be sensitive to the strangeness of our own language? Finally, without that test, would we not be in danger of shutting ourselves away in the sourness of a monologue, alone with our books? Credit, then, to linguistic hospitality.9 Linguistic hospitality consists in both dwelling in the Other’s language and welcoming the foreign words and sentences into one’s home language without denying the asymmetry and without removing the otherness of the other language.10 Moyaert brings these ideas to interreligious hermeneutics and to the opposition between the postliberal particularistic approach (which includes thinkers such as George Lindbeck) and the pluralist approach (which includes thinkers such as Hick). Linguistic hospitality, she suggests, mediates between these two positions and opens up a path beyond them.11 Ricœur’s argument is that linguistic hospitality is necessary if the translated language, or tradition, is to be understood and yet remain other. Analogously, Moyaert declares that this hospitality implies making room within one’s own context to welcome the other in his or her otherness. Making room means trying to understand the other in his/her otherness and renouncing the natural tendency toward placing the other within what is known.12

8 Ricœur, On Translation, 23. 9 Ibid., 29. 10 Ibid., 10. 11 Marianne Moyaert, ‘The (Un-)translatability of Religions? Ricœur’s Linguistic Hospitality as Model for Inter-religious Dialogue’, Exchange 37, no. 3 (2008), 338. 12 Ibid., 359.

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This relates directly to Moyaert’s notion of hermeneutical openness and, consequently, to my slightly adapted term: eschatological openness. As I have argued, this is not articulated in the eschatologies assessed so far. Eschatologies like those of Moltmann and Pannenberg do not provide room for the religious Other as other. Moltmann’s eschatology conditions eschatology christologically and holds that Christian hope embraces and changes the direction of all other hopes. Pannenberg refers to the religious Other more explicitly than Moltmann, but his account still falls short. His eschatological vision entails history moving towards increasing truth. Since Christianity (Christ) represents the ultimate truth for Pannenberg, this implies that the room for the religious Other is constantly decreasing. Hence, in these eschatologies, there is no space in which the Other can be welcomed and acknowledged as other. Ricœur’s linguistic hospitality can be applied analogously to eschatology. Despite the vast differences between general hermeneutics and eschatology, the central issue is that the hospitality in question is linguistic. Hence, hospitality concerns the language of eschatology. Ricœur’s linguistic hospitality suggests that the Other should neither be excluded nor absorbed. As such, eschatological language should aim at preserving a space for the Other as other. Concretely, this means searching for a path between exclusion and assimilation, neither denying eschatological hope for the religious Other nor denying religious otherness by reducing it to the same. Linguistic hospitality leaves room for tension between one’s own eschatological vision and the Other’s, and—and this is the central point—it includes this tension within one’s own vision. This relates directly to the hermeneutical privilege we find in Muslim theology. The awareness of the Other as other is included within one’s own perspective. Thus, it does not mean that Christian eschatology becomes a mixture of eschatological narratives from every religious tradition nor that the Christian theologian believes in separate eschatological ends for each and every one in accordance with their beliefs. Moreover, it does not rule out the possibility of emphasising aspects of Christian eschatology such as its fundamental relationship to Christ or the church. It does, however, mean that Christian eschatological language embraces an unsolvable tension, i.e., the tension between one’s own eschatological assertions and the Other’s. The result is not that Christian eschatological assertions are denied but that they are applied in a way that does not per se deny the eschatological assertions by other religious traditions. Christian eschatology cannot both embrace linguistic hospitality and an assimilation of religious otherness. Rather, such hospitality has implications for how eschatology is articulated, preventing precisely assimilations like this. Thus, linguistic hospitality regulates eschatological assertions. Moreover, linguistic hospitality implies that every eschatological statement is subject to qualification.

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This qualification is related to the inevitable apophatic dimension of every attempt to speak of the divine future. This apophatic dimension—the fact that, ultimately, we do not know what the future will be like—provides eschatology with room for the religious Other. It should be noted that, on some level, most of the eschatologies discussed above in chapters two and three acknowledge their own preliminary character. This acknowledgment, however, is not included as an inherent part of eschatological thinking but only as an initial precaution prior to this thinking. As a result, the apophatic dimension is not integrated into their eschatology. Any possible linguistic room for the religious Other is then given prior to these eschatologies rather than within them. For example, Ratzinger considers heaven to be ‘the finally and wholly Other’ but also states that it ‘must first and foremost be determined christologically’. Therefore, even though he insists on its otherness, he is able to rule out every non-christological understanding of the eschaton as false. When the apophatic dimension is only articulated prior to the eschatological thinking and not integrated into this thinking, it is still possible to qualify and condition eschatology christologically. This decreases linguistic hospitality. But if the apophatic dimension is integrated into the eschatological thinking, this implies that the more explicit assertions concerning the nature of the eschaton and its christological and trinitarian content are downplayed. Thereby, theological symbols such as christology and trinitarian thinking can be seen as ways of understanding and hoping for God rather than as criteria for the eschaton. As will be developed further below, a consequence of linguistic hospitality and the integrated apophatic dimension is that Muslim and Jewish eschatologies are not necessarily incompatible with Christian eschatology. The notion of linguistic hospitality has been suggested as a way to express and clarify the meaning of theological space for the religious Other within our eschatological considerations. The next section will focus on death and otherness in order to further explore the theological resources for articulating this space. Death and Otherness Introduction It is notable that not much attention is paid to death as such in the eschatologies assessed in our second chapter. The Christian theologians focused more on earthly life and on the eschatological future of creation. But death is one of the few certainties of human existence. It is a common feature of human beings—indeed, of all living things. But that does not necessarily make it a common human experience. As a matter of fact, we do not have any personal experience of death, simply because we are still alive. We can experience loss, grief, and dying—but not death itself. As the name itself implies, even

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near-death experiences are experiences of having been close to death—but not of death as such. Furthermore, nothing indicates that the process of dying is experienced in the same way by different human beings. Nevertheless, even if there is no common human experience of death, it is still common to all human beings to live with death as the limit of life. Death is not tradition-specific, though it relates to the specific expectations of death that exist within each of these traditions. Consequently, by emphasising not only life after death but the phenomenon of death itself, Christian theology may be better equipped to approach religious otherness. In what follows I shall relate the questions of otherness and death to each other. Admittedly, the argument is brief and preliminary, but its purpose is to explore whether and to what extent theological reflection on death might serve as a resource in our discussion of theological space. The bulk of the argument is that Christian eschatology should not expect the end of otherness, but its fulfilment—and that theological reflection on death supports this claim. Hence, in this section, I shall reflect on some theological implications of the phenomenon of death and relate them to the discussion of otherness. One’s own death is a common point of reference for the religious self and the religious Other. The focus of this section is neither on what happens in death nor on what happens after death, but on what death, as a brute fact, might mean for eschatology, for the self, and for the Other. The argument that follows is twofold. First, I shall explore the possibility of seeing death as a ‘third’ in the tradition of Levinas and Irigaray (‘Death as “a Third Term”’). Second, I shall consider the claim that eschatology is the consummation of otherness, rather than its end (‘Death and Love: A Foundation for Otherness’). Death as ‘a Third Term’ The well-known position ascribed to Epicurus holds that we should not be concerned with death simply because it is not a part of life. When we are dead we cannot worry about it, and when we are alive we are not dead so we should not worry about it. Even though we may experience the death of others as painful, this cannot apply to our own death. We are not ‘here’ to experience it. The argument seems sound and yet, as Zygmunt Bauman points out, few have actually found comfort in this.13 Not even observing the death of others can help us understand death as such. Death implies that the individual’s perception is aborted, which of course precludes the possibility of experiencing 13

Zygmunt Bauman, Mortality, Immortality and Other Life Strategies (Cambridge: Polity Press, 1992), 3.

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it. This way of thinking led Bauman, Emmanuel Levinas, and others to refer to death as the totally or radically Other. Death is Other to the extent that it is not even part of human experience. Despite Epicurus’ statement, many people fear death. Freud famously argued that the belief in eternal life, or reincarnation, is a way for people to escape this fear.14 Bauman argues along similar lines when he states that the fear of death has been transformed in the West into the more concrete issue of maintaining one’s own health. Thus, the issue of mortality reappears in relation to practices such as not smoking, eating properly, and exercising.15 While there is truth to Bauman’s observations about death being marginalised in the West, I do not think he is right in his insistence that death’s impact is being kept to a minimum in society. Rather, I agree with Ernst Bloch and many Christian theologians who argue that death draws attention to the depth of life and in this sense gives human beings a broader picture of their existence. Death is ‘the Other’ to both Bauman and Bloch, but, in Bloch’s view, death is not an issue that ought to be muted so that humans can thrive. Rather, it is a reality which ought to be faced. Actually, one of the strengths of religions is the way they confront death and transcend mortality. Bloch uses the notion of ‘rebounding conquest’ to express the value of initiation rites and death rituals. They are means for overcoming the negative power of death and strengthening one’s commitment to life. As Douglas J. Davies phrases it, death rites ‘add a new energy to those who are left as they set about the rest of their life in society’.16 The solution, however, is not to emphasise eternal life so strongly that it is seen as a kind of prolongation of this life. In fact, that would be another way of marginalising death. This is the rationale behind Werner G. Jeanrond’s critique of the notion of immortality: Vital horizons for the human understanding of death and life are lost when human death is understood only as the not-so-nice passage of the soul, separated now from the body, to one or another form of immortality. For people firmly rooted in this body-soul separation, death ceases to represent a radical challenge.17 14 15 16 17

See, for instance, Sigmund Freud ‘Thoughts for the Times on War and Death’. In The Penguin Freud Library, vol 12 (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1991), 77. Ibid., 130–31. Douglas J. Davies, Death, Ritual and Belief: The Rhethoric of Funerary Rites (London: Cassell, 1997), 19. Werner G. Jeanrond, Call and Response: The Challenge of Christian Life (New York: Continuum, 1995), 50.

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According to Jeanrond, when death is acknowledged as a radical challenge, it provides the proper perspective on the human condition. Jeanrond’s argument here touches on the relationship between the self and the Other. As a radical challenge, death changes the relationship between the self and the Other.18 The acknowledgment of death as a radical Other has consequences for the approach to religious otherness. Emphasising death does not undo the difference between self and Other but can serve to highlight it. Against the horizon of individual death, the religious self and the religious Other have an Other in common. This way of arguing relates to what Levinas and Irigaray denote as a ‘third term’; something which is neither self nor Other.19 Irigaray’s discussion refers to sexual differences and to the relationship between man and woman as other to each Other. Her argument is that a third term is needed to provide a place for the Other, which applies to the more general discussion of difference and otherness. The third term challenges the relationship between self and Other and breaks the kind of construction where the Other has no place of his or her own. It is not about finding common denominators or identifying common human experiences: We must, therefore, reconsider the whole question of our conception of place, both in order to move on to another age of difference (each age of thought corresponds to a particular time of meditation on difference), and in order to construct an ethics of the passions. … Once there was the enveloping body and the enveloped body…. The one who offers or allows desire moves and envelops, engulfing the other. It is moreover a danger if no third term exists. Not only to serve as a limitation. This third term can occur within the one who contains as a relation of the latter to his or her own limit(s): relation to the divine, to death, to the social, to the cosmic. If a third term does not exist within and for the container, he or she becomes all-powerful.20 Thus, death can be seen as a ‘third term’ that resists either taming the Other or making the Other absolute. In the context of religious otherness, we have seen that the religious Other is sometimes inscribed into a Christian theological narrative in such a way that leaves no room for mobility or transcendence. The Other has no place of her own. If we follow Irigaray’s argument, only a 18 19

Ibid., 54. Emmanuel Levinas, Totality and Infinity: An Essay on Exteriority, 212–13. Luce Irigaray, An Ethics of Sexual Difference, trans. Carolyn Burke (London: Continuum, 2004), 12–13. 20 Irigaray, An Ethics of Sexual Difference, 12–13.

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‘third term’ can change this order of things. In the case of religious otherness, the third term must be something outside (or at least not exclusive to) the Christian theological narrative. To a certain extent, death is ‘third’ in this sense; it is ‘outside’ and not under the control of the Christian theological framework. In the radical challenge of its otherness, death may provide the Christian tradition with a degree of theological space for the religious Other. Irigaray’s philosophical way of reasoning is not unheard of in Christian theology. It resonates with, for instance, Rahner’s theology of death, where death ‘has the character of hiddenness and of an insoluble question’.21 In his view, death is a double-sided opportunity that gives meaning both to the relationship between the self and the Other and to the relationship between the self and God. According to Rahner, death is the fundamental condition for freedom. It is in death that human beings can ultimately reject or accept God and, consequently, also other human beings. In Rahner’s words: The fundamental nature of freedom is therefore the opportunity of a ‘once and for all’ disposal by the subject of itself, a definitive self-disposal.22 Death gives room for (the) otherness (of God and of human being), in a way that comes close to Irigaray’s notion of ‘a third term’. Furthermore, since love is not possible without freedom, this also affects the quality of actual relationships. In other words, death enables a freedom which is foundational for the possibility of loving the Other. Death is the limit of all human relationships and relatedness.23 Therefore, in Jeanrond’s words, if this awareness is theologically present, we could realise that ‘[i]n our death God is all in all.’24 This suggests that the theological awareness of death as a third prevents the self from becoming all-powerful. Thus, it also enables the religious Other to transcend the self’s images and expectations of him or her. Careful reflection on death serves the delicate act of steering a course between emphasising the common ground for the religious self and the religious Other on the one hand and acknowledging differences on the other. The next 21

Karl Rahner ‘Christian Dying’, in Theological Investigations, Vol. 18: God and Revelation, trans. Edward Quinn (London: Darton, Longman and Todd, 1983), 246. See also Julito Paraguya, Jr ‘Everyday Dying: Karl Rahner’s Theology of Death’, Pacifica 26, no. 1 (2012), 72–87. 22 Karl Rahner ‘Christian Dying’, 242. 23 For more on this issue, see Eberhard Jüngel, Death: The Riddle and the Mystery, trans. Iain and Ute Nicol (Philadelphia: Westminster Press, 1975), 115 ff. 24 Jeanrond, Call and Response, 54.

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section will look more closely at how the interplay between death as the ‘third’ and a theology of love can create space for the religious Other. Death and Love: A Foundation for Otherness One of the most famous passages on love in the New Testament is 1 Corinthians 13. Among other things, this chapter teaches us that love ‘does not insist on its own way’ (1 Cor. 13:5). Literally, it reads: ‘the things of itself’. In other manuscripts, it says to mē ta heautēs: ‘what is not its own’.25 Hence, we can understand the passage as not only declaring that love is not selfish but also that it actually seeks that which is not ‘the same’ or like oneself. Rather, love seeks what is different.26 In this section, I shall reflect on death and love in the light of this reading of 1 Corinthians. I shall do so by returning to the role of religious otherness in eschatological fulfilment. Doubtless, love plays a central role in the Christian eschatologies assessed in our second chapter. Yet, it seems as if the love that characterises these eschatological visions rarely seeks the (religious) Other. Hick’s eschatology is a particularly good example. He considers most differences, at least religious differences, to be illusory. His solution to the problem of otherness is to proclaim it temporary and unreal. What will happen in the eschatological process is that these apparent differences will disappear. Eventually, it will become clear that we were all aiming for the same thing: the Real. Eschatological expectations from both Eastern and Western religious traditions are harmonised. Hick’s eschatological hope proclaims unity and the end of otherness. Pannenberg’s theology differs profoundly from Hick’s, but they both believe that fulfilment implies an eschatological unity that will put an end to religious otherness. History is moving towards greater truth and, along the way, divergent views in all areas of life are being outrivalled. It is not only, as I have repeatedly argued, that the room for religious otherness is limited, but it is actually difficult to find explicit, appreciative statements of any kind of otherness in the eschatologies looked at in chapter two. The general tendency is that eschatology is the end of otherness.

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See for instance Joseph A. Fitzmeyer, First Corinthians (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2008), 496. Krister Stendahl has suggested this interpretation. He argues for ‘the Corinthian model’ of recognition of plurality and difference as the starting point for theology of religions. See Krister Stendahl, ‘From God’s Perspective We Are All Minorities’, Journal of Religious Pluralism 2 (1993), Available at www.jcrelations.net/en/?item=783.

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Interestingly, S. Mark Heim’s theology moves in an entirely different direction. For Heim, unity is not a consequence of eschatological hope; rather, eschatology is the cementation of differences. The eschaton does not extinguish differences—it makes them permanent. Still, Heim does not pursue an argument where the Other and one’s responsibility for the Other is of importance. Rather, the different religious ends manifest and make permanent a separation that is already present in the here and now. Hence, in neither Hick’s nor Heim’s eschatology is otherness part of the overall vision. They either abolish otherness or separate different entities from each other so strongly that otherness no longer poses a problem. It is not too much then to say that, given the tension between seeing the eschaton as the attainment of unity and uniformity on the one hand and as the attainment of otherness on the other, the theologians discussed in chapter two favour the former. As my third chapter demonstrated, there are aspects in Muslim and Jewish eschatologies that also favour unity rather than diversity. For example, we have seen that Musavi Lari explicitly rejects and condemns the unfaithful and the unbeliever. The implicit logic seems to be that those destined for Paradise constitute a believing and faithful unity. The Others, those who are not part of this unity, are forever unwanted and, hence, ultimately excluded. There are also aspects that indicate the opposite, however—namely, the recognition of otherness and diversity. In Muslim tradition we are once again referred to the issue of hermeneutical privilege. Chittick reflects on religious diversity in his work on Ibn al-‘Arabi. Here, Chittick articulates theological arguments for religious diversity. As I pointed out, the chain of arguments is arranged as a circle. Interestingly, this seems to indicate that, on the one hand, there is no answer to religious diversity that does not result in yet another question. On the other hand, the circle clearly affirms that God wills the diversity. Thus, eschatological hope does not necessarily imply any transition from diversity to unity and uniformity. Chittick emphasises the unity of God, but he does not proclaim the unity of the prophets or of eschatological expectations. Rahman argues along similar lines when he states that humankind was once a unity but that this unity broke down due to the many different prophets. If God wanted, it would have been possible to bring all these together again, but for some unknown reason, God wants this diversity. Concerning the Jewish tradition, I have already argued that universalistic particularity—which is most clearly expressed in Wyschogrod’s eschatology— actually leaves theological space for the religious Other. Wyschogrod’s emphasis on particularity enables a theology in which God stands in unique relationships with other peoples. Hence, religious otherness is not erased in the eschatological process.

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Given these indications from the Muslim and Jewish traditions that eschatology does not by necessity imply the end of otherness, I shall return to the connection between death and otherness. On the basis of Jeanrond’s theology of love, I shall explore the possibilities of seeing the eschaton as an affirmation of otherness. In this way, the eschaton can consolidate the otherness of the human being. As already mentioned, death as such is elusive. I can only experience myself as already being born and as still alive. Death remains a horizon of human life rather than part of it. Nevertheless, human beings can certainly experience an awareness of death. Bauman argues that this awareness of mortality is crucial to our ways of living and, actually, the very foundation of human culture. He is probably correct in his claim that the awareness of death pushes human beings to leave lasting marks in history. If so, literature, music, and athletic achievements are also expressions of the artist’s desire to survive him- or herself. Moreover, for most people, the awareness of death is painful and difficult to accept.27 While Bauman sees it as one purpose of culture to foster a temporary amnesia relative to our awareness of death, I have argued the opposite. Through religious rituals, the experience of death becomes more profound and may actually give a deeper meaning and significance to life.28 Implicitly or explicitly, then, death plays a fundamental part in human life. One example of this, it could be argued, is culture’s preoccupation with making distinctions and classifications. Making distinctions, discriminating, setting apart, classifying, is culture’s foremost mark, craft and tour de force. In its intensions (though hardly ever in its practical accomplishments) culture is a war of attrition declared on ambivalence. Its promise is to separate the grain from the chaff in all their incarnations—be they called truth and falsehood, beauty and ugliness, friends and enemies, or good and evil. Its job is to see that the world is well mapped and well marked, so that confusion will have little chance to arise.29 This observation indicates a connection between death and otherness. The awareness of the former lays a foundation for a culture which is interested in categorisations, separations, and distinctions.

27 Bauman, Mortality, Immortality and Other Life Strategies, 31. 28 See Davies, Death, Ritual and Belief, 19 ff. 29 Bauman, Mortality, Immortality and Other Life Strategies, 38.

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Jeanrond reflects on the relation between death, otherness, and love. He states that love as we know it is always conceived in and through culture. It radically changes our conceptions of death, and, vice versa, the awareness of death fundamentally influences the human ability to love. It is the love of other human beings that makes death painful and difficult to accept. Moreover, it is the love of our own lives that makes the prospect of our own deaths hard to bear.30 Obviously, this relates to the argument above, i.e., that love requires a freedom that only death can make possible. Here we find a constructive potential for exploring otherness. Interestingly, it is precisely in eschatology that these notions intersect. Jeanrond argues that the nature of love is such that it not only respects but even requires otherness: Love is always transitive, it always seeks the other—not in order to subjugate, assimilate, outwit, kill or ultimately ignore the other, but in order to acknowledge, respect and encounter both the other and the loving self as genuinely other.31 Hence, the relation between death, otherness, and love that we find in Jeanrond’s thinking strengthens the claim that eschatology is not the end but the fulfilment of otherness. It remains to be clarified more precisely how eschatology can be seen as the fulfilment of religious otherness. But Jeanrond’s conclusions can at least serve to initiate a critique of the position in which the eschaton is seen as the end of all (religious) differences. Jeanrond’s hermeneutics of love moves in the opposite direction by providing a foundation for love and otherness and recognising its eschatological dimension. 4.3

Theological Interplay: Eschatological Otherness Reassessed

Introduction In the introduction to his seminal study Occidental Eschatology, Jacob Taubes declares that it is ‘in the Eschaton that history surpasses its limitations and is seen for what it is.’32 Interestingly, Taubes seems to argue that one reason for 30

See Werner G. Jeanrond, ‘Toward an Interreligious Hermeneutics of Love’, in Interreligious Hermeneutics, ed. Catherine Cornille and Christopher Conway (Eugene: Cascade Books, 2010). 31 Jeanrond, A Theology of Love, 230. 32 Jacob Taubes, Occidental Eschatology, trans. David Ratmoko (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2009), 3.

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studying eschatology is to understand history properly—as if the study of eschatology provided an outlook from which history could be seen anew. In this study, I have assumed that modern eschatologies have something significant to say about how the religious Other is valued and approached. As Taubes states, eschatology provides an opportunity to consider the here and now in a different light. If this is the case, then more than just religious assumptions are at stake in the articulation of eschatology. It is to these matters that we now turn. While the first aspect of ‘hope and otherness’ was concerned with the otherness of the religious Other, the second aspect has to do with the otherness of the eschaton. These two aspects are clearly interrelated, and what follows below is not, therefore, an entirely different subject. Rather, it is another approach to the same issue of religious otherness, focusing on the eschaton in eschatological descriptions. In chapter two, I discussed the tendency among the theologians examined there to condition the eschaton christologically in ways that interfere with the possibility of describing the eschaton as other and unknown. There we noted the tension between tradition-specific characteristics such as making christology the criterion or ultimate consummation of eschatology on the one hand and proclaiming the apophatic character of the hereafter on the other. Moltmann’s christology, for instance, interacts with his eschatology in such a way—or so I argued—that the eschaton is christologically conditioned. When his strong christological focus becomes the criterion for eschatology, every non-christological eschatology is inevitably rejected. We see an interaction between eschatology ecclesiology and christology in Ratzinger that also affects his eschatology. As a matter of fact, Ratzinger is quite explicit on this and declares that Christ is heaven. Pannenberg’s eschatology is interwoven with his theology of history in ways that lead to a similarly christologically conditioned eschatology. He argues that the eschaton primarily constitutes the verification of history and the revelation of truth. Through his notion of prolēpsis, Pannenberg is able to anticipate the eschatological revelation of truth and, from his position within history, foresee its purpose and goal: Jesus Christ. Gavin D’Costa’s eschatology interacts with his ecclesiology and his attempts to clarify how the church, Christ, and the Trinity are all necessary criteria for attaining eschatological fulfilment. The result, as we have seen, is an eschatological ‘christianisation’ of the religious Other. Conditioning the eschaton through various forms of interplay can be seen in light of Ratzinger’s claim that heaven is ‘the finally and wholly Other’.33 Hence, even though most theologians would agree with Ratzinger that the 33 Ratzinger, Eschatology, Death, and Eternal Life, 237.

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eschaton is unknown and other, that assertion cannot be easily harmonised with their actual approaches to eschatology. As I have argued above, what is interesting in the christological or ecclesiological conditioning of the eschaton is that it describes an eschatological fulfilment in which the religious Other becomes a member of the eschatological ‘church’, someone who worships Jesus Christ. As such, describing the eschaton this way make it Christian rather than other. Consequently, although implicitly, the religious Other also becomes Christian rather than other. In the previous chapters, I have demonstrated how the theological interplay may result in an eschatology that is soteriologically open (i.e., the religious Other is thought of as part of eschatological fulfilment) but eschatologically closed (i.e., the theological integrity of the religious Other is not articulated in these visions). As stated above, the degree of eschatological openness is related to the nature of tradition-specific eschatological claims. In a way, the religious Other is no longer other in such eschatologies. One of the heuristic tools applied in chapter three was concerned with the specific feature of theological interplay. In chapter three, other eschatologies with different ways of relating tradition-specific content and eschatology were analysed. I shall elaborate further on these differences in this chapter. Contributions of Muslim and Jewish Eschatologies As we saw in the third chapter, the Muslim and Jewish traditions differ significantly in how the eschaton is described. Consequently, we found different approaches to the tradition-specific elements of eschatology as well as different ways of relating to the unknown character of the hereafter. Nevertheless, I also argued that the theologians in the third chapter shared an unwillingness to ascribe tradition-specific characteristics to the eschaton. Hence, on this issue, the Muslim and Jewish theologians find themselves in interesting agreement. The heuristic tool of theological interplay relates directly to this specific issue. I earlier identified three themes in the third chapter that apply to the theological interplay between eschatology and other statements of faith. From the Muslim tradition comes the narrative vision of the Garden and, from the Jewish, the messianic approach to the eschaton and universalistic particularity. As I stated in section 4.2, the purpose of this discussion is not to present these themes once and for all. Actually, the themes will appear and reappear throughout the remaining parts of the chapter. For the sake of clarity, however, I shall comment briefly on these three themes. In 3.2, we found that one of the fundamental agreements between Musavi Lari, Rahman, and Chittick was on the character of the eschaton. Their approach is a narrative vision of the Garden in which they all picture paradise

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in a somewhat anthropomorphic, relational, and less tradition-specific way. There is no mention of the Qur’an, the prophet, fasting, prayer, or the Mosque. Rather, it revolves around harmonious relationships in the presence of God. As we shall discuss in the following, these relational and anthropomorphic descriptions are to be understood in light of the otherness of the eschaton. This means that, unlike Christian eschatology, the theological interplay between eschatology and other areas of faith is not present among the Muslim theologians we have discussed. In the Jewish eschatologies, the conclusion was similar, even though we could call their approach messianic. Wyschogrod characterises Judaism as an incomplete story. The future has not yet come, and eschatological hope awaits fulfilment. The more exact nature of what eschatological fulfilment will be like cannot be anticipated, according to Wyschogrod. Furthermore, he states that the Torah will not maintain its current position and function in the eschaton. In Schwarzschild’s eschatology, ‘the eternity of the pre-Messianic “interim”’ results in a focus on waiting for the messianic fulfilment, rather than on the nature of the eschaton. Consequently, Schwarzschild’s theology also lacks precise characterisations of the eschaton. In this study, we find several examples of what I have called, in technical terms, the universalistic particularity in Jewish theology. In short, this notion expresses the view that aspects of a religious tradition can be particular in the sense that the tradition itself does not claim that all human beings should adopt it as their own. At the same time, however, it can be universalistic in the sense that it may meaningfully witness to all human beings. Schwarzschild’s theology of shekhinah can be seen as one example of universalistic particularity. According to Schwarzschild, the Jewish people are part of God’s shekhinah (God’s presence or radiating glory) from which all people may benefit, without necessarily being part of this shekhinah. Having recapitulated the central themes from the third chapter that apply to the present discussion, I shall explore the theological interplay and otherness of the eschaton in Christian tradition. The arguments will be presented under the themes of ‘The Apophatic Nature of the Eschaton’ and ‘A Tradition-Specific Determination of the Eschaton?’. The Apophatic Nature of the Eschaton Most Christian theologians would agree that the hereafter is unknown and inaccessible to human beings. Still, one can sometimes be surprised by the imagination and courage that lead some theologians to make quite detailed eschatological maps and blueprints of what will (and will not) happen after death. As I have pointed out, the Christian theologians discussed in chapter

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two do not entirely escape this critique. The tension between acknowledging the unknown on the one hand and making detailed assertions on the other is sometimes solved by a kind of assurance that eschatological claims are nothing more than provisional suggestions or thought experiments. For example, Heim calls his eschatology ‘a hypothesis’ and prays that ‘whatever proves mistaken [will] be quickly forgotten’.34 Hick similarly declares that ‘we must not abandon our professed agnosticism.’35 As already stated, Ratzinger refers to heaven as ‘wholly Other’.36 The problem with arguing like this is that the provisional, hypothetical, and experimental nature of eschatological descriptions is not made inherent in these descriptions but only uttered prior to them. Consequently, the level on which these claims are uttered remains unclear. Suppose that someone (let’s call her Lucy) who does not speak Mandarin meets someone else who only speaks Mandarin. To communicate, Lucy can choose either to gesture and make simple sounds (and thereby include her inability to speak Mandarin as part of her behaviour) or declare that, in fact, she does not speak Mandarin and then lecture on some subject or other while trying to speak Mandarin (thus doing nothing more than declaring her inability to speak Mandarin prior to the act of speaking). Given that Ratzinger and Hick, for instance, actually consider the eschaton as unknown and other and therefore acknowledge their own eschatologies as provisional, it would have been better if they had made this hermeneutical position inherent in, rather than merely prior to their respective eschatologies. How might this be done differently? Our discussion needs to attend to the relationship between eschatology and the eschaton in Christian theology. To examine this issue, I shall relate it to Jean-Luc Marion and his reading of Corpus Dionysiacum, the works of an unknown sixth-century author who took the name Dionysius the Areopagite.37 We shall refer to him below as Dionysius.38 In the works of both Dionysius and Jean-Luc Marion, we find tools for reflecting on the relationship between linguistic assertions and the ineffable. 34 Heim, The Depth of the Riches, xi. 35 Hick, Death and Eternal Life, 24. 36 Ratzinger, Eschatology, Death, and Eternal Life, 237. 37 Jean-Luc Marion, ‘In the Name: How to Avoid Speaking of “Negative Theology”’, in God, the Gift, and Postmodernism, ed. John D. Caputo and Michael J. Scanlon (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1999), 20–42. 38 This follows the practice of several Dionysius scholars, among them—and despite the title of his book—Paul Rorem, Pseudo-Dionysius: A Commentary on the Texts and an Introduction to Their Influence (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993).

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Obviously, the apophatic tradition in Christian theology is primarily concerned with the question of God: God is ineffable, beyond conception, and semper major. Certainly, Marion’s reading of Dionysius does not deviate from this path, though it is also focused on the naming of God. I would argue that it is reasonable to conceive of the eschaton in a similar way. Actually, not only is this possible but, from a theological point of view, it is necessary. Apophatic theology applies not only to the question of God but to the question of the eschaton as well. Clearly, it is not possible to separate God from the eschaton in any of the theologies discussed above. Thus, given that the eschaton is understood as the consummation of creation and of humanity’s relationship with God, it is also true of the eschaton that it is semper major. As Karl Rahner argues, ‘God is absolute mystery. And therefore fulfilment and absolute closeness to God himself is also an ineffable mystery.’39 Hence, I shall apply Marion’s reflections on the naming of God to the question at hand: the naming of the eschaton. This does not entail that I consider God and the eschaton to be entirely synonymous in Christian tradition. The delicate task of naming the ineffable applies in both cases, however. As I see it, The challenge—regardless of whether it concerns naming God or naming the eschaton—is to avoid referring to God or the eschaton as simply objects among others on the one hand and not referring to them at all on the other. More specifically, Marion’s work on Dionysius sheds some light on the relationship between the concrete and anthropomorphic eschatological images (as found, for instance, in Musavi Lari’s eschatology), and the more sophisticated images (as found, for instance, in Moltmann’s eschatology). While the Christian theologians discussed in chapter two refer to the eschaton as the ‘consummation of history’ or the ‘eternal reign of Christ’ and describe how the pareschaton precedes eternal life, Muslim theologians—Musavi Lari in particular—describe the joy of the gardens, the food, and the women. What can be learned from the latter narratives? One is likely to think that more anthropomorphic descriptions are further removed from the otherness of the eschaton than the more sublime descriptions of Moltmann and Hick. As Marion’s engagement with Dionysius on the unnameability and transcendence of God indicates, however, this is not necessarily the case.40 In his discussion of different ways of referring to the divine realities, Dionysius distinguishes between base images and high-flown shapes. Since human beings are unable to relate directly to what is beyond human imagination, it

39 Rahner, Foundations of Christian Faith, 441. 40 Marion, ‘In the Name’, 20–42.

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is necessary to create ‘types for the typeless, [to give] shape to what is actually without shape’.41 Some of these types are more blunt (base images), whereas others are more sublime and sophisticated (high flown). It is possible to refer to God as ‘a stone’ or as ‘the Eternal One’, and the former is obviously less sophisticated than the latter. But Dionysius insists that both are mere images and, as such, radically different from what they depict. The danger with highflown images, according to Dionysius, is that they are easily confused with the divine reality as such or mistaken as being like this reality. Base images are not so easily confused with the divine reality and, as a consequence, they serve as dissimilar similarities.42 Hence, they express their similarity to the divine precisely through their dissimilarity.43 Dionysius writes: So it is that scriptural writings, far from demeaning the ranks of heaven, actually pay them honor by describing them with dissimilar shapes so completely at variance with what they really are that we come to discover how those ranks, so far removed from us, transcend all materiality. Furthermore, I doubt that anyone would refuse to acknowledge that incongruities are more suitable for lifting our minds up into the domain of the spiritual than similarities are. High-flown shapes could well mislead someone into thinking that the heavenly beings are golden or gleaming men, glamorous, wearing lustrous clothing, giving off flames which cause no harm, or that they have other similar beauties with which the word of God has fashioned the heavenly minds.44 It is interesting to note that Dionysius seems to include images that depict the divine in gold and with beautiful clothing among the high-flown images. To a modern reader, such images might appear to be anthropomorphic and crude. It is therefore necessary to bear in mind the contextual and fluid character of what is perceived as base and high flown. That being said, the Dionysian 41 Pseudo-Dionysius, The Complete Works, trans. Colm Luibheid (New York: Paulist Press, 1987), 150. 42 Paul Rorem identifies this expression as ‘at the heart of Dionysian hermeneutics’; Rorem, Pseudo-Dionysius, 54. See also Pseudo-Dionysius, The Complete Works, 148. 43 Andrew Louth makes the following remark on this distinction: ’Denys makes clear his preference for unlike symbols (anomoia symbola), for with them there is no danger of thinking that God is directly like that which the symbols call to mind’. Andrew Louth, The Origins of the Christian Mystical Tradition: From Plato to Denys (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1983), 172. 44 Pseudo-Dionysius, The Complete Works, 150.

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distinction applies to the difference between Moltmann and Pannenberg on the one hand and Musavi Lari and Chittick on the other. Given that the concrete descriptions of paradise are seen as base, the Dionysian distinction favours these concrete descriptions. As a consequence, the anthropomorphic images of the eschaton in Muslim theology are better suited to the eschaton’s otherness. We find dissimilar similarities of this kind in descriptions of the Garden and its joys. Marion follows Dionysius on this issue and declares that neither simple affirmation nor negation can properly describe God. Rather, he suggests a third approach: de-nomination. The de-nomination of God (or, in this case, the eschaton) is beyond the distinction between kataphatic and apophatic. The question of the names of God is never about fixing a name to God nor opposing a ‘non’ to him. ‘Name’ and ‘non,’ when heard (in French), sound the same sound and nothing responds to the one any more than to the other. The ‘non’ of the so-called negative theology does not say the Name any more than do the ‘names’ of the affirmative way. For if no one must say the Name, it is not simply because it surpasses all names, passes beyond all essence and all presence. In fact, not even not saying the Name would suffice to honor it since a simple denegation would still belong to predication, would again inscribe the Name within the horizon of presence—and would even do so in the mode of blasphemy since it treats it parsimoniously. The Name must not be said not because it is not given for the sake of our saying it, even negatively, but so that we might de-nominate all names of it and dwell in it.45 Marion underscores Dionysius’ position where neither affirmation nor negation is sufficient for describing the divine (or, in our context, the eschaton). As a consequence, the dissimilar similarities have advantages compared to more sublime descriptions. The issue with the sublime descriptions in Moltmann and Pannenberg is precisely that they risk creating ‘high-flown shapes’ while failing to articulate the uncertain and apophatic dimension inherent in eschatological descriptions. This relates closely to the shortcomings highlighted in chapter two, namely, the tendency to describe the eschaton as Christian. Marion’s argument continues with the proper attitude of relating to and naming God. His way of reasoning applies to ways of naming the eschaton as well: 45

Marion, ‘In the Name’, 41–42.

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For the Name no longer functions by inscribing God within the theoretical horizon of our predication, but by inscribing us, according to a radically new praxis, in the very horizon of God. This is exactly what baptism accomplishes when, far from our attributing to God a name that is intelligible to us, we enter into his unpronounceable Name, with the additional result that we receive our own. The Name above all names therefore de-nominates God perfectly, by excepting him from predication, so as to include us in it and allow us to name it on the basis of its essential anonymity…. Concerning God, this shift from the theoretical use of language to its pragmatic use is achieved in the finally liturgical function of all theo-logical discourse.46 As this passage shows, worship is the proper context of theological statements. Liturgy and prayer are neither apophatic nor kataphatic, but doxological; they are intended for praising. Following Marion’s view of theological assertions, eschatological descriptions cannot properly describe the hereafter. But they name human beings and the human reality in a liturgical context that claims neither to speak for all nor to rule out all other descriptions. This resembles what Karl Rahner famously calls a ‘hermeneutics of eschatological statements’: eschatology is the transposition of human experiences here and now, projected into God’s future, rather than this future as such.47 Therefore, the benefits of the base images in, for instance, Musavi Lari’s eschatology are precisely that they are more easily recognised as images. At the end of this chapter, I shall discuss ‘the heavenly banquet’ as one such eschatological base image in the Christian tradition and reflect on its possible implications for theological space and theological interplay. I have already mentioned that Wyschogrod views Christianity as a ‘complete story’ as opposed to Judaism which, in his opinion, is an incomplete story.48 His arguments have to do with the christological fulfilment of the prophetic promises, but they are also related to the way christology and eschatology interact in Christian theology. As a general statement, Wyschogrod’s observation is too imprecise to do justice to Christian eschatology, though it does make sense with respect to the theologians discussed in chapter two. In Pannenberg’s theology, for instance, the eschaton is the final verification of the historical process. History is moving towards increasing truth while the eschaton is the ultimate revelation of Jesus Christ as the truth of history. Thus, the ‘completed 46 Ibid., 38. 47 Rahner, Foundations of Christian Faith, 433. 48 Wyschogrod, The Body of Faith, 69.

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story’ that Wyschogrod finds in Christian theology involves not only the presumed fulfilment of prophesies in Jesus Christ but also the role of christology in eschatology. In the next section, I shall discuss more closely the interplay between christology and eschatology and argue that, depending on how this interplay occurs, Christianity may be perceived as a more or less completed story. Furthermore, the kind of interplay at work affects the theological integrity of the religious Other in Christian eschatology. Formulated in more general terms, the relationship between the tradition-specific elements and the unknown future has implications for the integrity of the religious Other in any eschatology. A Tradition-Specific Determination of the Eschaton? All of the eschatologies analysed in the second and third chapters are tradition-specific, albeit in different ways. The important question, then, is how an eschatology is tradition-specific. As I have argued, the interplay between tradition-specific elements, such as the Torah, the Qur’an or the Christ, on the one hand and eschatology on the other affects the theological integrity of the religious Other. The aim of this section is to reflect on what is arguably the most important interplay in Christian eschatology: that between christology and eschatology. I shall first recall some significant examples from Muslim and Jewish eschatology, and then return to the distinction between christologically conceived and christologically conditioned eschatologies. The purpose here is not only to clarify the distinction but also to suggest a way to relate tradition-specific elements and eschatology in a way that leaves space for the theological integrity of the religious Other. Thus, by drawing on the discussion from Muslim and Jewish eschatology, I shall sketch the contours of a christologically conceived eschatology. Wyschogrod argues that the Torah will not keep its current position and function in the eschaton. This suggests that the Torah relates to the hereafter as a guide, not as its content. Hence, it is not the eschaton that is ‘Torahised’ but the Torah that is eschatologically changed. The Torah prepares the way for the eschaton but does not constitute the eschaton. The hereafter is not the fulfilment of the Torah; rather, it is the Torah that enables the fulfilment of the eschaton. A different approach (though similar in terms of consequences) is how the religious Other in eschatology is integrated through the image of the day of assembly. This image is found in Chittick’s theology and is more thoroughly developed in an eschatological framework in, for instance, the works of Ahmad H. Sakr. Sakr describes a process prior to judgement where all people will gather behind their respective prophet, philosopher, or leader. Here, judgement is

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somehow related to each human being according to his or her religious belonging. Again, neither Chittick nor Sakr tries to express a pluralist vision that places every religious tradition on a par with each other, but their eschatological image does make room for the religious Other within his or her own particular narrative. This is by no means a meta-perspective but a particular Muslim perspective through which the religious Other is referred to as other. The image of the day of assembly does not determine the degree of soteriological openness but yields a certain amount of eschatological openness by articulating a place—however minor and preliminary—for the religious Other as other. These two examples of theological integrity of the religious Other in Jewish and Muslim eschatologies are related to my discussion on universality and particularity in Wyschogrod’s theology. I have argued that one reason why his eschatology is more eschatologically open than those of the Christian theologians in chapter two is the relationship between universality and particularity. Wyschogrod’s theology does not represent a particularistic universality in which the religious Other is invited to his form of universality. Rather, it is a universalistic particularity, that is, a particularity that does not replace other approaches while still claiming universal relevance. This attitude is also represented in Schwarzschild’s notion of God’s shekhinah. The Jewish people, he argues, are part of this shekhinah. It is not to be seen as a demand that everyone else participate in this but as a sign of God’s glory that can be recognised by anyone. It is therefore still possible to acknowledge the existence of other signs of God’s glory and thus to articulate the religious Other’s theological integrity. These theological contributions from Muslim and Jewish theologians suggest that there are different ways to determine eschatology. The eschatologies of Wyschogrod and Chittick are certainly Jewish and Muslim, respectively, as there are several tradition-specific elements in their thinking. But we do not find the kind of theological interplay in them that conditions the eschaton in a tradition-specific way. In the second chapter, I argued that a distinction between christologically conceived and christologically conditioned eschatologies would prove helpful. Observations we made on Muslim and Jewish eschatologies in chapter 3 with respect to different ways of determining eschatology have reinforced the legitimacy of this distinction. The distinction not only indicates that there are different ways of relating christology and eschatology to each other but also brings to light another distinction, namely, that between open and closed eschatologies. A christologically conditioned eschatology is by definition (eschatologically) closed. But a christologically conceived eschatology could be closed in other respects than with regard to christology, and the christologically

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conceived eschatology may therefore be either open or closed. In chapter two, we looked at some examples of christologically conditioned eschatologies. In order to develop the distinction between ‘christologically conditioned’ and ‘christologically conceived’, I shall now turn to the relationship between eschatology and christology. The Christian theological reflection on Jesus Christ and eschatology are linked to each other, but how? For the purposes of illustration, I shall consider aspects of a recent discussion in Catholic theology on the christology articulated in the declaration Dominus Iesus. The discussion of this document sheds some light on different approaches to christology in contemporary theology. The declaration criticises contemporary ‘relativistic attitudes’ in which ‘Christian revelation and the mystery of Jesus Christ and the Church lose their character of absolute truth and salvific universality’.49 It therefore urges theologians to affirm the fullness and definitiveness of the revelation of Jesus Christ.50 Jürgen Werbick is among those who have responded to the declaration, and he applauds the attempt to reject relativism in christology. At the same time, however, he is critical of the way in which this is carried out in Dominus Iesus. At the heart of Werbick’s criticism lies his reluctance to accept categories of completeness (Vollständigkeit).51 Werbick defends the rejection of relativistic christologies but states that the categories referring to ‘the definitive and complete character of the revelation of Jesus Christ’ are too general.52 According to Werbick, a problem with the category of completeness is that it suggests a sort of quantitative logic where one either, like the Catholic Church, has the complete revealed truth or has something different, which by definition is deficient and incomplete.53 Rather than a category of completeness, Werbick suggests that we should approach christological issues through the category of wholeness (Fülle). If completeness claims that the entirety of God is revealed in Jesus Christ and that Jesus Christ is God’s redemption in its entirety, wholeness suggests that 49 50 51

52 53

Congregation for the Doctrine of Faith, Declaration ‘Dominus Iesus’: On the Unicity and Salvific Universality of Jesus Christ and the Church, § 4. Ibid., § 5. Jürgen Werbick, ‘Der Anspruch auf ‘Vollständigkeit’ als anti-relativistische Abwehrstra­ tegie’, in ‘Dominus Iesus’: Anstößige Wahrheit oder anstößige Kirche? Dokumente, Hintergründe, Standpunkte und Folgerungen, ed. Michael J. Rainer (Münster: Lit Verlag, 2001). For a related discussion on christology and its implications for theology of religions, see Bernhardt, Ende des Dialogs?, 225–47. Congregation for the Doctrine of Faith, Declaration ‘Dominus Iesus’, § 5. Werbick, ‘Der Anspruch auf ‘Vollständigkeit’ als anti-relativistische Abwehrstrategie’, 142.

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God is fully and adequately present in Jesus Christ—but not, necessarily, completely so. According to Werbick, both of these categories are capable of resisting relativism, but a significant difference between them is that the category of completeness shuts off any conversation with the religious Other: he or she has very little to contribute to the Christian message. There is no place for anything new or additional in what is complete. Werbick’s argument against the category of completeness, however, is not only practical and pragmatic—it is also theological. It is the particularity of revelation in Jesus Christ that is at risk in the category of completeness. If revelation and truth are personal and historical, as Werbick thinks they are, they can never be complete. Rather, they are necessarily particular and continuously reformulated in new situations and for new people. God’s redemption is always carried out in history and it is therefore necessarily proclaimed afresh in every age. This leads to new experiences of God. According to Werbick, then, the category of completeness is theologically obsolete prior to the eschaton.54 Furthermore, one could claim that the category of completeness—when applied to christology—betrays a failure to distinguish between the Christ as he is known in Christian tradition and the Christ who is expected at the eschaton. With Werbick, one can then ask if the characteristics of promise are adequately acknowledged.55 When eschatology and christology are merged together, the risk arises that the aspect of consummation—stronger in eschatology—is combined with the aspect of realisation—stronger in christology. The result of this (con)fusion is that the hope and the promise of eschatology are anticipated and that the eschatological future is mistakenly conceived as something familiar. As Werbick states, the experience of God’s redemption always takes place in history, and as such it is historically conditioned. Thus, it is an experience that is not suited to the category of completeness and definitiveness.56 Moreover, eschatology is directed at what has not yet been fully realised. Therefore, applying the historical experience of Christ to eschatology should be done with great caution. One runs the risk of making category mistakes if the historical experience is transposed into a promised consummation when the particular is turned into the complete and the definitive. A similar confusion can be traced in the christologically conditioned eschatologies of Moltmann, Pannenberg, and Ratzinger in which eschatology and 54 Ibid. 55 Jürgen Werbick, Den Glauben verantworten: Eine Fundamentaltheologie (Freiburg: Herder, 2000), 397. 56 Werbick, ‘Der Anspruch auf ‘Vollständigkeit’, 141–43.

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christology tend to be identified with each other. The consequence of such christologically conditioned eschatology is that the eschatological future is anticipated and, somehow, one’s experiences of God are already complete and settled. Interestingly, the category of completeness comes to the fore in the christologically conditioned eschatologies. As already argued, the category of completeness is less adequate for christology. Not only is it closed to the religious Other, but they also fail to account for the particular and historical character of Christian faith. Notably, the return of Christ in the Christian tradition is a promise that has not yet taken place. Whenever a christology of ‘completeness’ conditions Christian eschatology, this non-realised, open, and unknown aspect of eschatology is compromised. So far, we have not satisfactorily discussed the possible characteristics of christologically conceived eschatologies. This is not the place for a thorough christological review, but we can look at some of its aspects. I have already mentioned that Werbick provides helpful tools for the further development of christologically conceived eschatologies. Another source is the work that has been done in Jewish-Christian dialogue and theologies informed by the Jewish-Christian reality. Paul M. van Buren’s christology is articulated with this dialogue in mind.57 Like Werbick, he focuses on particularity and the historical character of christology. Building on this particularity, both Van Buren and Werbick emphasise the unfinished and unrealised aspect of christology. Werbick points to the element of non-fulfilled promises in christology and Van Buren refers to its diachronic character. Van Buren does not downplay Christian particularity but argues that it has to be recognised and pronounced more clearly. As Werbick points out, christology contains an element of promise: something that is not yet fully realised. Conceived this way, there is a clear link between christology and eschatology. Given that the christological promise is pronounced in history in particular contexts, however, that promise points to eschatology rather than replacing it. Thus, the phrase ‘christologically conceived’ means that eschatology and christology are not merged with each other. Christology does not completely and definitively condition Christian eschatology; rather, it offers a fully adequate way to understand that eschatology. This line of thought can be illustrated through the famous eschatological vision in 1 Corinthians. There Paul writes: ‘When all things are subjected to him [i.e., the Son], then the Son himself will

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Paul M. Van Buren, A Theology of the Jewish-Christian Reality. Part III: Christ in Context (New York: University Press of America, 1995).

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also be subjected to the one [i.e., the Father] who put all things in subjection under him, so that God may be all in all’ (1 Cor. 15:28).58 One way to interpret this passage is to say that Christ plays an important role in God’s plan and in the eschatological process but that his role in the eschaton is not entirely clear; he, too will be subjected to the Father who will be ‘all in all’. Van Buren phrases it trenchantly when he states that ‘God is the limit of Christocentrism’.59 If this is true, it is hardly possible to merge christology and eschatology. Van Buren’s words capture well the position of a christologically conceived eschatology. It is christocentric to a certain extent but not unlimitedly so: the precise eschatological role of Christ remains unknown. Regarding christology, Van Buren reflects on the hermeneutical relationship between Christ and divinity: it does not start with the Christian tradition knowing something reliable about divinity and then measuring whether or not Christ meets those criteria. Rather, Van Buren argues that it should be viewed as the other way around; the Christian tradition ‘has first learned whatever little it may know about divine matters from the things concerning Jesus of Nazareth.’60 We can analogically apply this reasoning to a christologically conceived eschatology. From this point of view, it is not possible to start with eschatology and claim that it is constituted by, for instance, Jesus Christ. Rather, the issue goes the other way; it is through Christ that the Christian tradition is able to speak of the eschaton. In this sense, one could speak of the ‘Christ-likeness’ of Christian eschatology. Thus, it is through Christ that Christian tradition finds its approach to eschatology. It is not a comprehensive approach, however, and does not provide any mandate to merge christology and eschatology or Christ and the eschaton. Again, ‘christologically conceived’ means that Christ is par excellence the one through whom the Christian tradition knows about God and eschatological fulfilment. But it also brings to the fore the fact that the more precise character of this eschatological fulfilment and Christ’s role in the eschaton is unknown. In short, this perspective acknowledges that things may be different in God’s future. To quote Van Buren again: Christ is the Church’s center, but he is so by the will of God. As Paul put it addressing the Church of Corinth, ‘You are Christ’s, and Christ is God’s’ 58

59 60

As a parallel in the gospels, one may think of the statement that ‘about that day or hour no one knows, neither the angels in heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father’ (Mark 13:32). See also Matt. 24:36. Van Buren, A Theology of the Jewish-Christian Reality, 106. Ibid., 294.

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(1 Cor 3:23). Christ is the Church’s center because that is how God has chosen to create and sustain his Gentile Church. If Christocentrism means that Christ is the Church’s way to the Father, the one in whose presence alone it is made present to God, then there can be no question of its necessity. […] for this time, for the Church in its present situation and for the foreseeable future, Christ is necessarily at the center. The necessity is temporal, however, as are all things pertaining to the Church. In God’s future things may be different, but in the Church’s present, in its here and now, Christ is its center by the will of God.61 As we can see, to use our terms, it is the christological conditioning of eschatology that Van Buren opposes. He affirms christocentrism but wants to leave open the role of christology in eschatology (‘In God’s future things may be different’). Let us further illustrate a christologically conceived eschatology by once more referring to Karl Rahner: eschatology is man’s view from the perspective of his experience of salvation, the experience which he now has in grace and in Christ […] eschatological statements are a transposition into the future of something which a Christian person experiences in grace as his present.62 Here christology is seen as the hermeneutical starting point for Christian eschatological reflection. Does this exclude other starting points? As I have argued above, it does in the thinking of Moltmann, Pannenberg, and Ratzinger. The reasons for this are many, but one is the interplay between christology and eschatology: To what extent is the one subsumed under the other? Does Rahner’s hermeneutics of eschatology exclude non-christological eschatologies per se? Obviously, Rahner is interpreted in different directions, and it is not possible to pursue a more comprehensive investigation here. Nonetheless, I would argue that Rahner conceives the links between christology and eschatology in a slightly different way than the theologians discussed in the second chapter. Rahner’s starting point is the human experience of God’s grace here and now. As a consequence, the Christian theologian cannot claim to know more about the hereafter than what is experienced in the present:

61 Ibid., 106. 62 Rahner, Foundations of Christian Faith, 433.

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we can say that we know no more about the last things than we know about people who have been redeemed, who have been taken up by Christ, and who exist in God’s grace.63 Rahner’s eschatology is certainly christological, but it is hardly christologically conditioned. Even though he does not pursue this direction himself, there is nothing in principle in Rahner’s eschatological hermeneutics that prevents non-christological experiences of God’s grace to result in valid and meaningful eschatologies. In fact, as Christians we do not have to act as though we knew all about ourselves in heaven. Perhaps Christian hope speaks many times in the emphatic way of an initiate, of someone who knows his way around better in eternity with God than in the dark dungeon of the present. But in reality this absolute fulfilment remains a mystery which we have to worship in silence by moving beyond all images into the ineffable.64 Thus, Rahner’s hermeneutics of eschatology can be interpreted along the lines of a christologically conceived eschatology. It is through God’s salvation and grace in Jesus Christ that the Christian theologian speaks of the eschaton—but this does not necessarily imply that eschatology is christology (or that the eschaton is Christ). To illustrate further the content of a christologically conceived eschatology and some of the other notions discussed in this chapter, I shall conclude by presenting one eschatological image, the ‘heavenly banquet’, as an example. I suggest that this image responds adequately to significant aspects of our discussion. 4.4

The Heavenly Banquet

The Christian tradition is familiar with a large number of rather diverse images and symbols of the hereafter. Some of these overlap and many of them pay attention to different aspects of eschatological fulfilment. The eschaton is described as a new heaven and a new earth, the beatific vision, the kingdom of God, the kingdom of Christ, eternal life; the praise of the Lamb on the throne,

63 Ibid., 434. 64 Ibid.

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the new Jerusalem. It is envisioned as rest and peace, as a day without end, as being at home, as the community of all those who have reached fulfilment, and a vast number of other expressions. In what follows, I shall argue that the eschatological image of a ‘heavenly banquet’ sums up several of the issues concerning theological integrity as discussed in this chapter. These issues are, in turn, partially derived from the heuristic tools and the findings from Muslim and Jewish eschatologies discussed in chapter four: the messianic approach, universalistic particularity, the narrative vision of the Garden, hermeneutical privilege, and the notion of election. Thus, the image of a heavenly banquet can be seen as an example of a christologically conceived eschatology: it is about hospitality and love between human beings and God; its story of abundant meals, happiness, and friendship is a base image without any claim to be more than an image. The image I am proposing is not a pluralist vision as such but one that articulates a certain openness for the religious Other. It is also not an explicit universalistic image in which all people are ultimately ‘saved’. While not excluding the possibility of universalism and an all-embracing soteriology, it is concerned with the issue of eschatological openness in which the religious Other is invited as other. First, I shall reflect on the character of banquet generally, with some help from two Danish writers. Second, I shall reflect on the fact that the heavenly banquet is an eschatological image that can be found in other religious traditions as well. Third, I shall explore the heavenly banquet as a Christian eschatological vision and show that it can be articulated along the lines of an eschatology sensitive to religious otherness. The Feast as a Human Symbol One purpose of a feast is to establish a sense of cohesion. It includes an elaborate meal typically distinguished from other meals in terms of size, cost, and effort.65 A feast manifests relationships and provides an opportunity to meet people. It can function as a social glue that brings people together and is often an occasion for new friendships to begin. As we all know, however, this is not always the case. Some feasts are gatherings of long-time friends only. Moreover, a feast is not necessarily a positive experience. In fact, few situations can reveal and reinforce alienation and 65

This follows Hayden and Villeneuve, who define a feast as ‘any sharing of special food (in quality, preparation, or quantity) by two or more people for a special (not everyday) event. Brian Hayden and Suzanne Villeneuve ‘A Century of Feasting Studies’, Annual Review of Anthropology 40 (2011), 434.

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exclusion more than feasts do. Not having anyone to talk to or sit next to at a banquet is a degrading and possibly even shameful experience. Many feasts frame social hierarchies by the way the guests are seated and how the food is distributed. Furthermore, a feast can never be completely controlled or predicted; unlike a play, it takes place without a script and is subject to the unexpected. Given these complexities, it may appear surprising to choose the feast as the image for an interreligiously informed Christian eschatological vision. As we shall see, however, the complexities are not necessarily disadvantages that should be downplayed but may actually add important qualities to the eschatological image. Feasts exist in different connotations and interpretations in every human culture, and by studying feasts, we can learn many things about a certain context or community. The feast has a symbolic character that expresses certain ideals and values. The relationship between a feast and everyday life is interesting. In a sense, the feast represents a separate occasion that interrupts our everyday lives. It offers an opportunity to take a few steps away from the endeavours and troubles of all other days. But it is still not unrelated to everyday life. From its ‘outside’ position, it can give insight and perspective. Because it is separate, one can say that the feast reveals aspects of normal life in a more intense form. Thus, the feast not only enlightens but also interferes with and changes the course of everyday life. To illustrate how the feast relates to everyday life and to reflect further on its symbolic character, we shall now turn to the two Danish works in which the feast’s transforming potency and illuminating quality are clear: Karen Blixen’s short story ‘Babette’s Feast’ and Thomas Vinterberg’s movie The Celebration. I shall spend somewhat more time on ‘Babette’s Feast’, due to its multifaceted story. Karen Blixen’s story is situated in a 19th-century rural village in northern Norway.66 When the revered Lutheran pastor, ‘a dean and a prophet’ dies, the leadership of the small community is entrusted to his two daughters Martine and Philippa. After the dean’s death, the community becomes characterized by discord and dissension. The reader learns that a main issue is the lack of will to forgive others. One night, the doorbell rings at the two sisters’ house. A woman, Babette Hersant, stands outside, cold and weary. She has a letter from a common acquaintance which claims that Babette has fled from the civil war in Paris, is

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Isak Dinesen (Karen Blixen) Babette’s Feast and Other Stories. London: Penguin Books 2013 [1958].

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in need of a place to stay, and that she can cook. The two sisters open their home to Babette who gradually ‘acquire[s] all the appearance of a respectable and trusted servant’. The sisters, however, teach her to make traditional local food and explain that luxury is a sin and that their food must be as plain as possible. Babette becomes a cook and housekeeper for the two sisters, and she has hardly any contact with France, aside from an annual lottery subscription. Martine and Philippa are planning a feast to honour what would have been the dean’s 100th birthday, secretly hoping that a feast will reconcile the people in the community. When the preparations are to begin, Babette receives news from France that she has won 10,000 francs in the lottery. Babette begs the sisters to let her cook the dinner at the feast to commemorate the dean’s birthday. She wants to make a proper French dinner and to pay for it herself. The sisters are hesitant—they do not take pleasure in the thought of a French meal and certainly not in the thought of a meal that risks distracting attention from the beloved dean’s spiritual accomplishments. Babette, however, is persistent: ‘Ladies, have I ever in twelve years asked you a favour?’ The sisters give in, and their decision ‘in the end completely changed Babette’. The two sisters now see the beautiful woman she was, and they realise that in letting Babette give them the feast as a gift, for the first time they have become truly good people in the eyes of Babette. In the weeks that follow, strange goods and bottles are delivered to the house: ‘What is there in this bottle, Babette?’ she asked in a low voice. ‘Not wine?’ ‘Wine, Madame!’ Babette answered. ‘No, Madame. It is a Clos Vougeot 1846!’ After a moment she added: From Philippe, in Rue Montorgueil!’ Martine had never suspected that wines could have names to them, and was put to silence. The two sisters soon regret their decision and fear that the feast in honour of their late father will in fact be a disgrace. After they express these fears to people in the community, all agree to be silent on all matters of food and drink. As one of the elders declared: On the day of our master we will cleanse our tongues of all taste and purify them of all delight or disgust of the senses, keeping and preserving them for the higher things of praise and thanksgiving. On the day of the feast, an unexpected guest appears. General Löwenhielm is the nephew of an old woman from the community and well acquainted with the world outside it. When the first glass of wine is served and tasted, none of

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the guests utter a word about it, but the general is astonished. This wine is a real Antimollado--and, indeed, the best Antimollado he has ever tasted. But when the general looks around in the room no one seems to pay attention to what they are drinking. In fact, it looks as if they drink Antimollado every day. The villagers do this with every extraordinary dish and drink that are served: turtle soup, Blinis Demidoff, Cailles en Sarcophage. The other guests are determined not to talk about the food, and they are certainly not acquainted with the dishes that the increasingly amazed general recognises. Yet, the atmosphere changes as the meal progresses. Usually, the people in the village do not speak much while eating, but now they tell stories, share memories, and laugh together. Old conflicts are resolved, injustices forgiven, and relationships restored. Then, at the end of the dinner, the General spontaneously rises to speak: We have all of us been told that grace is to be found in the universe. But in our human foolishness and short-sightedness we imagine divine grace to be finite…. But the moment comes when our eyes are opened, and we realize that grace is infinite. Grace, my friends, demands nothing of us but that we shall await it with confidence and acknowledge it in gratitude … grace takes us all to its bosom and proclaims general amnesty. In joy and with light hearts, the guests each leave. In the kitchen, the two sisters find an exhausted Babette who was not able to participate in the meal and whose entire lottery win was spent on this dinner (‘A dinner for twelve at the Café Anglais would cost ten thousand francs’). The story beautifully describes the reconciling and healing power of a feast. The dualistic and world-denying worldview of the community prevented them from openly appreciating the treat, but it did have a profound impact on their communion. The miracle, however, was not without a price. The Christ-like host empties herself in order for this to happen. She, the former star chef, spends everything she owns on this dinner. Still, it would be wrong to regard her sacrifice as self-denying. Rather, Babette insists that she did it for her own sake. Sacrificial love is not opposed to self-love. The banquet where she gives everything she has for others is at the same time the occasion for her restoration and appearance as the star chef she is.67 What is also interesting in this story of eschatological overtones is that it takes a stranger, an Other, to see what the Christian community has failed to see. In fact, the people of the Christian community had already agreed on how 67

See Carl Reinhold Bråkenhielm, ‘Nåd för allt som blir och är’, in Göran Möller (ed.) Tala om försoning (Stockholm: Verbum 2015, 189–194).

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to act and how to interpret the dinner. Their intent was to honour the late dean, and they were not prepared to deal with internal frictions and certainly not to be carried away by the gifts of the banquet. General Loewenhielm experienced the meal as an outsider and was able to understand and put to words what was happening. The community and the banquet were blessed by the presence of this Other, which becomes even more apparent by the fact that Babette herself was also an outsider whose sacrifice is a precondition for the magnificent banquet. It is the presence of these Others that turns the gathering into something more than an internal jubilee dinner.68 In the form of narrative, Blixen’s story expresses some of the qualities not only of a feast but also of Christian hope for the hereafter: love and reconciliation, grace, perfection, beauty, and mutual hospitality. The grace and reconciliation that the narrative describes is something that most people have experienced, and yet it is concrete and not easily generalised. There are several incidents that are necessary for the miracle to occur. It depends on the lottery prize, on the general’s presence, and on the courage of the sisters. Babette’s feast does, indeed, have eschatological overtones, but these concrete acts and sacrifices clearly anchor it, incarnate it in the here and now. If ‘Babette’s Feast’ portrays a gathering in which a miracle of reconciliation takes place, Vinterberg’s The Celebration does almost the opposite. It reminds us of the fact that a feast is not good and hospitable as such. This movie revolves around the 60th birthday party of the successful businessman and head of the family, Helge. Friends and family have gathered at a beautiful countryside resort for this celebration. For the first time in several years, the entire family comes together in what seems to be a happy gathering for successful and prosperous people. At the dinner, Helge’s eldest son stands up to give a speech, and, in the presence of all the invited guests, he explains that his father abused him and his sister throughout their childhood. Suddenly, the high spirited and merry atmosphere vanishes, and a deeply disturbing silence takes its place. The secret that no one wanted to know becomes entirely obvious. It becomes clear that no true communion exists, and this insight will have profound impact on how the relationships evolve from here. It is not the feast as such that leads to enmity within the family, but the feast offers an opportunity to see these relationships in a perspective that will change things forever. Clearly, the feast not only portrays a social gathering but also recreates this gathering.69 68 69

See also Jesper Svartvik Förunderligt förtroende. Stockholm: Verbum 2016, 231–233. Thanks to Andreas Westergren and his (unpublished) presentation on theological anthropology in Lund 2001. Unpublished.

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Our two examples illustrate, each in their distinctly different ways, the iconic quality of feasts. Feasts manifest and make visible circumstances that are present in everyday life. Sometimes, as in ‘Babette’s Feast’ and in most Christian eschatological writings, the feast is a gathering that embodies perfection and consummation. But Vinterberg’s movie reminds us that the feast can sometimes be a rather miserable and wretched gathering. The eschatological image of the feast can reveal weaknesses in one’s own theology and clarify such defects as tribal tendencies and hidden exclusive patterns. With its iconic quality, the feast reveals who is excluded and who is not. The invitation as such enforces a distance from those who are not invited. It also creates a certain connection with and possibly responsibility towards those who are invited. Again, the feast illustrates patterns that already exist, but it can also create new patterns. In ‘Babette’s Feast’, the two sisters’ original intention was to celebrate the home context and their father’s achievements. In this respect, it was to be an internal affair. Admittedly, feasts are often celebrations of one’s own context or community and only include friends and relatives. It can also be a celebration of tribal victories after defeating all one’s enemies. This is true of Albert Uderzo’s comic book series Asterix and Obelix. They are always having great feasts, celebrating victories over the Romans. Ultimately, these banquets honour and celebrate the achievements of one’s own group. So, when the heavenly banquet is presented as an eschatological metaphor, we should ask what kind of banquet we are talking about. The biblical material also contains stories about feasts that can be seen as tribal celebrations, not unlike the ones in Asterix and Obelix. This illustrates what is both a strength and a weakness with the feast or banquet as an eschatological metaphor for the Christian tradition: it is a well-known motif which means, on the one hand, that one can easily relate to it and, on the other, that it has many connotations and thus no clearly defined content. In the next section, I shall explore the fact that many religious traditions contain the image of an eschatological feast. What does that mean for Christian eschatology? The Feast as a Religious Symbol The image of an eschatological feast can be found in many religious traditions. In Jewish tradition, it is a well-known theme in the Hebrew Bible and in extra-biblical sources. Some of these do not mention the Messiah (see for instance Isaiah 25:6–8). In others, such as the Midrash on the book of Numbers, Numbers Rabbah, ‘the Son of Man’ will host the banquet:

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In the hereafter the Holy One, blessed be He, will prepare a feast for the righteous in the Garden of Eden, and there will be no need either of balsam or of choice spices, for the north wind and the south wind will sweep through and sprinkle about all the perfumes of the Garden of Eden, and they will exhale their fragrance … The Holy One, blessed be he, will therefore in the hereafter give them to drink of the wine that is preserved in its grapes since the six days of Creation.70 Clearly, the Midrash is describing an eschatological banquet—it will take place ‘in the hereafter’, in a restored Garden of Eden. There will be a great feast with exclusive wine. As I argued in chapter three, the scope of ‘the righteous’ is not entirely clear and Jewish tradition contains more or less inclusive interpretations. The feast will be an overabundance of various scents and fragrances brought by the wind from both north and south. Qur’anic texts provide a detailed and vivid description of the banquet; the gardens where it will take place, where rivers of water, milk, wine, and honey flow underneath, and where there is neither heat nor cold, but comfortable shade from trees. Earlier in this study, I discussed Muslim theologians who describe the pleasures of the eschatological gathering. God is not mentioned in these narratives of food, drink and joy of the gardens, but God is clearly the giver of these gifts. As Qur’an 9:72 states, Allah has promised the believing men and believing women gardens beneath which rivers flow, wherein they abide eternally, and pleasant dwellings in gardens of perpetual residence; but approval from Allah is greater. It is that which is the great attainment. In fact, we also find images in Eastern traditions of an important feast in the hereafter. The Hindu Bhagavata Purana contains stories of meals and banquets with Krishna and his faithful in the spiritual realm Goloka. These feasts are repeated daily to celebrate love and closeness to God.71 There are also Hindu festivals, such as Janmastami, where the food is of eschatological significance. Certain rituals and sacrifices spiritualize the food, 70 71

Numbers Rabbah 13:2, in Harry Freedman and Maurice Simon Midrash Rabbah, 10 vols. Transl. Judah J. Slotki (London: Soncino Press, 1939), 501. Ravi M. Gupta and Kenneth R. Valpey (eds.), The Bhagavata Purana: Selected Readings (New York: Columbia University Press, 2016), 166–70. See also Paul Michael Toomey, Food from the Mouth of Krishna: Feasts and Festivals in a North Indian Pilgrimage Centre (Delhi: Hindustan Publications, 1994).

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and eating this ritually changed food cleanses the soul and prepares the participants for union with the divine. In theistic versions of Vishnuism, the faithful serve God through cooking, and this food is then served at recurring banquets of love and community.72 In Buddhism, there are ritual food sacrifices to please Buddha. The sacrificed food is also believed to establish a relationship with Buddha who blesses the food. These banquets are often seen as cleansing and gradually preparing one for nirvana.73 This is not an attempt, however, to develop an interreligious eschatology in which the visions from the different religious traditions blend into one. Rather, I am discussing central characteristics of an interreligiously informed Christian eschatology. The fact that I am interested in a distinctly Christian eschatology raises questions about the similarities between the eschatological images mentioned above. Do these similarities have any theological significance? Is the fact that Christian, Muslim, Jewish, and some Eastern eschatologies all share similar expectations of a hereafter as a joyous gathering of food and friendship more than a theological curiosity? As I have argued throughout this book, similarities of this kind are significant but not necessary. The future is a common ground between people of different faiths, not in the sense that all share the same expectations but in the sense that we are facing the unknown, actual future together. The future is what religious traditions have in common. When I discussed the hermeneutics of eschatological statements from a Christian point of view, I argued that they should be seen less as predictions of a supposed hereafter than as experiences of God’s grace here and now, projected into the future.74 Imbedded in the different images of a heavenly banquet are experiences of generosity, hospitality, joy, friendship, pleasure, and beauty. It can be argued that what the similarities of eschatological images between different faith traditions express is a shared experience of what God’s grace in the here and now may look like. This can serve as a fruitful meeting point for people of different faiths. 72

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Andrea Marion Pinkney, ‘Prasāda’, in Knut A. Jacobsen (ed.), Brill’s Encyclopedia of Hinduism. Available online: http://dx.doi.org/10.1163/2212–5019_beh_COM_000342 First published online: 2012. [2017-03-06]. See also: Paul H. Sherbow, ‘Vaishnava Pilgrimage: Select Puranic Texts’, in Krishna: A Sourcebook, ed. Edwin F. Bryant (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007), 537 ff. H. L. Seneviratne, ‘Food Essence and the Essence of Experience’, in The Eternal Food: Gastronimic Ideas and Experiences of Hindus and Buddhists (New York: State University of New York Press, 1992), 179–200. This is Karl Rahner’s view. See the section ‘A Tradition-Specific Determination of the Eschaton?’ above.

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Additionally, the similarities between the eschatological narratives of different religious traditions are significant for at least two more reasons. First, they serve as a reminder that I am a religious Other in another tradition’s narrative of an eschatological meal. Hence, we are ‘other’ to each other and God is the ultimate Other. Second, the similarities encourage a stronger focus not only on differences in creedal statements but on hope as such. Such ‘inter-hope dialogue’ may prove fruitful and lead to new perspectives. In short, the similarities are significant and may be used as a resource in interreligious encounters, but they are not necessary when developing an interreligiously informed Christian eschatological vision of a heavenly banquet. The Heavenly Banquet as a Christian Symbol Introduction The image of the heavenly banquet consists of richly laden tables with plenty of food and drink, of joyous gatherings in friendship and love. Few eschatological images revolve around hospitality as much as this image does. It reflects manifest generosity and fellowship between God and human beings. God may be present in different ways but, most importantly, it is God who provides all the good gifts of the feast. As I have shown in the second chapter, some ‘liturgical’ images that depict the eschaton as a kind of gathering around the Son are expressions of a theological interplay between eschatology and christology that conditions eschatology christologically.75 As a result, the eschatological vision describes an eschaton which is Christian. Regardless of who is invited, the vision tends to celebrate the triumph of Christian identity. Without a doubt, the metaphor of a heavenly banquet does not guard against tribal interpretations as such. The metaphor is illustrative, however, and can make us sensitive to ‘Asterix tendencies’ (tribal triumphalism) in Christian eschatology. As I develop my view of the metaphor of heavenly banquet, I shall also identify some of its advantages as a Christian, interreligiously sensitive symbol. An Image Rooted in Christian Tradition The heavenly banquet has a solid place as an eschatological image in the Christian tradition. It appears many times in the biblical texts and, as is already clear, is an image Christianity inherited from the Jewish tradition. Isaiah, in the Hebrew Bible, uses this image:

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In slightly different ways, Ratzinger, Moltmann, and Pannenberg all pursue these descriptive and prescriptive lines.

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the Lord of hosts will make for all peoples a feast of rich food, a feast of well-aged wines, of rich food filled with marrow, of well-aged wines strained clear. And he will destroy on this mountain the shroud that is cast over all peoples, the sheet that is spread over all nations; he will swallow up death forever. Then the Lord God will wipe away the tears from all faces, and the disgrace of his people he will take away from all the earth, for the Lord has spoken. (Isa. 25:6-8). As we can see, the eschatological dimension of the banquet is quite explicit here. All tears will be wiped away, and death will be ultimately conquered. Notably, people from all nations will attend this banquet. In the New Testament, the word for banquet (deipnon) also refers to ordinary meals and dinners. Hence, the word is used in different contexts. Nonetheless, ‘[i]t also takes on theological significance as an eschatological image.’76 In Matthew 22 and Luke 14, the kingdom is described as a heavenly banquet. What is the nature of this banquet and whom does it concern? John Meier explains what he sees as Jesus’ expectations according to the gospels. With the affirmation that the Gentiles will join the long-dead patriarchs of Israel at the banquet, Jesus indicates that this fully realized Kingdom of God is not only future but also in some way discontinuous with this present world…. In particular, the depiction of the three great patriarchs as alive and participating in a heavenly banquet implies both the transcendence of death and the regathering of the people of Israel not only from all places but also from all times.77 The theme of a feast occurs again in the Book of Revelation, where this time it is a wedding where Christ is the groom: ‘Blessed are those who are invited to the marriage supper of the Lamb’ (Rev. 19:9). Being a biblical motif, it is hardly surprising that it reappears throughout the history of Christian thought and that it is represented across the boundaries of different Christian denominations. It should also be pointed out that the motif appears in different contexts. Sometimes, as in the Isaiah text quoted above, the vision of the eschatological banquet also emphasises that not everyone is invited to the banquet. Thus, 76

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Johannes Behm, ‘Deipnon’, in The Theological Dictionary of the New Testament, ed. Gerhard Kittel, Geoffrey W. Bromiley, and Gerhard Friedrich (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1964), 34. John Meier, A Marginal Jew: Rethinking the Historical Jesus, vol II (New York: Doubleday, 1994), 317.

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in the same chapter, the enemies of Israel are condemned and their houses destroyed. In New Testament images of the eschatological banquet, we sometimes find a strong element of judgement. Clearly, the heavenly banquet is a theme which is represented in the biblical and the Christian tradition in a plurality of ways. In the Christian tradition, how can eschatological statements be understood? How are the apophatic and kataphatic traditions related? Earlier in this chapter I argued that theological statements should not be entirely separated from their liturgical context of worship.78 These statements are thus neither entirely apophatic nor kataphatic; they are doxological. Given this, it is interesting to see the relationship between the image of the heavenly banquet and a liturgical context in the here and now. In the Christian tradition, the hope of the heavenly banquet comes to expression in the Eucharist. Celebrating the Eucharist is a proleptic act of shared bread and wine where the eschatological hope is present. This belief is also illustrated in many of the liturgical prayers of the Eucharist. By way of example, the Catholic Church’s Roman Missal—which also contains ecumenical prayers from ancient Christianity onwards—emphasises ‘the connection between the Eucharistic banquet and the eschatological banquet in the Kingdom of the Father.’79 In one of the prayers after the Communion, it says: Grant, almighty God, that, just as we are renewed by the Supper of your Son in this present age, so we may enjoy his banquet for all eternity. Who lives and reigns for ever and ever.80 Another prayer after Communion states that ‘we may pass from this pilgrim table to the banquet of our heavenly homeland.’81 The theme is repeated in many variants and the word ‘banquet’ appears more than 50 times in The Roman Missal. In many cases, the relationship between the Eucharistic banquet and the eschatological banquet is pronounced. Clearly, the image of the heavenly banquet can hardly be dismissed as abstract speculation: it has a central place in Christian worship. The close connection between the eschatological image of hospitality and Eucharistic praxis raises the question of an open Eucharistic table where people of other faiths are invited as a sign of hospitality. This is in itself an interesting issue that has been discussed, recently as well. While there are good 78 79 80 81

See section ‘The Apophatic Nature of the Eschaton’ above. The Roman Missal, 3rd ed. (Chicago: Liturgy Training Publications, 2011), 97. Ibid., 312. Ibid., 982.

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arguments for Eucharistic hospitality, there are important differences between that kind of hospitality and the eschatological openness that I have been discussing through the notion of heavenly banquet. While the Eucharist is and remains a distinctly Christian ritual, the hereafter is not. I agree with Marianne Moyaert who is concerned about the balance between the particularity of Christian liturgy and the integrity of the religious Other: Apart from being a problematic form of inclusion that threatens the integrity of the religious other, we are also confronted with a problem of hypocrisy (which is not conducive for interreligious relations). When a religious other participates in the Eucharist, a discrepancy occurs between her outer behaviour and her inner state of mind.82 The balance between Christian particularity and the integrity of the religious Other emerges differently in eschatological descriptions, however, primarily because the eschaton is not Christian, according to (my reading of) the Christian tradition. Consequently, the particularity of Christian eschatologies are not threatened by eschatological openness. On the contrary, eschatological openness in the Christian tradition can be motivated for theological reasons. A Base Image One important feature of the image of a banquet is its concrete and anthropomorphic nature. As I have argued based on Islamic eschatologies, such anthropomorphic images have a hermeneutical advantage over against abstract images.83 The heavenly banquet can hardly be mistaken as an actual description of a supposed hereafter. Rather, it is perceived as a base image, and thus it might be able to communicate the dissimilar similarity between the image and the eschaton. In the second chapter, we saw that there is a tension in some Christian eschatologies that claim that the eschaton is unknown and other but do not reflect this belief in the eschatology itself. The provisional nature of eschatological descriptions are proclaimed prior to, rather than inherent in, the eschatological statements. The claim that the heavenly banquet is a base image implies that it cannot be easily mistaken for an exact description of the hereafter. In this sense, the provisional nature of the eschatological descriptions may be articulated in an inherent way in this eschatology. 82 83

Marianne Moyaert, ‘Religious Pluralism and Eucharistic Hospitality’, Liturgy 31:3 2016, 46–56. See section ‘The Apophatic Nature of the Eschaton’ above.

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In other words, such images may serve as a safeguard against idolisations of the belief in a hereafter. This relates directly to my discussion on whether the eschaton is determined in a tradition-specific way. The question of how to talk about God comes to mind as an interesting parallel. While differences in how God is described in different traditions are obvious and related to tradition-specific features, none of the major religious traditions would claim that God is Jewish, Christian, or Muslim. On the contrary, God is above these categories, even though God is described by the particular traditions. Thus, while a theology can be referred to as Christian or Muslim, God cannot. Analogously, eschatologies belong to a certain religious tradition, but the eschaton does not. The eschaton is described differently among the religions— it is conceived in a tradition-specific way—but it should not, either implicitly or explicitly, be claimed to be Christian or Jewish. In other words, it should not be determined in a tradition-specific way. Here, the dissimilar similarity that the heavenly banquet expresses may serve as a buffer against such claims. A Christologically Conceived Image The image of the heavenly banquet is certainly a Christian image (though similar images are found in other traditions), rooted in the Bible and early Christian tradition. But the image does not Christianise the eschaton. This is important in the sense that the heavenly banquet may then provide an opportunity for Christians to proclaim a distinctly Christian hope that is hope not only for the religious Other but also with the religious Other. In other words, the eschatological hope does not consist of an eschatological conversion of the religious Other to my own tradition. This is how I understand Rahner’s remark that God is absolute mystery, and therefore the eschatological fulfilment must also remain absolute mystery.84 For example, the heavenly banquet can be christologically conceived without being christologically conditioned. This means that it is in Jesus that Christians have experienced the hospitality, generosity, love, and friendship that the heavenly banquet symbolises. At the same time, the role of Christ in the eschatological future is not settled. In a christologically conceived banquet, Christ could be the host who washes the feet of everyone at the table, as in the story of the last supper where he breaks bread and shares it with the disciples (Mark 14:22-25). He might be an invited guest at the dinner, as when he visits Zacchaeus’ home (Luke 19:1-10), or he could be the unknown stranger who sits at the table, as in the story of the 84 Rahner, Foundations of Christian Faith, 441.

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disciples on the way to Emmaus (Luke 24:13-32). He could be the groom at the wedding feast, as in the final chapters of the book of Revelation (Rev 19:7). He could invite controversial guests, as in the Parable of the Great Banquet (Luke 14:15-24). He could be the lonely person yearning for company (Matt 25:43). He might not even be present at the feast, as in the text from Isaiah (Isa 25:6-8), or he could attend the feast in the most unexpected company, as in the gospels where he dines with sinners and tax collectors (Mark 2:13-17). What is important is that the eschatological role of Christ is not entirely determined. In fact, this ambiguity regarding Christ’s role is not a theological retreat in the name of interreligious consent but a position grounded in Christian theology: Christian tradition does not present a clear and unambiguous view here. Rather, as we have seen, there is a range of views and motives that emerge between the extremes of a christologically empty eschatology and a christologically conditioned eschatology. From a Christian point of view, it makes sense to celebrate the heavenly banquet with Jesus Christ. Nonetheless, this way of conceiving the banquet christologically does not automatically reject the non-christological vision in Isaiah 25. In contrast to images in the second chapter where all kneel before Christ as the Lord of history, the image of heavenly banquet maintains a theologically grounded and interreligiously sensitive ambiguity concerning the eschatological role of Christ. This could be the starting point of an inter-hope dialogue where people of different faiths come together in their hope for ultimate communion in eternal life, a dialogue that emphasises the otherness of this eschatological fulfilment.85 The ambiguity in the christologically conceived vision of a heavenly banquet leaves room for a celebration beyond tribal victories and the triumphs of identity. It also leaves room for a celebration with the religious Other. An Image of Hospitality The image of a feast with an abundance of food and drink accentuates the notion of hospitality and of inviting the Other to an event of sharing and fellowship. It is an act of hospitality that results in the communion and love between the guests and between the guests and their host. Hospitality differs from (economic or other) transactions by not asking anything in return for one’s largesse. It does not tolerate preconditions or hidden agendas. In this sense, it is an ethical category that is not conditioned. It is about welcoming the Other in his or her otherness.86 85 86

Kelly 2006, 16. Moyaert, ‘The (Un-)translatability of Religions?’, 359.

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If we relate hospitality to the heavenly banquet, there are two levels on which it may occur. First and foremost, in the Christian tradition, the heavenly banquet testifies to the hospitality of God. Human beings are the guests who are invited to the table and are offered the abundance and plenitude of God’s gifts. It reflects the image of a God who is as generous in salvation as in creation: the gifts of grace and well-being are given to people regardless of nationality, sex, or religion. At this banquet, human beings are the invited Others who are offered communion with God. A second level of hospitality can also be discerned. On this level, it is the Christian tradition that shows hospitality towards the religious Other within the theological discourse. I have discussed the hermeneutical privilege in relation to the Muslim tradition in which the Jewish and Christian Other are present in theological reflection in a more articulated way than in corresponding situations in Jewish and Christian theologies. The eschatological image of a heavenly banquet is naturally associated with notions of invitation and hospitality. Thus, it is able to articulate the invitation to the religious Other as other in a tangible way and hence make her or him present in eschatological reflection. In this sense, the heavenly banquet may be an image of hospitality by leaving room for the theological integrity of the religious Other. Hospitality is about being attentive to the desires and needs of the Other. A characteristic feature of this hospitality is challenging the hierarchies that are often associated with feasts. Rather than recreating established social orders, the image of the heavenly banquet offers a different vision: the pattern of an open and non-hierarchical feast is repeated again and again in the biblical texts.87 This is manifested in several ways, such as who is invited and seating arrangements. In general, the eschatological image of a banquet embodies the words ‘Indeed, some are last who will be first, and some are first who will be last’ (Luke 13:30). Thus, hierarchies are overturned or reversed. Still, an apophatic perspective is important, which can be illustrated by the arguing disciples who are told that the eschatological seating is not known (Matt 20:23). The hospitality of a banquet neither denies nor romanticises differences but enables a credible approach. Few occasions highlight (religious) differences as much as a feast. It brings to the fore religious laws and regulations,

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For a comprehensive overview, see Peter-Ben Smit, Fellowship and Food in the Kingdom: Eschatological Meals and Scenes of Utopian Abundance in the New Testament (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2008), 82 ff.

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prescriptions, prohibitions, and rituals.88 If a host is concerned with hospitality, these different preferences must be taken into account. At the same time, hospitality can never allow some of the guests to completely determine the gathering at the expense of others. This means that while hospitality cares for the guests in their otherness there are still limits and restrictions. To illustrate, one could envision a heavenly banquet with Jews being served kosher food, Muslim women wearing headscarves, etc. Again, this is an anthropomorphic base image that expresses ‘the dissimilar similarity’ but does so in a mode of hospitality towards the otherness of the religious Other. Here, it follows the example of Jesus whom the gospels depict as one who goes to dinner with ‘the Other’. Furthermore, the sharing of a table is in itself a proleptic symbol of a universal eschatological kingdom and recognition of the Christian view that the Holy Spirit is present in people of other faiths.89 The emphasis on hospitality in the notion of a ‘heavenly banquet’ brings to the fore many issues that I have raised in this book. Regarding hospitality and openness, the image of a banquet where people of different nations and religious traditions can eat together resembles Muslim eschatologies where Christians, Jews, and people of other faiths are explicitly mentioned and where, on the day of judgement, the adherents of each are gathered around their prophet or leader. This is not a pluralist vision per se, but it does articulate the presence of the religious Other. It is not only a soteriological openness but also an eschatological openness in which the religious Other is invited as other. In This World Anything is Possible Thus, the heavenly banquet is among the eschatological images that most strongly emphasises love and friendship between human beings and God. It is also an image that comes close to the notion of an afterworld (rather than afterlife), which I discussed in the Muslim tradition. In this sense, the image of

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For a rich study on food and religious otherness, see David M Freidenreich, Foreigners and Their Food: Constructing Otherness in Jewish, Christian and Islamic Law (Berkeley: University of California Press 2015). See Moyaert, ‘Religious Pluralism and Eucharistic Hospitality’, who considers arguments for and against inviting the religious Other to the Christian Eucharist. She identifies three main arguments for interreligious hospitality: it is a proleptic act of radical hospitality, it follows the example of Jesus who came to dinner with the poor, the weak and the stranger, and appreciates the Spirit’s work in other traditions. Note that my argument here does not deal with the issue of Eucharistic hospitality—a praxis that Moyaert is critical of. As her own conclusion reads: ’I am not sure that limiting participation is necessarily an act of inhospitality; it may also be an expression of respect.’

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a heavenly banquet can express theological integrity and hospitality towards the religious Other while, contrary to the separation and isolation of different religious ends (as seen in Heim’s proposal), it is still able to proclaim community, friendship, and love. Another characteristic which aligns with what I have discussed in this book is that a banquet is an event that cannot be entirely controlled or predicted. One can plan the feast and long for it, but what it will end up being cannot be completely foreseen: there always remains an element of surprise. As Blixen reminds us in ‘Babette’s Feast’, there is an intimate connection between the gift of a meal and hope. In the biblical stories, the image of banquet is also tied to real food and real justice. As an eschatological symbol, the banquet cannot be entirely separated from the utopian vision of the Kingdom of God.90 This way, any notion of a banquet in the hereafter challenges our here and now and criticises a Christian theology occupied with internal matters to the extent that the poor and the needy are ignored. Or, as in the utopian vision articulated by General Loewenhielm in his final words before leaving the feast: ‘Tonight I have learned, dear sister, that in this world anything is possible.’ In short, the notion of a heavenly banquet is helpful in several respects. I am not suggesting that it is the eschatological image, but it does illustrate and sum up many of the observations made in this chapter. In terms of theological integrity, it is capable of providing space for the religious Other as other while still proclaiming a distinctly Christian eschatology. 4.5 Conclusion Among the many dedications in books that I have read as preparation for this present book, Tariq Ramadan’s is one of those that has stayed with me. His The Quest for Meaning is dedicated ‘To the semi-colon’. He writes: Despite the diversity of languages, there is some form of punctuation that is universal and common to them all. In a world of simplified communications and simplistic binary judgements, the semi-colon reconciles us with the plurality of propositions, and with the welcome nuances of the sentence and of complex realities.91 90 91

See, for instance, Smit, Fellowship and Food, 394. Tariq Ramadan, The Quest for Meaning: Developing a Philosophy of Pluralism (London: Penguin Books, 2010), v.

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The semi-colon also illustrates the intention of my study in at least two ways. First, I set out to clarify the dynamics behind the soteriological question so prevalent in theology of religions. Viewed this way, the eschatological analyses are additional remarks about and nuances of the question of whether the religious Other ‘can be saved’. Second, this study represents, at best, a small contribution to a rich and continuing discussion. Consequently, it does not end in a full stop but with a semi-colon, inviting further reflection on the theological integrity of the religious Other. Now, at the close of this study, I shall briefly reflect on where we started, how far we have come, and in what directions certain future challenges may lie. We analysed the eschatologies of our four ‘cornerstones’—Ratzinger, Moltmann, Pannenberg, and Hick—from the viewpoint of theology of religions. Even though their respective eschatologies have been well researched, few studies have actually engaged with their eschatologies from the point of view of theology of religions. The field of theology of religions is a vibrant and highly productive one, yet studies in theology of religions that focus explicitly on eschatology are rare. In chapter one, I explained that the conversation established in this study is based on what may be called a revised method of correlation, where mutual learning across religious boundaries is pursued. Paul Tillich once argued that his method of correlation was descriptive in the sense that it was a description of how he thought that theology was and always had been performed. Similarly, I consider my revised method of correlation to be first and foremost a description of something that is already taking place in numerous formal and informal encounters between Christians and people of other faiths. Of course, this does not suggest that it takes place in every encounter or that the idea of mutual learning is always pronounced. Nonetheless, academic theology is not necessarily avant-garde when it comes to mutual, interreligious exchanges. Rather, in this sense, Tillich was right when he stated that the correlation was already taking place (though he was actually not talking about interreligious correlations). As we have seen in the second chapter, the mechanisms of inclusion and exclusion are more subtle than a discussion on whether the religious Other will be saved may indicate. By means of presenting a more adequate picture, I have suggested a distinction between soteriological and eschatological openness. Notably, I have shown that even Christian eschatologies that are soteriologically open and more or less proclaim ‘salvation’ for all of humankind, as Pannenberg’s and Moltmann’s do, may be ‘eschatologically closed’ in other respects. We found a general tendency among the Christian theologians to ‘christianise’

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the religious Other eschatologically. Thus, there is little or no place for the religious Other as other in their Christian eschatological hope. Admittedly, one can trace an eschatological tendency towards not only unity but uniformity in all three traditions. But the analyses of Jewish and Muslim eschatologies in the third chapter lead in another direction as well. They revealed that, in some respects, the eschatologies of Jewish and Muslim thinkers—even those generally considered particularistic or exclusivist—were able to provide room for the religious Other to a greater extent than the soteriologically open eschatologies of Moltmann, Pannenberg, and Hick. Towards the end of this fourth chapter, I suggested the heavenly banquet as an eschatological image that is able to do justice to many of the aspects of theological integrity discussed throughout my study. I have argued that it is possible to conceive of the heavenly banquet as an eschatological image rooted in the Christian tradition and that may be christologically conceived and liturgically relevant. Moreover, it expresses the religious Other’s theological integrity in several ways. The observations about theological space and theological interplay are both applicable to the image of the heavenly banquet. Not only is linguistic hospitality compatible with this image, but the heavenly banquet is also able to express the apophatic nature of eschatological proclamations and to resist a tradition-specific determination of the eschaton. In short, this clearly indicates that Christian eschatology can be articulated with theological integrity of the religious Other. In the introduction, I pointed out that this study is to be seen as a contribution to the theology of religions and to eschatology. Let me now briefly comment on this claim. As I have argued, the theology of religions has maintained a strong focus on the soteriological question: whether and how people of other faiths are saved. As this study has shown, there are additional levels of inclusion and exclusion, and, consequently, our analysis of the nature and content of eschatological hope provides a necessary complement to the soteriological question and its threefold paradigm of exclusivism, inclusivism, and pluralism. The present study also makes a contribution to the comparative analysis of contemporary eschatologies by bringing a range of theologians into conversation with each other. Again, it must be admitted that this comparison is not, as such, entirely even. Rather, the third chapter’s analyses seek to identify aspects in the Jewish and Muslim eschatologies that respond to our heuristic tools. It can be noted that there are, in fact, few examples of theological arguments for respecting (religious) otherness in the theology of religions. In this study, however, I briefly sketched one possible way of arguing for such respect by

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linking the notion of imago Dei in Christian tradition to the notion of recognition in the philosophies of Charles Taylor and Axel Honneth. The interplay between eschatology and christology is central to Christian theology, and I have identified this interplay as having important consequences for religious otherness. Hence, the present study offers an analysis of some of the characteristics of this interplay; but this is still an area that deserves further attention. For instance, one could raise the additional question: What is the relationship between eschatology and trinitarian theology? And finally, the scope of our present study is restricted to the Abrahamic traditions of Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. To be sure, however, the theology of religions also includes the other religious traditions. Hence, our eschatological investigation could very well be expanded to include Eastern religious traditions like Buddhism and Hinduism. Returning to Ramadan’s dedication above, I hope that this study will resemble the semi-colon by contributing to continuing reflection on the integrity of the religious Other, not only in documents concerning interreligious dialogue—and not only in eschatology—but also in the larger sphere of theological language. This study opened with the statement that several contemporary theologians hold eschatology to be a promising point of departure for reflecting on interreligious relations. I have followed their advice and explored the interreligious challenge of eschatology. I share the view of Catherine Cornille, Anthony Kelly, and David B. Burrell that eschatology has great potential for theology of religions. As I hope this study demonstrates, however, there is no straightforward prescription for how this potential can be realised. As a matter of fact, many contemporary Christian eschatologies have proved to be less open to religious otherness than the churches’ official documents on mission and dialogue. Thus, even though a shared and not yet realised future may seem to be a theological resource for interreligious relations, this is not necessarily the case. Nonetheless, one purpose of this study has been to show that, given a careful reassessment of Christian eschatology in light of other religious traditions, its potential for interreligious relations remains.

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Index of Names Al-‘Arabi, Ibn 149, 177, 179, 247 Algar, Hamid 153 Al-Ghazali 149 Al-Talbi, Muhammad 151 Augustine 57, 69, 99, 126 Ayoub, Mahmoud 156

Davies, Douglas J. 243 Descartes, René 45f DiNoia, Joseph A. 16, 18 123, 126 Dionysius (Pseudo-Dionysius) 253–256 Drew, Rose 22, 52n Dupuis, Jacques 1, 8f, 22, 31, 128

Barth, Karl 6, 57, 92 Bauckham, Richard 91 Bauman, Zygmunt 242f, 248 Benedict XVI see Joseph Ratzinger  Bergman, Hugo 197 Berkley, George 46 Bernhardt, Reinhold 23, 36 Birnbaum, Daniel 45 Blixen, Karen 267, 270, 282 Bloch, Ernst 86n, 88, 243 Boeve, Lieven 29, 32, 70f Bonhoeffer, Dietrich 57 Borowitz, Eugene B. 187, 190, 196 Boyarin, Daniel 51f Boyd, Robin 41 Braidotti, Rosi 53f Bråkenhielm, Carl Reinhold 269n Brill, Alan 5n, 193 Brunner, Ernst 6 Bullivant, Stephen 51, 123 Burrell, David B. 11, 285

Eaton, Charles Le Gai 153, 159n Eckardt, A. Ray 96 Einstein, Albert 120 Esack, Farid 150f

Carey, Greg 42 Chittick, William C. 147f, 152, 172–182, 247 Clarke, James Freeman 24 Clooney, Francis X. 33, 34 Coakley, Sarah 37f Cobb, John B. 11–13, 31n Cohen, Arthur A. 220f Cohen, Hermann 187f, 193, 211, 214 Cohn-Sherbok, Dan 193 Collins, John J. 42 Cornille, Catherine 1f, 52n, 285 Cragg, Kenneth 135 D’Arcy May, John 80 D’Costa, Gavin 9, 13f, 19f, 38, 69, 122–129, 139f Dante Alighieri 131

Fletcher, Jeannine Hill 15f Fredericks, James 20–23, 31, 33 Freidenreich, David M. 181, 281n  Freud, Sigmund 113, 243 Frymer-Kensky, Tikva 58, 61 Gillman, Neil 186, 188, 191, 195, 220–229 Goddard, Hugh 148 Goldenberg, Robert 192 Goshen-Gottstein, Alon 219 Gregersen, Niels Henrik 101f Grenz, Stanley J. 100, 104n, 106n, 107 Griffin, David Ray 11f, 31 Griffiths, Paul 17, 129 Gutiérrez, Gustavo 88 Haddad, Yvonne Y. 165f Hartman, David 185, 201f Harvie, Timothy 93 Hedges, Paul 15n, 16, 18, 25, 35f Hegel, G.W. Friedrich 43f, 46 Heidegger, Martin 46 Heim, S. Mark 113, 129–140, 182, 247, 253, 282 Heschel, Abraham 185, 232 Hick, John 4n, 11, 16, 37f, 109f, 112–122, 129, 139f, 150, 229, 246f, 253 Hintersteiner, Norbert 24 Honneth, Axel 39, 55, 59f, 233, 285 Houlgate, Stephen 44 Hunt, Lynn 55 Husserl, Edmund 44–46 Irigaray, Luce 49, 233, 242, 244f

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index of names

Jackelén, Antje 102 Jacobs, Louis 209f, 223, 228 Jeanrond, Werner G. 28, 199n, 243–245, 248f

Musavi Lari, Mujtaba 146, 153–166, 172, 174–177, 180, 182–185, 235, 238, 247, 251, 254, 256f Myers, Benjamin 101f

Kalish, Muhammad 152 Kaplan, Mordecai 197 Kärkkäinen, Veli-Matti 128, 133 Kearney, Richard 48 Keller, Catherine 37, 86, 91 Kelly, Anthony 1, 40, 218n, 285 Kersten, Carool 147 Khalil, Mohammad Hassan 5n, 149, 151n Knitter, Paul F. 5–11, 16, 18, 20, 114, 131, 133, 150 Kogan, Michael 205 Kojève, Alexandre 44 Kraemer, David 186 Kraemer, Hendrik 6

Nasr, Seyyed Hossein 146, 172f, 176n Neusner, Jacob 67, 201 Nicholson, Hugh 22, 24f, 33 Novak, David 192f, 196, 198–202, 207–209

Levenson, Jon D. 220f Levinas, Emmanuel 42, 44, 46–48, 55, 218, 233, 242–244 Lindbeck, George 17f, 129, 239 Lopatin, Asher 188f

Race, Alan 4–8, 10 Rackman, Emmanuel 189 Rahman, Fazlur 144f, 165–172, 180–185, 236, 247, 251 Rahner, Karl 8, 22f, 111n, 152, 245, 254, 257, 264f, 278 Ratzinger, Joseph 35, 37f, 69–85, 111f, 121, 125, 139f, 168, 181, 235f, 238, 241, 250, 253, 264, 283 Ravitzky, Aviezer 195, 218 Remenyi, Matthias 92 Renard, John 142, 160 Ricœur, Paul 61, 233, 237–240 Rida, Rashid 149 Rivera, Mayra 49f Rizvi, Sajjad H. 177 Rose, Or N. 197 Rosenzweig, Franz 96, 187f, 211 Ruether, Rosemary Radford 37f, 63n, 115 Rustomji, Nerina 143, 162f, 169

Magnus, Albertus 124, 126 Maimonides, Moses 195, 214 Mannion, Gerard 70f Marcel, Gabriel 221 Marion, Jean-Luc 253f, 256f Markham, Ian 13 Marx, Karl 113 Masuzawa, Tomoko 51f Matheson, George 24 McGrath, Alistar 17 Meier, Fritz 142 Meier, John 275 Milbank, John 29 Moffic, Rabbi Evan 189f Moltmann, Jürgen 35, 37f, 41, 85–98, 106, 111f, 121f, 139f, 158, 181, 225–227, 234–236, 240, 250, 254, 256, 283 Moyaert, Marianne 6, 8, 16f, 25, 67n, 237–240, 277, 281n Murad, Abdal Hakim 147 Murata, Sachiko 172f

O’Callaghan, Paul 104 Panikkar, Raimundo 19f, 132 Pannenberg, Wolfhart 37f, 98–113, 115, 121f, 139f, 148, 181f, 225–227, 240, 246, 250, 256f, 261, 264, 283f Pitstick, Alyssa Lyra 126f Powell, Sam 103f Qutb, Sayyid 145f, 149f

Sachedina, Abdulaziz 148 Sacks, Jonathan 63f, 218n Saeed, Abdullah 168 Sakr, Ahmad H. 175, 258f Schmidt-Leukel, Perry 5n, 11–15, 18, 20, 22 Scholem, Gerschom 208f

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index of names Schults, F. LeRon 100 Schwarzschild, Steven 186, 188, 190, 195, 207–221, 226f, 230, 252, 259 Schweid, Eliezer 196f Shah-Kazemi, Reza 149 Shepard, William 144–147 Sicker, Martin 220 Siddiqui, Ataullah 152 Siddiqui, Mona 148n, 158n Sigurdson, Ola 59, 61f Silver, Abba Hillel 220 Smith, James K. A. 101f Smith, Jane I. 165f Smith, Wilfred Cantwell 11 Solomon, Norman 188 Spivak, Gayatri 49 Sullivan, Francis 66 Surty, Muhammad 153 Svartvik, Jesper 4, 34n, 36n Taubes, Jacob 249f Taylor, Charles 39, 55, 59f, 285 Taymiyya, Ibn 149 Tilley, Terrence 8, 11, 18 Tillich, Paul 26f, 283 Tracy, David 27, 28n, 30–33 Treanor, Brian 47

Tura, Roberto 71 Van Buren, Paul M. 262–264 Van Prooijen, Ton 92f Vinterberg, Thomas 267, 270f Vögele, Wolfgang 58 Von Balthasar, Hans Urs 87, 123 Von Stosch, Klaus 31, 33 Wallenstein, Sven-Olav 45 Walsh, Brian 101f Walzer, Michael 56 Welz, Claudia 56–58 Werbick, Jürgen 260–262 Werblowsky, R. J. Zwi 207f Westergren, Andreas 270n Whitehead, Alfred North 12, 31n Wiesel, Elie 186 Winkler, Lewis E. 98f, 103f, 148 Winkler, Ulrich 23 Wittgenstein, Ludwig 17 Wynne, Jeremy J. 86 Wyschogrod, Michael 96, 188f, 196–207, 216, 219, 226f, 229f, 236, 247, 252, 257, 259 Yusuf, Hamza 148, 157, 173

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Index of Subjects Acceptance model 16–19 Agnosticism 51 Anonymous Christian 8, 152 Apocalypticism 41f, 88, 91, 206ff Apokastasis pantōn 76, 87, 225  Apophatic 132, 213, 233, 241, 250, 252–258, 276, 280, 284 Assimilation 50, 75, 89, 97, 139, 152, 204, 234ff Atheism 51, 105 Babette’s feast 267ff Barzakh 160f  Beatific vision 78, 117, 119, 265 Catechism of the Catholic Church 75, 77, 126 Christology 10, 34, 84, 90ff, 104, 121, 258–265 Colonialism 49 Comparative religion 22, 25 Comparative theology 17n, 20–26, 30–33 Congregation for the Doctrine of Faith 70, 73 Conservative Judaism 191, 221 Conversion 83, 94, 109, 125, 183, 204, 232, 278 Copernican revolution 114, 120, 152 Correlation, method of 26–33, 65, 141f Council of Florence 6 Covenant 9, 15, 31, 86n, 173, 185f, 193–196, 213ff, 224f Creation 57, 79f, 109, 138, 163f, 174, 201f, 225ff, 280 Cultural-linguistic approach 17–18 Day of Assembly 175, 258f Death 71, 76f, 87, 117f, 160, 164, 221f, 225ff De-nomination 256f Dhimmis 148  Differential pluralism 11f Divina Commedia 131  Dominus Iesus 70, 73, 81, 260f  Ecclesiology 74f, 95, 128 Election 171, 196–207, 229, 231, 236

Emptiness 12, 132 Eschatological images 254, 265f, 273 Eschatological openness 67f, 121f, 139, 180, 185, 240, 266, 272 Ethical emphasis 156f, 165, 184f, 214, 217, 219, 235f Eucharist 276f, 281n Extra ecclesiam 66, 128, see also exclusivism  Fall 80f, 87, 164, 225 Garden 143, 163, 166, 176 Good Friday prayer 83, 125 Halakhah 146n, 189, 191, 212, 227f  Heavenly banquet 117, 265–282 Hell 76f, 90, 109, 118, 123f, 130, 136f, 157ff, 177 Hermeneutical circle 35 Hermeneutical privilege 158, 172, 180f, 235f, 240, 266 Heuristic tools 33–36, 39, 138ff, 180ff, 229ff, 235, 251 History 76, 91, 206, 213, 250 Holocaust see Shoah  Hope 40–42, 63, 67f, 85ff, 106f, 130, 207ff, 240, 274 Hospitality 266, 270, 276f, 279ff, see also Linguistic hospitality  Identist pluralism 11f. Imago Dei 56–59, 61–64 Intentional object 44 Interreligious Dialogue 17f, 62f, 97 Islamism 144–146 Jahannam 130, 175  Judgement 89f, 99, 109f, 155, 160, 167f, 182 Kafir 148, 151  Kataphatic 256f, 276 Kingdom of God 71ff, 90ff, 107ff Kufr 150f, 169 

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index of subjects Limbo 123ff, 160 Linguistic hospitality 237ff, 284, see also Hospitality  Lumen Gentium 7, 72f, 76, 122  Messiah 96, 186, 190, 206, 207ff Millenarianism 91ff Moksha 119 Mutualism 11 Naraka 130  Nirvana 119, 129, 132, 273 Nostra Aetate 83, 201, 232  Orthodox Judaism 188f, 196f Pareschatology 117f, 254 Particularism 16–19, 129, 199, 204 Particularistic universality 205, 207, 219, 227, 229, 231, 259 People of the Book 148, 170, 182 Perennial philosophy 146, 149, 170, 173, 178 Postcolonial theory 48–50 Postliberal 16–19, 239 Purgatory 75f, 117, 124, 126f, 160, 177 Recognition 21, 44, 59ff, 83, 182, 233f Redemptoris Missio 80  Reform Judaism 188–190 Reincarnation 117, 243 Relativism 59, 84, 116, 260f Religious Other, definition 42ff Resurrection 41, 99, 117, 124, 157, 176, 190, 220ff Revelation 99ff, 155, 188ff, 202, 206, 250, 260f Shahada 169  Shariah 185  Shekhinah 217, 252, 259 

Shoah 186f, 196f  Soteriological openness 67f, 121f, 139, 180, 185 Sources of theology 27–30, 116 Subaltern 49 Taqwa 167–172, 184 Teleiosis 41 The Celebration 270f The Other definition 42ff respecting 39, 55ff The Qur’an 145, 150, 158, 164, 173, 176, 252, 272 Theological integrity 3, 32, 34, 39f, 54ff, 64, 121f, 129, 136–140, 185, 219, 232ff. Theological interplay 33ff, 138ff, 180ff, 229ff, 249ff Theological space 33ff, 138ff, 180ff, 229ff, 234ff Theology of religions definition 3–5 exclusivism 5–7 inclusivism 7–9 pluralism 9–13 threefold paradigm 13–16, 20–22,  148ff, 193ff Tiqqun ‘olam 197, 211, 213  Torah 170, 188–190, 199ff, 207, 258 Traditional islam 147f, 173 Trinity 87, 128, 132ff Triumphalism 37, 95f, 274 Umma 171f  Universalism 51, 87, 89f, 94, 110f, 194, 266 Universalistic particularity 205f, 216, 219, 227, 229, 247, 251f, 259, 266 Universality 80, 100, 185, 205, 259, see also Particularistic universality  Utopia 72, 88 Vatican II 37, 70, 83, 232

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