The Boundaries of Monotheism : Interdisciplinary Explorations into the Foundations of Western Monotheism [1 ed.] 9789047426639, 9789004173163

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The Boundaries of Monotheism

Studies in Theology and Religion (STAR) Edited on behalf of the Netherlands School for Advanced Studies in Theology and Religion (NOSTER) Editor

Jan Willem van Henten Associate Editors

Herman Beck, Meerten ter Borg, Kees van der Kooi, Daniela Müller Assistant

Ingeborg Löwisch Editorial Board

Marcel Sarot, Ruard Ganzevoort, Gerard Wiegers, Henk Vroom, Wim Drees, Ellen van Wolde VOLUME 13

The Boundaries of Monotheism Interdisciplinary Explorations into the Foundations of Western Monotheism

Edited by

Anne-Marie Korte Maaike de Haardt

LEIDEN • BOSTON 2009

This book is printed on acid-free paper. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data The boundaries of monotheism : interdisciplinary explorations into the foundations of western monotheism / edited by Anne-Marie Korte, Maaike de Haardt. p. cm. — (Studies in theology and religion, ISSN 1566-208X ; 13) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-90-04-17316-3 (hardback : alk. paper) 1. Montheism. I. Korte, Anne-Marie, 1957- II. Haardt, Maaike de, 1954- III. Title. IV. Series. BL221.B68 2008 201’.4—dc22 2008041635

ISSN 1566-208X ISBN 978 90 04 173163 Copyright 2009 by Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, The Netherlands. Koninklijke Brill NV incorporates the imprints Brill, Hotei Publishing, IDC Publishers, Martinus Nijhoff Publishers and VSP. 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. printed in the netherlands

CONTENTS

Chapter One A Unique Instability? Exploring the Boundaries of Monotheism. Introduction.....................................................................1 Anne-Marie Korte (Tilburg University & Utrecht University) Chapter Two The Boundaries of Israelite Monotheism.....................9 Bob Becking (Utrecht University) Chapter Three The Divine Messiah. Early Jewish Monotheism and the New Testament.......................................................................28 Patrick Chatelion Counet (Amsterdam University) Chapter Four Monotheistic to a Certain Extent. The ‘Good Neighbours’ of God in Ireland ............................................................53 Jacqueline Borsje (University of Amsterdam & University of Ulster) Chapter Five The Return of the Gods. The Clash between Monotheism and Polytheism in German Romanticism ......................83 Bert Blans & Marcel Poorthuis (Tilburg University) Chapter Six The Unity of God .......................................................106 René Munnik (Tilburg University) Chapter Seven The Whole of Life. Beyond the Boundaries of Monotheism? ................................................................................129 Maaike de Haardt (Tilburg University & Radboud University Nijmegen) Chapter Eight One Unique God for All Parts of Life. Reconsidering an Exclusive Tradition ..............................................154 Kune Biezeveld (Protestant Theological University, Location Leiden) Chapter Nine Dialogical Theology as an Answer to the Aporias of Monotheism...............................................................174 Akke van der Kooi (Protestant Theological University, Location Kampen)

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Chapter Ten God Judging “in the Midst of the Gods” (Psalm 82:1). Confessing to One God after Cultural Monotheism...192 Erik Borgman (Tilburg University) Chapter Eleven The Boundaries and Gifts of Monotheism. Epilogue ............................................................................................211 Anne-Marie Korte (Tilburg University & Utrecht University) Bibliography......................................................................................223 Contributors ......................................................................................241 Name Index .......................................................................................244

CHAPTER ONE

A UNIQUE INSTABILITY? EXPLORING THE BOUNDARIES OF MONOTHEISM INTRODUCTION Anne-Marie Korte (Tilburg University & Utrecht University)

The attacks on the Babylonic symbols of Western culture on September 11, 2001 not only caused devastation, fear and social strain; they also sparked new political and scholarly interest in monotheism as a banner, or for others as a phantom, of the religious heritage of the Abrahamitic religions. That the significance and public presence of the great monotheistic faith traditions again would become prominent as well as disputed, is a scenario few expected to encounter in twenty-first century Western society. In the Netherlands we have become embroiled in this situation very directly through the religiously motivated murder of journalist and filmmaker Theo van Gogh in November 2004 in reaction to his provocative statements on Islamic faith and culture. One of the most obvious questions raised by this new public and political appeal to traditional faith traditions, is whether the monotheistic religions and their truth claims regarding religious uniqueness and moral superiority can be held responsible for unleashing and sustaining the contemporary “clash of civilisations.” In this state of affairs, theologians—who reflect systematically on their own religious tradition— seem to have inherited the thankless task of warding off attacks on monotheistic religion and defending its raison d’être to believers and disbelievers alike. A less apologetic and theologically more challenging task, however, is the exploration of the significance of monotheism in modern Western culture, taking into account both its problematic and promising aspects. In the past two decades, theologians and scholars of religion have shown a growing interest in the origins, historical forms and contemporary heritages of monotheism. There have been several catalysts for this, including ongoing developments and new findings in religious and biblical studies, the impact of late twentieth century movements such as

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feminist, postcolonial and intercultural theologies, and far-reaching changes within the traditional Western faith traditions, in particular the decline of their institutional and authoritative presence in modern Western multi-religious societies. These developments have raised profound questions and led to challenging insights regarding the monotheistic faith traditions. They concern in particular these monotheistic religions’ claims of uniqueness, exclusivity and superiority, which on the one hand have constituted their significance and persuasiveness but which have on the other hand often resulted in hegemonic, violent and exploitive practices, not only towards outsiders but also within their own communities of believers. An intriguing example of the exploration of this “dark side” of biblically-based monotheism is The Curse of Cain: The Violent Legacy of Monotheism (1997) by Regina Schwartz, North American scholar in English and Religion and former director of the Religion and Violence Institute at the University of Chicago. As its subtitle suggests, Schwartz’s study consists of a sharp critique of monotheistic biblical faith as a source of national conflict, racial hatred, and ethnic division. Her analysis focuses on the relationship between monotheism and the formation of identity in the biblical texts. She considers the Bible to be an ongoing source of violence in contemporary society insofar as it defines collective identity in terms that pit groups of people against each other or define one group as superior. Such a collective identity is inextricably linked to monotheism, according to Schwartz, for it is the one God who demands exclusive worship from a particular people in a particular land. “Whether as singleness (this God against the others) or totality (this is all the God there is), monotheism abhors, reviles, rejects, and ejects whatever it defines as outside its compass.” Schwartz finds the key to this antithetical construction of faith and identity in the law of scarcity, the conviction that there is never enough of the good things—compassion, love, blessings, prosperity, but also water and land—to go around, so that these treasures have to be competed for incessantly. “Scarcity is encoded in the Bible as a principle of Oneness (one land, one people, one nation) and in monotheistic thinking (one Deity), it becomes a demand of exclusive allegiance that threatens with the violence of exclusion.” The prototypical story of the paradigm of scarcity is that of Cain and Abel, in which there is not enough blessing for both brothers: “What kind of God is this who chooses one sacrifice over the other? This God who excludes some and prefers others,

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who casts some out, is a monotheistic God—monotheistic not only because he demands allegiance to himself alone but because he confers his favour on one alone.” Schwartz demonstrates that this law of scarcity is at work in several aspects and stages of the formation of the ancient Israelites’ collective identity: covenant, land, kinship, nation and history/memory. In each case, she attempts to show that forging a collective identity in relation to the one God and His law of scarcity depends on the violent exclusion or negation of others. Interestingly, Schwartz brings a post-modern sensitivity to the ambiguities of interpretation alongside her suspicious reading of the Bible. Reading the Bible against its grain, she finds traces of an alternative biblical vision that honours an ideal of plenitude and a corollary ethical imperative of generosity. Pointing to the biblical stories of creation and paradise, existence in the wilderness and some prophetical visions, Schwartz states that there have been efforts to imagine an alternative monotheism: “It has been seen as a principle that is not confining or totalizing, but opening and proliferating: as a principle that does not circumscribe limits, but endlessly transgresses all possible limits.” This divine principle of abundance, generosity and giving fosters an idea of identity that is multiple and flexible, inclusive and evolving. In Schwartz’s account, this utopian vision of plenitude has gradually and definitely become overwhelmed in the Bible and in biblically-based faith traditions by monotheism founded upon the law of scarcity. Reactions to Schwartz’s exploration of “the violent legacy of monotheism” have been mixed, mirroring the above-mentioned pattern in which monotheism is either defended or attacked. Schwartz has been praised for exposing the disturbing underside of lived monotheistic faiths, for reawakening biblical counter-traditions of inclusiveness, for elevating the idea of divine generosity and providing a more politically congenial Bible. But she has also been vehemently criticized for defaming monotheism by equating the monotheistic faith traditions with their violent legacies and by naively embracing divine plurality instead of monotheism. However, a third, alternative way of evaluating Schwartz’s work seems more productive and is therefore advocated by the authors of this volume. For although Schwartz’s book at first glance offers an historical account of the defeat of the biblical vision of abundance, it is also possible to find in her study a subtext, an exploration of the struggle between and within the biblical texts and the biblical faith traditions concerning different interpretations of monotheism. This sub-

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text shows that biblical texts and the biblical faith traditions bear a continuous, polemical tension between exclusive and inclusive perceptions and interpretations of monotheism. In this view, biblical monotheism proves itself to be multi-significant and heterogeneous, producing boundary-setting as well as boundary-crossing tendencies. Perhaps it is precisely here that it displays its uniqueness. This instability of biblical and biblically-based monotheism raises a number of interesting questions that are dealt with by the authors of this volume. Their contributions, from the fields of biblical and religious studies, philosophy of religion and systematic theology, and gender studies in theology and religion, investigate the heuristic meaning of monotheism in its boundary-constructing and boundary-deconstructing aspects. After collectively debating these themes for two years in an interdisciplinary scholarly setting, they have each tried to answer questions such as: Which historical, cultural, ethical and theological demarcations and oppositions are created and shaped by the biblical representations of monotheism, and which are surpassed and disputed by them? Are these oppositions acknowledged and treated in contemporary theological discourse, and if so, how? What is the particular significance of the concept of monotheism and its constituent parts, monos and theism, for contemporary constructive theological thinking, negatively as well as positively? Does biblically-based monotheism indeed engender its own transformative and self-critical tendencies? Are there aspects of the idea of monotheism that we should dispense with, or that we cannot do without? The authors also try to explain the particular contribution of their own theological discipline to these debates. In the first article, Hebrew Bible scholar Bob Becking explores the boundaries of Israelite monotheism by investigating the forms of veneration of deities to which the texts of the Hebrew Bible actually refer. According to him, there is considerable tension between exclusive monotheism as a biblically-based theological concept on the one hand, and biblical and historical evidence on the other, evidence that points to a gradually and partly polemically shaped image of YHWH as an an-iconic God and the sole deity to be venerated. Becking proposes an approach to ancient Israelite religion as a multi-layered reality; he distinguishes the levels of state, village and family religion, each with its own reli-

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gious experience and symbol system, to honour the fact that the texts of the Hebrew Bible and the vestiges of ancient Israelite religion reflect a complex reality containing a variety of divine beings. New Testament scholar Patrick Chatelion Counet continues the historical and exegetical exploration of the boundaries of Jewish monotheism, turning to the question of how the early Christian identification of Jesus with the Lord and God relates to this monotheism. He investigates the new scholarly interest in this identification that tries to go beyond the “non-messianic dogmatics” of the twentieth century. He evaluates arguments against the thesis that the high Christological titles of Jesus were foreign to strict Jewish monotheism and that they entered the New Testament through the influences of Diaspora Judaism or Greek-Roman culture. Chatelion Counet argues that Jewish monotheism did not exclude the glorification and veneration of beings other than God, citing as evidence the deification in early Judaism of such intermediaries and mediators as hypostases, angels, patriarchs, prophets, kings and highpriests, as well as the identification of the Son of Man with God. According to Chatelion Counet this tradition could well have been the paradigm for both Jesus’ self-perception and the veneration accorded to him by his contemporaries. In Monotheistic to a Certain Extent: The “Good Neighbours” of God in Ireland, Celtic and Religious Studies scholar Jacqueline Borsje studies the form assumed by monotheistic Christianity in early Ireland. She investigates the multitude of supernatural beings that are mentioned in early Irish texts, beings from “the other world” that still reverberate in popular religion and folk tales to the present day. Taking as her starting point the local St. Patrick’s traditions, written down by Christian monks in the eighth century, Borsje analyzes the different names, connotations and associations in these early Irish texts that refer to and interpret supernatural beings. She finds that in the perceptions of the Christian scribes, these beings range from demonic to divine. Her study shows that there have been various attempts to include these beings in the Christian “pantheon,” and that in these cases Irish Christianity promoted an inclusive type of monotheism. In their article The Return of the Gods, philosophers of religion Bert Blans and Marcel Poorthuis investigate the exploration of the boundaries of monotheism in nineteenth century Western European thought. They turn to German Romanticism, a period in European history when, sparked by a renewed interest in classical antiquity, there was a new

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confrontation between monotheism and polytheism that also encompassed attempts to face polytheism as a genuine questioning of Christian belief. The authors locate this confrontation in critical philosophical debates as well as in literary imagination. They investigate two distinct literary examples, namely Eichendorff’s well-known story Das Marmorbild (The Marble Statue, 1819) and Hölderlin’s highly enigmatic poem Der Einzige (The Only One, 1801-1804). From a study of these texts and the tensions they reveal concerning idolatry, gender, eroticism and divine love, the authors conclude that German Romanticism explores Western culture and its foundations, i.e. Christianity versus classical antiquity, not as curiosities from a bygone past, but as “states of mind” that have shaped Western society. In his article The Unity of God, philosopher of religion René Munnik argues that the problems evoked by the Western concept of monotheism nowadays are inextricably entwined with the modern understanding and development of the idea of “oneness,” or unity. He critically assesses some of these concepts, starting with Aquinas’ pre-modern metaphysical reflections on unity as a transcendental idea. He then traces central aspects of the modern concept of unity (Descartes, Kant), and its consequence, namely the impossibility to affirm a primeval metaphysical unity within the context of contemporary culture, permeated as it is by technoscience (Donna Haraway). According to Munnik, the post-modern “end of all unity-stories” seems to be the necessary outcome of the modern unity-story itself. He proposes an alternative, namely an “open unity-story” and a “reformed, inclusive monotheism,” following the approach of Alfred North Whitehead. The problems of the Western concept of monotheism are also systematically explored in The Whole of Life: Beyond the Boundaries of Monotheism by feminist theologian Maaike de Haardt. She discerns two problems, namely its monos character and its theistic aspect, each of which consists of a distinctive discourse that hardly ever refers to the other in terminology or in the sources used. De Haardt shows how a feminist perspective can help to analyze the relationships between these divergent approaches. She argues that a gender perspective reveals that both problematic aspects are fundamentally bound up with the meaning and conceptualization of creation and creator and with the ontologically gendered characteristics of creating in Western theological conceptualization.

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In her article One Unique God for All Parts of Life: Reconsidering an Exclusive Tradition, systematic theologian Kune Biezeveld addresses the specific historical setting and oppositional mindset that created the actual exclusivity of biblical monotheism. In her investigation of the grounds for this exclusivity, she unravels the processes which once created its formative contrasts (such as: history versus nature, mind versus body, monotheism versus polytheism) and the implications of these oppositions, thereby questioning the ongoing normative status of this exclusivity. The process which formed this exclusive character of biblical monotheism can, in Biezeveld’s view, be put into perspective, since new research has revealed that the constructed contrasts were less theologically founded than Christian theology has always claimed. According to Biezeveld this paves the way for the incorporation of once excluded religious experiences, especially those of women, into the biblically-based theological tradition. Like Kune Biezeveld, systematic theologian Akke van der Kooi takes a closer look at biblical texts in a way which calls into question the contemporary acknowledged aporias of biblically-based monotheism. Van der Kooi poses the question whether it is possible, despite all pertinent criticism, to speak of an unrelinquishable element of truth in monotheism as expressed in the biblical belief in God. In her view, the path of biblical monotheism extending to the New Testament and rabbinical literature can also be read as a counter-history against demonic powers, a counter-history which found various ways to survive in Judaism and Christianity. In this interpretation, the truth of monotheism can only be found in the historical discontinuities retained in the dialogical character of the scriptural texts. According to Van der Kooi, this dialogical character helps to see that God is not the regulatory principle of historical events, but the presupposition of a resistance which holds it own in the historical conflicts of human beings. She discusses two present-day examples of dialogical theology to indicate that it involves a truth-disclosing style of believing, reading the Bible, and practising theology. In his article God Judging “in the Midst of the Gods”. (Psalm 82:1): Divine Unity after Cultural Monotheism, systematic theologian Erik Borgman explores the meaning of confessing to one God in our current situation of pluralism and “cultural polytheism.” Borgman analyzes Salman Rushdie’s novel Fury, in which the protagonist becomes Abraham in reverse and breaks away from the monotheistic submission to the supposedly one-and-only true God. For Rushdie, surrendering to the

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desire to be loved is an alternative to monotheism and its violent tendency to kill the other, as well as an alternative to polytheism and its tendency to acquiesce to and enhance the violence already ruling the world. But according to Borgman, we should not just accept our dependency, for it also remains our responsibility to mend and remake the world. In response to Adorno’s critical theory and the political theology of J. B. Metz, Borgman argues for a Christian view of God’s uniqueness as eschatological and not yet attainable. God is one and universal because God is present in all traces of yearning and hope for redemption, in all their multiplicity and pluralism. God’s unity cannot be conceptualized, but is present in the plurality of experiences of missing the liberation God’s presence stands for, according to the Christian tradition. The co-editor of this volume, Maaike de Haardt, and I would like to thank the authors of this anthology for their enthusiastic participation and perseverance and patience during the elaboration and completion of this project. I would also like to thank the scholars who contributed to the discussions and development of the project, but who did not write a contribution to this volume, in particular Anne Claire Mulder (Protestant Theological University, Location Kampen) and Patrick Vandermeersch (Groningen University). In the Netherlands, curiosity-driven cooperation and mutual questioning between the disciplines of theology and religious studies are currently jeopardized by political, academic and ecclesiastical battles over the positioning of theological reflection and the study of religion(s). Therefore, I am extremely glad to present this volume as an example of inspiring scholarship founded in the critical and creative trespassing of many more or less “academic” boundaries.

CHAPTER TWO

THE BOUNDARIES OF ISRAELITE MONOTHEISM Bob Becking (Utrecht University)

Introduction Judaism, Christianity and Islam are known and appreciated as monotheistic religions. Despite their variety, these religious symbol systems have one trait in common: they accept only one deity as the god to be venerated. All deities other than YHWH, the Father of Jesus Christ or Allah are seen as idle idols. Since these three religions have been basic to the culture of Europe, the common idea “on god” has been the idea of “one god.” It would be an interesting topic to study the relation between “monotheism” as a religious concept on the one hand and the political idea of “monarchism” that has been dominant until the rise of democracy.1 The topic of my contribution, however, is not a discussion on political, cultural and societal tendencies that yielded the decline of monotheism. I would like to ponder on three questions: (1) The Hebrew Bible seems to present a monotheistic form of religion. Various texts refer to the veneration of only one God. The question, however, is whether all texts in the Hebrew Bible do? (2) The Hebrew Bible presents itself as giving an adequate picture of the religious reality in Ancient Israel. Anyhow, it has been read and interpreted as such. There exists, however, not a one-to-one relation between “texts” and “reality.” Texts stand in interaction to reality. They form some sort of commentary on it. The question to be discussed is: To what degree do the Hebrew Bible and Ancient Israelite Religion concur and to what degree do they diverge? (3) Depending on the answer to the second question, it could be asked whether a difference between the two should be of any influence for modern ideas about the monotheistic character of the divine?

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See, e.g., Jan Assmann, “Monotheismus,” JPTh 4 (2002): 122-32.

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First, I would like to make a few terminological remarks. The concept “theism”—also as part of the indicative noun “monotheism”—is a latter day construct.2 It is not a part of the terminology used by the writers of the Hebrew Bible. The concept emerged in the process of systematic and philosophical reflection on Biblical faith. I will not outline the history of this concept especially since I am not competent to do so. However, it is not without any reason that I construe the concept of theism as a problematical idea. It is my personal experience, that in many discussions between Biblical scholars and systematic theologians I had the idea that both sides were discussing different categories, although the same noun “god” was used. To say it boldly and without any nuance: the living God as witnessed in the various parts of the Hebrew Bible, does not fit very much the systematic construct of a theistic god. The Hebrew resumé makes YHWH a non-candidate for a vacancy in the theistic god department. All concepts—in their rich variety from Marcion to Marion—fall short in describing the unique character of YHWH as witnessed in the Hebrew Bible. Walter Brueggemann has phrased this point in the opening clauses of the central part of his Theology of the Old Testament: The primal subject of Old Testament theology is of course God. But because the Old Testament does not (and never intends to) provide a coherent and comprehensive offer of God, this subject matter is more difficult and complex than we might expect. . . . [it] cannot be comprehended in any preconceived categories.3

This is, I admit, boldly phrased. Brueggemann, however, is more correct and to the point than many systematic theologian or author of a Biblical Theology wants him to be. Except for the fact that YHWH is for greater parts an incomprehensible God in view of his holiness, we simply have to acknowledge that the concepts on God as has been deve-

2 The idea was coined first, as far as I can see, by the British Platonist Henry More around 1660. 3 W. Brueggemann, Theology of the Old Testament: Testimony, Dispute, Advocacy (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1997), 117; see also E. Gerstenberger, Theologies in the Old Testament (London: T&T Clark, 2002), esp. 272-82; N. McDonald, Deuteronomy and the Meaning of “Monotheism” (FAT 2.1; Tübingen: Mohr, 2003).

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loped in Christian—but also in Jewish and Muslim—theology do not have to fit the experienced belief in a living God of the ancient Israelites. The Hebrew Bible is not written as a systematic theology. The collection of books contains, among other things, stories, hymns, prophecies, instructions for the cult, but not a systematically elaborated view on God and the divine attributes. This does not imply that the Bible is an obsolete source for theology. In all the various textual forms a certain view on God is implied: The stories on the patriarchs imply a God who in a subtle way directs the course of the events. The prophecies in the Book of Jeremiah refer to a God who from his wounded love is threatening his beloved people with doom. Various Psalms are related to the concept of the inconceivable nearness of God. The instructions for the cult can be seen as a sign that God is looking for reconciliation. In other words: all these various literary Genres are based on an often implied belief-system. The concept of a “belief-system” refers to a coherent set of religious views shared by members of a society or a religious community.4

Is the Hebrew Bible Presenting a Monotheistic Form of Religion? For many Christians and theologians, biblical monotheism is an apparent and clear proposition that needs no discussion or clarification. This position, however, is taken not without grounds. It is supported by many centuries of Christian belief, thinking and encounter and it can refer to a passage from the Hebrew Bible. In Deut 6:4 we read the well-known šema’ jisra’el, “Hear Israel.” There it is confessed: “The Lord is our God, the Lord is one!”5

4 See M. B. Black, “Belief Systems,” in Handbook of Social and Cultural Anthropology (ed. J. J. Honigmann; Chicago: Rand McNally, 1973), 509-77. 5 On this text and its interpretations see next to the various commentaries on Deuteronomy: O. Loretz, Des Gottes Einzigkeit: Ein altorientalisches Argumentationsmodell zum “Schma Jisrael” (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftlische Buchgesellschaft, 1997); N. McDonald, Deuteronomy and the Meaning of “Monotheism”; E. Aurelius, “Die fremden Götter im Deuteronomium,” in Der eine Gott und die Götter: Polytheismus und Monotheismus im antiken Israel (ed. M. Oeming and K. Schmid; AThANT 82; Zürich: Theologischer Verlag Zürich, 2003), 149-54.

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The Hebrew Bible, however, is not an unambiguously monotheistic book. There are, of course, texts in the Hebrew Bible that refer to a monotheistic belief-system. One can think of the oneness-creed in Deut 6:4 or of texts in the second part in the Book called Isaiah. In these splendid chapters from Isa 40 onward, YHWH is praised as the only deity worth the reverence of the Israelites. The other gods are set aside as manufactured by humankind. The earth in its entirety is summoned to venerate this deity. This belief-system can be classified as exclusive monotheism, since the veneration of this one deity is presented as the only possibility for all human beings. Other deities might have been venerated by some persons, they are seen, however, as powerless entities.6 Within the Hebrew Bible, however, other voices are also present. In the Book of Exodus, monotheism as such is not taught by Moses. From the texts, evidently Moses did not want to preach a certain idea on God to his people, but he wanted to witness about his encounter with a liberating God acting in history. Moses preaches about YHWH as a living divine being who saves his people and wants to live in a relationship with them. In other words: Moses wanted to witness about his encounter with God-the-Saviour. He did not elaborate on the question whether this was the only divine being in the whole universe. There are good reasons to assume that to Moses YHWH was the only God worth veneration by him and by the Israelites. The text of the Hebrew Bible can be read as a reflection of a route from the encounter with this God-the-Saviour to the acceptance of monotheism in an exclusive form. This route, however, cannot be outlined in all its details. It should be noted that this assumed route is a historical process. The Hebrew Bible in its present form, however, is not historically ordered. The collection of Books contains diverging material from different times. Scholars disagree on all details when it comes to dating the several parts of the Hebrew Bible as well as the trustworthiness of the religio-historical information. Nevertheless 6

See most recently M. Albani, “Deuterojesajas Monotheismus un der babylonische Religionkonflikt unter Nabonid,” in Der eine Gott und die Götter: Polytheismus und Monotheismus im antiken Israel (ed. M. Oeming and K. Schmid; AThANT 82; Zürich: Theologischer Verlag Zürich, 2003), 171-201; M. S. Smith, “The Polemic of Biblical Monotheism: Outsider Context and Insider Referentiality in Second Isaiah,” in Religious Polemics in Context: Papers Presented to the Second Conference of the Leiden Institute for the Study of Religion (LISOR) held at Leiden, 27-28 April 2000 (ed. Th. L. Hettema and A. van der Kooij; Studies in Theology and Religion 11; Assen: Van Gorcum, 2004), 201-34.

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and in a very rough sketch, it can be said that in Ancient Israel the movement from the encounter with this God-the-Saviour to the acceptance of monotheism in an exclusive form has been influenced by the encounter with other forms of religion and has been influenced by the dramatic events in Israel’s history. In other words, the confrontation with Phoenician and Philistine religion and later with Assyrian and Babylonian designs for the divine as well as the imprint made by the downfall of Samaria and Jerusalem have shaped the image of YHWH as an aniconic God and the sole deity to be venerated. In the Hebrew Bible we can only see the reflections of this process, not the route itself.7 Important parts of the Hebrew Bible imply a belief-system that can be classified as monolatry, mono-yahwism or inclusive monotheism. Monolatry means that the existence and value of other gods are recognized but their veneration for the members of the community under consideration is dissuaded. The concept of mono-yahwism presupposes the possibility that the veneration of YHWH differed from place to place in ancient Israel. This possibility has again been made plausible by recent archaeological findings as discussed in the next section of this article. The form of Yahwism that developed in Jerusalem after the fall of the Northern Kingdom and strongly advocated by the reform under king Josiah, is seen as the only tolerable form of veneration of YHWH, monoyahwism though. The idea of inclusive monotheism refers to a form of religion that claims universal veneration of one deity by the community but does not charge others with this obligation. These terms need explanation in examples. The collection of commandments in the Decalogue opens in both versions with the exhortation not to venerate other deities (Exod 20; Deut 5). In these words the existence and possibility of worship of other deities are acknowledged, but dissuaded for Israelites. Monolatry presupposes that among the abundance of deities only one God should be venerated. An interesting example in this connection is Judg 11:24. In the report on the exploits of Jephtah a passage occurs that the various deities of the Ancient Near East all had their own territory. Chemosh is presented as the god of the 7

See, e.g., Z. Zevit, The Religions of Ancient Israel: A Synthesis of Parallactic Approaches (London: Continuum, 2001), 439-79; A. Lemaire, Naissance du monothéisme: Point de vue d’un historien (Paris: Bayard, 2003); E. A. Knauf, “Ist die Erste Bibel monotheistisch?,” in Der eine Gott und die Götter: Polytheismus und Monotheismus im antiken Israel (ed. M. Oeming and K. Schmid; AThANT 82; Zürich: Theologischer Verlag Zürich, 2003), 39-48.

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land of Moab. To him acts of salvation are ascribed that are comparable to what YHWH has done for Israel. The idea of territorial limitation of the deity also underlies texts like 1 Sam 26:19; 2 Kgs 3 and 5. For this a reference should be made to the idea of the divine council as expressed for instance in Pss 29 and 82. Here, monolatry does not exclude the concept of the divine court with other deities. In this connection the idea of divine jealousy needs to be discussed. The statement that human beings envy other human beings needs no explanation. Divine jealousy might sound strange at first hearing. In the Hebrew Bible, however, YHWH is seen as jealous various times. What is meant is not the possessive desire well known from the human sphere, but an existential notion in God outlining the depth of his love for his people. In this jealousy two vectors are visible: (1) There is a movement from God to human beings. Because of his divine love, YHWH is bent on the real interest of his people. Therefore, he cannot stand when other nations are enslaving Israel or treading and trampling their rights. In cases like that, divine jealousy is the basis for saving acts, as for instance in Isa 9:1-6. Land and people are plunged into darkness. Instead of the voices of playing children the sound of the hard heels of soldiers is heard. A great part of the harvest has been robbed from the country. In the midst of that awful situation the prophet receives a hopeful perspective: a royal child will be born that shall break the yoke of oppression. This prophecy is motivated by the creed: The jealousy of YHWH of Hosts will do this.

God’s jealousy has a liberating effect for his people. (2) The other movement is related to the kind of veneration for YHWH by the people. As an example I will point to a text from Exod 34:14-15: You shall not worship any other god for his name is YHWH, the jealous one and a jealous God he is. You must not make a covenant with the inhabitants of the land, lest, when they lust after their gods and sacrifice to their gods, and sometimes invites you you will eat from his sacrifice

THE BOUNDARIES OF ISRAELITE MONOTHEISM

15

In this text a connection is made between the divine jealousy and the prohibition to venerate other deities. The image of a God is drawn who does not want to share the love of his people with others. Here too, the possibility of the veneration of other deities is not denied. On the contrary, this possibility is faced very realistically and drawn as a threat for the relationship between YHWH and the people of Israel. The use of such an emotional term as jealousy for the depiction of monolatry, again indicates that the Hebrew Bible does not speak in notional, theistic terms about God. God is not an object with attributes, but is seen as a person with feelings and emotions. The text of the Hebrew Bible also shows that its writers and the communities behind them had knowledge of one important problem caused by monolatry or inclusive monotheism. In case only one God is worshiped, all qualities and functions of the divine are connected to this one deity. In others words, in a monolatric or monotheistic context YHWH is seen as both saviour and creator. He is seen as the one acting in history, but also in the realm of nature, etc. This observation as such does not yield a theological or conceptual problem. The real problem arises when thinking about good and evil as both forthcoming from God. In polytheistic religions, this problem is absent. The good life is seen as a gift from the hands of the good gods, while evil is seen as a disruption by a bad god. In a religion tending to monotheism, this is, however, a problem. If there is only one God who acts and cares for his people and thus is looking for their real interest, who then is the source of evil? When ascribing in Jewish or Christian theology the evil to, e.g., the sitra achra, or the beast from the abyss, monotheism as such is abandoned and a dualistic position is taken in which a good god stands opposite to a Satan. When ascribing the evil to YHWH too, monotheism is saved as a concept, but a new problem has arisen. Then the character of the goodness of God needs to be reformulated. It is not my intention to elaborate on this important issue here. I only want to stress that the presence of the Book of Job in the Hebrew Bible indicates that this problematic frontier in the tendency to monotheism has been seen in Ancient Israel. As a final remark to this section, it should be underscored that the other deities in the text of the Hebrew Bible do not have a clear profile. Some of them are known by name, like Baal, Astarte, Asherah. A clear

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picture of them is not given, however, in the Hebrew Bible.8 The role they play in the Israelite belief-system is sketched. The language about them is derogatory and they are presented as a constant threat for true religion. They are only powerless makings of humankind and yet a threat. This ambiguous language about the other gods implies that they have been venerated. This brings me to the next question. Although the language on the worship of YHWH-alone in the Hebrew Bible does not yield a univocal picture and although not all texts presuppose monotheism in its exclusive form, yet the central tendency in the Hebrew Bible is monotheistic. There is, however, a giant pitfall lurking in the back. The Hebrew Bible presents the dominant view of a group of Yahwists in Ancient Israel. Their view does not have to coincide with the historical reality. The fact that we see glimpses of the other deities throughout the Hebrew Bible, should warn us that the actual reality could have been more pluralistic. Is the image that the Hebrew Bible supplies an adequate presentation of the religious reality in Ancient Israel?

Ancient Israelite Religion The discovery of Paleo-Hebrew inscriptions at Kuntillet al-’Ajrud and Khirbet al Qom containing references to “Yahweh and his Asherah”9 and the archaeological founding of an abundance of female pillar-figurines most probably representing a dea nutrix10 have yielded a huge debate in Biblical Studies on the question whether the Ancient Israelite

8

See the various entries in K. van der Toorn, B. Becking and P.W. van der Horst, eds., Dictionary of Deities and Demons in the Bible: Second Extensively Revised Edition (Leiden: Brill, 1999; henceforth DDD2). 9 The inscriptions can be found easily in J. Renz, Die althebräischen Inschriften: Teil 1 Text und Kommentar (HAE II/1; Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1995), 47-64, 202-11; K. Jaroš, Inschriften des Heiligen Landes aus vier Jahrtausenden. (CD-ROM; Mainz: von Zabern, 2001), No. 93, No. 112. 10 See mainly T. A. Holland, A Typological and Archaeological Study of Human and Animal Representations in the Plastic Art of Palestine during the Iron Age (DPhil; Oxford 1975); for recent discussion see: R. Kletter, “Between Archaeology and Theology: The Pillar Figurines from Judah and the Asherah,” in Studies in the Archaeology of the Iron Age in Israel and Jordan (ed. A. Mazar; JSOT Sup 331; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2001), 197-216.

THE BOUNDARIES OF ISRAELITE MONOTHEISM

17

religion was monotheistic or not.11 Despite some uncertainties and a variety in the interpretation of the evidence, one thing has become clear: It is no longer possible to speak in a naive way about monotheism in Ancient Israel and in the Hebrew Bible. These texts and artefacts and the intensified reflection on texts in the Hebrew Bible referring to a deity other than YHWH or to a goddess have shown the boundaries of Israelite monotheism. In order to have a correct glimpse of the world behind that boundary, it is important not only to display the evidence, but also to interpret the evidence within a more theoretical framework. The inscriptions and the archaeological artefacts mentioned are nothing more than silent data. It would methodically be unsound to induce from them a religio-historical reality. Applying a model, I will make a construction of how I think that religion in Ancient Israel could have looked like. In doing so, I will not confine myself to the epigraphic and archaeological evidence just mentioned. Other data, from the Hebrew Bible as well as from the Ancient Near East will be incorporated.

Forms of Religion at Three Levels For a better understanding of the Ancient Israelite religion it is important to interpret the evidence within the societal framework that has been designed by Manfred Weippert and Rainer Albertz. In their view, religion plays a role at three levels. This is a distinction and not a border. The three levels do not exist in isolation. Religion is attested at the statelevel functioning in the central organisms of court and temple. Religion is, however, also present at the level of the clan or the village. And 11 There exists by now an abundance of literature on these topics and their interpretation. Informative are, e.g., M. Dietrich and O. Loretz, Jahwe und seine Aschera: Anthropomorphes Kultbild in Mesoptamien, Ugarit und Israel. Das biblische Bildverbot (UBL 9; Münster: Ugarit, 1992); T. Binger, Asherah: Goddesses in Ugarit, Israel and the Old Testament (JSOT Sup 232; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1997); J. Day, Yahweh and the Gods and Goddesses of Canaan (JSOT Sup 265; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2000); J. M. Hadley, The Cult of Asherah in Ancient Israel and Judah: Evidence for a Hebrew Goddess (University of Cambridge Oriental Publications 57; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000); B. Becking, M. Dijkstra, M. Korpel and K. Vriezen, eds., Only One God? Monotheism in Ancient Israel and the Veneration of the Goddess Asherah (BiSe 77; London: Sheffield Academic Press, 2001); Z. Zevit, Religions of Ancient Israel, 350-438; A. Lemaire, Naissance du monothéisme, 73-90; M. Oeming and K. Schmid, eds., Der eine Gott und die Götter: Polytheismus und Monotheismus im antiken Israel (AThANT 82; Zürich: Theologischer Verlag Zürich, 2003).

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finally religion plays a role at the level of the family or the household. To phrase the same in more sociological terms: religion can be found functioning at macro, meso and micro levels of society. These levels are interwoven since most individuals are functioning in at least two levels. Religious symbols are travelling quite often from one level to the other.12 Religion at State Level At state level, religion is connected with the symbols of power. The intimate relationship between the deity and the ruler—as suggested in so many texts—functions as a guarantee for the continuation of the dynasty, its presence in the centre of power and its territorial claims. These ideas are easily detected in and behind in the stories around King David,13 but are also present in other Ancient Near Eastern texts. The famous Mesha stele, in which the Moabite king accounts for his deeds and doings before his god Chemosh, is a nice example. The Moabite king presents himself as a loyal representative of the Moabite divine. Some clauses suggest that his deeds were triggered by prophetic utterances: Chemosh said to me . . .14 In fact Mesha is restoring the territorial limits by defeating the Israelites and claiming that it was Chemosh who had destined and authorized the boundaries of his empire.15 Lowel Handy has convincingly elaborated an idea expressed in a one-page article written by Mark Smith.16 Smith observed that the domains of the Ugaritic gods could be summarized in the metaphor of a four-floor building. Handy has combined this observation with the met12 M. Weippert, “Synkretismus und Monotheismus: Religionsinterne Konfliktbewältigung im Alten Israel,” in Kultur und Konflikt (ed. J. Assmann and D. Harth; ES 1612; Frankfurt: Suhrkamp, 1990), 143-79; R. Albertz, Religionsgeschichte Israels in alttestamentlicher Zeit (GAT 8/1-2; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Rupprecht, 1992), 38-43; see also K. L. Noll, Canaan and Israel in Antiquity: An Introduction (BiSe 83; London: Continuum, 2001), 257-68; Gerstenberger, Theologies in the Old Testament, esp. 19-24. 13 See S. L. McKenzie, King David: A Biography (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000). 14 A. Lemaire, “Prophètes et rois dans les inscriptions ouest-sémitiques (ixe-vie siécle av. J.-C.),” in Prophètes et rois: Bible et proche orient (ed. A. Lemaire; LD hors série; Paris: Cerf, 2001), 103-08. 15 See D. I. Block, The Gods of the Nations: Studies in Ancient Near Eastern Theology (ETS; Grand Rapids: Baker Academic Press, 2000), 82-91. 16 M. S. Smith, “Divine Travel as a Token of Divine Rank,” UF 16 (1984): 359.

THE BOUNDARIES OF ISRAELITE MONOTHEISM

19

aphor of the royal household.17 In his view, the pantheon of the cultures of the Ancient Near East can be depicted in the image of a heavenly royal household. In the upper register we find the Authoritative Deities.18 Generally they form a divine couple: the King and Queen of Heaven. In Ugarit this couple is formed by Ilu and Athiratu.19 The authoritative deities are construed as the owners of the palace in heaven and to them have been given all power in heaven as well as on earth. Their rule is powerful, but based on eternal wisdom. They have the right to appoint the other deities. In the Ugaritic pantheon, Ilu is a wise, aged god, famous for his wisdom and his grey hair. Athiratu is not so much a fertility goddess or a mother-goddess, but the ruling Queen of Heaven.20 The second register is housed by the most important Active Deities.21 These are gods that from time to time leave the heavenly abode to enter the dimensions of the world of the living humans. In this category we find deities like Baal determining the seasons, Shapshu22 the judge, Anat the goddess of battle. Not unlike high officers in a royal household they were actually governing the universe and steering its history since they received a mandate from Ilu and Athiratu. In the third register we find the so-called Artisan Deities.23 These gods were the craftsmen of the heavenly household. A perfect example can be found in Ugarit where Kothar-wa-Hasis is the smith of the gods, who for instance supplies the deities with bows and arrows.

17 L. K. Handy, Among the Host of Heaven: The Syrian-Phoenician Pantheon as Bureaucracy (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 1994); see also H. Niehr, Religionen in Israels Umwelt, NEB Ergänzungsband 5 (Würzburg: Echter, 1998), 25-39; Noll, Canaan and Israel in Antiquity, 243-50. 18 Handy, Among the Host of Heaven, 65-96. 19 The counterparts of El and Asherah. 20 See, e.g., Niehr, Religionen in Israels Umwelt, 25-29; The idea that Athiratu/ Asherah in the Ugaritic pantheon as well as in Canaan should be construed as a fertility goddess is a typical example of a cross-over made in scholarship of a Greek concept ( jAfrodivth) to the world of the religion of the Ancient Near East. 21 Handy, Among the Host of Heaven, 97-130. 22 The Ugaritic counterpart of the Mesopotamian Šamaš, see also Hebrew vmv, “sun.” 23 Handy, Among the Host of Heaven, 131-48.

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The slaves of the gods, especially the messenger deities, house the lowest register.24 The Hebrew Bible quite often refers to the ˚alm hwhy/μyhla, the messenger of YHWH/God in later times seen as an angel. It is interesting to note the following. A connection can be made between the complexity of a society and the abundance of its pantheon. A complex society with many different public functions and officers quite often has a divine household with many specialized deities. The religion of Mesopotamia and Egypt are good points in case. Both countries had a complex bureaucracy that was needed for the organisation of labour, the water supply and the distribution of goods and food. Their heaven was more crowded than the heaven of Ugarit. In the religion of countries like Israel, Judah, Ammon, Moab and Edom, that developed a bureaucracy only at a late stage, not more than half a dozen deities were venerated. In the Hebrew Bible we find reflexes and traces of this idea. It should be observed, however, that while in Ugarit deities from all four registers were worshipped, in Ancient Israel and Judah—not unlike adjacent countries as Ammon, Moab and Edom—only gods from the upper and lowest register are known. This apparent “reduction” should be connected with the fact that Ancient Israel25 was a less complex society than Ancient Ugarit. Next to that, however, it should be noted that in Ancient Israel YHWH seems to have integrated functions of divine beings from the second and third register.26 Moreover, the functions of these deities were only construed as forces of nature in the service of YHWH. They were no longer seen as separate or individual deities. The Hebrew Bible speaks about entities such as sea, moon, sun and day in a partly secularized way. All in all we find YHWH in the first register as a superior and powerful God. This last sentence should not be concluded with a period, and especially not in the sense of a monotheistic full stop. The authors of the Book of Kings, for instance, are aware of the fact that a goddess Asherah was venerated. Jeremiah 44 implies the veneration

24

Handy, Among the Host of Heaven, 149-68. ‘and Judah.’ 26 See, e.g., Day, Yahweh and the Gods and Goddesses of Canaan, 91-128; M. Dijkstra, “El, the God of Israel—Israel, the People of YHWH: On the Origins of Ancient Israelite Yahwism,” in Only One God? (Becking, et al.; London: Sheffield Academic Press, 2001), 81-126. 25

THE BOUNDARIES OF ISRAELITE MONOTHEISM

21

of a goddess entitled the Queen of Heaven.27 The Paleo-Hebrew inscriptions from Kuntillet al-’Ajrud and Khirbet al Qom contain references to “Yahweh and his Asherah” suggesting that at some time a divine couple was venerated in Ancient Israel.

Authoritative Deities Active Deities

Artisan Deities Messenger Deities

27

Ugarit Ilu Athiratu Shapshu Anath Baalu Motu and others e.g. Kotharwa-Hasis various deities

Hebrew Bible hwhy

Ancient Israel Moab Yahweh Chemosh Asherah Chemosh-Astart

‘the messenger of YHWH/God’

There is a preference to construe Queen of Heaven as an epithet for Asherah. It should be noted that in the Hebrew Bible, YHWH is sometimes indicated by the epithet King of Heaven; see, e.g., Handy, Among the Host of Heaven; H. Niehr, “JHWH in die Rolle des Baalsamem,” in Ein Gott allein? JHWH-Verehrung und Monotheismus im Kontext der israelitischen und orientalischen Religionsgeschichte (ed. W. Dietrich and M. Klopfenstein; OBO 139; Freiburg: Universitätsverlag; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1994), 307-26; J. A. Wagenaar, “King,” in DDD2, 483-86; 1 Esdras 4:58. By analogy the Queen of Heaven, whether Asherah or not, should be construed as the consort of the main deity. See, e.g., K. Koch, “Aschera als Himmelskönigin in Jerusalem,” UF 20 (1988): 97-120; M. S. Smith, The Early History of God: Yahweh and the Other Deities in Ancient Israel (San Francisco: Harper & Row, 1990), 88-94; Albertz, Religionsgeschichte Israels, 133; Dietrich, Loretz, Jahwe und seine Aschera, 87-88; Binger, Asherah, 116; Niehr, “JHWH in die Rolle des Baalsamem,” 317-18; C. Houtman, Queen of Heaven, in DDD2, 678-80; Day, Yahweh and the Gods and Goddesses of Canaan, 144-50; Zevit, Religions of Ancient Israel, 553-55. K. van der Toorn, Family Religion in Babylonia, Syria and Israel: Continuity and Change in the Forms of Religious Life (SHCANE 7; Leiden: Brill, 1996), 367, who assumes that the Queen of Heaven was the consort of Baal; and T. Ornan, “Ištar as Depicted on Finds from Israel,” in Studies in the Archaeology of the Iron Age in Israel and Jordan (ed. A. Mazar; JSOT Sup 331; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2001), 235-56; Lemaire, Naissance du monothéisme, 119; who assume that she was a manifestation of Ishtar.

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Religion at the Level of Clan or Village There is much to be said about this topic, but that would lead away from the central theme of this paper. I confine myself to the observation that at this level rites and festivals were of great importance for group identity and functioned as means of continuation of the group through the ages. This can be illustrated by referring to the archaeological findings of various standing stones throughout Israel/Canaan in the Middle and Late Bronze and Iron Age periods.28 These stones, referred to as twbxm in the Hebrew Bible, quite often are found in sets of three or five, mainly in a cultic context close to the city gates. In my view these standing stones represent local deities that functioned as divine guarantors for the judicial processes in the gate that were instrumental for the continuation of city and clan.29 Religion at Family Level Here we are entering private territory. Religion is related to the concrete lives that people were living. Religion is connected to the heights and depths of the cycle of life and especially to the encounters between hope and despair that were steered by fundamental experience that life although a gift of God, was threatened in many ways. Themes as birth and dying, illness and fear, crop failure and abundance are pivotal to this kind of religion. It should be noted that this area of life that is only sparsely documented in the Hebrew Bible. A few glimpses, however, can be seen, especially in the Book of Psalms. The Psalms in the Hebrew Bible strongly imply a symbol system in which only one God should be venerated. Here too, the forces of nature have been partly secularized, as can be inferred from the role of the sun in Pss 19 and 72.30

28

For an outline see T. N. D. Mettinger, No Graven Image? Israelite Aniconism in its Ancient Near Eastern Context (CB OT 42; Stockholm: Almquist and Wiksell, 1995), 135-97. 29 See also T. Haettner Blomquist, Gates and Gods: Cults in the City Gates of Iron Age Palestine. An Investigation of the Archaeological and Biblical Sources (CB OT 46; Stockholm: Almquist and Wiksell, 1999); Zevit, Religions of Ancient Israel, 256-65; Gerstenberger, Theologies in the Old Testament, 102-06. 30 See M. Arneth, Sonne der Gerechtigkeit: Studien zur Solarisierung der Jahwe-Religion im Lichte von Psalm 72, (BZAbR 1; Wiesbaden, Harrassowitz, 2000).

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Some Psalms, however, relate to a symbol system in which more than one god is venerated. Pss 58 and 82 contain the concept that YHWH stands among or above the other deities. Here YHWH is part of a heavenly council.31 Of special interest is Ps 91. This hymn on trust among the dangers and threats of life mentions YHWH: He will cover you with his wings You will be safe in his care His faithfulness will protect And defend you.

But in verses 5 and 6 we read: You need not fear for the terror of the night For the arrow that flies at daytime For the pestilence that goes around in the dark Or the demon that destroys at midday.

These four nouns: terror of the night, arrow, pestilence and midday demon, refer to threatening demons. Despite the reduction mentioned above and the partly secularisation of the forces of nature that took place in the religion at state level, these forces will still seen as demons at the level of personal life.32 Life was not completely disenchanted in Ancient Israel. Another text to be mentioned in this connection is Ruth 1. During the well-known encounter at the border, when Naomi wants Ruth to return to her home country, Ruth declares (Ruth 1:16-17): But Ruth answered: Do not ask me to leave you! Let me go with you! Wherever you go, I will go.

31

Niehr, Religionen in Israels Umwelt, 39; M. Nissinen, “Prophets and the Divine Council,” in Kein Land für sich allein: Studien zum Kulturkontakt in Kanaan, Israel/Palstina und Ebirnri für Manfred Weippert zum 65. Geburtstag (ed. E. A. Knauf and U. Hübner; OBO 186; Freiburg: Universitätsverlag; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2002), 4-19. 32 G. J. Riley, “Midday Demon,” in DDD2, 572-73; M. Malul, “Terror of the Night,” in DDD2, 850-55; Gerstenberger, Theologies in the Old Testament, 36.

24

BECKING Wherever you live, I will live. Your people will be my people And your μyhla will be my μyhla.33

I deliberately left the Hebrew word μyhla untranslated. The word can be construed as a singular form, God, or as a plural, gods. Most translations render with: Your God will be my God, taking Ruth’s vow as a monotheistic or at least a monolatric confession. At the end of Ruth 1, however, two gods are mentioned. On return in Bethlehem, Naomi bewails her fate: YHWH

has witnessed against me

And Shadday has made my life bitter.

Traditionally Shadday is rendered with the Almighty, taking the name as a qualification or an attribute of YHWH. Religio-historical research, however, has made clear that Shadday is the name of a divine being that has been venerated at the fringes of the Ancient Near Eastern agricultural societies.34 For Naomi, Shadday has left her with her bitterness instead of protecting her against the evils of time. I would like to round off this short tour around personal religion by referring to the Teraphim. They are mentioned in stories that play in the private parts of life35 and most probably were ancestor deities that were believed to protect against all threats.36 The archaeology of Israel/Palestine has revealed many important artefacts these last decades. I will mention two groups of finds in this connection: (1) The abundance of so-called pillar-figurines and

33 On Ruth 1:16-7 see, e.g., K. Nielsen, Ruth (OTL; London: SCM Press, 1997), 49-50; M. C. A. Korpel, The Structure of the Book of Ruth (Pericope 2; Assen: Van Gorcum, 2001), 48-90. 34 See E. A. Knauf, “Shadday,” in DDD2, 749-53. 35 E.g., in Gen 31; Judg 17-18; 1 Sam 15. 36 See K. van der Toorn, “The Nature of the Biblical Teraphim in the Light of the Cuneiform Evidence,” CBQ 52 (1990): 203-22; O. Loretz, “Die Teraphim als Ahnen-Götter-Figur(in)en im Lichter der Texte aus Nuzi, Emar und Ugarit,” UF 24 (1992): 133-78; T. J. Lewis, “Theraphim,” in DDD2, 844-50; Zevit, Religions of Ancient Israel, 255-56; Gerstenberger, Theologies in the Old Testament, 41-42.

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(2) the discovery of Paleo-Hebrew inscriptions at Kuntillet al-’Ajrud and Khirbet al Qom containing the phrase “I bless you by Yahweh and his Asherah.” Blessing is a feature of religion at the level of family life. I interpret both groups as an indication of the fact that in the religious symbol system at the family level a deity Asherah played an important role. At this level she is not so much the transcendent Queen of Heaven, but a protecting dea nutrix that could be evoked in times of danger and despair especially in the process of birth giving. The breasts so manifestly present in many pillar figurines should not be construed as an erotic symbol, but as a reference to the heavenly milk that mother earth is given to the poor and the needy.

History as a Construct It should be noted that the above proposal should not be seen as an indisputable description of reality. It is in my view one of the pitfalls of the traditional historical-critical method in Biblical studies that scholars thought that their re-enactment of the past was more accurate that the one preserved in the Bible.37 The above proposal is a construct that tries to do justice to the evidence available. Despite its subjectivity, it makes clear that in Ancient Israel as well as in the Hebrew Bible traces of a religion can be found in which more than one god/goddess was venerated. In other words, next to an apparent overlap, also a divergence can be construed. The Hebrew Bible presents a symbol system that is basically monotheistic. The image supplied in the Hebrew Bible is not completely concurrent in regard of the religious reality in Ancient Israel. The glimpses of other gods to be seen in the Hebrew Bible reflect a complex reality that contained a variety of divine beings. How do I connect the two images? First of all, it should be noted that they both are subjective representations of a reality that once existed. But they are based on different agendas. The Biblical image is based on a religious conviction. As a result of Israel’s tragic history and the reflection of it, the inhabitants of the Persian province Yehud in and 37 See my remarks in B. Becking, “No More Grapes from the Vineyard? A Plea for a Historical-Critical Approach in the Study of the Old Testament,” in Congress Volume Oslo, 1998 (ed. A. Lemaire and M. Sæbö; SVT 80; Leiden: Brill, 2000), 123-41.

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around Jerusalem were convinced that an aniconic and monotheistic veneration of YHWH would be the only real possibility to continue the old time religion. This choice was deeply rooted in the history of Yahwism, but in the meantime it implied the abrogation of alternative forms of Yahwism. The religio-historical image, on the other hand, is based on a scholarly conviction. Its construction is guided by procedures that in the contemporary historical methods are seen as sound ways to re-enact the past. This implies that both images are in a way incompatible. It is not possible to declare that one is better or more adequate than the other. They both are commentaries on a reality that is beyond our reach. Nevertheless, a few remarks should be made. The recently discovered epigraphic and archaeological evidence, once more, have stressed the variety of views within the Hebrew Bible and its character of a document based on a conviction. Next to that this conviction implied the silencing of other voices, such as the voice Asherah and her venerators.

A Question of Hermeneutics and the Boundaries of the Exegetical Business In the introduction to this paper three questions were raised. The first two have been dealt with. The third question—should a divergence between the views in the Hebrew Bible and in Ancient Israelite Religion be of any influence for modern ideas about the monotheistic character of the divine?—is of an even more problematical character. Since, as a Biblical scholar, I only have limited knowledge of and expertise in systematic theology or hermeneutical theories, I will confine this section to a series of questions that should be on the agenda for an interdisciplinary dialogue. - Would it be helpful—both for religio-historical research and for hermeneutical exercise—to construe faith to be basically based on a choice between possibilities to cope with the perennial problems of life? - When monotheism in Ancient Israel is seen as the more orthodox variant of Yahwism next to which other forms were present, how much variation in form and content in present day Judaism, Christianity and Islam is acceptable?

THE BOUNDARIES OF ISRAELITE MONOTHEISM -

-

-

27

To which degree must faith be related to the Hebrew Bible, and since the Hebrew Bible is not a monolithic document, to which part of the Hebrew Bible must faith preferably be related? Is a form of faith acceptable that goes at the cost of other person’s lives? Does the discovery of “Asherah” open our eyes for pluralism within religion and does it expose all sorts of conceited thoughts on polytheism? The presence of Asherah in Ancient Israelite Religion should open our eyes for the female aspects that were taken over by YHWH at her disappearance from the scene. Although the turn to monotheism implied a more androcentric construction of the divine, the female aspects of the Israelite divine should never be played away.

CHAPTER THREE

THE DIVINE MESSIAH EARLY JEWISH MONOTHEISM AND THE NEW TESTAMENT1

Patrick Chatelion Counet (Amsterdam University) Introduction In his foreword to the second edition of William Wrede’s Paulus (1907, first edition 1904) Wilhelm Bousset notes that the work ends with a great question mark: “Did Jesus believe himself to be the Messiah or not?” According to Bousset Wrede tends to a negative answer.2 Wrede’s position initiates the phenomenon that Martin Hengel has described as the “non-messianic dogmatics” of the twentieth century: “Today [i.e. 1995] the unmessianic Jesus has almost become a dogma among many New Testament scholars.”3 Starting with Larry Hurtado’s One God, One Lord (1988) and alongside Hengel himself, who tries to show that Jesus “conducted himself with ‘messianic’ authority,”4 there are many exegetes who dealt with the non-messianic dogmatics. The new interest in Jesus’ Lordship and ancient notions of divine agency make that the research of the historical Jesus enters a new phase. The period from 1980 onwards is called the Third Quest. The new interest marks a second part in this Third Quest. In this article, I put three matters to order. Firstly, the question of where the identification of Jesus of Nazareth with the Lord arises from5—the early Church, Paul, Jesus himself, or his followers in the period before his death (paragraph 2)? In this matter, the research of the historical Jesus plays a part: what place is given to his divinity or glory in the debate about the historical Jesus? Secondly, the question as to whether the identification of a human being with the Lord has Jewish 1 I am extremely grateful to Miriam Gerdes and dr. Antonio Sison who took care of the translation of this article. 2 W. Wrede, Paulus (Tübingen: Mohr, 1907), 8. 3 M. Hengel, Studies in Early Christology (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1995), 16. 4 Hengel, Studies in Early Christology, 71.

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roots (paragraph 3). Here, the question of divine agency plays a part, as well as the question of what perspective did the Jews in the first century before Christ, and towards the end of the Second Temple Period, have on these representatives and intermediaries of God on earth. Thirdly, the question of inclusive and exclusive monotheism comes up for discussion, that is to say: what place can one give God’s representatives in Jewish monotheistic thought (paragraph 4)?

Status Quaestionis: Early Jewish Monotheism and the Notion of God in the New Testament In the gospel of Mark, one of the scribes asks Jesus: “Which command is the first of all?” Jesus answers with the Shema of Deut 6:4: “Hear, O Israel: The Lord our God, the Lord is one” (Mark 12:28-29).

With the Shema and its place in the first commandment, Jesus affirms monotheism in Mark. The earliest reference to Jewish monotheism in a Christian document is found in 1 Cor 8:6. It contains a remarkable, but, for some, “ambivalent”, addition: for us there is only one God, the Father, from whom are all things and for whom we exist, and one Lord, Jesus Christ, through whom are all things and through whom we exist. (1 Cor 8:6).

In the Shema, God and Lord are one and the same. Is Paul ambivalent and does he abandon Jewish monotheism when he distinguishes God the Father from the Lord Jesus Christ?6 And if not, how does early Jewish monotheism relate to the notion of God in the New Testament?

5

Two important issues that are oppressed by the identification of Jesus with Lord and God are, on the one hand, the feminist rejection of male language (‘Lord’ and ‘Father’) and, on the other hand, the ‘social programme’ of Jesus of Nazareth. Concerning the feminist restraint, I share the considerations of Marianne Meye Thompson, The Promise of the Father: Jesus and God in the New Testament (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2000), 3-13. The social programme of Jesus will be discussed in paragraph 2 on the ‘Third Quest.’ 6 See D. B. Capes, Old Testament Yahweh Texts in Paul’s Christology (Tübingen: Mohr, 1992). Capes identifies 1 Cor 8:6 as a YHWH text that refers to Ps 24:1 applied by Paul to the Lord Jesus (145); Paul identified Jesus with the God of Scripture “. . . by attributing to Jesus (1) his name (= Yahweh), (2) his work, and (3) scripture texts reserved originally for Yahweh” (177).

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As an exegete, it is not my intention to answer these questions dogmatically. In his article about “the notion theos in the New Testament,” Karl Rahner states that when Jesus, as a human being, prays to God, he prays to the three divine personae. This means, so he adds, “. . . dass Jesus den Sohn Gottes anbetet.”7 Exegetes try to avoid such positiveness. Instead of independent truths, they search for the ideological background and the Sitz im Leben of their sources, and for the ideas, opinions and interpretations that influenced the texts they study. The question for an exegete is not whether the identification in the New Testament of Jesus with God comprises “truth,” nor is it whether this (dogmatic or systematic) can be brought into line with (Jewish) monotheism. The question is where this identification is based upon, how this should be interpreted, and what influences it has undergone. Or, as Hurtado asks, how did the first Christian Jews come to venerate Jesus of Nazareth as divine whilst they nevertheless considered themselves monotheists?8 In her answer Margaret Barker makes things, at once, acute.9 If the proclamation that Jesus is the Lord is the own invention of the Christian Jews, than one should ask if this still has something to do with the opinions of Jesus of Nazareth and if Jewish monotheism is not abandoned here. But if that proclamation goes back on Jesus’ self-awareness and self-proclamation, than the question should be asked if their existed a Jewish precedent of a human being who could lay such a claim to divinity or glory. Then again, the question is how this relates to monotheistic thought.

The Historical Jesus and his Divinity The Identification of Jesus with God in the New Testament There are nine passages in the New Testament that identify Jesus with God, in the opinion of some interpreters: 7 “. . . (Er betet) objektiv zu den drei göttlichen Personen.” K. Rahner, Schriften zur Theologie I (3d ed.; Einsiedeln: Benziger, 1958), 91. 8 L. Hurtado, One God, One Lord: Early Christian Devotion and Ancient Jewish Monotheism (London: SCM Press, 1988), 2. 9 M. Barker, “The High Priest and Worship of Jesus,” in The Jewish Roots of Christological Monotheism: Papers from the St. Andrews Conference on the Historical Origins of the Worship of Jesus, 1998 (ed. C. Newman, J. Davila and G. Lewis; Leiden: Brill, 1999), 93-111: 93.

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Romans 9:5: and of their race [the Israelites], according to the flesh, is Christ, God; Philippians 2:6: Christ Jesus . . . who was in the form of God; Titus 2:13: the glory of our God and Saviour Jesus Christ; John 1:1: In the beginning was the Word . . . and the Word was God; John 1:18: the only God, who is in the bosom of the Father he has made him known; John 20:28: Thomas answered him: “My Lord and my God;” Hebrews 1:8: But of his Son [God said]: “Thy throne, O God, is for ever and ever;” 1 John 5:20: we are in him who is true, in his Son Jesus Christ, this is the true God and eternal life; 2 Peter 1:1: Simon Peter . . . in the righteousness of our God and Saviour Jesus Christ.

Some of these texts refer to an early liturgical practice, but they all indicate a Binitarian change, in the sense that they identify God as Father and Son. At the same time there is no indication that the Binitarian change wants to abandon monotheism. A Trinitarian change, when also the spirit appears as a divine hypostasis, is found in for instance Matt 28:18, 2 Cor 13:13, and the passages in John about the Paraclete (John 14:26 and 15:26). See also the “triangle” that John the Baptist reveals in John 1:33, which is considered as the Trinitarian blueprint of the Gospel of John.10 Schüssler Fiorenza tries to broaden the Trinitarian change through identification of the spirit as the Wisdom, Sophia or Chokma hypostasis from Proverbs and Ben Sira.11 The New Testament, however, gives no indications for such identification.12 Thompson tries to save a form of pure monotheism by stating that the “divine identity” is not dependent from the name “god” but from the honour or veneration

10 See. M. Theobald, “Gott, Logos und Pneuma: ‘Trinitarische’ Rede von Gott im Johannesevangelium,” in Monotheismus und Christologie: Zur Gottesfrage im hellenistischen Judentum und im Urchristentum (ed. H.-J. Klauck; Freiburg: Herder, 1992), 41-87: 65. 11 E. Schüssler Fiorenza, Wisdom Ways: Introducing Feminist Biblical Interpretation (Maryknoll: Orbis Books, 2001), 22ff, 138; Schüssler Fiorenza is right in criticising the masculine gendering of the Spirit, but making it feminine violates the neutral character of to pneuma; like ‘her’ G*d, the Spirit is beyond gender.

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gods merit and the functions they exercise. She holds that if “divinity” or “divine status” is predicated on a figure, like Jesus in the Fourth Gospel, it will necessarily imply a relationship to the one God.13 The Conflict between Jews and Christian Jews If one presupposes a pure Jewish monotheism at the time of the appearance of Jesus of Nazareth,14 than one should consider the Binitarian and Trinitarian interpretation of monotheism as a Christian invention. Even if one does not deny a monolithic monotheism, there must be a flaw with the orthodox policy of first century Judaism somewhere. From the letters of Paul, and maybe more from his actions against the new church (“the Way,” Acts 9:2), it appears that this flaw existed rather early.15 In today’s literature, we find two distinctive and competitive grounds as explanations of this flaw, the turning to the gentiles (“nations”) and the divine identification of Jesus.16 Until recently, there was consensus about the idea that Jesus’ divinity was the outcome of the Jewish-Christian encounter with the Greek-Roman culture. Most important argument 12 The suggestion of a hypostasis of “a liberating Wisdom G*d” (emphasis added) in Luke 7:35 is a beautiful dream but exegetically unjustified; see E. Schüssler Fiorenza, Sharing her Word: Feminist Biblical Interpretation in Context (Boston: Beacon Press, 1998), 136; see also S. Gathercole, “The Justification of Wisdom (Matt 11.19b/Luke 7.35),” NTS 49 (2003): 476-88: 488; Gathercole translates Luke 7:35: “And Wisdom has been dissociated from her children;” although he speaks of “Lady Wisdom,” he denies a Wisdom Christology in Luke and Matthew. The same criticism applies to Kammler’s interpretation of 1 Cor 2:16 and 2:11 as a “Trinitarian structure”; God’s spirit and Christ’s spirit can only be one and the same (and Trinitarian) if the spirit in this passage forms a hypostasis, which is questionable; see H.-C. Kammler, Kreuz und Weisheit: Eine exegetische Untersuchung zu 1 Kor 1,10–3,4 (Tübingen: Mohr, 2003), 233-4, 247. 13 M. M. Thompson, The God of the Gospel of John (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2001), 45, 48. 14 The still-influential study about the conception that early Judaism was purely monotheistic, is W. Bousset, Die Religion des Judentums im Späthellenistischen Zeitalter (3d ed.; Tübingen: Mohr, 1926). Bousset’s point of view that monotheism is the cement between the many trends of early Judaism at the time of Jesus of Nazareth is adopted by W. Schrage, Unterwegs zur Einheit und Einzigkeit Gottes: Zum “Monotheismus” des Paulus und seiner alttestamentlich-frühjüdischen Tradition (Neukirchen: Neukirchener, 2002), 17. Criticism on Bousset and his moderation of angel devotion and divine mediators is found in Hurtado, One God, One Lord, 2427. 15 Capes, Old Testament Yahweh Texts, 173-74. 16 See G. Cornfeld, ed., The historical Jesus: A Scholarly View of the Man and his World (New York: Macmillan, 1982), passim.

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is that Jewish thought is inconsistent with the deification of human beings. So, of its own accord, the turning to the gentiles became the first motive for the estrangement between Jews and Christian Jews. Some carry back the disclosure of Judaism to gentiles on Jesus himself and see this as the germ of the conflict that led to his death. Harrie Kuitert summarises the old consensus as follows: Not the doctrine of the Two Natures, nor Jesus as the incarnated Second Person of the Holy Trinity, not—in short—“God-on-earth;” in the course of both histories this became the controversy, but this was not so at the beginning, it was rather the claim of the followers of Jesus that since his appearance the wall between Jews and gentiles was torn down.17

The Jewish reduction of Jesus and early Christianity is thus complete: according to the reductionists, there is nothing in Christianity that is not in Judaism also. Except for the deified Jesus. It is questionable whether this reductionism does justice to the complexity of pre-rabbinical Judaism, the Judaism of the late Second Temple Period. And there is another problem. The turning to the gentiles goes back on Judaism itself. Isaiah’s prophecy about Israel as servant of the Lord addresses the gentiles: Listen to me, O coastlands, and hearken, you peoples from afar. The Lord . . . said to me: “You are my servant, Israel, in whom I will be glorified . . . I will give you as a light to the nations, that my salvation may reach to the end of the earth.” (Isa 49:1-6).

The opening word of this second servant-song calls to mind the Shema, but now, it is not only Israel that is summoned to listen, but all the peoples from the far corners of the earth. This prophecy of Isaiah teaches us that sooner or later, Judaism will turn to the nations. Thus, the demolishing of the wall between Jews and gentiles is an original Jewish idea that, through the Book Isaiah, forms a part of Jewish thought and, as such, can be a motive in the controversy between Jews and Jesus(-followers). Although the moment of turning to the nations could have been a motive, this moment is the appearance of the Messiah, casu quo the Servant of the Lord. If the advent of the Messiah is the starting point of the turning to the nations, the claim that Jesus is the Messiah constitutes the motive in the controversy. It is not the turning to the nations, nor the 17 H. Kuitert, Jezus: Nalatenschap van het Christendom: Schets voor een christologie (Baarn: Ten Have, 1998), 162-63; the anakoluthon in the translation copies the original text.

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demolishing of the wall “in itself,” but the identification of Jesus with the Messiah and the consequences of that in compliance with Isa 49:6 that constitute the germ of the conflict. The Historical Jesus Research and the Non-Messianic Dogmatics The resistance of today’s theologians18 to call Jesus “Messiah” and, even more, to call him “Lord,” “Son of God,” or “God,” can be traced back to the earliest “historical Jesus-research,” starting with Hermann Reimarus. In his Von dem Zwecke Jesu und seiner Jünger from 1778, he claimed that although Jesus proclaimed the Kingdom of God, he repented on the cross and realised that everything was an illusion.19 His disciples maintained this illusion and, entirely in bad faith, created a Christian system. For that purpose they stole the body of Jesus from his grave to proclaim that he had risen from the dead. They proclaimed him Messiah and Saviour of the world. Above that, they created the myth of the Second Coming of Christ at the end of time. To this day, this opinion reigns supreme amongst theologians. As already noticed, Martin Hengel speaks about the non-messianic dogma of twentieth century.20 The arguments are somewhat less speculative but the non-messianic conception is still the one from the Old Quest of Reimarus’ time: Jesus never saw himself as Messiah or God. In 1894 Julius Wellhausen elevated two passages of the New Testament as evidence for this non-messianic dogma, Acts 2:36 and Rom 3:1-4.21 Acts 2:36 is dated about 85 CE: Let all the house of Israel therefore know assuredly that God has made him [through the resurrection, see 2:32] both Lord and Christ, this Jesus whom you crucified (Acts 2:36).

Romans 1:3-4 is dated about 56 CE: 18 See, e.g., F. Koppelmann, Jesus nicht Christus doch Wunder und Gegenwart der Gotteswelt (Berlin: Oraniendruck, 1973). 19 This document was published in 1778, ten years after Reimarus’ death, by G.E. Lessing and re-published in 1970 by George Buchanan in an English translation: The goal of Jesus and his disciples (Leiden: Brill, 1970). A collection of keytexts (from Reimarus to Ernst Käsemann) can be found in G. Dawes, The Historical Jesus Quest. A Foundational Anthology (Leiden: Deo Publishing, 1999). 20 Hengel, Studies in Early Christology, 16. 21 See Hengel, Studies in Early Christology, 11-15.

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The gospel concerning his Son, who was descended from David according to the flesh and designated Son of God in power according to the Spirit of holiness by his resurrection from the dead, Jesus Christ our Lord (Rom 1:3-4).

Wellhausen concluded from these passages that Jesus, not until after his death and through the (idea of) resurrection, was seen as Christ. In 1901 William Wrede based his Messianic Secret on Acts 2:36.22 The conception that Jesus is the Messiah originated not until after his death. Wrede calls it zukünftige Messianität.23 Because the evangelist Mark was surprised that Jesus, during his life, was never called Messiah, he invented the Messianic Secret. Mark makes it, according to Wrede, as if Jesus himself forbids speaking about his messianism. This idea of “messianism in retrospect” has also been applied to the titles Son of God and Lord; these too were “invented” by the first Christians. Until today this idea forms the core of the non-messianic dogmatics.24 The non-messianic dogma was strengthened by a second argument: Jewish monotheism at the time of Jesus of Nazareth. It would be unJewish to venerate the presence of God in a human being and the thought that next to God other divine beings could exist was unthinkable. Albert Schweitzer ends his Geschichte der Leben Jesu Forschung (1906) with the work of William Wrede. He reproaches researchers that since Reimarus they continuously repeat the same experiment: the working out of the idea that Jesus did not see himself as the Messiah. On this point—die Art des messianischen Selbstbewußtseins Jesu—no progressions are made, except for Mutmaßungen.25 Schweitzer’s conclusion applies also to today’s research of the Third Quest: “Wenn der alte Reimarus wiederkehrte, köntte er sich getrost als der Modernste ausspielen.”26 Schweitzer’s criticism of the non-eschatological way in 22 W. Wrede, Das Messiasgeheimnis in den Evangelien: Zugleich ein Beitrag zum Verständnis des Markusevangelium (3d ed.; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1963), 240. 23 Wrede, Das Messiasgeheimnis in den Evangelien, 214. 24 See, e.g., M. Casey, From Jewish Prophet to Gentile God: The Origins and Development of New Testament Christology (Cambridge: Clarke & Co; Louisville: Westminster, John Knox Press, 1991); see also the collected key-texts in Dawes: The Historical Jesus Quest. 25 “. . . Wir besitzen keine Psychologie des Messias,” A. Schweitzer, Geschichte der Leben Jesu Forschung (5th ed.; Tübingen: Mohr, 1933), 9. 26 Schweitzer, Geschichte der Leben Jesu Forschung, 9.

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which theologians portray the life of Jesus27 is still, a century after, an important feature of today’s historical Jesus research. It wipes out Jesus’ messianism and his eschatological preaching. After the No Quest under Bultmann and the New Quest under Ernst Käsemann, we enter from 1980 onwards the period of the Third Quest.28 The study of J. K. Riches focuses on the transformation of Judaism by Jesus of Nazareth.29 He sets the tone for a period of research into the relation of the new church and first century Judaism before the destruction of the temple in 70 after Christ. Telford concludes that one aims less at Jesus’ religious identity and more at his social identity.30 With that, the matter questioned again by Käsemann in the fifties and sixties, the relation between the historical Jesus and the Christ of Faith is abandoned and Jesus is placed in the broader context of the Jewish and Hellenistic world of his time. Thus, attention for Jesus the Jew, the Pharisee, the Rabbi and for the “social character” that he represented, the healer, the magician, the prophet, the exorcist, the teacher, the revolutionary, arises. The sharpness of the apocalyptical and eschatological message is reduced to a social and political program. The consensus agreed upon by the exegetes of the Third Quest, is partly positive, partly negative. Positive consensus exists in respect of Jesus’ social identity. Hardly no-one denies that he acted as a teacher, a prophet and a healer. Negative consensus exists in respect of his spiritual identity. The divinity of Jesus, his Sonship of God, the Son of Mantradition and even his messianism are still looked upon—at par with Wrede and Reimarus, regardless of the factual history of Jesus’ life—as theological interpretations in retrospect. That Jesus himself took his person, his assignment and mission in these (theological) terms, is regarded

27 Schweitzer, Geschichte der Leben Jesu Forschung, 390 (“uneschatologisch darstellen”). 28 For a description of the various ‘Quests’ since Reimarus, see B. Chilton and C. Evans, eds., Studying the historical Jesus (Leiden: Brill, 1994), especially W. Telford, “Major Trends and Interpretation Issues in the Study of Jesus,” 33-74. A bibliography of the research since 1989 is kept up by C. Evans: Life of Jesus Research: An Annotated Bibliography (Leiden: Brill, 19962). 29 J. K. Riches, Jesus and the Transformation of Judaism (London: Darton, Longman & Todd, 1980). 30 Telford, “Major Trends and Interpretation Issues in the Study of Jesus,” 52.

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as impossible; likewise, the idea that his disciples and followers— before his death—did so.31 A turning point arises from the middle of the nineties. In his criticism on the Third Quest, Telford points to the lack of unity of method and the miscellaneous results.32 Moreover, the intended “pure historical” approach is not just value-free but has serious complications for Christology, mostly negative, and is characterised by ideological motives, for example, of liberation-theological nature. Although broader questions are asked and the background data are widened, their relevancy remains uncertain. Comprehensive views on Jesus are still lacking. The “New” Divinity of Jesus The negative consensus about Jesus’ spiritual identity—specified by Hengel as “non-messianic dogmatics”—has been broken by a group of authors who brought the Third Quest into a new phase. Opposing the non-messianic tide already in 1979, F. Meyer defends the messianic self-awareness of Jesus and, not much later, F. Dreyfus states that Jesus “knew” he was God and that he would have approved of his glorification in the Gospel of John.33 But only through the publications of Hurtado’s One God, One Lord in 1988 and B. Witherington’s The Christology of Jesus in 1990 does Jesus’ own Christology reappear on the post-Bultmannian agenda. Moreover, this occurs against the background of a reconsideration of Jewish monotheism corresponding with the contemporary sources. With the release of L. Stuckenbruck’s Angel Veneration and Christology in 1995, we find ourselves in the midst of a new movement that loosens the Binitarian change of monotheism from the, until then, one-sided privileged Hellenistic influences and connects it with early Judaism.

31 The negative consensus of the Third Quest can be found strongly in the already mentioned work of Kuitert, Jezus: Nalatenschap van het Christendom (12, 159), in which he claims that (a) Jesus is not God, and (b) Jesus never could have thought and never has thought of himself as God. 32 Telford, “Major Trends and Interpretation Issues in the Study of Jesus,” 58. 33 F. Meyer, The aims of Jesus (London : SCM Press, 1979); F. Dreyfus, Jésus savait-il, qu’il était Dieu? (Paris: Cerf, 1984).

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Qumran and Monotheism An important factor in the reconsideration of the absolute character of Jewish monotheism consists of the Dead Sea Scrolls. Moreover they throw a special light on the role and the character of the Messiah. First of all, I want to discuss why scholars of the non-messianic paradigm so unanimously deny that Jesus said—or might have said—about himself that he was the Messiah. The question is so acute because in Israel, there was certainly no lack of messiahs at the beginning of our era. In his Antiquitates Iudaicae, Flavius Josephus mentions a whole series of these claims. Without difficulties, Jesus Christ can be counted in there.34 However—and this is an important explanation for refusing to apply this model on Jesus—all these persons were political and military messiahs, rebel-leaders, insurgents and resistance-heroes against the Roman Empire. They presented themselves as the successors of the royal house of David, as political-davidic messiahs. The problem is that from the gospels and the letters of Paul, a totally different Messiah emerges: - not a militaristic, but a charismatic messiah, - not an exclusive royal, but also a prophetic and even priestly messiah, - and not a political, but a divine messiah. Since the nineteenth century, the consensus within the historical Jesus research (growing since Reimarus) is that this charismatic, priestly and divine messiah (in short Christ), is an invention of Paul and the evangelists under the influence of the Greek-Roman culture. It is argued that the charismatic, priestly and divine features of the Messiah figure are only known from the New Testament. A Jewish pre-reflection or expectation of this kind of messiah would not have existed before early Christianity. However, new studies of early Judaism and the Dead Sea Scrolls show otherwise.

34 See. S. Brandon, Jesus and the Zealots: A Study of the Political Factor in Primitive Christianity (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1967); Ch. Vergeer, Een nameloze: Jezus de Nazarener (Nijmegen: SUN, 1997).

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Notions of the Messiah in Qumran Let us concentrate on some relevant texts.35 Beforehand, it should be noted that, different from what many twentieth century authors were inclined to accept, the Messiah-expectation plays a great part in a very important early-Jewish movement like the one of Qumran. Charlesworth mentions about three features.36 (a) The advent of the Messiah heralds the end of time. (b) The battle between God and Belial, Ruler of Evil, is waged between the children of Light and the children of Darkness37: this battle will be preceded by the advent of the Messiah. (c) This Messiah has two statures: royal and priestly. The Messiah of Qumran emerges from the royal house of David and at the same time from the priest lineage of Aaron (1QS 9:11).38 What is generally seen as a Christian invention from the period after the death of Jesus—the extension of a royal-militaristic-davidian notion of the Messiah with a priestly connotation—is found in 1QS, the Rule of the Community of Qumran, that is to say, in a text that is older than Acts 2:36 and Rom 1:3-4. In the scroll of Melchisedek from cave 11, the charismatic role of the Messiah is filled in along the line of the priest Melchisedek. 11QMelch reads: the Messiah/Anointed of the Spirit is the messenger of good who announces salvation. Apart from that, it is quite remarkable that this

35 Translations are taken from F. García Martínez, The Dead Sea Scrolls Translated: The Qumran Texts in English (Leiden: Brill, 1994). 36 J. Charlesworth, “A Critical Comparison of the Dualism in I QS 3,13-4,26 and the ‘Dualism’ Contained in the Gospel of John” in John and Qumran (ed. J. Charlesworth; London: Geoffrey Chapman Publishers, 1972), 84-106. 37 Charlesworth thinks that John possibly adopted parts of his dualistic and mythological terminology from the Rule of the Community of Qumran (especially 1 QS 3,13–4,26); Charlesworth, “A Critical Comparison,” 104. See however J. Frey who denies that the johannine dualism can be deduced from the texts of Qumran, religio-historically nor philologically; J. Frey, “Licht aus den Höhlen. Der ‘johanneischen Dualismus’ und die Texte von Qumran,” in Kontexte des Johannesvangeliums: Das vierte Evangelium in religions- und traditionsgeschichtlicher Perspectieve (ed. J. Frey and U. Schnelle; Tübingen: Mohr, 2004), 200-02. 38 Here I am only interested in this double connotation; for a discussion on the question of double messianism (one or two messiahs) in the Scrolls, see J. J. Collins, The Scepter and the Star: The Messiahs of the Dead Sea Scrolls and Other Ancient Literature (New York: Doubleday, 1995), esp. 74-95; Collins thinks that the Dead Sea sect expected two messiahs (binary messianism, 77), one royal and one priestly; the biblical precedent is found in Zechariah’s “two sons of oil,” the historical motive in the dissatisfaction of the sect with the current High Priest and the Temple cult.

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text, which probably originates from the first century before Christ, denotes the priestly Messiah with a title that is usually reserved only for God: Elohim.39 Also, the title Son of God as an indication for the Messiah, seen in the twentieth century as a typical Christian invention, is found in a scroll from the fourth cave, the Aramaic Apocalypse 4Q246: (7) he will be great over the earth (8) . . . and all will serve [him] (2.1) He will be called Son of God and they will call him Son of the Most High (2) Like the sparks of a vision so will their kingdom be; they will rule several years over (3) the earth and crush everything . . . (4) Until the people of God arises . . . (7) He is a great God among the Gods (8) he will make war with him; he will place the peoples in his hand and cast away everyone before him. His kingdom will be an eternal kingdom (4Q246).

This passage is not easy to interpret. One could also read that the Son of God, despite this title, belongs to the suppressed party that has been defeated. García Martínez and Van der Woude reject the opinion that it concerns a kind of antichrist here. They compare the functions of this

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See M. de Jonge and A. S. van der Woude, 11Q Melchizedek and the New Testament, NTS 12 (1965-66): 301-26, 314ff; they compare 11QMelch with John 10:33-36 and conclude that the title elohim elevates Melchisedek above all angels, but not yet to (Son of) God as John does. A discussion about the identification of Melchisedek in 11QMelch as the Messiah, YHWH or as a normal heavenly being, see A. Aschim, Melchizedek and Jesus: 11Q Melcizedek and the Epistle to the Hebrews, in The Jewish Roots of Christological Monotheism: Papers from the St. Andrews Conference on the Historical Origins of the Worship of Jesus, 1998 (ed. C. Newman, J. Davila and G. Lewis; Leiden: Brill, 1999), 129-47, 134ff.

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Son of God from Qumran with the one of Melchisedek from 11QMelch and identify him as a messiah of heavenly origin.40 But what really matters here is the apparent parallel with the keywords from Luke 1:31-35: and you shall call his name Jesus. He will be great and will be called the Son of the Most High . . . and of his kingdom there will be no end, . . . [he] will be called holy, the Son of God (Luke 1:31-35).

So the idea of the messiah being the Son of God is not a Christian invention.41 Nor does this apply to the other charismatic features of the Christian messiah. Compare, for example, the Messianic Apocalypse of Qumran, 4Q521 verses 1 and 8.12: (1) for the heavens and the earth will listen to his Messiah . . . (5) for the Lord will seek out the pious and call the righteous by name . . . (7) he will glorify the pious . . . (etc.) (8) freeing prisoners, giving sight to the blind, straightening out the twisted (12) for he will heal the badly wounded and will make the dead live, he will proclaim good news to the meek (4Q521).

This text is almost a quotation of Isa 35:5. In Isaiah, however, the verse concerning the resurrection (and he will make the dead alive) is absent. This addition is only known from the Isaiah-quote of Matt 11:5 (and the dead are raised up). Before the discovery of 4Q521, it was assumed that

40 See their introduction to 11QMelch in the Dutch translation of the Scrolls, F. García Martínez and A. S. van der Woude, Rollen van de Dode Zee, 2 (Kampen: Kok, 1995), 161-2. 41 Charlesworth has listed fifteen examples of the term Son of God in the literature that has been preserved from Early Judaism; because of this, he rejects the idea that it cannot derive from the Jew, Jesus of Nazareth; J. Charlesworth, Jesus within Judaism: New Light from Exciting Archaeological Discoveries (London: SPCK, 1989), 149-152.

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the extension of works of the Messiah42 with the resurrection of the dead was an invention of the Christians, i.e. Matthew. Thanks to the Dead Sea Scrolls, we know that this expectation existed already before or, at least, during the life of Christ, namely, in Qumran, a half-day’s march away from Jerusalem and Golgotha.43

Flaws in Early Jewish Monotheism The common opinion about Jewish monotheism, which was opposed by the new movement, is that it was a pure, ancient idea. This seems to be evident from Exod 20:3 wherein God himself asserts: “You shall have no other Gods before me.” A similar message is heard in the Shema in Deut 6:4, “Hear, O Israel: the Lord our God is one Lord.” There are three critical notes to be made about this supposedly pure idea of monotheism. Firstly, monotheism in the Bible is in fact monolatry. Secondly, the one God of Israel emerged from several gods, as seen from the historical perspective. Thirdly, Israel, and, more specifically, early Judaism, was acquainted with the veneration of divine intermediaries. Monotheism and Monolatry The term monolatry expresses that the existence of more gods is recognised, but amongst all these gods, only one is worshipped.44 In Judges 11, for example, we read about a debate between Israelites and Ammonites. It is recognised by Israel that Chemosh, the god of the Ammonites, has offered them the land of Moab. YHWH, the God of Israel, has given the Israelites the land between the desert and the Jordan. In other words, the Bible recognises that, subdivided in regions, various gods 42

One can argue about the agent of verse 7: the Lord (see verse 5) or the Messiah (see verse 1); I agree with Collins, The Scepter and the Star, 118, who thinks that God acts through the agency of a prophetic messiah in line 12. 43 See K. Berger, Qumran und Jesus: Wahrheit unter Verschluß? (Stuttgart: Quell, 1993), 100; he states that between the first Christians and the Essenes of Qumran, there existed “eine gemeinsame (wohl mündliche) Auslegungstradition.” 44 About this, B. Becking, Only One God: On Possible Implications for Biblical Theology, in Only One God? Monotheism in Ancient Israel and the Veneration of the Goddess Asherah (ed. B. Becking, et al.; London: Sheffield Academic Press, 2001), 192ff.

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with a local authority exist. This opinion is also to be found in 1 Samuel 26:19 where David complains that his people orders him to serve other gods. Ps 82:1-2 puts God “in the divine council” where He judges “in the midst of the gods.” And Ps 86:8 says about God: “. . . there is none like thee among the gods.” Furthermore the God of Israel is also called the God of gods, el elohim, a title that points to selection and veneration above other gods.45 One God out of Many The monotheism of the people of Israel has developed itself. Meindert Dijkstra reviews a number of texts out of the soil-archive of AncientIsrael affirming this. The ruin of Kuntillet el-Agrud, excavated in the Sinai Dessert, is identified as a caravan seraglio for caravans, travellers and pilgrims, about 850-750 BCE. According to Dijkstra the surprisingly great amounts of old Hebrew inscriptions have greatly changed our view of the religion of Israel.46 In the ruin, on walls, pottery and storage pots religious inscriptions and graffiti were found that indicate that YHWH had a female partner. A goddess venerated with and next to him: Ashera.47 On the basis of these discoveries in Kuntillet el-Agrud and others in Chirbet el-Qôm, Dijkstra reconstructs the following historical development.48 The religion of Israel arises from Canaanitic myths and the Canaanitic pantheon. This occurs in three stages. In the first stage, El and Ashera form the divine pater and mater familias of the Canaanitic pantheon. The second stage is that of the Kings (1000-600 BCE) in which El is named YHWH and Ashera is called his Ashera. Both were venerated in the official cult of Judea and Israel until the end of the monarchy. Ephraim Stern even speaks about Yahwistic paganism.49 The 45

Deut 10:17; Josh 22:22; Ps 50:1; Dan 2:47. M. Dijkstra: “‘I have blessed you by YHWH of Samaria and his Asherah’: Texts with Religious Elements from the Soil Archive of Ancient Israel,” in Only One God? (B. Becking, et al.; London: Sheffield Academic Press, 2001), 17-44: 17. 47 See also E. Stern, Religion in Palestine in the Assyrian and Persian Periods, in The Crisis of Israelite Religion: Transformation of Religious Tradition in Exile and Post-Exile Times (ed. B. Becking and M. Korpel; Leiden: Brill, 1999), 245-55: 247, 249ff. See also the contributions of K. Biezeveld and B. Becking in this volume. 48 See M. Dijkstra, El, the God of Israel—Israel, the People of YHWH: On the Origins of Ancient Israelite Yawhism, in Only One God? (B. Becking, et al.; London: Sheffield Academic Press, 2001), 93ff, 113ff. 46

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third stage starts with king Hezekiah and continues during and after the Babylonian Captivity since the fifth century BCE. Here, the divine partner of YHWH, Ashera, slowly disappears from the picture. It is interesting to note that YHWH preserves a number of female features. God as a birth giving, nursing, merciful mother is named ElShaddai several times; aside from denoting mountain, exalted, and powerful, shaddai also means mother breasts.50 Most texts translate in Jer 31:20 that YHWH is moved “in his heart,” but the Hebrew word used means womb.51 Thus, the goddess Ashera actually never disappeared completely from Jewish monotheism. Deification in Judaism Since the nineties, the divinity and the messianism of Jesus are again on the agenda of theologians. However, the question is neither “Is Jesus God?” nor “Is Jesus the Messiah?”—these are matters of religion and faith—rather, it is about the religious-historical question: “Could Jesus have thought that he was divine or messianic during his lifetime?” Appended to this is the question as to whether Jesus’ Jewish disciples actually professed this during his lifetime.52 The new trend within the Third Quest shows that there are Jewish examples of the deification and glorification of intermediary beings, beings that have a mediating function between God and men. This glorification could have been a paradigm to both the self-understanding of Jesus as to the venerating that rather early became his part.

49

Stern, Religion in Palestine, 252. About female connotations of the names of God in Exodus, see P. Chatelion Counet, Over God zwijgen: Postmodern bijbellezen, (Zoetermeer: Meinema, 1998), 93-100. 51 In this context Becking speaks about the marginalization of Ashera; Becking, Only One God?, 201. 52 See M. de Jonge, God’s Final Envoy: Early Christology and Jesus’ Own View of his Mission (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1998), 101: “I find it difficult to accept that Jesus’ opponents were able to make messiahship the decisive issue, while Jesus himself avoided this designation and discouraged his followers from using it in connection with him.” 50

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Larry Hurtado mentions three basic types, completed by James Davila to five types:53 (1) Angels-gods. The principal angels standing close to God. In various passages they are also called gods: - Metatron in 3 Henoch is called the “second God”; - the archangels Michael, Gabriel, Uriel and Rafael are superior to the other angels. They are standing close to God and are sometimes called divine.54 (2) Hypostases. Hypostasis concerns an abstract issue that is presented in the form of a person (like the ancient Greek who presented Nature as the goddess Flora). In early Judaism some attributes of God were hypostated: - the wisdom of God was presented as a God; a disjoined, independent person, Sophia; - also, the speech of God was presented as being independent, the Memra (Logos or Word)55. Anticipating the Gospel of John, Philo of Alexandria calls the Logos: deuteros theos, the Second God. (3) Patriarchs. In early Judaism patriarchs are glorified in superhuman positions - Henoch, Moses, and Jacob, - in 2 Enoch, Adam is venerated (the Adam of before the Fall) above all people and above all angels. 53 Hurtado, One God, One Lord, 17ff; J. Davila, Of Methodology, Monotheism and Metatron: Introductory Reflections on Divine Mediators and the Origins of the Worship of Jesus, in The Jewish Roots of Christological Monotheism: Papers from the St. Andrews Conference on the Historical Origins of the Worship of Jesus, 1998 (ed. C. Newman, J. Davila and G. Lewis; Leiden: Brill, 1999), 5. 54 Philo of Alexandria identifies these angels with the divine Logos; see J. W. van Henten, Archangel, in Dictionary of Deities and Demons in the Bible (Leiden: Brill, 1999), 80-82. 55 See however H. Strack and P. Billerbeck, Kommentar zum Neuen Testament aus Talmud und Midrasch II (München: Beck, 1924), 302-33; they deny that the Memra was understood by the Jews as hypostasis of Gods speech; against this Hurtado, One God, One Lord, 36; and also D. Boyarin, The Gospel of the Memra: Jewish Binitarianism and the Prologue to John, HThR 94 (2001): 243-84, 255: “. . . Memra is not a mere name, but an actual divine entity, or mediator.”

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In the rabbinical traditions, Adam even gets a part in the creation as partner of God.56 (4) Charismatic prophets. Early Judaism was acquainted with glorification of charismatic prophets. Thus, Flavius Josephus mentions the veneration of the prophet Theudas who is also mentioned in Acts 5:36. (5) Earthly human beings. The veneration of earthly, human beings as divine, like - the Davidic kings, - the Mosaic prophets, - the high-priests. Concerning the last category, it is worth mentioning that Philo calls the primeval prophet Moses God.57 Flavius Josephus tells the story about the meeting between Alexander the Great and the Jewish high-priest. In adoration, Alexander bows and kneels before the high-priest because, so he says: God is present in this priest.58 The idea that with the appearance of the high-priest so God appears, is also found with Philo: the high-priest is, on entering the Holy of Holies, no longer human but the Logos, the Complete and the Image of God.59 Ben Sira 50:1-11 describes how the high-priest, on leaving the Holy of Holies, still has the features of God: The high priest, Simon son of Onias, How glorious he was as he came out of the house of the curtain. When he put on his glorious robe and clothed himself in perfect splendor, when he went up to the holy altar, he made the court of the sanctuary glorious (Ben Sira 50:1.5.11). 56 See P. van der Horst, Adam, in Dictionary of Deities and Demons in the Bible: Second Extensivily Revised Edition (ed. K. van der Toorn, et al.; Leiden: Brill, 1999), 5-6. 57 Philo, De Somniis, II.189. 58 Flavius Josephus, Antiquitates Iudaicae, IX.8.5. 59 Philo, De somniis I.215; II.189, 231.

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The appearance of the high-priest is an epiphany here: one sees the glory, the doxa or kavod, of God. More difficult to place within these categories is the Son of Man. In the New Testament, the conception Son of Man is found 88 times. With one exception, it belongs to the words of Jesus and is often understood as a historical self-reference. In the LXX version of Dan 7:13 (one coming with the clouds of heaven like a son of man—hoos huiòs anthrópou), the Son of Man is equalled to God himself: he appears (parên) like the Ancient of Days—hoos palaiòs hêmeroon. Hengel quotes with consent Wilhelm Bousset who recognises in Dan 7:13 and Ps 110 traces of a pre-existent and divine Messiah.60 Without saying that Jesus or his contemporary followers were aware of this tradition, one can say that since the third century BCE at least, the identification of the Son of Man with God was not unknown to Jews in the Diaspora. The Utmost Consequence of Deification of Intermediaries The work of Margaret Barker evinces one of the most extreme conclusions about the broad attention accorded to the deification and glorification of intermediaries in early Judaism.61 She points out that the identification of Jesus with God has analogies and precedents in the deification of the Davidic king and the glorification of the high-priest. The roots of Christianity have to be found in the liturgy of the first temple, when the King underwent an apotheosis and was venerated as the Lord in the midst of his people. Barker refers to traces of this cult in many Qumran texts.62 Solomon’s ascension to the throne is described with divine airs. 1 Chr 29:20 describes how the people bow to YHWH and the king as if they were one. The veneration of two persons, in one and the same way, is expressed by using one verb. Barker points also to Ps 68:25 where God and King are one and the same person.63 From several texts,64 she reconstructs an initiation for both the King and the high60

Hengel, Studies in Early Christiology, 183-84. M. Barker, The Risen Lord: The Jesus of History as the Jesus of Faith (Edinburgh: Clark, 1996); see also her article from 1999: The High Priest, and her book, The Great High Priest: The Temple Roots of Christian Liturgy (London: T& T Clark International, 2003). 62 Barker, The Great High Priest, passim. 63 Barker, The High Priest, 95; The Great High Priest, 126, 189. 64 Pss 2:7; 89:19-27; 110:3-4 LXX; Zech 3:1-10; Exod 28:2; 4Q491.11. 61

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priest who were born in the holy of holies, it was their moment of apotheosis.65 She concludes—speculatively but not impossibly—that Jesus understood himself as the high-priest Melchizedek. The anointing of the high-priest is, according to 2 Hen 22, a symbol of apotheosis (“the oil made me… one of the glorious ones”) whereby a human being became (the Son of) God.66

The God Jesus and Monotheism If we conclude from the above that there existed a deification of intermediaries (angels, hypostases) in Judaism, and that the glorification of persons in a certain function occurred (kings, high-priests), then two questions emerge. Firstly, what this means for the consistency of early Jewish monotheism. Secondly, whether the deification and glorification of Jesus are hereby freed of their supposed Hellenistic influence. The latter is a question over and above another, namely whether Jesus’ divinity is an invention of the early community or goes back to Jesus’ self-reflection. In the second case, we do not have to assume (anymore) a Hellenistic influence. It is true that many exegetes assume that Diaspora-Judaism is more sensitive to Hellenistic influences and that Paul derived his glorification theology and Binitarian conception of God mostly from the Greek-Roman culture. The discovery of the Dead Sea Scrolls, however, teaches that these influences could have emerged out of Palestinian Judaism itself. In the meantime E. P. Sanders’ notions on the Palestinian roots of Paul’s thought are also verified as a “new perspective.”67 But we cannot go farther back than Paul, thus, Jesus’ selfreflection and the opinions of disciples who followed him during his lifetime stay out of reach. Of course, there are tradition-historical reconstructions but these are, in many cases, speculative, no matter how learned they may be.68

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Barker, The Great High Priest, 110. Barker, The High Priest, 110; The Great High Priest, 129ff. 67 See E. P. Sanders, Paul and Palestinian Judaism (London: SCM Press, 1977); J. Dunn, The Theology of Paul the Apostle (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1997) who has standardized Sanders’ vision on Paul’s Palestinian roots as “the new perspective.” 68 Hengel, Studies in Early Christology, 16ff; he suggests that Jesus’ self-reflection as Son of God is involved here. 66

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Regarding the question of glorification of divine intermediaries and the consistency of Jewish monotheism, it is evident that the New Testament knows a Binitarian (sometimes Trinitarian) notion of God. Two aspects play a role. Firstly, how should one define monotheism? And secondly, how should one fit the Binitarian conception of God within? What we have named pure monotheism in this article is called exclusive monotheism in the science of religion: next or under this god there are no other gods. The New Testament knows no exclusive monotheism. This is due to the subordinate passages. If one God could manifest himself in more figures (like Zeus being a bull or a swan), than one could keep on defending the exclusiveness of monotheism: God manifests himself one time as the Word or Logos, the other as Spirit or Pneuma, etc. However, Jesus subordinates himself to the Father and this can be seen, for example, in the Gospel of John. This abolishes the consistency and exclusiveness of monotheism: next to the Father there is another, secondary, lesser God.69 Certain interpretations of John 1:1 (the Word was God) explain divinity in this sense; it concerns a lesser God as in Philo where Logos is a deuteros theos. Herewith, however, monotheism is not yet lost to the New Testament. Next to exclusive monotheism, there is also inclusive monotheism. Such is the case when the veneration of, or the belief in, the existence of one supreme being (god) goes along with the veneration and worship of a lesser, related figure. The relation between Jesus and his Father could be an expression of this. Here we leave exegesis and arrive at the more common grounds of theological and religion-scientific definitions. The author of the Gospel of John, though called the theologian, did not want to categorise the relation between Jesus and God in a strictly theological sense. He only wanted to make this relation more explicit, maybe in imitation of Jesus himself.70 This theologically endangered monotheism was not a cause for concern for the first Chris69 See R. Roukema, De Zoon van de Allerhoogste: Over engelen en de christologie, Gereformeerd Theologisch Tijdschrift 100 (2000): 174-83. Roukema tries to identify traces of a distinction between the Highest God and YHWH in intertestamentary literature; in the New Testament Jesus is identified with this lesser YHWH; a questionable idea but again it indicates the doubt about a monotheistic Judaism en bloc. 70 See M. Hengel, The Johannine Question (Philadelphia: Trinity Press International, 1989); Hengel centres the Johannine community around John, an eyewitness of the first hour who let the gospel be written.

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tian communities nor for the Jewish communities in the second and third century BCE, who considered anointed kings and high-priests as divine. In praxis—devotionally and liturgically—it was no problem. Additionally, there is a third variety of monotheism. C. FletcherLouis points to a cluster of passages (among which Ben Sira, 3 Henoch and a number of other pseudo-epigraphic texts like The Life of Adam and Eve) in which pre-Christian Jews venerate and glorify human beings as gods or Adonai: the high-priest, the Adam of before the Fall and the eschatological Son of Man.71 Fletcher-Louis regards the worshipping of these figures as an imago dei-theology. Adam is the perfect human. The case wherein Josephus lets Alexander the Great worship the Jewish high-priest, is another example. Likewise, the Christ-hymns in Phil 2:6-11 and Col 1:15-20 lean heavily on this imago dei-theology. The starting point of this variety of inclusive monotheism stays at one God, but human beings in his image can become so essentially similar to him (homoousious) that they are venerated.

Conclusion: The End of the Non-Messianic Dogmatics In this article I evaluated arguments against the thesis that the high Christological titles of Jesus entered the New Testament through the influences of Diaspora Judaism or Greek-Roman culture. The deification of intermediaries and mediators—hypostases, principal angels, patriarchs, prophets, kings, high priests—as well as the identification of the Son of Man with God, make us conclude that Jewish monotheism did not exclude the glorification and veneration of other beings than God. The discussion as to whether there is an underlying devotional practice and cult behind this deification72 does not impede the position that early Jewish monotheism did not have the pure form in which no exceptions could be made. Cumulatively, the arguments of monolatry and the historical development of the one God YHWH from 71

C. Fletcher-Louis, The Worship of Divine Humanity as God’s Image,” in The Jewish Roots of Christological Monotheism: Papers from the St. Andrews Conference on the Historical Origins of the Worship of Jesus, 1998 (ed. C. Newman, J. Davila and G. Lewis; Leiden: Brill, 1999), 112-131. 72 Hurtado denies this, One God, One Lord, 12: . . . the early Christians’ veneration of Jesus . . . is distinctive; against this Barker, The High Priest, 95, 104; she accepts the worship and veneration of the King as well as the high priest.

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the Canaanitic gods, and the loss of his female partner Ashera, oblige us to take leave of a number of theses of the non-messianic dogmatics of the twentieth century. Most especially so, the idea that the conception of a Binitarian or Trinitarian God is a Greek influence from the late first century—its roots are in early Judaism itself. Another idea one has to abandon is that the veneration of Jesus as the deified Messiah in the New Testament was un-Jewish. In early Judaism more beings were worshipped as God than only YHWH. The end of the twentieth century brings along the end of non-messianic dogmatics (Hengel). Recent research reveals that Jesus himself could very well have seen himself as the Messiah. The Dead Sea Scrolls portray several images of the Messiah—charismatic, priestly, and even divine. Before their discovery in the caves of Qumran we knew the combination of these images only from the New Testament. The idea that they are not Jewish and an invention of Christians after Jesus’ death, thus, should be abandoned. The same applies to the allegedly impossible, so-called un-Jewish identification of the Messiah figure with God. The identification with God is, besides the Dead Sea Scrolls, alluded to in the pseudo-epigraphic, inter-testamentary literature of the first centuries around the beginning of our era, as well as in the Septuagint-tradition of the Book Daniel. Still, there is a clear difference between, on the one hand, the categories of beings that were deified as pointed out by Hurtado and Davila, and on the other hand, Jesus of Nazareth. The deified and glorified beings from early Judaism are beings in which God is so explicitly present that their own identity falls away. They represent God not as individual persons, but in their professional or mythical appearance. It is not Simon ben Osia who is venerated as Simon ben Osia, but only in his appearance as high-priest. It is not David venerated as David, but as King, as Anointed of God; that is to say: not a person in his being, but in his professional being. Through their profession or function (Henoch as the Son of Man, Adam as Assistant of creation), they lose their individuality. The venerators do not see this or that high-priest nor this or that prophet, they see God represented in them. This overshadows their personal or mythical appearance completely. With Jesus of Nazareth, the case is different. His personal history coincides with his divine presence. The authors of the New Testament, notably Mark, John and Paul identify him completely with God, but at the same time, he remains, also completely, Jesus of Nazareth. That is

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to say a man with a human face and a personal history. A man who has known grief, pain, joy and love, doubt and despair, and all those other emotions and qualities that we cannot or do not easily identify with God because they belong to human beings. The authors of the New Testament have never spirited off Jesus’ humanity. In the discussion about his divinity, this may never be forgotten. The reverse is that in the discussion about his humanity, one should remember that groups of Jews during the last centuries of the Second Temple Period held an inclusive monotheism, wherein there was room for deification and glorification of human beings. This fact offers space to a divine and messianic understanding of Jesus of Nazareth (1) before his death and (2) in Palestine.

CHAPTER FOUR

MONOTHEISTIC TO A CERTAIN EXTENT THE ‘GOOD NEIGHBOURS’ OF GOD IN IRELAND1 Jacqueline Borsje (University of Amsterdam & University of Ulster)

Introduction In a labourers’ cottage in County Tipperary, Ireland, a young woman lies ill in bed. The doctor has diagnosed her as suffering from nervous excitement and a mild bronchitis. Her husband, however, sees things differently. This sick woman is not his wife, he believes, but a changeling. The fairies have taken his wife and he is now stuck with one of them.2 Michael Cleary, the husband, is getting more and more enraged and desperate. He submits Bridget Cleary to all kinds of ritual and treatment in order to retrieve his wife. In the end, he burns her. Two days later, on a Sunday night, he goes to the fairy fort (a prehistoric ringfort), because he expects to see his wife there, riding a grey horse. If he is able to cut the cords with which she is tied to the saddle, and manages to hold on to her, then he believes he will have her back. We are writing about the year 1895.3 Modern Roman Catholicism officially supplies the sources for the worldview of the nineteenth-century Irish. In spite of this, fairy belief appears to be an important seg1 This is a revised and extended version of my “De goede buren van God: Verschillende vormen van inculturatie van het volk van de elfenheuvels in het middeleeuwse Ierse christendom,” in Veelkleurig christendom: Contextualisatie in Noord, Zuid, Oost en West, Religieus pluralisme en multiculturaliteit 3 (ed. C. van den Burg et al.; Zoetermeer: Meinema, 2003), 197–210. An earlier version of this revised version was read at the Twelfth International Congress of Celtic Studies, University of Wales, Aberystwyth, 24–30 August 2003. I am indebted to Aidan Breen, Proinsias Mac Cana (†), Jan Platvoet, Gregory Toner and especially to John Carey for their valuable comments on this earlier version. I also thank the participants of the Congress and the colleagues of the research group “The Boundaries of Monotheism” for their various suggestions. 2 When talking about fairies or elves (or, euphemistically, “the good people” or “the good neighbours”), we should not think of Walt Disney’s Tinkerbell, but should rather associate them with Goethe’s Erlkönig (king of the elves). 3 Angela Bourke, The burning of Bridget Cleary: A true story (London: Pimlico, 1999), passim.

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ment in that worldview. In fact, Christian and fairy belief exist side by side and also interact. In order to understand what exactly happened with regard to the violent death of Bridget Cleary, knowledge about the Christian symbolic universe will not suffice: specific information about the Irish cultural-historical context is needed. I return to Bridget at the end of this contribution; first, I take you to early medieval Ireland. Who were or are the fairies and how did they survive sixteen centuries of Christianity? (The English word “fairy”4 was, incidentally, not used in medieval Ireland: it was introduced into Ireland by English colonisation in order to refer to the áes síde, “the people of the hollow hills” or “the people of the Otherworld.”5) The technique of writing manuscripts was introduced in Ireland along with Christianity. As they were produced in monasteries, these documents owe their existence to Christian efforts, even though some of the narrative material has roots in the pre-Christian past. There are, however, no narrative texts that reflect the pre-Christian Irish view of the world in a pristine way.6 From an emic point of view,7 Christianity is a monotheistic religion—a religion which acknowledges only one God.8 Yet the Dictionary of Deities and Demons in the Bible is an impressive volume of almost 1000 pages,9 describing numerous supernatural beings in which Israel and the surrounding peoples believed. The presence of other supernaturals than God within the Christian religion is often explained as a difference between official and popular religion: ‘popular religion’ is thus understood as an amalgam of pre-Christian remnants and nonChristian accretions, which are not essentially part of the ‘real’ religion.10 With so many supernaturals in the Bible, the official sacred 4 For more about the semantics of “fairy,” see Noel Williams, “The Semantics of the Word Fairy: Making Meaning Out of Thin Air” in The Good People: New Fairylore Essays (ed. P. Narváez; New York: Garland Publishing, 1991), 457–78. 5 On the semantics of síd, see Eric Hamp, “Varia X: Irish síd ‘tumulus’ and Irish síd ‘peace,’” Études Celtiques 19 (1982): 141; Tomás Ó Cathasaigh, “The semantics of ‘síd,’” Éigse 17 (1977–79) 137–55; Patrick Sims-Williams, “Some Celtic Otherworld Terms,” in Celtic Language, Celtic Culture: A Festschrift for Eric P. Hamp (ed. A. T. E. Matonis and D. F. Melia; Van Nuys, Calif.: Ford & Bailie, 1990), 57–81. 6 See, e.g., Tomás Ó Cathasaigh, “Pagan survivals: the evidence of early Irish narrative,” in Irland und Europa: Die Kirche im Frühmittelalter/ Ireland and Europe: The Early Church (ed. P. Ní Chatháin and M. Richter; Stuttgart: Klett-Cotta, 1984), 291–307. 7 An emic point of view means from an internal standpoint, i.e. that of the believers or adherents to a religion or culture. In this case, this means from a Christian perspective.

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book of Christianity, one can wonder however whether this distinction is not sometimes misleading, and how monotheistic Christianity in its many national contexts really is. It should be noted that these observations are made from an etic point of view.11 Looking, for instance, at one of the earliest Irish Christian documents—Saint Patrick’s Confessio—I note that God, Jesus Christ, the Holy Spirit, Satan, angels and demons are mentioned.12 Again, from an etic point of view, we could speak of a Christian ‘pantheon,’13 which we also find elsewhere in the early Christian world. Patrick, moreover, hints at other supernaturals: those that belong to the pre-Christian religion of the Irish. The Irish used to venerate idola et inmunda, “idols and unclean things,” he writes in his Confessio (§41), until they became the people of God. Just as the Bible is a witness to unorthodox supernaturals, so is early Irish literature. These supernatural beings may be alien to Christian religion, but have nevertheless found a place in Ireland’s literary heritage. Early Irish narratives describe them as influencing events—sometimes 8 I am aware that orthographically “a God” (as a generic term) is usually not written with a capital G; this way of capitalising has been reserved for the Gods of monotheistic religions, such as Judaism, Christianity and Islam. The word God is in those cases taken as a proper name and is not preceded by an article. In this way, though, a hierarchical message is conveyed by the spelling, according to which Gods in monotheistic religions are perceived to be superior to Gods in polytheistic religions. More bluntly, these latter Gods and Goddesses are often called idols or false deities. Because I do not want to describe the supernatural beings central to this paper in this pejorative way, I will capitalise the terms God and Gods. When I use “idols” or similar terms, this does not reflect my value judgement but represents translations from my sources, in which the Gods of others are considered to be false Gods. 9 Karel van der Toorn, Bob Becking and Pieter W. van der Horst, eds., Dictionary of Deities and Demons in the Bible (Leiden: Brill, 1995), extensively revised in 1999; henceforth DDD. The precise number is 960 pages. 10 This sentence applies of course to Judaism as well: “Jewish” can equally well be read for “Christian” above. 11 An etic point of view means from an external standpoint; that is, from the perspective of religious studies and scholars of religious phenomena. 12 Ludwig Bieler, ed., Libri epistolarum Sancti Patricii episcopi: Introduction, text and commentary (Dublin: Royal Irish Academy, 1993); D. R. Howlett, ed. and trans., Liber Epistolarum Sancti Patricii episcopi: The Book of Letters of Saint Patrick the Bishop (Blackrock: Four Courts Press, 1994). Saint Patrick is credited with Ireland’s conversion to Christianity in the fifth century and is, therefore, known as “the apostle of the Irish.” 13 I use inverted commas, because, strictly speaking, angels, devils and demons are of a different category than deities. Nevertheless, the enumeration represents an impressive collection of supernaturals for a monotheistic belief system.

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side by side with God, sometimes instead of God, and sometimes under God’s supervision. This contribution will offer some of the medieval and modern descriptions and evaluations of the specific class of supernaturals known as the áes síde, or, popularly, the “fairies.” Central will be the question of how to define these beings—are they the pre-Christian Gods of the Irish14 and should we, therefore, see Irish Christianity as a type of inclusive monotheism?15

Saint Patrick as ‘Apparition’ The Irish venerated idola et inmunda, according to Saint Patrick. Due to the influence of monotheistic scholars, idola came to mean “idols,” but the primary meaning of idolum is “image, form, spectre, apparition, ghost.”16 We will see that equivalent terms have been used to refer to Irish supernaturals. Our starting point is an anecdote from the Collectanea, a collection of local traditions about Saint Patrick composed at the end of the seventh century by Bishop Tírechán.17 There is only one manuscript version of the Collectanea extant: the text has been preserved in the Book of Armagh, a codex written circa 807 by a scribe named Ferdomnach. We are told that Saint Patrick and his retinue are sitting down by a well, when two daughters of Loíguire, king of Ireland, come to wash themselves. They are the fair-haired Ethne (Ethne alba) and the red-haired

14 For an excellent study into this matter, see John Carey, “The Baptism of the Gods,” in his Single Ray of the Sun: Religious Speculation in Early Ireland (Andover: Celtic Studies Publications, 1999), 1–38. 15 “Inclusive monotheism” can be defined as the belief in a Creator God together with belief in invisible beings of various natures, from deities to medicine. The Creator God is qualitatively different from the other Gods and invisible beings, and yet there is a fluid connection between this God and all the other beings (see J. G. Platvoet, “De eigenheid van godsdiensten van volken zonder schrift,” in Het kosmisch patroon: Het vele en het ene in de godsdiensten (ed. T. Chowdhuri, W. Claessens and W. Logister; Tilburg: Tilburg University Press, 1989), 21–48: 36). 16 The same is true of Greek ei[dwlon, which is used for “idol” in the Septuagint. 17 Ludwig Bieler, ed. and trans., The Patrician texts in the Book of Armagh (Dublin: Dublin Institute for Advanced Studies, 1979), 124–63.

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Fedelm (Fedelm rufa).18 Tírechán describes the reaction of the two sisters when they see the clerics as follows: Et quo cumque essent aut qua cumque forma aut qua cumque plebe aut qua cumque regione non cognouerunt, sed illos uiros side aut deorum terrenorum aut fantassiam estimauerunt. . .19 And they [the daughters of the king] did not know from which place or of which shape or from which people or from which region they [Patrick cum suis] were, but they thought that they were men of the síd or of the terrestrial Gods or an apparition. . .20

Presumably it is the differences in clothes, haircut and language21 that give rise to the confusion that the young women experience when they consider the origin of the strangers. It is remarkable, though, that they arrive at an identification of them as supernatural beings.22 It is worthwhile to pay more attention to several details in this quotation. The king’s daughters’ first guess is that they see men of the síd. A síd is a hill, a megalithic tumulus or pre-Celtic grave-hill. Its inhabitants look like human beings but they are different. In general, they are superior to humanity: they live longer or are even immortal; they are more beautiful and possess supernatural powers. Time passes at a different pace in the Otherworld, compared with human time. It is a kind of par-

18 See Joseph Falaky Nagy, “Myth and Legendum in Medieval and Modern Ireland,” in Myth: A New Symposium (ed. G. Schrempp & W. Hansen; Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2002), 124–38, for a different and fascinating reading of this anecdote, in which the king’s daughters are compared with women of the síd. 19 Bieler, Patrician texts, 142. 20 My translation is based on Bieler’s. Translations in this article are mine, unless stated otherwise. 21 The Irish translation of this anecdote in Vita Tripartita describes how the girls wonder about the shape (delb) of the clerics, their white garments and books (Kathleen Mulchrone, ed., Bethu Phátraic: The Tripartite Life of Patrick (Dublin: Royal Irish Academy, 1939), 60–63; Whitley Stokes, ed. and trans., The Tripartite Life of Patrick with other documents relating to that saint (London: Eyre & Spottiswoode, 1887), I, 100–01. Vita Tripartita is dated to c. 900; it was revised in the eleventh century (G. Mac Eoin, “The Dating of Middle Irish Texts,” Proceedings of the British Academy 68 (1982): 109–37: 115, but see also David N. Dumville, “The dating of the Tripartite Life of St Patrick,” in David N. Dumville et al., Saint Patrick, A. D. 4931993 (Woodbridge: the Boydell Press, 1993), 255–58.

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allel universe, which is located in, beneath, or behind our world. Entrances to that Otherworld are through a síd, water, a mist or fog. The second guess of the king’s daughters is that they see terrestrial Gods. According to Whitley Stokes and John Gwynn, the first and second guesses correspond with each other: “Gods of the earth” would be synonymous with “men of the síd.”23 Maartje Draak has pointed out that the third possibility—an apparition or a phantom—is forgotten in this interpretation.24 The scribe of the Book of Armagh has indicated the threefold interpretation explicitly, she says, by putting every guess 22 There is a variant version of the identification in our anecdote in the later Vita Sancti Abbani, caput xiii (Charles Plummer, ed., Vitae Sanctorum Hiberniae I (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1910), 10–12, dated to the beginning of the thirteenth century; Richard Sharpe, Medieval Irish Saints’ Lives: An introduction to Vitae Sanctorum Hiberniae (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1991), 353, 363). Saint Abbán and a group of clerics arrive in Britain, where people are astonished about their clothes and language (de habitu et loquela eorum). Some citizens take them to be phantoms (fantasmata); according to others, they are men from a faraway land (homines de terra longinqua; Plummer, Vitae Sanctorum Hiberniae, 11). The parallel with our anecdote holds even further: they are led before the king, who questions them about their origin, about the nature of their God and about their opinion of the British Gods. A variant Latin version refers to their different clothes, gestures and language (William W. Heist, ed., Vitae Sanctorum Hiberniae ex codice olim Salmanticensi nunc Bruxellensi (Bruxelles: Société des Bollandistes, 1965), 260–61). The Irish version locates this event in Padua and does not refer to the identification of them as phantoms (Charles Plummer, ed. and trans., Bethada Náem nÉrenn: Lives of Irish Saints (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1922), I: 5, II: 4–5). Jesus Christ, incidentally, is also taken to be a phantom (fantasma), in the narrative where he is described as walking on the sea (Matt 14:26; Mark 6:49). My references to the Bible are to the Vulgate, because this was the version of the Bible mostly used in medieval Ireland. 23 Stokes (Tripartite Life, II, 315) writes in a footnote at aut deorum terrenorum: ‘firu síde, “males of the síde,” or terrestrial gods, corresponding perhaps with the qeoi; cqovnioi or Inferi’. Stokes incidentally reproduces the line-by-line layout of the Book of Armagh in his edition. Gwynn writes in Liber Ardmachanus (Dublin: Hodges, Figgis & co. and London: Williams & Norgate, 1913), cclxxxv: “uiros side: Side were believed to be male elves, terrestrial deities.” He appears to (mis-) quote Stokes. Elves were also believed to be female; the male element is represented by Latin viros. Compare furthermore Edmund Hogan, The Latin Lives of the Saints as Aids towards the Translation of Irish Texts and the Production of an Irish Dictionary, Todd Lecture Series 5 (Dublin: Royal Irish Academy, 1894), 25, 137, who equates fir shíthe with dii terreni. 24 Maartje Draak, “Áes síde. Een aspect van het bovennatuurlijke in de Ierse letterkunde,” in her Schimmen van het wester-eiland: Verkenningen in de Keltische traditie van het oude Ierland (Amsterdam: Meulenhoff, 1977), 25–42, 173–77: 27– 28. In 1949, Maartje Draak gave this public lecture on the áes síde on the occasion of her appointment as lector in Celtic Language and Literature at the University of Amsterdam. She furthermore stated that James F. Kenney also omitted the third identification in his standard work The sources for the early history of Ireland: ecclesiastical: An introduction and guide (New York: Columbia University Press, 1929), 340, n159.

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on a new line.25 She concludes that the identification of the áes síde with the Gods is unjustified.

Elves, Gods and Apparitions: Overlaps Maartje Draak carefully studied the text, but is she right in stating that three distinct categories are mentioned? As scholars, we strive to work with sharply defined concepts, but medieval Irish texts are sometimes too unruly for our classification systems. In the present case, it can be shown that either of the two other categories is applicable to the áes síde as well. We read, for example, in The Hymn of Fiacc, one of the earliest hymns in the Irish language:26 For tūaith Hérenn bái temel • tūatha adortais síde:27 ní creitset in fírdeacht • inna Trindōte fíre.28 On the folk of Ireland there was darkness: the peoples used to worship síde: they believed not the true Godhead of the true Trinity.29

The poem was glossed in the eleventh century: teimel, “darkness,” is explained as the worship of ídal, “idols,” and síthaige, “dwellers in a síd.”30 The áes síde are here the objects of veneration and thus the

25 See page 11 (fol. 12) of the facsimile: Book of Armagh: The Patrician Documents, introduced by Edward Gwynn (Dublin: The Irish Manuscripts Commission, 1937). 26 This hymn is dated to the eighth century; it may have undergone some interpolations in the ninth century (Kenney, Sources, 340). 27 The form “síde” stems from the editor: T (= Manuscript E. 42, TCD) reads sidi; F (= Franciscan Convent, Dublin) reads ídla, “idols.” Both manuscripts are dated to the end of the eleventh or the twelfth century; the latter may be somewhat later than the former (Whitley Stokes and John Strachan, ed., Thesaurus Palaeohibernicus (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1901–1903), Vol. II, xxxvi). 28 Stokes and Strachan, Thesaurus Palaeohibernicus, II, 317. 29 Ibid. 30 To be precise: teimel is explained in Manuscript T as the worship of ídal, “idols,” and in Manuscript F as the worship of ídal, síthaige, “dwellers in a síd,” and then an illegible term follows, starting with a. . . (Stokes and Strachan, Thesaurus Palaeohibernicus, II, 317.37–38). Could it be that the manuscript read arrachta, “idols, idolatrous images; apparitions, spectres, monsters,” here?

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equivalent of the Trinity. The terms “idols” and “Gods” are obviously two sides of the same coin: the supernaturals of “others” are “idols;” those of “ourselves” are “Gods.” The third guess of the royal females is that they see an apparition. An Irish derivation of Latin fantasia31 is fantais, “ghost, phantom.” This word occurs in the Irish Life of Patrick, also known as Vita Tripartita. It is interesting at this stage to look at how the later versions of our anecdote have treated the three categories. I repeat the source text and quote the later variant versions afterwards. All versions consist of three elements: a description of the girls wondering at what they are seeing; their guesses about the identity, and their questions about the origin of Saint Patrick and his company.32 Collectanea Et quo cumque essent aut qua cumque forma aut qua cumque plebe aut qua cumque regione non cognouerunt, sed illos uiros side aut deorum terrenorum aut fantassiam estimauerunt, et dixerunt filiae illis: “Ubi uos sitis et unde uenistis?”33 And they did not know from which place or of which shape or from which people or from which region they were, but they thought that they were men of the síd or of the terrestrial Gods or an apparition and the girls said to them: “Whence would you be and whence have you come?” 31

In order to find Hiberno-Latin examples of fantasia and fantasma, I consulted the Royal Irish Academy Archive of Celtic-Latin Literature: First (Preliminary) CDROM Edition (ACLL-1), compiled by Anthony Harvey, Kieran Devine and Francis J. Smith (Turnhout: Brepols, 1994). 32 As Aidan Breen kindly pointed out to me, it is possible that the Vetus Latina text of the Book of Jonah 1:8–9 may have served as a model for this part of the text, as it reads: Unde venis, et quo vadis? Et ex qua regione es, et ex quo populo es tu? Et dixit ad eos: Servus Domini ego sum, et Deum caeli ego colo qui fecit mare et aridam. The question concerning where the man of God (the prophet Jonah) comes from and whither he goes is voiced by sailors who have taken him on board. Jonah’s reply about being a servant of God, who is God of heaven and Creator of sea and earth indeed bears reminiscence of Saint Patrick’s hymnal statement. (For the use of the Old Latin translation in Irish and Welsh liturgy, see Aidan Breen, “The liturgical materials in Ms Oxford, Bodleian Library, Auct.F.4./32,” Archiv für Liturgiewissenschaft 34 (1992): 121–53: 148.) It has also been argued that questions of this structure are a traditional part of descriptions of meetings between supernatural and human beings (see Proinsias Mac Cana, “On the ‘Prehistory’ of Immram Brain,” Ériu 26 (1975): 33–52: 38–40; Carey, “Baptism,” 28). 33 Bieler, Patrician texts, 142.

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Vita Tripartita Ro ingantaigset deilb inna cléirech. Doruimenatar bádis fir shíthe nó fantaissi. Imcomaircet scéla do Patraic: “Cía can duib 7 can dodechobair? Inn a síthib in do déib dúib?”34 And they wondered at the shape of the clerics, and thought that they were men of the elves or apparitions. They asked tidings of Patrick: “Whence are ye, and whence have you come? Are ye of the elves or of the gods?”35

Vita Quarta Et cum puellae eos non cognoscerent eorumque inusitatum habitum ualde mirarentur, deos esse estimabant. Quapropter interrogauerunt dicentes: “Qui estis uos et unde uenistis?”36 And when the girls did not know them and wondered exceedingly at their unusual appearance, they thought that they were Gods. On which account they asked, saying: “Who are you and whence have you come?”

Vita Tertia Et non cognouerunt unde essent aut qualem habitum haberent. Putabant enim quod fantasmata essent uel de uiris side. Et interrogauerunt eos dicentes: “Unde estis? Et ubi semper habitatis?”37 And they did not know whence they were or what kind of appearance they had. They supposed indeed that they were apparitions or from the men of the síd. And they asked them, saying: “Whence are you? And where do you always dwell?” 34

Mulchrone, Bethu Phátraic, 61. Stokes, Tripartite Life, 101. “Or” is absent in the Irish text; literally they ask: “are you from the síde, are you from the Gods?” 36 Ludwig Bieler, Four Latin Lives of St. Patrick: Colgan’s Vita Secunda, Quarta, Tertia, and Quinta, Scriptores Latini Hiberniae 8 (Dublin: Dublin Institute for Advanced Studies, 1971), 100. Vita Quarta is dated between the first half of the eighth and the eleventh century (ibid. 12). 37 Bieler, Four Latin Lives, 152. Vita Tertia is dated between c. 800 and c. 1130 (ibid. 26). 35

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Vita Auctore Probo Sed unde essent aut de qua plebe uel regione non cognouerunt aestimantes eos deorum terrenorum sacerdotes aut phantasiam esse. Quapropter interrogauerunt eos dicentes: “Vnde estis et unde uenistis?”38 But whence they were or from which people or region they did not know, thinking that they were priests of the terrestrial Gods or an apparition. On which account they asked them, saying: “Whence are you and whence have you come?”

It is only in the Irish text that we find the three terms from the Collectanea, but they are differently arranged. Two pairs of guesses are given: first, men of the síd or apparition and, second, men of the síd, the Gods. Vita Quarta brings the identification back to a single category: the Gods. Fantasia is replaced by a synonym in Vita Tertia: fantasmata, “apparitions, spectres, phantoms.” This version has retained the combination of Latin and Irish in its de viris síde. Probus, who probably did not know Irish, omitted the men of the síd. He changed the second identification into “priests of the terrestrial Gods,” and retained Tírechán’s fantasia. Fantaisi in Vita Tripartita is glossed spirait39 in Dublin, Trinity College, Manuscript H.3.18.40 It is in this sense of “spirits, ghosts” that we find most of the early Irish examples of fantais when referring to a supernatural being.41 There is no further overlap between the terms 38 Bieler, Four Latin Lives, 210; the text is dated between the ninth to the eleventh or twelfth century; Probus’s identity is uncertain (ibid. 40). 39 Spirut (sg.) means “incorporeal being, angel; ghost, apparition; spirit, soul.” 40 Doruimenatar (. . .) bedís fir sithi no fantaisi (.i. spírait). Imchomaircet scela do Pátraic cia can dúib 7 can dodechobair (. . .), inn a sithib, in do deib dúib?, “They thought they were men of the elves or apparitions [that is: ghosts]. They ask tidings of Patrick: ‘Whence are ye, and whence have ye come? Are ye out of the elfmounds or of the gods?’”(W. Stokes, “Glossed Extracts from the Tripartite Life of S. Patrick. (H.3.18, 520–528),” Archiv für celtische Lexicographie 3 (1907): 8–38: 20– 21). 41 See, for instance, the Irish translation of Lucan’s Civil War (J. D. Duff, ed. and trans., Lucan: The Civil War (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1928), I.570, VII.179): twice fantais is used—together with other terms—to translate Latin umbra, “shade, ghost” (Whitley Stokes, ed. and trans., “In Cath Catharda: The Civil War of the Romans: An Irish Version of Lucan’s Pharsalia,” in Irische Texte (ed. W. Stokes and E. Windisch; Leipzig: Hirzel, 1909), Vol. IV.2, ll. 898, 4802). A third occurrence (at line 4357) does not have a parallel in the Latin source text. It is likely that this instance should be translated “ghosts” as well: it is part of the multiform supernatural battle host that is said to hover in the air before and during battle. (For more about this supernatural battle host, see my “Omens, ordeals and oracles: On demons and weapons in early Irish texts,” Peritia: Journal of the Medieval Academy of Ireland 13 (1999): 224–48 and the literature there cited.)

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fantais and áes síde, but there are several examples in which synonyms of fantais, such as síabair, “a spectre, a phantom, a supernatural being,” and taidbsiu in the sense of “vision, dream, phantasm; ghost, apparition, image,”42 are applied to the people of the síd. For instance, the last sentence of the following colophon at the end of the tale entitled The wasting sickness of Cú Chulainn equates the áes síde with “apparitions” (using a dative plural form of taidbsiu): Conid taibsiu aidmillti do Choin Chulaind la háes sídi sin. Ar ba mór in chumachta demnach ria cretim, 7 ba hé a méit co cathaigtis co corptha na demna frisna doínib 7 co taisféntais aíbniusa 7 díamairi dóib, amal no betis co marthanach. Is amlaid no creteá dóib. Conid frisna taidbsib sin atberat na hanéolaig síde 7 áes síde.43 That is the vision of destruction [shown] to Cú Chulainn by the people (áes) of the hollow hill(s) (síde). For the demonic power was great before the faith, and it was so great that the demons used to fight bodily with the human beings and they used to show pleasures and secret places to them, as if they were permanent. It is thus that they used to be believed in. So that it is those apparitions that the ignorant call síde and áes síde.

There is a considerable number of terms that refer to supernatural beings in early Irish texts. The meaning of each term needs to be studied and because of the overlaps, this is not an easy task. What is clear, though, is that these beings were seen in different ways. The abovequoted colophon not only calls the áes síde “apparitions” but also “demons.” This was one of the ways in which supernatural beings were

42

Irish taidbsiu and tadbás, “vision, hallucination, apparition, image,” are equivalents of Latin fantasma. It is glossed (Hoc fantassma. tadhbais; W. Stokes, Irish Glosses (Dublin: Archaeological and Celtic Society, 1860), 27, nr 846) and translated as such in Vita Sancti Abbani, caput xl (in campo, qui in scotice dicitur Magh na Taibhse, latine uero fantasmatum campus; Charles Plummer, Vitae Sanctorum Hiberniae, I, 26). 43 Myles Dillon, Serglige Con Culainn (Dublin: Dublin Institute for Advanced Studies, 1953), 29, §49. The narrative was probably first written in the ninth century and revised in the eleventh. This colophon belongs to the eleventh-century revision (see John Carey, “The uses of tradition in Serglige Con Culainn,” in Ulidia (ed. J. P. Mallory and G. Stockman; Belfast: December Publications, 1994), 77–84: 77–78). For a translation into English, see Myles Dillon, “The wasting sickness of Cú Chulainn,” Scottish Gaelic Studies 7 (1953): 47–88; and into Dutch, see Marianne Harbers, De slopende slaap van Cú Chulainn (Amsterdam: Tabula, 1983).

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given a place within the Christian symbolic universe. We will now briefly look at the different evaluations of the supernaturals in medieval Irish literature.44

From Demonic to Divine Another, broadly contemporary,45 colophon expresses a contrasting view. According to the colophon quoted above, the ignorant call the (demonic) apparitions áes síde; according to the second colophon, the learned say that these apparitions are divine messengers: Acht adberaid na hecnaidi cach uair notaisbenta taibsi ingnad dona righflathaibh anall—amal adfaid in Scal do Chund, 7 amal tarfas Tír Thairngiri do Cormac—, conidh timtirecht diada ticedh fan samla sin, 7 conach timthirecht deamnach. Aingil immorro dos-ficed da chobair, ar is firindi aignidh dia lentais, air is timna Rechta rofoghnamh doibh.46 The wise declare that whenever any strange apparition was revealed of old to the royal lords,—as the ghost appeared to Conn, and as the Land of Promise was shewn to Cormac,—it was a divine ministration that used to come in that wise, and not a demoniacal ministration. Angels, moreover, would come and help them, for they followed Natural Truth, and they served the commandment of the Law.47

The colophon gives two concrete examples of such an apparition (Irish taidbsiu). First, we read of a scál, which may mean both “a supernatural being” and “a phantom” in this context. This apparition reveals the identity of the future rulers to King Conn. The second example refers to the Otherworld, which in this case is the apparition (taidbsiu), which was shown (tarfas) to King Cormac. Taidbsiu and tarfas derive from the same verb: do-adbat, “shows, displays; demonstrates; appears (of a

44 See also John Carey, “Uses of Tradition;” idem, “Baptism,” 12–38; Pádraig Ó Néill, “The Latin colophon to the ‘Táin Bó Cúailnge’ in the Book of Leinster: A critical view of Old Irish literature,” Celtica 23 (1999): 269–75. 45 The colophon is late Middle Irish (see John Carey, “The testimony of the dead,” Éigse 26 (1992): 1–12: 1, 7). 46 Whitley Stokes, ed. and trans., “The Irish Ordeals, Cormac’s Adventure in the Land of Promise, and the Decision as to Cormac’s Sword,” in Irische Texte III.1 (ed. W. Stokes and E. Windisch; Leipzig: Hirzel, 1891), 183–229: 202, §80. 47 Ibid. 220–21.

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vision, apparition, or other sight).” The supernatural person, who reveals the Otherworld to the king, is Manannán mac Lir, King of the Land of Promise.48 These two examples are further instances not only of overlaps between supernatural categories but also of attempts to give supernatural beings a place in an inclusive monotheistic view of the world. In the case of Lug, the text that the colophon refers to seems to be a witness to a struggle as to how to define him, for there is some internal contradiction. This text—Baile in Scáil “The Vision of the Scál”—introduces Lug as a scál (§6), but then lets the apparition speak, saying that he is not a scál. He identifies himself as Lug son of Ethniu, descendant of Adam, and adds that he has died (§7).49 Lug is, however, also known elsewhere in the literary tradition as belonging to the supernatural inhabitants of Ireland (the Túatha Dé Danann) and as the supernatural father of Cú Chulainn. Lug is thus identified as a ghost, a deceased human being, a supernatural being, perhaps even a God. Manannán, alluded to in the second colophon, is elsewhere identified as the God of the Sea.50 This is not a contradiction with the title “King of the Land of Promise.” The Land of Promise is one of the designations for the Otherworld, sometimes located across or under the sea. The sea itself may even be identified with the Otherworld in some cases: in yet another text, Manannán drives a chariot across the sea and says that to him the sea is a plain full of flowers.51 The colophon describes Lug and Manannán as having an angelic function, in that they are divine messengers, but we cannot simply identify them as angels, for the last sentence tells us that, in addition to these

48

Stokes, “Irish ordeals,” 198, 216. See Kuno Meyer, “Baile in Scáil,” Zeitschrift für celtische Philologie 3 (1901): 457–66; “Der Anfang von Baile in Scáil,” Zeitschrift für celtische Philologie 13 (1921): 371–82. A new edition and translation was published after the submission of this contribution. See now: Kevin Murray, Baile in Scáil: ´The Phantom’s Frenzy’ (London: The Irish Texts Society, 2004). 50 See, for instance, Kuno Meyer, “Sanas Cormaic: An Old-Irish Glossary,” in Anecdota from Irish Manuscripts IV (1912): 78, nr. 896; translated by John O’Donovan and Whitley Stokes, Sanas Chormaic: Cormac’s Glossary (Calcutta: Irish Archaeological and Celtic Society, 1868), 114. 51 See the Old Irish Voyage of Bran, edited and translated by Séamus Mac Mathúna, Immram Brain: Bran’s Journey to the Land of the Women (Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1985), 33–58. 49

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messengers, angels came to help the pre-Christian Irish.52 Both Lug and Manannán may have originally been seen as Gods, but their identification in this text fits within the demands of Christian (inclusive) monotheism in that they are called a ghost of a descendant of Adam and a king respectively. The idea that the inhabitants of the Otherworld can utter divine revelations to human beings is also found in narratives. In the Old Irish Adventurous Journey of Connlae a woman from the síd invites the king’s son Connlae to go with her to the Lands of the Living, a place without old age, death and sin.53 “Lands of the Living” is another designation for the Otherworld. Interesting in the light of our Patrick anecdote is the mention of her strange clothes (§1).54 This woman predicts the advent of Saint Patrick, whom she calls the righteous man of the Great High King (§11). We see here an immortal, eternally young woman from a síd, who prophesies about the future and who speaks well of Christianity. The reference to God as a “high king” is especially interesting.55 The high king was considered to be king over all Ireland, whereas local kings were contemporaneously governing the various Irish peoples (túatha). It is as if she acknowledges the God of the Chris52 John Carey (“Baptism,” 37–38) translates the last sentence differently: “It was an angel which used to come to their assistance. . .”. This would argue for an identification of them as angels. There is, however, a grammatical error in the Irish. Aingil is the plural form of aingel, “angel,” but the verbal form is in the singular. Crucial is the meaning of immorro, which can be “however, moreover, then.” Stokes’s translation seems more likely to me, in the light of the early Irish subtlety with regard to supernatural classifications, overlaps notwithstanding. Compare for instance, such categories as “demons of a special order” (Carey, “Baptism,” 22) and “half-fallen angels” (ibid. 23–26). 53 Kim McCone, ed. and trans., Echtrae Chonnlai and the beginnings of vernacular narrative writing in Ireland (Maynooth: Department of Old and Middle Irish, National University of Ireland, Maynooth, 2000); the text is dated to the eighth century (see ibid. 29–47). For a translation into Dutch, see Maartje Draak and Frida de Jong, Van helden, elfen en dichters: De oudste verhalen uit Ierland (Amsterdam: Meulenhoff, 1979), 208–11. 54 Compare also “The voyage of Bran” §2, in which the Otherworld woman suddenly appears in the royal house, dressed in “unusual attire” (Mac Mathúna, Immram Brain, 33, 46). 55 For another example of God as High King, see Liam Breatnach, “3. Ardrí as an old compound,” Ériu 37 (1986): 192–93: 192. There appears to be a chiastic opposition between the Adventurous Journey of Connlae and our anecdote. In our anecdote, foreign, probably strangely dressed men are sitting and are approached by native, royal females. The females ask them about their place of origin. In Echtrae Chonnlai, native, royal men are sitting and one of them (Connlae) sees a strangely dressed, “foreign” female approach. The king’s son asks her: “Whence have you come, o woman” (McCone, Echtrae Chonnlai, 131).

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tians as the supreme deity among other, local deities by using this symbol. If this were so, then this instance would be a good example of early Irish inclusive monotheism. We thus find supernatural beings of various type and designation in the early Irish literary tradition. Some of them may very well be part of Ireland’s traditional inheritance, adapted and revised according to the tastes and designs of the monastic composers of the texts.

Saint Patrick at the Well We have now seen how the áes síde in general have received different labels, ranging from demonic to divine. Moreover, we have seen that the three supernatural categories mentioned in the anecdote about Saint Patrick at the well overlap to a certain extent. Other details in the anecdote are not so vague. We know the names of the girls and their father. The location of the event is also clearly indicated by Tírechán: the well is called Clébach and is situated near Ráth Crúachain. Ráth Crúachain is well known from the literary tradition as the location of a royal fortress, a síd, a cave and a burial place. The burial place is sometimes explicitly qualified as “pagan.” Prehistoric burial mounds have indeed been found there.56 We can read in the Old Irish Adventure of Nera of the experiences of the hero Nera at this place at Samain.57 Samain or Halloween (the eve of 1 November) marks the beginning of winter in Ireland. According to this tale, demons always appear during this night (§2) and the hollow hills (síde) are open (§14). It is, therefore, not surprising that Nera not only encounters the people of Síd Crúachain, but also dead people or ghosts. An interesting detail is that he enters the síd through the cave of Crúachain. From this cave—called “Ireland’s gate to Hell” in another Old Irish narrative—monstrous swine and birds have appeared.58 The cave and síd seem to have a link with 56 See John Waddell, “Rathcroghan — a royal site in Connacht,” Journal of Irish Archaeology 1 (1983): 21–46; Ruairí Ó hUiginn, “Crúachu, Connachta, and the Ulster Cycle,” Emania 5 (1988): 19–23: 21. 57 Kuno Meyer, ed. and trans., “The adventures of Nera,” Revue Celtique 10 (1889): 212–28; translation into Dutch: Draak and De Jong, Van helden, 60–67. 58 Máirín O Daly, ed. and trans., Cath Maige Mucrama: The Battle of Mag Mucrama (Dublin: Irish Texts Society, 1975), 48–49. For more textual references to monstrous creatures and supernatural beings coming from this cave and síd, see Waddell, “Rathcroghan,” 21–23.

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divination too. Nera sees a vision of what will happen the following year, unless he intervenes in the course of events. This prophetic information he owes to his wife, who is a woman of the síd (§§6, 8). According to the Second Recension of The cattle raid of Cúailnge, the prophetess Feidelm comes from Síd Crúachain.59 Last but not least, the Mórrígan, the supernatural female who prophesies about and appears at battles, is said to have her abode in the cave of Crúachain.60 In short: the place is associated with supernatural apparitions, such as the people of the síd and ghosts, and the dead are buried in its earth. The princesses’ conjectures concerning the supernatural origin of the strange men sitting in this place make sense in this context. In this connection, it is interesting to note a similar overlap between supernatural categories in the Bible. I draw your attention to the famous necromantic scene in 1 Sam 28. When King Saul fears for his life on the eve of a battle, he consults God as to its outcome, but God does not answer: neither by dreams, nor by priests, nor by prophets.61 The king, who has put away all magicians (magi) and soothsayers (harioli), now turns for help to a woman with a divining spirit.62 This woman, known in later tradition as “the witch of Endor,”63 calls forth the prophet Samuel, who has just died. When she sees Samuel, she tells Saul: deos vidi ascendentes de terra, “I saw Gods rising from the earth” (1 Sam 28:13), after which Saul asks her about the shape (forma) of this apparition. Apparently, Saul could only hear and not see Samuel.64 We have here

59 Cecile O’Rahilly, Táin Bó Cúalnge from the Book of Leinster (Dublin: Dublin Institute for Advanced Studies, 1967), 6, 143. This supernatural characterisation of the prophetess is “new:” we do not find it in the older First Recension. 60 See the dindshenchas on Odras: Edward Gwynn, The Metrical Dindshenchas IV, Todd Lecture Series XI (Dublin: Royal Irish Academy, 1924), 196–201: 200–01. 61 The Hebrew source text reads “dreams, urim and prophets.” 62 Literally, the text calls her a woman with a pytho, “a familiar spirit, the demon possessing a soothsayer.” 63 She is called a “lady (or: mistress) of the dead” in the Hebrew source text. 64 See also K. A. D. Smelik, “The witch of Endor: I Samuel 28 in Rabbinic and Christian exegesis till 800 A.D.,” Vigiliae Christianae 33 (1977): 160–79: 162–63, who quotes the rabbinic tradition: “. . .three things have been said about the one who resuscitates a dead person by necromancy: he who resuscitates, sees him, but does not hear his voice; he who needs him, hears his voice, but does not see him; and he who does not need him, does not hear or see him.”

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the ghost of a human being, who is being called a God65 and who is ascending out of the earth (rising from the Underworld) to prophesy about the future.66 In Classical tradition, we also see this association between divination, Gods of the earth or underworld, and the dead.67 People went to crypts or caves to consult an oracle, where the dead and the Gods of the Underworld were invoked.68 In mythology, consultation of the dead sometimes took place at the entrance of the Underworld.69 Tertullian, quoting Nicander of Colophon (second century BC), gives the information that the Celts spent the night at the tombs of their famous men, in order to receive special oracles.70 Philip Freeman points out that we have a close parallel in a tale in the Book of Leinster: the son of a poet recites a poem at the tomb of one of the Ulster heroes, Fergus mac Róich. A great mist suddenly envelops him, and then Fergus appears to recite the great epic The cattle raid of Cúailnge, which had been lost up to that time.71 It is thus possible that the Irish had rituals similar to those

65 The plural is probably due to the Hebrew source text, which reads ’ělōhîm, a plural form, meaning not only “Gods” but also “God.” Compare also the translation in the Septuagint (qeouv", “Gods”) and K. van der Toorn in DDD, 353: “Since the Israelite concept of divinity included all praeternatural beings, also lower deities (in modern usage referred to as ‘spirits’, ‘angels’, ‘demons’, ‘semi-gods’, and the like) may be called ’ělōhîm.” For the exegesis of the plural, see Smelik, “Witch of Endor,” 168–69. 66 Compare Sir 46:23, which says of the dead Samuel prophesying to Saul: et exaltavit vocem eius de terra in prophetia, “and he raised his voice from the earth in prophecy.” 67 See Jan N. Bremmer, “Ancient Necromancy and Modern Spiritualism,” in his The Rise and Fall of the Afterlife (London: Routledge, 2002). 68 See Bremmer, Rise and Fall, 73–76; Bremmer refers to the possibility of the production of “apparitions” in this context. 69 Homer tells us that Odysseus travelled to the end of the world in order to consult the dead Tiresias. Bremmer (Rise and Fall, 71) argues that this necromantic consultation takes place either just before the entrance of or within Hades. The dead are said to rise up from Hades and the living are praying to Hades and Persephone. Another necromantic example includes an invocation of Earth, Hermes and Hades in order to raise Darius from his grave (ibid. 72). In Greek mythology, the categories of the “dead” and “Gods” do not seem to overlap; but both are associated with necromancy, and thus with the earth, be it as cave, crypt or grave. 70 De Anima 57.10, quoted in Philip M. Freeman, “Visions from the Dead in Herodotus, Nicander of Colophon, and the Táin Bó Cúailnge,” Emania 12 (1994): 45– 48; the Greek source is lost. 71 Freeman, “Visions,” 47.

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of the Greeks.72 Another overlap between supernatural categories is present in this tale: the mist through which the dead Fergus appears is one of the ways by which the world of the áes síde can be entered. We return to the quotation from Tírechán’s Collectanea, for there is a problem in the Latin. The words meaning “men of the síd” and “apparition” are in the accusative case, whereas “the terrestrial Gods” are in the genitive. Ludwig Bieler ignored this in his translation; Maartje Draak solved the problem by translating viros, “men,” as “representatives” and by implicitly combining this with the second identification. But if this is correct, why did Tírechán not simply write an accusative, deos terrenos? Why would he refer to “men of the terrestrial Gods”? We could emend the text to: sed illos aut uiros síde deorum terrenorum aut fantassiam estimauerunt.73 Placing aut behind illos results in a guess consisting of two alternatives: “either men of the síd of the terrestrial Gods or an apparition.” I prefer, however, to make another attempt at understanding the text in the way it was handed down to us. I greatly admire Draak’s work, but in this case I doubt her interpretation. In further support of her view that the text did not identify síde with the Gods, she points out that síde is marked in the manuscript by dots or tiny strokes above the word. This marking, she states, was used in this part of the manuscript for words that could not be translated into Latin.74 If a writer uses a foreign term, however, it is quite common to have it followed by an equivalent in the language of the text as a whole. As a literal translation was not possible, it seems not unlikely to me that Tírechán (or his source) tried to approach the meaning of the preceding word with his “terrestrial Gods.” The Latin genitive would then nicely correspond with Irish síde, which is also a genitive. “Earth Gods” would in that case be a gloss on síde. A difficulty with this interpretation is the presence of aut before the gloss instead of id est, which usually precedes 72

Freeman, “Visions;” John Carey (“Baptism,” 21, n32) mentions an annalistic reference to the consultation of an oracle in the megalithic tomb of Newgrange in 1084. Newgrange is traditionally known as Brug na Bóinne and is a famous síd in early Irish literature. Other tumuli or síde have been designated úaim, “cave; cellar, crypt, vault; underground passage or souterrain; grave, tomb. . .” in the Annals (see John Carey, “Eithne in Gubai,” Éigse 28 (1994–95): 160–64: 161). 73 I am indebted to Ingrid Sperber for this suggestion. 74 Draak, Schimmen, 28 (“het woord [wordt] in het manuscript gekentekend door enige er boven geplaatste puntachtige streepjes of streepachtige puntjes waarmee in dit gedeelte alleen woorden onderscheiden zijn die niet in het Latijn vertaald kunnen worden”).

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a gloss. On the other hand, we sometimes come across vel, “or,” in glosses when an alternative explanation is offered. Vel may be synonymous with aut. Reading the text in this way, I tentatively suggest that “of the terrestrial Gods” glosses “of the síd,” and that the last term, “apparition,” glosses the whole of the preceding: the men of the síde/ Earth Gods. We still have to account for the fact that aut was used instead of id est or vel, and here it seems important to note that aut occurs four more times in the quotation. I suggest that the author had chosen to embellish his text by using repetition. Repetition is also to be seen in the words quocumque, quacumque. With this repetitive style in mind, I return to the layout of the manuscript. According to Draak, the layout of the passage under consideration was used to indicate the three identifications. Another interpretation is also possible. People used to fill out the lines in manuscripts if they were writing prose, but when writing metrical texts and poetry they sometimes allowed the texts more space. John Bagnell Bury studied the two earliest Patrician Lives—Tírechán’s Collectanea and Muirchú’s Life of Patrick—in the Book of Armagh.75 This more spacious layout is noticeable in different places, and these passages appear to possess a certain rhythm, although it is not metrical.76 Because of these characteristics, Bury posited a poetic source in Irish. He saw the presence of the Irish word síde as an indication of such an Irish source.77 The idea that a literary source was used for our anecdote on Patrick is nowadays generally accepted.78 According to James Carney, however, this was a Latin source, similar to a baptismal hymn.79 Patrick’s words when he describes God in reply to a series of questions posed by the older girl indeed sound like a hymn. The first and longer part of his 75 J. B. Bury, “Sources of the Early Patrician Documents,” English Historical Review 19 (1904): 493–503. 76 Bury notes this different layout in nine cases: six of them are lists, two occur in Muirchú’s Life of Patrick, and the ninth is in Tírechán’s anecdote, discussed here (Bury, “Sources,” 494–95). 77 Bury, “Sources,” 494–495, 501. His hypothesis concerning a poetical source in Irish has been convincingly rejected by Ludwig Bieler (The Life and Legend of St. Patrick: Problems of Modern Scholarship (Dublin: Clonmore & Reynolds, 1949), 113–14), who points out that these graphic characteristics (or, in Bieler’s words, this stychic arrangement) can be found twice in the text of Sulpicius Severus in the Book of Armagh (fol. 209rb and 222ra). 78 Bieler, Patrician texts, 223. 79 James Carney, “Patrick’s Creed,” in his The Problem of St. Patrick (Dublin: Dublin Institute for Advanced Studies, 1961), 123–37: 128.

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description of God80 goes as follows (the second, short part deals with the Trinity): Deus noster Deus omnium hominum Deus caeli ac terrae maris et fluminum Deus solis ac lunae omnium siderum, Deus montium sublimium ualliumque humilium Deus super caelo et in caelo et sub caelo habet habitaculum erga caelum et terram et mare et omnia quae sunt in eis inspirat omnia uiuificat omnia superat omnia sufultat omnia solis lumen inluminat lumen noctis et notitias ualat et fontes fecit in arida terra et insolas in mari siccas et stellas in ministerium maiorum luminum posuit.81 Our God is the God of all people God of heaven and earth Of sea and rivers God of sun and moon [and] all the stars God of high mountains And deep valleys.82 God above heaven and in heaven and under heaven has [as] habitation Heaven and earth And sea and everything in them Inspires everything Makes everything alive Rises above everything Supports everything Illuminates the light of the sun 80

Compare also how Saint Paul describes God as the Creator and the giver of rain, fertility and food when he and Barnabas are taken to be Gods after miraculously curing a lame man (Acts 14:10–18). 81 Bieler, Patrician texts, 142; layout approximately in accordance with the manuscript. 82 It is as if this is also an implicit answer to the guess about the Gods of the earth.

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Fortifies the light of the night and the signs (=stars)83 And made springs in the dry earth And dry islands in the sea And put the stars in the service of the greater lights.

Carney stretches the evidence when he says that this presents a twelvesyllable metre, even though he admits that it has not been preserved in all lines.84 Moreover, in order to support his view, he changes the layout of the manuscript, whereas we have seen that the layout has a meaning. The text shows stylised, rhythmical language, using repetition, assonance and alliteration. Bieler calls it a “‘quasi-hymnical’ homiletic style, a sort of rhetorical prose with a strong poetical flavour,” and he compares it with the solemn sermon style of Saint Augustine and others.85 This does not explain, however, why there is also cadence, assonance and repetition in the series of questions posed by the elder girl. Here as well, the layout is more spacious:86 Quis est deus Et ubi est deus Et cuius est deus Et ubi habitaculum eius? Si habet filios et filias, aurum et argentum deus uester? Si uiuus semper, Si pulcher, Si filium eius nutrierunt multi, Si filiae eius carae et pulchrae sunt hominibus mundi? In caelo an in terra est, In aequore, In fluminibus, In montanis In conuallibus? Dic nobis notitiam eius, Quomodo uidebitur, Quomodo delegitur, 83

See Bury, “Sources,” 502, footnote. Carney, Problem, 130. He posits that the second part on the Trinity shows “signs of quatrains with lines of nine syllables.” This is, again, stretching the evidence in order to fit his theory. 85 Bieler, Patrician texts, 223. 86 Bieler’s qualification of her first few questions as “a young girl’s chatting away” (ibid.) is strange: the daughters of the king are presented throughout the narrative as dignified, serious conversation partners. He immediately modifies this judgement however by pointing out a parallel with a passage in the Periphyseon (De divisione naturae) of Johannes Scottus Eriugena. He also refers to Vita Abbani (see above) in this context. 84

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BORSJE Quomodo inuenitur, Si in iuuentute, Si in senectute, inuenitur.87 Who is God And where is God And whose God is he And where is his dwelling-place? Has your God sons and daughters, gold and silver? Is he ever-living, Is he beautiful, Have many fostered his son, Are his daughters dear and beautiful in the eyes of the men of the earth? Is he in the sky or in the earth Or in the water, In rivers, In mountains, In valleys? Give us an account of him; How shall he be seen, How is he loved, How is he found, Is he found in youth, In old age?88

An important and convincing suggestion of Carney’s is that a rhythmical passage occurs when the speaker is under the influence of the Holy Spirit.89 Stylised, poetic language is also found in Irish sagas, law and liturgical texts, especially in direct speech. It is used in certain situations in which one pronounces a law, a prophecy, a satire, a curse, a prayer or

87 Bieler, Patrician texts, 142. The layout is approximately in accordance with the manuscript; the interpunction is Bieler’s. 88 Bieler, Patrician texts, 143. 89 Carney (Problem, 128) in fact refers here to what he supposed was present in the lost original, which he saw as the source of this anecdote and a similar tale in Muirchú’s Life (see below). Bieler (Patrician texs, 223 and footnote) disputes several of Carney’s statements: first, that the source of Tírechán’s anecdote resembled a metrical baptismal hymn; second, that this hypothetical source was the original version of Muirchú’s Monesan tale (see below); and third, that Saint Patrick’s elevated tone should be connected with his being inspired by the Holy Spirit (Bieler sees the mention of the Holy Spirit merely as emphasising the view that Patrick’s success was due to charismatic influence). I agree with Bieler on his first two objections, but in my view he is wrong concerning the third point.

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parts of a sermon.90 It is a tool to express solemnity and inspiration. Tírechán writes explicitly that Patrick is full of the Holy Spirit91 when he gives his poetic answer. In my opinion the text communicates the same message as regards the royal daughters—but now implicitly, by way of the language and the layout. This would link up with a familiar early Irish tradition that some pre-Christian Irish received divine revelations from the Holy Spirit.92 This raises the question whether the text also presents the king’s daughters as inspired by the Holy Spirit when they were guessing about the identity of Patrick, for the repetitive style and alternative layout start at this point in the narrative. I see this passage as a prelude to the conversation between the females and Patrick. There is a variant version of our anecdote in Muirchú’s Life of Patrick (I.27).93 Muirchú tells of a meeting between Patrick and another king’s daughter: Monesan, daughter of a British king. There is no rhetorical, poetical prose in this tale, but the girl is explicitly described as being full of the Holy Spirit.94 Muirchú says that she seeks, like Abraham, the Creator through nature.95 Her question as to who created the sun is a prelude to the meeting with Patrick. Carney points out that this question refers to “Christ the True Sun,” whom Patrick contrasted in his Confessio §60 90 See, for instance, Kim McCone, Pagan Past and Christian Present in Early Irish Literature (Maynooth: An Sagart, 1990), 38–46 on rosc and retoiric. 91 Respondens autem sanctus Patricius Spiritu Sancto plenus dixit, “Replying, holy Patrick, full of the Holy Spirit, said” (Bieler, Patrican Texts, 142–43). 92 McCone, Pagan Past, 84–106. 93 Bieler, ed. and trans., Patrician texts, 62–123. Carney, Problem, 124 suggested a common source for the two narratives; he maintained that Tírechán’s anecdote was an imitation or adaptation of Muirchú’s version of the common source. Because the posited source is no longer extant, there is no evidence whatsoever which text is closest to this source. Moreover, because there are various tales about righteous non-Christian people, who are converted and baptised by a saint, we can safely assume that Tírechán (or the author of his source) and Muirchú knew this type of tale and its characteristics. They apparently played with details in an intertextual way. More research should be done into this story type, especially where “baptism” is connected with “death” (see also Collectanea §40: the narrative about the dead giant, who is resurrected and baptised by Patrick, before he dies again; Bieler, Patrician texts, 154–55). 94 Spiritu Sancto repleta. . . (Bieler, Patrican Texts, 98, ll. 13–14); luculentissimo Spiritus Sancti illustrata (ibid. ll. 21–22; on the grammar, see ibid. 205–07). 95 Quaerebat namque per naturam totius creaturae factorem in hoc patriarchae Abraham secuta exemplum, “For through nature she searched the maker of all that is created, following in this the example of Abraham the patriarch” (Bieler, Patrican texts, 98–99).

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with the natural sun.96 I think that the prelude in Tírechán’s anecdote has just such a function of reference and contrast. After their guesses on an origin from síd, earth or grave, the king’s daughters literally ask where the men have come from. Saint Patrick chides them: instead of asking about the origin (genus) of his company, they should acknowledge the true God.97 If I render this quite freely, what they ask is: are you Gods? To which Patrick replies: you should ask about the true God. The nature of the supernatural beings is very interesting for us, but completely irrelevant to Patrick and Tírechán: for them, only the God of the Christians counts. The others are idola—illusions, not the real thing.

The Others: are Elves Gods? A Definition Problem I find, in the end, the explanation that the layout has been influenced by the rhetorical style98 more convincing than the hypothesis of Maartje Draak. The interpretation of the rhythmic speech, marked by this style and layout, as inspired speaking is confirmed by other early Irish examples and makes sense within the context of the narrative central here. There is one final point that I need to discuss. The sharp denial by Maartje Draak that the áes síde can be classified as Gods is not only due to a different reading of the text, but is also connected with her view on the Irish Gods in general. In this she followed her teacher Anton van Hamel, whose main publication on this subject is “Aspects of Celtic

96 Carney, Problem, 125. The remark of Tírechán that the girls came to the well “just before sunrise” may perhaps not only be read as a realistic feature but also as a symbolic message. Compare how he tells previously (§19) that the foster-fathers of the girls, who were druids, produced nocturnal darkness and dense fogs over the land in order to prevent the conversion of the sisters by Patrick. Patrick goes on a fast, accompanied by prayers to God and genuflections and thus this darkness is dispelled. Presumably, the conversion of the sisters (and their two foster-fathers!) takes place when the sun has risen. 97 Melior erat uos Deo uero nostro confiteri quam de genere nostro interrogare, “It would be better for you to profess our true God than to ask questions about our race” (Bieler, Patrician texts, 142–43). 98 See also L. Bieler, “Tírechán als Erzähler: Ein Beitrag zum literarischen Verständnis der Patrickslegende,” Sitzungsberichte der Bayerischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, philosophisch-historische Klasse (1974) Heft 6, 19: “ihre [referring to Tírechán’s anecdote] rhetorische Struktur: den reichlichen Gebrauch von Anaphora und Epiphora (. . .) und das Vorherrschen symmetrisch gebauter Kola, die auch im Schriftbild anschaulich gemacht werden.”

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Mythology.”99 I have several objections to Van Hamel’s line of argument in this article, but I will concentrate here on one specific problem: how do we define the concept “God”? Van Hamel distinguished between two kinds of supernatural being— Gods and divinities. For Van Hamel, the Irish supernaturals are “divinities.” They are different from Gods, says Van Hamel, because of their aloofness, their temporary existence, and their occasional, infrequent contacts with human beings. In contrast with this, he defined “Gods” as eternal beings, who are approached through sacrifices and prayers, and who are believed to influence people’s lives. Van Hamel pointed out that traces of veneration and sacrifice are seldom found in Irish sources.100 He concluded that Irish Gods were scarce.101 Maartje Draak worked with the same distinction, but used instead of “divinities” the term “supernatural beings.” She built on Van Hamel’s theory and went a step further, positing that the pre-Christian Irish had no Gods at all.102 She proposed a theory according to which the first Celts who settled in Ireland lost some of their Continental Gods because of their migration over sea. These settlers felt that they should approach the new supernatural powers of the Irish earth with care. This is why, she

99 Proceedings of the British Academy 20 (1934): 1–44. This was the Sir John Rh s Memorial Lecture. 100 Taking a late Middle Irish tale as paradigmatic for Irish pre-Christian religion, he even posits their absence: “Adoration, the usual form of reciprocity for divine favour, is altogether absent. So is sacrifice. (. . .) Secrecy, mystery, and privacy are what their activity is based upon, not reverence or worship (“Aspects,” 8). 101 At the outset of his article, Van Hamel gives two definitions (“Aspects,” 6: “A divinity is a supernatural being, exercising power in a world not identical with ours; it may influence human society, man will occasionally feel and realize its existence, but this contact was never intended by either of the two parties. The god, on the other hand, acts upon human affairs and intervenes whenever it is deemed necessary; man, from his side, seeks to approach him”), but these do not convey all of the characteristics that he ascribes to the two concepts respectively. I have therefore summarised his view, which can be illustrated by numerous quotations, for example: “The real god, as known from the mythology of other peoples, is always there; he cannot but exist and is bound to spend his favour or to exert his wrath until the moment when everything shall cease to be. What we find in Ireland is different. These immortals are but moved by the mechanism of magic, their personality is but little developed, and their presence is only temporary. Thus the use of the word ‘a god’ would be misleading and prejudicial to a deeper understanding of the facts” (ibid. 6–7). As the reader can see, the presuppositions in this line of reasoning are many.

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concludes, their rituals were more based on avoidance than on approach.103 Van Hamel was influenced by Western-Christian concepts of religion and by Western ideas about Gods. The great emphasis that he puts on cultus or veneration has its roots in the view on religion held by Cicero. From the work of the historian of religion Jan Platvoet on the semantic history of the terms religio and “religion,” one may deduce that the Ciceronian view of religion gained currency among modern Western scholars of religions.104 The occasional contacts between supernatural and human beings, and the mortality of some of the former, are not decisive arguments against a qualification of them as Gods. Moreover, there are several references to veneration in early Irish texts, although the objects of veneration are often called “idols” instead of “Gods.”105 At the end of the nineteenth century, the discipline of Comparative Religion, also known as the History of Religions, was born. Fascinated by the many similarities between various religions, scholars compared and classified a wealth of details from different religious texts, rituals and so on. They had no problems calling Goddesses “Mother Goddesses;” nor with pointing out “Sky Gods,” who usually were located at the top of a pantheon. We now know that they were influenced by their own cultural contexts: often, Classical or Biblical models were unconsciously followed. Nowadays, we have become more care-

102 M. Draak, “Some Aspects of Kingship in Pagan Ireland,” in La regalità sacra: contributi al tema dell’ VIII congresso internazionale di storia delle religioni (Roma, aprile 1955) = The sacral kingship: contributions to the central theme of the VIIIth international congress for the history of religions (Rome, April 1955) Studies in the History of Religions: Supplements to Numen 4 (Leiden: Brill, 1959), 651–63: 652, n3: “A god can be approached by prayer and by sacrifice. A supernatural being holds aloof——only occasionally and as by accident he (or she) takes an interest in human affairs; he demands no worship. If one agrees to this distinction the Irish had no gods.” 103 M. Draak, “Migration over Sea,” Numen 9 (1962): 81–98. 104 Jan Platvoet, “Contexts, concepts & contests: Towards a pragmatics of defining ‘religion,’” in The Pragmatics of Defining Religion: Contexts, Concepts and Contests (ed. J. G. Platvoet and A. L. Molendijk; Leiden: Brill, 1999), 463–516: 466–87, esp. 466–70, 481–87, and nn13–29. 105 But, as I mentioned above, these two terms are two sides of one coin. Van Hamel and Draak also pointed out that we read very little on priestly ritual; but looking, for instance, at examples of divination I have to disagree with them. Whether these descriptions are genuine, or Christian reconstructions of the past, is a different matter.

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ful when it comes to applying labels. An important, but very difficult, question is how we should define the concept “God.” Another is: how to deal with Tírechán’s terrestrial Gods? A first step is to look at medieval Irish equivalents. I have found two examples so far. When King Conchobar separates fighting men, the following comment is made in the Feast of Bricriu:106 ar is é día talmaide ro boí oc Ultaib ind inbuid sin Conchobar.107 For he, Conchobar was an earthly God among the Ulster people at that time.

Why is he called a God? His mother is a king’s daughter; his father is either a druid or a king. Worms play a role in a version of his conception.108 Is this a supernatural indication? Or does this mean: he was obeyed on earth as the heavenly God is obeyed?109 Possibly, some read Tírechán’s reference to Gods of the earth in this sense: there are many (false) Gods on earth, but only one (true) God in heaven. One could also think of a similar pair of opposites later in Tírechán’s anecdote (see below), when Saint Patrick expresses his wish to join the daughters of the earthly king to the heavenly king.110 Another God of the earth is the Dagda, according to the late Middle Irish Fitness of Names: Dagda .i. dagh dé .i. día soinemhail ag na geintíbh é, ar do adhradháis Tuatha Dé Danann dó, ar bá día talmhan dóibh é ar mhét a chumachta.111

106 G. Henderson, ed. and trans., Fled Bricrend: The Feast of Bricriu (London: Irish Texts Society, 1899); translation into Dutch by Maartje Draak and Frida de Jong, Het feestgelag van Bricriu: Een heldenverhaal (Amsterdam: Meulenhoff, 1986); the text is dated to the eleventh century but has older layers (Gearóid Mac Eoin, “The Dating,” 119, 121). 107 R. I. Best and Osborn Bergin, Lebor na hUidre: Book of the Dun Cow (Dublin: Dublin Institute for Advanced Studies, 1929) 250, lines 8209–10. 108 See “The conception of Conchobar;” Kuno Meyer, ed. and trans., “Anecdota from the Stowe Ms. No 992,” Revue Celtique 6 (1883–85): 173–86: 173–82. 109 Compare this with a possibly parallel usage in the Old Testament of ’ělōhîm, “God, Gods”: “A methaphorical use of the term — metaphorical from our point of view — occurs when it is applied to living human beings, such as Moses (Exod 4:16; 7:1) and the king (Ps 45:7)” (K. van der Toorn in DDD, 353). 110 Ego uero uolo uos regi caelesti coniungere dum filiae regis terreni sitis credere (Bieler, Patrician texts, 142, ll. 35–36). 111 W. Stokes, “Cóir Anmann (Fitness of Names)” in Irische Texte III.2 (ed. Stokes and Windisch; Leipzig: Hirzel, 1897), 285–444, 557: 354.

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This is easier to understand: here we have a man from the síde and the Irish owe their grain and milk to a contract with him.114 Does this mean that indeed the áes síde were considered Gods of the earth? Looking again at Draak’s theory on the migration over sea, it strikes me that she in fact hints at them being exactly that: having lost the Gods of the earth that the settlers had left behind in their original home, they found new Gods of the earth in Ireland. These would be the people115 living in the hollow hills and under water. A meeting with them could mean wealth, a long life, or death and disappearance, according to the tales. The scribes who committed these narratives to manuscripts kept guessing about their identity: devils, angels, demons, half-angels—idols or Gods. . .

The End Ironically, the two females who wondered whether the men came out of the earth ended up in the earth themselves. When Saint Patrick has 112 Stokes translates here “fire of god,” but the name in Dagda is usually translated as “the good God.” As John Carey kindly pointed out to me, the etymology of his name seems to be implicit in two early Irish texts (Osborn Bergin and R. I. Best, “Tochmarc Étaíne,” Ériu 12 (1938): 137–96: 142–43, §1; Elizabeth A. Gray, Cath Maige Tuired: The Second Battle of Mag Tuired, Irish Texts Society LII (London: The Irish Texts Society, 1982, 44–45, §81) in which his name is connected with his impressive supernatural power. The former text also mentions his control of the weather and the crops. 113 Ibid. 355. 114 The tale about this contract is Old Irish (Vernam Hull, ed. and trans., “De gabáil in t-shída (Concerning the seizure of the fairy mound),” Zeitschrift für celtische Philologie 19 (1931): 53–58). The great supernatural power of the Dagda is also mentioned in this older tale, according to which the Dagda is the king of the Túatha Dé, “the peoples of [the] God/Goddess/Gods.” He is not only connected with the earth in that he secures the grain and milk, but he also is the one who distributes the hollow hills among the supernatural beings. The oldest version from the Book of Leinster calls the latter also the fir Déa, “the men of [the] God/Goddess/Gods” (see ibid. 55). This could be another equivalent of our viros síde, in that the word síde sometimes refers to the supernatural beings themselves (instead of the hills). Déa, dé and dee are older forms of día, “God,” and often refer to pre-Christian Gods/Goddesses. 115 Male and female: the female dwellers in the síde would, according to this line of reasoning, be Goddesses of the earth.

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expressed his wish to join them to the heavenly king, they consent. He asks them a series of baptismal questions, and in answering they confess their faith. They are baptised, after which they want to see the face of Christ. Patrick tells them the conditions: they have to taste death and receive the sacrament. They are willing to undergo this, because they want to see their bridegroom. They die immediately and, after the period of mourning, they are buried beside the well of Clébach in a preChristian manner; but the grave is given to Patrick and his heirs. Patrick, finally, builds an earthen church there—on the pre-Christian burial mound, the sort of place where the áes síde are said to dwell, and where one is believed to be able to enter Hell. Bridget Cleary received the last sacrament as well, during a visit by the priest on 13 March 1895. He explained later that he did this in the expectation of a dangerous development of her illness.116 Bridget underwent the Christian ritual just as involuntarily as the rituals prescribed by the ‘fairy doctor.’ At his next visit, on 15 March, the priest celebrated Mass in Bridget’s room. Bridget, however, took the Eucharist out of her mouth, which was seen by somebody. This event became yet another link in the fatal chain. In the Middle Ages, the beings from the Otherworld were sometimes believed to be on good terms with Christianity. In the nineteenth century, however, “fairies” and Christianity were mainly in opposition to each other.117 Bridget’s refusal to receive the Eucharist was new evidence that there was something odd about her. On that Friday, the 15th of March, she was burned to death.118

Conclusion At the outset of this article, we asked about the identity of the “fairies” and how they survived sixteen centuries of Christian monotheism. Classifying and defining the multitude of supernatural beings in early Irish texts turned out to be a difficult task. There are many overlaps between the various categories in the sources. Apparently, the question of how to classify them has been on the minds of the scribes and authors of the 116

Bourke, Burning, 69. Ibid. 28. 118 For more details concerning the political, social and religious factors in this tragedy, see the excellent study of Bourke, Burning. 117

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texts. We find evaluations ranging from demonic to divine. Thus, there have been various attempts to include them in the Christian ‘pantheon,’ and in those cases we can say that Irish Christianity promoted an inclusive type of monotheism. In this way the supernaturals, some of whom were probably among the pre-Christian Gods and Goddesses, were sometimes said to descend from Adam, or revelations about Christianity were ascribed to them. Returning to the oldest Irish designation of these beings—áes síde— it is important to note that this means “the people of the síd(e).” This designation obviously suits inclusive monotheism very well, and reflects the idea that they are the neighbours of the Irish, living on the same island or in its vicinity, but at the same time in a ‘parallel universe’: under the ground, or under or across water. These neighbours, appearing as human beings, could be met on this earth; yet, they were believed to be essentially different from human beings—in this sense, they are the neighbours of the God of the Christians. ‘Good neighbours’ is their euphemistic designation, which hints at their sinister characteristics; and, looking at their ‘history’ as recorded in the sources, we have to conclude that they were treated as ‘bad neighbours.’ Early Irish (pseudo-) historians euhemerised them, classifying them as previous inhabitants of Ireland, who had to go ‘underground’ because of the immigration of the Irish. On a theological level, they were driven into the background when Christianity established itself on the island. With the introduction of “Christ the True Sun,” they were condemned to ‘the darkness.’ They did not disappear, however. Not only is the Irish manuscript tradition a rich witness of beliefs and tales about them, but they also survived in the symbolic universe of the Irish people.

CHAPTER FIVE

THE RETURN OF THE GODS THE CLASH BETWEEN MONOTHEISM AND POLYTHEISM IN GERMAN ROMANTICISM Bert Blans & Marcel Poorthuis (Tilburg University)

Polytheism: A Phenomenon or a Question? The recent interest in polytheism within Western culture is in itself a complex event. The wish to get rid of intolerance and of a biased approach to other religions and cultures, if not of a wholesale condemnation of them, partly explains this growing interest. Monotheism is supposed to be the culprit of many serious deteriorations of Western culture, such as intolerance, superiority, colonialism, racism and antifeminism. A certain complicity of certain forms of monotheism with all these deplorable manifestations of narrow-mindedness cannot be denied. In the last century, Christian theology has increasingly recognized this problem. The discovery of the interrelatedness of colonialism and Christian mission calls for a genuine interest in those other cultures, hidden for centuries behind prejudice and discrimination. In addition, a waning interest in Christianity itself, which for the first time in centuries has become a minority in Europe, may have caused a spiritual vacuum to be filled by religions of a more exotic extraction. The rise of the study of religions in the nineteenth century marked the struggle of Western society with its own prejudices and feelings of superiority. The axiom of this approach, to put one’s own religious conviction between brackets in the study of other religions, was not only motivated by a desire to maintain a scholarly attitude, but had an ethical component as well: to do justice to other religions without imposing one’s own ideas upon them. However, this approach, understandable as such, tends to avoid an important confrontation, which lies at the heart of our research: the confrontation between monotheism and polytheism. Precisely by putting one’s own conviction between brackets, this phenomenological

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approach will never go beyond a mere description of religions and comparing them from an outsider’s perspective. It will be our task to steer between the two extremes of putting one’s own (Christian) conviction between brackets, and taking the Christian conviction from the outset as the yardstick by which other religions can be measured. Undoubtedly, this last approach has been the usance in the history of religions until modern times. However, even in the earliest layers of Christianity, this approach did not always lead to a wholesale condemnation of all other religions, but betrayed sometimes a certain appreciation as well. To be more precise: official rejection of other religions could go together with unconscious adaptation and integration of elements in those religions. The clash between monotheism and polytheism is an ancient phenomenon. Even in the days of Antiquity, this confrontation cannot be understood as a categorical monotheistic rejection of polytheism without further ado. Already from the first centuries of Christianity and even earlier in Hellenistic Judaism, it was acknowledged, be it in a naive way, that the divine revelation could have reached other cultures and religions in a miraculous way. This would explain how these cultures could display remarkable similarities with divine Biblical history. There have been attempts to integrate certain polytheistic connotations into the monotheistic framework by assigning to the gods a lower place in the divine hierarchy. Thus, all the peoples of the earth were supposed to possess a genius of their own, a guardian angel as a metaphysical expression of the differences between them.1 Other early Christian writers considered the gods a demonic manifestation, but by doing so could not help to acknowledge some sort of reality in them.2 From the Greeks, the Christian West inherited the rationalistic approach to the gods, described as euhemerism: the gods were nothing but ancient heroes who had been divinized in the collec-

1 This concept is known both in Jewish and in Christian sources. Compare E. Peterson, “Der Monotheismus als politisches Problem,” in Theologische Traktate (E. Peterson; Würzburg: Echter, 1994), 23-81. 2 Compare Justin Martyr (second century CE) who explains similarities between Christianity and pagan cults by demonic influences upon the latter, whereas in other instances he assumes a common divine origin.

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tive memory of the peoples.3 As such, euhemerism is another attempt to integrate the polytheistic experience by acknowledging some reality in it while denying its metaphysical essence. All these approaches to polytheism are marked by a double movement of recognition and of denial. Hence, although Christianity reacted to polytheism from an inner perspective, it should be recognized that polytheism as a genuine theological question to Christian belief has not been dealt with here. One has to wait until the rise of comparative religion to testify to the first attempts to an unbiased recognition and description of polytheism, unmarred by derogatory statements. However, this development as described above, important in itself, fails to answer the question what polytheism means to the monotheistic believer. This question, falling as its does outside the domain of comparative religion, can be answered neither by a relativistic approach to all religions nor by a dogmatic affirmation of the sole truth of monotheism by equating polytheism with error as such. In order to face the challenge of a real confrontation between monotheism and polytheism, we turn to German Romanticism.

Why German Romanticism? At first sight, it may seem that this period offers no more than a Romantic longing to the gods, a nostalgie de la Grèce,4 which cannot satisfy modern man. The famous poem of Schiller, Die Götter Griechenlands, may be an example of such an uncritically embracing the Greek gods and deploring the Götterdammerung (the twilight of the gods).5 For Schiller, the twilight of the gods meant the decline of beauty and of life. What remains is merely the soulless word. Ja, sie kehrten heim, und alles Schöne, Alles Hohe nahmen sie mit fort, 3 This theory is named after Euhemeros of Messen (330 BCE) and was adopted by the Christian writer Tertullian (third century CE). 4 J. Taminiaux, La nostalgie de la Grece a l' aube de l' idealisme allemand, Kant et les Grecs dans l' itinéraire de Schiller, de Hölderlin et de Hegel (Den Haag: Nijhoff, 1967). 5 A modern version in: Donna Tartt, The Secret History (New York: Knopf, 1992).

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BLANS & POORTHUIS Alle Farben, alle Lebenstöne, Und uns blieb nur das entseelte Wort. Aus der Zeitflut weggerissen schweben Sie gerettet auf des Pindus Höhn: Was unsterblich im Gesang soll leben, Muß im Leben untergehn.6

However, on closer scrutiny it is in this same period that the first critical debates about monotheism versus polytheism took shape. It was Hegel who recognized that twofold alienation separated us from the beauty of the Greeks: the Biblical prohibition to make images of God, and the dictates of reason. A naive return to Greece would come down to a denial of these values that have stamped Western culture profoundly.7 Is this also Schiller’s conviction when he paradoxically states that “whatever lives immortally in songs, should decline in real life?” Ironically, only the alienation between the Greek gods who have died and us, would allow for a genuine poetic expression of their meaning. Be it as it may, it is our conviction that the Romantic period has been the first to face the question of the confrontation between monotheism and polytheism.8 The juxtaposition of monotheism and polytheism is a serious topic for writers of this period, who do not resort to a serene pantheon nor simply abstain from the Biblical or Christian perspective (which might be a post-modern solution of our days), but instead fight the battle without being sure of the outcome. German Romanticism both accepts and challenges earlier solutions that view polytheism as the most primitive phase of civilization to culminate in Christian monotheism. The question whether Greek mythology should be seen as a genuine reality that

6 Friedrich Schiller, Werke in vier Bänden. Gedichte Historische Schriften (München: Pawlak, 1980), 51. 7 This is our main objection to the Belgian philosopher Samuel IJsseling who pleads for a revival of the Greek gods, but without accounting for this twofold alienation. See Bert Blans and Marcel Poorthuis, “IJsselings pleidooi voor het polytheïsme nader bekeken,” Tijdschrift voor Filosofie 60 (1998) 3: 580-591. 8 See P. H. Neumann, “Wohin mit den Göttern? Eine klassische Frage und die Antworter der Romantiker,” Aurora 51 (1991): 1-14.

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might be never exhausted and superseded by the Logos of reason, continued to haunt Romantic thinkers.9 In Hegelian perspective, the aestheticism of the Greeks who attached divinity to material forms (sculpture being the eminent manifestation of art), is transcended by the Jewish-Biblical idea of iconoclasm. However, this development is not without its ambiguities. The lofty idea of a transcendent divinity disconnects itself from the appreciation of divine beauty as the Greeks had it. Thus, the Christian idea of Incarnation can be understood as a reconciliation of both positions. It is clear that in this (here highly simplified) philosophy of religion, there is neither a categorical rejection of polytheism nor a naive embracing of Biblical monotheism. Still, Christianity is seen as the culmination of religion by bridging the gap between the monotheistic idea of transcendence (Erhabenheit) and the Greek idea of divine beauty in material form, between transcendence and sensorial perception. Other approaches in German Romanticism face the question of the origin of religion in a curious mixture of historic critical research and of mythical thinking. Has there been a polytheism that developed towards a dualism to culminate into monotheism? Or was there an original monotheism that only later on deteriorated into dualism and polytheism that calls for a development toward a restoration of the origin. Schelling (1775-1854), who shared rooms with Hegel (1770-1830) and Hölderlin (1770-1843) in Tübingen in 1790, appreciated mythology as the collection of stories about gods and men and about the origin of the world. He rejected a rational approach to reduce mythology to what it is not: a primitive attempt at physical science, a kind of poetry or allegories of something else.10 Mythology is not allegorical but tautegorical and should be explained by itself, not by elements that are foreign to it. Myth lies at the origin of culture, not vice versa. According to Schelling, the tower of Babel is the account of crisis and of judgement. Mutual understan9 H. Anton, “Romantische Deutung griechischer Mythologie,” in Die Deutsche Romantik. Poetik, Formen und Motive (Ed. H. Steffen, Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1978), 277-288. W. F. Otto, Die Götter Griechenlands (Bonn: Cohen, 1929) forms the culmination of the tendency to attribute real life to the gods. The political overtones of such a hardly innocent return of the gods e.g. in Nazi-Germany should be taken into account as well. 10 F. W. J. Schelling, “Philosophie der Mythologie: historisch-kritische Einleitung,” in Sämmtliche Werke XI (Ed. K. F. A. Schelling; Stuttgart: Cotta, 1856-61; henceforth SW), 1- 252.

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ding becomes confusion, unity dispersion. Here it is that monotheism is replaced by polytheism.11 Still, Schelling distinguishes between relative and absolute monotheism. The last one excludes any form of polytheism, but cannot then have preceded polytheism. Schelling pleads for a religious (tautegorical) explanation of myth in order to take mythology serious. For Schelling, myth can never be resolved by reason: demythologizing myth means not understanding it, but destroying it. As such, polytheism can be considered as a stage in the theogonical process of history with its own significance. Original monotheism should be distinguished from the monotheism of existing religions. For some of Schelling’s contemporaries, this original monotheism ranks high above polytheism. Others consider this monotheism even as the ideal form, of which present religions, including the monotheistic ones, are mere fragments. Again others maintain that polytheism is a necessary stage in the development of the human mind in order to arrive at a conscious monotheism, distinct from the unconscious monotheism of Paradise. Schelling displays affinities with the latter standpoint, although he is anxious to assess the significance of polytheism as such and even acknowlegdes the limitations of monotheism in that respect.12 Whereas for Kant, monotheism remains by far superior to polytheism, it is Nietzsche who, with his accusation of Christianity to have emptied life of its multiform manifestations by propagating monotonotheism (Anti-Christ, §19), takes the other extreme position. For Nietzsche, monotheism was the greatest danger that confronted humanity (Fröhliche Wissenschaft, §143). Goethe preceded Nietzsche in condemning monotheism as poetically poorer than polytheism. The philosopher Schopenhauer likewise condemns monotheism for its supposed interconnectedness with intolerance.13

11 At Pentecost the reverse takes place, according to Schelling: mutual understanding is possible because of the unity of the one God in the spirit of Christ. 12 See especially his reflections inspired by Kabbalah and esoterism on the names of God, the Tetragrammaton being the ineffable uniqueness of the biblical God (without denying the existence of other gods), and Elohim denoting the plurality of the divine. See Schelling, “Der Monotheismus,” in SW XII, 47-48. 13 Compare J. Ritter and K. Gründer, ed., Historisches Wörterbuch der Philosophie 6 (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1984), 143, s.v. “Monotheismus.”

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In the same period, the question of evil in the world in connection to what might be called “the dark side of God” revived interest in Gnosticism, in the mysticism of Eckhart and Boehme and in Jewish and Christian Kabbalah, that were studied not only for the sake of scientific curiosity but to clarify one’s own belief.14 Our exploration of Romanticism utilizes two distinct moments of confrontation between monotheism and polytheism, both condensed in a literary form rather than in a theoretical discourse. The first moment consist of Eichendorff’s well-known story Das Marmorbild (The marble statue), in which the protagonist of the story encounters the goddess Aphrodite. Her seductive appearance occasions reflection upon the difference between the goddess and the virgin Mary, between “pagan” and Christian sexuality. The story as such dates from Medieval times, but characteristically the statue coming to life is not merely a magical exterior phenomenon for Eichendorff, but roots deep into human existence. The ensuing struggle displays an antagonism in the Romantic soul itself, between pagan sexuality and Christian sexuality, or, according to some interpreters, between pagan sexuality and Christian asceticism. Unlike some of his contemporaries, such as the philosopher Nietzsche who embraces pagan Dionysiac sexuality while blaming Christian asceticism and monotheism for a gross denial of life and joy, Eichendorff’s story seems to remain loyal to Christianity, but at what cost remains to be investigated. The second moment of confrontation brings us to the poems of Hölderlin. In it, Christianity and polytheism seems to be some sort of neighbours, Christ appearing as Heracles’ brother. In a concluding paragraph we sketch the significance of these literary expressions for the relation between monotheism and polytheism.

14 See M. Poorthuis, “Eve’s Demonic Offspring: A Jewish Motif in German Literature,” in Eve’s Children, Post-Biblical Narratives Series (ed. G. Luttikhuizen; Leiden: Brill, 2003), and literature quoted there.

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Eichendorff’s Das Marmorbild or the Coming to Life of the Goddess Aphrodite Das Marmorbild (1819) relates how the young man Florio meets the famous singer Fortunato in Italian town of Lucca. The latter sings his first song, addressed already to Bacchus and Venus: Frau Venus, du frohe, So klingend und weich, In Morgenrots Lohe, Erblick Ich dein Reich.15

However, suddenly the tone changes: Die Klänge verrinnern, Es bleichet das Grün, Die Frauen stehn sinnend, Die Ritter schaun kühn.16

The song ends with an evocation of the youth from heaven whose beauty is praised. Although not explicitly stated, there is no doubt that here Jesus is meant. In the inn, Florio comes to sit next to a beautiful girl with dark glowing eyes and in the merriment of drinking and singing he steals a kiss from her lips. During the night he wanders around and comes across a statue of Venus. The next day he decides to search for the place again but arrives at a lonely palace. There he meets a beautiful woman playing music on a lute, making him forget everything else. Then he recognizes an old acquaintance, the knight Donati, who, however, looks pale like a dead man. He follows him and the two of them arrive at a place full of celebration and joy. Again he meets the beautiful woman, but also recognizes the girl from the inn. During the days after he feels depressed and lonely, but to his relief Donati introduces him again to his beautiful lady. Now he recognizes her from a picture familiar to him in his childhood. Then, in a flash of lightning, she becomes pale as a statue. Florio 15

Venus, o joyful woman, / so melodious and soft, / in the glow of the morning, / your kingdom I perceive. 16 The sounds fade away, / The green becomes pale. / The women stand musing, / The knights look brave.

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discovers to his horror that other statues in the palace come to life and that even the flowers begin to move around like serpents. He flees and outside he gets a glimpse of Fortunato, but he runs to the city. There he learns that nobody is known by the name of Donati and that from the old palace nothing remains but a meadow with a statue of Venus. He decides to leave town. Fortunato keeps him company and a few other men. It turns out that the youngest of them is not a man but the girl from the inn, named Bianca and dressed in men’s clothes! Initially, she is angry of him because of his disloyalty. Gradually, both understand that the nightmare is over. Fortunato sings about Venus who haunts the old places in spring. Then he sings about another lady with a child in her arms appearing on the rainbow. She is the one who chases away all nightmares. Eichendorff availed himself of at least two older stories to compose this novella. One story deals with an enchanted palace in the town of Lucca, the other story with a statue of Venus coming to life.17 However, the Romantic re-use of this older material is not just a slavish imitation, but as it were an anatomy of the soul. The tension between Christianity and Venus is no longer an external affair or a temporary visitation by demons, but is a permanent struggle of the Romantic artist himself. Hence the demonic and the temptation are never totally external forces, but belong to man, both as an evil and as a “blessing in disguise” that should be recognized instead of denied.

Analysis The fascinating thing in this piece of literature is its multilayered tissue. There is the dichotomy between Greek culture and Christian belief, between eros and agape, between man and woman, between the ideal and the real, that all play their role without coinciding. Clearly, the story is not just an allegory of sensorial perception over against transcendence in the Hegelian sense nor of physical pleasure versus Christian asceti17

See for the first story (Happelii, Grösseste Gedenkwürdigkeiten) the references in J. K. B. von Eichendorff, Werke 2 (Ed. R. Dietze; Leipzig, Bibliographisches Institut, 1891); the second story is Medieval and circulated in several versions, e.g. in William of Malmesbury (1125) and in the Kaiserkronik (1150). Compare the important study of B. Hinz, Aphrodite: Geschichte einer abendländische Passion (München: Hanser, 1998), 116-122.

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cism. Eichendorff’s Nostalgie de la Grece, his fascination for Greek beauty and sensual divine forms, is highly complex. The critical stand toward Christianity that would deny the enjoyment of life and love in favour of an otherworldly asceticism that is implied in Schiller’s poem, is not Eichendorff’s conviction. After all, the hero of the story is redeemed from a spell, be it by a song alluding to the virgin Mary. In a penetrating analysis of this story, Christian Begemann interprets these strophes as the ascetic victory of Christianity over Eros. Christianity would have freed Florio from his juvenile fascination for pagan Bacchantic eroticism, blindfolded by sexuality, in order to educate the senses toward contemplation of the higher world.18 Although the general pattern is unmistakably that of Christianity that is victorious over the spell of pagan eroticism, still we would like to challenge Begemann’s interpretation somewhat. Florio does not end up by becoming a monk! Hence we should not assume that Eichendorff’s story merely advocates Christian asceticism by condemning the lust of sensual pleasure and eroticism in favour of an apologetics that denies beauty and female attraction. The way he portrays the girl from the inn at her first meeting is not devoid of eroticism, considering that Florio, seeing her beautiful longing eyes, steals a kiss from her red warm lips. In contrast, the chill marble statue can be associated with some type of rigid necrophilous sexuality. At the end of the story, the girl from the inn reappears on the scene, dressed as a young man and named Bianca. According to Begemann, both her “hermaphroditism” and her name Bianca (“white”) emphasize her asexual status, underlined by her disembodied and soullike appearance. In a way she becomes the petrified marble statue, according to Begemann. However, this interpretation is not wholly convincing. Florio’s first meeting with her did not announce any demonic fear of women. Bianca’s status at the end should be understood as Eichendorff’s ideal of Christian love between man and woman that we might call sacramental, both saintly and bodily. True, the bodily attraction of Venus threatened to destroy this sacramental love, but this does not imply a wholesale condemnation of eroticism and of bodily attraction. On the contrary, Venus’ promise of bodily love turns out to be a

18 C. Begemann, “Der steinerne Leib der Frau: Ein Phantasma in der europäischen Literatur des 18. und 19. Jahrhunderts,” Aurora 59 (1999): 143-144.

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treacherous device leading Florio to a necrophilous embrace of a cold marble statue while forgetting the young girl. She, on the other hand, is alive and beautiful and not to forget, faithful. If our interpretation is correct, the antagonism of this story would come down to the tension between faithful love to the one beloved woman (which includes mutual bodily attraction), over against a vain search for the pagan Bacchantic desire for the female body as such (which excludes faithful love). To put it dialectically: the marble statue is the fate of the Greek gods in the present, i.e. under the aegis of Christianity. Only in their own domain, which is out of reach for us, they lead their life. In spite of that, even when the statue comes to life, there is no element of a warm-blooded relationship but rather of a mirage, a demonic spell that lures the hero into a life of aimless wandering and hideous temptation. No doubt—and this is relevant for gender studies—we deal here with a male phantasma, the endless search for the ideal beloved always leading to new horizons and to alienation of the woman here and now. Das ewig weibliche, the eternal female, lures man into domains without horizons, where he no longer knows whether he follows the Other or merely a dreamlike projection of his own desires. Initially, the Romantic male hero may have cherished the illusion to meet the eternal beloved in every woman, but this illusion might be explained as follows. Initially he perceives in her the phantasma of his own desires and projections (das ewig Weibliche), but gradually the woman reveals herself from behind that phantasma which inevitably leads to disappointment and alienation. The Romantic disappointment is the disappointment of the hero who only loves his own dreamlike ideal. Eichendorff’s story can be read as a warning against that ostensibly loving but in reality petrifying and killing attitude. The hero is wrong in considering his ideal dream something far greater and more impressive than the woman he encounters in reality and who offers him her love and loyalty. The Romantic writer Novalis describes in a similar story a young man whose faithful love concerns a girl from his youth. A young man grows up in a village together with a girl. The two of them are destined for each other from the outset. Although he had promised her eternal love, on one day he feels a deep desire to wander over the earth in order to discover the secret of the veiled Isis. He real-

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izes that he has to leave and after a long journey over hills and mountains, he finally arrives at the Realm of the Veiled Isis. He takes away the veil . . . to discover the face of the girl from his village.19 Apparently, Isis symbolizes for our hero the eternal mystery of woman, or the universal truth, in the light of which his relationship with the young girl from his youth turns into oblivion, at least initially. At the end however, the universal and the individual are reconciled, the arrival at the end of the earth turns out to be a homecoming and the eternal mystery of woman shines through the face of his beloved from his youth. There is a personalistic element to this story: in the encounter with one single individual, the whole world can be met.20 The plot of this story is more conciliatory than Eichendorff’s, as the dichotomy between the goddess and the girl is overcome. For Novalis, the dichotomy symbolizes the individual truth versus the universal truth. The opposition between classical Antiquity and Christianity is not explicit in Novalis’ story that rather seems to opt for an eschatological coinciding of faithful love for the individual and the search for universal mystery. Still, the initial opposition between the goddess and the girl are central to both stories. According to Eichendorff, this opposition cannot and must not be bridged, for Christianity itself contains the synthesis of bodily love and faithfulness in its sacramental idea of marriage. Obviously, Novalis’ story displays less confidence in the Christian solution. Let us return to Eichendorff’s story once more. The girl from the village appears three times on the scene and does so in highly antagonistic roles. First she is the girl in the inn, whose dark glowing eyes do not fail to arouse passion in Florio. Then she is the double of the goddess Venus herself at the party in the magical castle.21 The third time she appears dressed as a boy and named Bianca, destined to become Florio’s bride, as we assume. It would be tempting to see a development in these appearances as well, more or less parallel with Florio’s own Werdegang. Still we prefer to interpret her appearance at the beginning not as a misdemeanour, to be sublimated in a unearthly purity, symbolized in an asexual white. We 19

Novalis, Werke, Tagebücher und Briefe Friedrich von Hardenbergs (Ed. H-J. Mahl and R. Samuel; München: Hanser, 1978), 199-233. 20 Note that in another version of this story, the hero discovers not the girl’s face but his own face behind the veil! Novalis, Werke, Tagebücher und Briefe, 234. 21 Note that in addition to that, she appears like a siren in Florio’s dream.

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rather recognize here Eichendorff’s own ideal of love: from the initial falling in love to the consummation in marriage. Be it as it may, there is no complete serenity reached. Undoubtedly, Eichendorff betrays something of the highly ambiguous Romantic attitude to woman in these three highly antagonistic manifestations of the female protagonist: in the falling in love, in the double of the goddess Venus and in the white bride.

The Goddess Venus as Symbol of Greek Culture In a less dialectic reading of the same story, pagan culture, embodied in the statue of Venus, appears as the strange temptation. Venus as symbol of sexuality is ambiguous, embodying, as she does, physical love and negating the immediate and sincere love to a specific young woman. This young woman embodies the honesty of youth and of simplicity and the “faith of our baptism.” Curiously, the Biblical prohibition of idolatry turns out to be a choice for the physical warmth of love and against the chill marble statue. In poetical vein, the ensuing statement is similar to what we noticed in Hegel’s explanation of the Incarnation as the Christian rehabilitation of the body by reconnecting it with the divine while respecting the prohibition of idolatry. Sensory bodily existence and the sublimity of the divine are simultaneously affirmed. It is not too farfetched to see here a connection with the rediscovery of the Song of Songs as a bridal song between man and woman in German Romanticism. Although the Song of Songs had always been part and parcel of the religious heritage, the affirmation of bodily love as genuine divine expression was largely obscured. As is well-known, the Song of Songs, for centuries considered as a mystical song about love between God and His people, has been rediscovered in German Romanticism as a love song about the sincere erotic love between man and woman, and this nearly for the first time in history.22 The different stages of love: attraction, despair, loneliness, fear of infidelity, passion and mutual tenderness, are all there as human emotions without having to resort to mysticism to account for the erotic. This rediscovery of the Song of Songs was not just a secular reading that robbed the story of its divine 22 J. G. von Herder, “Salomon’s Lieder der Liebe,” Sämmtliche Werke in vierzig Bänden 3 (Stuttgart: Cotta, 1852), 82, under reference to similar Eastern lovepoems.

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elements, but rather demonstrated that human love as such can be viewed as a divine revelation. Apparently, Romanticism was prepared to ponder the possibility that divine transcendence does not imply an under-evaluation of earthly bodily existence, on the contrary: God’s transcendence would allow humanization of eroticism and of love, as divine gift to humanity, divine in the human condition, and as human condition able to reflect divine dynamics. We discover here an antagonism between spirit and body, that should be distinguished from the antagonism between Christianity and the Greeks. Romanticism claims to have unearthed the Hebrew foundation of our Western culture, forgotten not only by classical education that focussed instead upon Rome and Athens, but obscured by centuries of Christian preaching as well. The Song of Songs embodies this rediscovery of Hebrew culture, as a document of bodily love, both chaste and passionate, erotic and loyal. The Song of Songs interpreted in Christianity as an allegory between God and his People failed to affirm this love. The Romantics, claiming that sensual love and spiritual orientation should be bridged discovered in this little document of Hebrew culture a real Song of Songs, a cornerstone of Western civilisation, but forgotten and despised. Denial of life in its fullness and asceticism, understood as hatred towards the enjoyment of life, were combated in the Bible itself, the Romantics claimed. Bodily love as God’s gift to humanity could be found in the Bible, but not in its Western garb. The love song could again be heard, provided it would be understood in its Hebrew idiom. Admittedly, Eichendorff does not fully develop this perspective of full appreciation of life as a divine gift at the end of his story, but remains stuck in a half-hearted affirmation of bodily love. If so, this may reflect the half-heartedness of Christianity itself that professes to accept bodily love but often did not manage to overcome a culture of shame and of denial. Another explanation could be found in the adoption of a traditional folk story itself by Eichendorff with its ensuing constraints. There is hardly a traditional story or Romantic love story on European soil that manages to describe not only the way to a happy bond between lovers but also the consummation of that bond in happy bodily love. The Christian perspective as an antidote against the nostalgie de la Grece, does not gain an easy triumph in Eichendorff’s story, but remains as it were infected by the confrontation with paganism. The old

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Christian equation of pagan gods with demons shines through this story, but at the same time Christianity threatens to become sterile in reaction to paganism. We need not assume that according to Eichendorff the Greek gods are living realities, like Walter Friedrich Otto proposed in his Die Götter Griechenlands. Still, the heritage of Antiquity is like a demon haunting Christianity itself. The difference with medieval predecessors of the story of the living statue of the goddess Venus is the recognition that this demonic appearance is not something outside the beholder, but constitutes the turmoil of the Romantic soul. No doubt, the artist that has suffered most under the chasm between Christ and the gods, is the German poet Hölderlin. He suffered because he was not prepared to dispel the Greek gods as a demonic trap.

Christ as Brother of Heracles and of Dionysius: The Poet Hölderlin The German poet Hölderlin worked on his highly enigmatic poem Der Einzige (The Only One) between 1801 tot 1804. The unfinished poem exists in several versions that have the first lines in common: Was ist es, das An die alten seeligen Küsten Mich fesselt, dass ich mehr noch Sie liebe, als mein Vaterland?23

The different versions have grown out of the incessant attempt to answer this question: who is the Only One? Already the question betrays the direction, where to find the “Only One”: on the blessed shores, obviously the Mediterranean. Still, the last strophe of the last version seems to indicate some sort of an answer: Immerdar Bleibt dies, dass immergekettet alltag ganz ist

23 F. Hölderlin, Werke und Briefe (Ed. Fr. Beissner and J.Schmidt; Frankfurt: Insel, 1969; henceforth WuB), 168 (first version), 170 (second version), 173 (third version). What is it that / Binds me to these ancient / Blessed shores, that I love / Them more than my country? (Hymns and Fragments by Friedrich Hölderlin (ed. Richard Sieburth; Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1984), 82-83. Henceforth HaF)

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The answer remains veiled in riddles. The search for the Only One yields a “Trinity,” but of a peculiar kind: a hunter, a farmer and a beggar. In Hölderlin’s perception, imbued as he was with Greek mythology, the hunter stands for Heracles, whereas the farmer is connected to Dionysius or the Evian. Incidentally, for Hölderlin, Dionysius is less the symbol of temptation and of intoxication as for Nietzsche. But who is the third one, the beggar? In order to discover that, we will continue our reading: Ich weiss es aber, eigene Schuld Ists! Denn zu sehr, O Christus! häng' ich an dir, Wiewohl Herakles Bruder Und kühn bekenn' ich, du Bist Bruder auch des Eviers, der An den Wagen spannte Die Tiger und hinab

24

“Der Einzige” (third version), WuB, 176: . . . This remains always, / The world forever chained, totally. / However, often great does not seem to fit / To great. Still, they stand there all day long side by side as at an abyss. / However, the three of them are / like this under the sun / as hunters before the hunt or / A farmer who is relieved from work / His head uncovered, or a beggar. Beautiful / And lovely it is to compare. How sweet / Is the earth, yielding coolness. However for always . . .

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Bis an den Indus Gebietend freudigen Dienst Den Weinberg stiftet und Den Grimm bezähmte der Völker.25

The beggar is Christ himself, who is introduced as brother of Heracles and of Dionysius. It is the poet’s own fault, he confesses, for he is too much attached to Christ, although Christ himself is the brother of the “other” two gods. To understand this kinship across the barriers of culture and religion, we should explore Hölderlin’s attitude to the Greeks a little further.

Hölderlin’s Attitude to the Greeks In the poem Der Einzige and in many of his other works, Hölderlin views Greek life as the ideal life. There and then the gods still appeared to men, in contrast with life in his own country. Still, “both should be learned” (letter to Boehlendorff, December 4, 1801): das Eigene muss so gut gelernt seyn, wie das Fremde. Deswegen sind uns die Griechen unentbehrlich. Nur werden wir ihnen gerade in unserem eigenen, Nationellen nicht nachkommen, weil der freie Gebrauch des Eigenen das Schwerste ist.26

Hence, freedom is not to be found beyond the horizon in the land of the Greeks, but in a new freedom towards what is native. A too profound love for the Greeks can be an obstacle to that. This is apparently the existential struggle of the poet: his sadness that Christ remains remote, perhaps due to his own fault. He exclaims: My Master and Lord, My Teacher, Why have You kept so far away?

25

“Der Einzige” (first version) WuB, 169. But I know, the fault / Is all mine. For I cling / Too close to you, Christ, / Though you are Herakles’ brother / And, I must confess, the brother / Of Euios too, who / Harnassed tigers to his / Chariot and, commanding / Joyous worship down / To the Indus, / Founded vineyards and / Tamed the wrath of the nations. (HaF, 85) 26 But we must master what is native to us to the same extent as what is foreign. For this reason the Greeks are indispensable to us. But it is precisely in that which is native or national to us that we will never achieve their level, for a free attitude towards what is native is the most difficult.

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and: Why did you fail to appear?

But could on the other hand a too strong attachment to Christ hamper the road to freedom as well? As quoted above, the poet sighs: “I know, the fault is all mine. For I cling too close to you, Christ.” The poet admits that Christ is himself brother of Heracles and of Dionysius. So why is it? “That serving the one, I Thereby lose the other.” Hölderlin realized that by invoking, praying, thanking, complaining and praising, he brought the gods to life again. But at the same time he felt an intense love for the Only One. The interrelatedness of both is strongly debated among the commentators of Hölderlin. He felt guilty but because of what? In his brilliant commentary, the Christian theologian Romano Guardini states that nature is the everything and all encompassing background of Hölderlin’s poetry. Streams, heroes, gods, powers and elements, form the protagonists of nature. Hence, Christ cannot appear otherwise than as one of these protagonists of nature, be it in his own way, Guardini claims.27 However, the interpretations of H. G. Gadamer,28 Eva Schulz and Ulrich Häussermann29 point to another direction. According to Gadamer: When we listen to the Hymn of Christ, we are faced with a mystery: not the abundant love for the old gods . . . is the cause of Christ being remote, on the contrary: the abundant love for Christ is to be blamed for that.30

Indeed, the excessive love for Christ prevents a comparison between him and the gods of Antiquity. How should this be understood? Christ is addressed as beggar, in suffering, as brother, to be approached with modesty and shyness. The suffering does not only concern Christ but the poet as well. He has suffered greatly because of mother Mary and her son: Viel hab’ ich dein 27 R. Guardini, Hölderlin: Weltbild und Frömmigkeit (Mainz: Matthias Grünewald, Paderborn: Ferdinand Schöningh, 1996), 445. 28 H. G. Gadamer, “Hölderlin und die Antike,” in Gesammelte Werke IX (H. G. Gadamer; Tübingen: Mohr, 1987), 1-19. 29 U. Häussermann, Friedensfeier: Eine Einführung in Hölderlins Christus Hymnen (München: Beck, 1959). 30 Gadamer, “Hölderlin und die Antike,” 3.

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Und deines Sohnes wegen Gelitten, o Madonna, Denn, seit ich hörte von ihm In süsser Jugend; Denn nicht der Seher allein, Es stehen unter einem Schicksal Die Dienenden auch. Denn weil ich

Und manche Gesang, den ich Dem höchsten zu singen, dem Vater Gesonnen war, den hat Mir weggezehret die Schwermut.31

The poem Der Einzige (the Only One) relates this suffering as well, here mingled with a deep sense of guilt: Und jetzt ist voll Von Traueren meine Seele, Als eifertet, ihr Himmlischen, selbst, Dass, dien ich einem, mir Das andere fehlet

Ich weiss es aber, eigene Schuld Ists! Denn zu sehr, O Christus! häng ich an dir32

31

“An die Madonna,”WuB, 208. For your sake / And your son's, / O Madonna, / I have suffered much / Since I first heard of him / In my tender youth; / For the seer is not alone / But stands under a fate / Common to those who serve. Because I / And the many songs I had / In mind to sing to the Father / Most High, these / Sadness stole from me. (HaF, 132-33)

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Apparently, Guardini fails to give account of that feeling of suffering and guilt, when he simply juxtaposes Christ with the other gods of Greece against the background of an all encompassing “nature.” The excessive love for Christ leads to guilt but why? In a curious paradox, it seems to us that Hölderlin wants to say, that precisely because of his exclusive devotion to Christ, he fails to discover Christ as brother of us all. He fails to acknowledge that Heracles and Dionysius and other gods can be approached, not in isolation, but as Christ’s brothers and sisters. It is Christ who teaches him the kinship of the whole cosmos, if not his own exclusive attachment to Christ would prevent it. This might explain why the poet exclaims how important it is to keep measure in the love for the Only One. We quote once more from the poem Der Einzige: Denn zu sehr, O Christus! Häng ich an dir, Wiewohl Herakles Bruder Und kühn bekenn’ ich, du Bist Bruder auch des Eviers, der an den wagen spannte Die Tiger33

Christ appears in between the hunter (Heracles) and the farmer (Dionysius) as a beggar. More than who else Christ is from the earth and belongs to it. This kenosis is referred to in a curious expression: Christus aber bescheidet sich selbst, that means: Christ limits himself freely. Sich bescheiden might be rendered as: being content, to adapt oneself. Hölderlin has in mind the pietistic virtue of a modest retired existence, which shows affinity with Tauler’s mysticism. This kenotic modesty implies a radically world-oriented attitude, not in the sense that the poet should be a man of the world, but in another sense: the poet should not 32

“Der Einzige” (first version), WuB, 169. And now my soul is full of sadness / As if you Heavenly yourself excitedly cried / That if I serve one, / I must lack the other. / But I know, it is my own fault. / For too greatly, / O Christ, I am devoted to you. (Hölderlin Selected Verse (ed. M. Hamburger; Middlesex: Penguin Books, 1961; henceforth HSV), 187.) 33 WuB, 169. But I know, it is my own fault. / For too greatly, O Christ, I am devoted to you. / Athough Heracles’ brother, / And boldy I confess, / You are the brother als of Evius, / Who harnessed tigers to his chariot. (HSV, 187)

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seclude himself in a religious haven, but should remain oriented to the earth, as Christ himself. The poet must sing about the others, in order to do justice to the Only One, the best one. Gut machen will ich den Fehl Wenn ich noch andere singe. Nie treff ich wie ich wünsche, Das Maß. Ein Gott weiß aber Wenn kommet, was ich wünsche das Beste. Denn wie der Meister Gewandelt auf Erden Ein gefangener Aar,

Und viele, die Ihn sahen, früchteten sich, Dieweil ein Äußerstes that Der Vater und sein Bestes unter Den Menschen wirkete wirklich, Und sehr betrübt war auch Der Sohn so lange, bis er Gen Himmel fuhr in den Lüften, Dem gleich ist gefangen die Seele der Helden. Die dichter müssen auch Die geistigen weltlich seyn.34

34

“Der Einzige” (first version) WuB, 169-170. Let me mend the error / By singing others. / I never achieve the measure / I wished. But a god knows / When the best I wish comes true. / For like the Master / Who wandered the earth. / A captive eagle, / And many who saw him / Took fright, / While the Father did / His utmost to realize / His best among men, / And the Son was dark / With grief until he rose / to heaven on the breeze), / Like him, heroes’ souls are captive. / Poets, too, men of the spirit, / Must keep to the world. (HaF, 87)

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Christ is the captive eagle, wandering upon the earth. It is only after the resurrection that this eagle flies towards heaven. The poem ends with the task of the poet: to remain loyal to the world, even if man of the spirit Die Dichter müssen auch Die geistigen weltlich seyn.35

By doing so, the poet follows the tracks of Christ. By avoiding to be consumed by the excessive love for Christ, the poet fulfils his task to be loyal to Christ on earth. The poet is the testifier, the martyr of this divine presence on earth. In this respect, Heracles and Dionysius, the brothers of Christ, should be invoked as well, in order to maintain this divine loyalty to the earth. In that respect the poet is fundamentally mundane.

Conclusion Let us summarize: German Romanticism offers an exploration of Western culture and its foundations: Christianity over against classical antiquity. Both are not understood as curiosities from a bygone past, but as “states of mind” that have deeply moulded Western society. Issues of gender, idolatry, eroticism and divine love, as well as the tension between universal truth and individual encounter, are understood within the framework of the clash between these foundations of Western society. When Christ is portrayed as brother of all and true erotic love as divine revelation, the gods appear sometimes in a divine brotherhood with Christ or as His demonic mirror-image. The discovery of the Hebrew foundation of the Bible, that hardly coincide with ecclesiastical teachings, allowed for a reconciliation of body and spirit in the paean to erotic divine love. In Eichendorff, Christianity appeared as the champion of this chaste erotic love, but permanently endangered by a tendency to asceticism and denial of life. The Greek gods do not reveal themselves as brothers and sisters of Christ but here Aphrodite appears as the demonic counterpart of the Madonna. However, both in Hölderlin and in Eichendorff, some sort of reality is acknowledged in the gods, as “states of mind” or as manifestations of the unfolding spirit. No doubt 35

WuB, 170 Poets, too, men of the spirit, / must keep to the world. (HaF) The poets, even the spiritual, must be wordly. (HSV)

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we are in this “clash of religions” far removed from the dispassionate description of mythologies in the phenomenology of religions, accurate but at the expense of a neglect of one’s own identity. Apparently, Christian identity does not allow for an unbiased relationship with the gods. It might even be that post-modernism does succeed where Christianity fails. It remains the question which one is better off.

CHAPTER SIX

THE UNITY OF GOD René Munnik (Tilburg University)

Introduction Monotheism, as a word, was coined in early modernity.1 It was meant to indicate religions, theologies or religious philosophies that apprehend God as “the one and only One for all.” The “oneness,” indicated by the prefix monos, had, and has, a triple meaning: it stands for God’s uniqueness—the “one and only, and no other”—, it stands for God’s unity— “One, no dividedness, fickleness or struggles within godself”—, and it stands for God’s universality—“for all, not for some.” Strictly speaking, these meanings do not necessarily imply each other, but orthodox “monotheism” generally holds that God is unique and universal because of God’s unity; whereas the gods being “many,” “particular” and “capricious” within and among themselves. Besides, “monotheism” is a word of controversies, in the sense that it is meant to exclude other ideas about God or the divine. Its natural place is within an arena of contested views, like polytheism, pantheism, deism, henotheism and even polydemonism; all these words, again, being modern words. Hence, the use and meaning of this word “monotheism” presupposes a modern systematisation or taxonomy of different religious phenomena or theological convictions and their mutual antagonisms. It is hard to imagine why a non-Western, non-modern “polytheist” should consider himself as such, although he may in fact venerate “many gods.” It is against the background of the conceptual framework of modern 1 Henry More (1614-1687), a prominent member of the Cambridge Platonist School was among the first who used it. Perhaps he invented the word. Hume knew it and Kant used it in opposition with polytheism (“Thus, among all nations, through the darkest polytheism glimmer some faint sparks of monotheism, to which these idolaters have been led, not from reflection and profound thought, but by the study and natural progress of the common understanding.” I. Kant, “Kritik der reinen Vernunft, 2. Auflage, 1787,” in Kants Werke: Akademie-Textausgabe IV (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1968), 396), whereas Hegel used it mainly in opposition with pantheism. Ironically, such different oppositions certainly did not contribute to the distinctness or unequivocality of this notion of “monotheism.”

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thought that he appears to be one, because the significance of his “polytheism” becomes apparent only within a theoretical one-versus-many conception. Moreover, it is hard to imagine why a non-modern theologian like Aquinas should have considered himself to be a “monotheist,” although unity is in the centre of his metaphysical reflections and theological convictions. It is only in retrospect, from a modern point of view, that we consider him an exponent of “monotheism.” So “monotheism,” not as a religious phenomenon but as a concept, i.e. a way of labelling and valuating religious phenomena, is utterly Western and modern. And this is increasingly true when we arrive at the limits of Western monotheism, which is the subject matter of this volume. Reflection on these limits presupposes a modern understanding of monotheism as a significant religious genre. What does this all mean? It means that an examination of “the limits of Western monotheism” is inextricably intertwined with an understanding of the adventures of the idea of “oneness,” or unity, in modernity. In this contribution I will consider some of these conceptions, starting with Aquinas’s pre-modern metaphysical reflections on unity as a transcendental idea. Next, I will indicate some aspects of the modern concept of unity (Descartes, Kant), and its consequence: the impossibility to affirm a primeval metaphysical unity within the context of contemporary culture, permeated as it is by technoscience (Haraway). In that sense the post-modern “end of all unity-stories” seems to be the necessary outcome of the modern unity-story itself. In the last section I will propose an alternative, in the sense of an “open unitystory” and a “reformed, inclusive monotheism,” as developed by Alfred North Whitehead.

Unity as Transcendental: Thomas Aquinas What would “monotheism” mean to Aquinas, if he had known the word? I suppose he would have considered it to be either a tautology or a contradiction. If “-theism” would indicate the faith and belief in the true God of the Christian symbolum, the prefix “mono-” would be entirely superfluous; it would contribute nothing to the conceptual content of “God,” as Aquinas understood it. Hence, a tautology. If, on the other hand, the prefix “mono-” was supposed to add an important qualification not inherent in the notion of God, then this presupposed con-

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cept of God would be heretic from the start, and any truth claim about this “god” would be contradictory. Aquinas could base his opinion not only upon the first articles of faith, but he could also appeal to his own reformed version of Aristotelian ontology; a metaphysics of creation actually. Now, from this ontological standpoint, what is the essential relation of “God” and “one,” and what does this “unity” mean? Aquinas conceives metaphysics mainly as ontology, or “the science of being qua being,”2 and it starts from the insight that beyond being there is sheer non-being or nothingness, or, otherwise stated, that being is all-encompassing: it excludes nothing positive. But, ontology proceeds by asking what properties belong to being qua being. These properties of being, or transcendentals, correspond to being in that they are equally non-exclusive. In that sense, transcendentals differ from “ordinary” categorical properties. The latter indicate its being “this” or “that” or “such and so” of a being. Categorical properties are predicated univocally to a being, they determine it, and they fall under Spinoza’s dictum: omnis determinatio est negatio, for “to be blue” implies “not to be yellow” in the same respect. Or more generally, a categorical affirmation always implies exclusion. Transcendental ideas, on the other hand, do not exclude. Among these transcendental ideas are universals like “being,” “unity,” “truth” and “goodness,” as well as non-universal “transcendental perfections” like “life,” “knowledge” and “love.” To give an example of Aquinas himself: if the capability of seeing, considered as an instance of “perceptual knowledge,” is something perfect in its own right; what does the predicative sentence “X sees” exclude? Of course, it rules out “X is blind.” But “blindness” as excluded by “sight” is of a quite different character than “yellow” as excluded by “blue.” For “yellow” is something in its own right, while “blindness” is nothing else than the privation or absence of “sight.” In general: categorical predications exclude other possibilities of being, whereas transcendental predications only exclude their own (relative) absence. This is the logical framework within which the existence of evil is affirmed but only as an absence of goodness (privatio boni), just like the reality of blindness consists in the absence of sight.

2 “There is a science which investigates being as being and the attributes which belong to this in virtue of its own nature.” Aristotle, Metaphysics IV, 1, 1003 a 2122. Translation from The Complete Works of Aristotle (ed. Jonathan Barnes; Bollingen Series LXXI·2; Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1984).

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Now, Aquinas holds that “unity” or Unum is among these transcendental properties and that God is the first or primordial instance of being, while any creature only exists by participation. This means that God is the primordial instance of unity at the origin of all reality. But what does this “unity” mean? It is very important to keep in mind that unity as a transcendental property is supra-categorical, i.e. it is not limited to any genus, and in particular: it does not simply belong to the “mathematical” category of quantity or number.3 This means that, while in mathematical reasoning “one” is opposed to “many,” the transcendental or metaphysical “unity” is not always bound to do so. As a matter of fact, Aquinas explicitly denies that unity excludes multiplicity: it excludes privation and “dividedness.”4 Moreover, if anything is said to be “one” in the metaphysical sense, this does not mean that there is nothing external to it, with which it constitutes a multitude.5 So, Aquinas’s conception of Unum does not simply and radically expel multiplicity or (relations with) “others.” Ens et unum convertuntur does not mean that “all being” is “one” in some massive Parmenidean sense, or that beings are monads or atoms, or that “multitude” as such should be considered a “diminished” or “imperfect” kind of being. It simply means that a metaphysical account of reality concerns beings as individuals, or, otherwise stated, that to be an individual (in-divisum) is a primary instance of being, despite the fact that it may be analysable into a multiplicity of “components” or relations from some other perspective. A being and its individuality are convertible. For example, a metaphysical account of the human person is an account of its being qua individual, although it may be a multitude from a biological or a psychological perspective. This point of view is of the utmost importance with respect to God’s tri-unity. At first sight, God’s being one-and-many may seem contradictory, or it may look like a mitigation of God’s massive “monolithic” nature towards a threefold, with an obvious care not to arrive at a 3 “For ‘one’ as the principle of number belongs to the genus of mathematics . . . But ‘one’ which is convertible with being is a metaphysical entity” (ST I, q. 11, art. 3 ad 2). Translation from Summa Theologiæ: Latin Text and English Translation, Introductions, Notes, Appendices, and Glossaries (New York: McGraw-Hill, 19641976). 4 “‘One’ does not exclude multitude, but division” (ST I, q. 30, art. 3 ad 3). Or otherwise stated, “one” excludes “many” just in so far as this “many” implies a privation. 5 De potentia q. 3, art. 16 ad 3.

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“tritheism.” But such judgements, Aquinas would argue, only make sense from the perspective of univocal quantity or number, which is not adequate as a metaphysical perspective. God’s being “one” in the transcendental sense does not preclude God’s being “many.” In fact, it includes the many and their real relationships. From a modern point of view monotheism may seem questionable because of its exclusive and excluding character: to be a monotheist means to cling to this one and to despise that one. But, although I do not intend to advocate Thomism, I hope to have shown that this is not the intention of Aquinas’s considerations concerning the transcendental nature of God’s unity; it is meant to exclude exclusions. And by being supremely one in this sense, God is universal and unique at the same time.

Unity, Simplicity and Identity: Descartes and Kant But Western philosophy turned away from scholastic dialectics. Descartes, in his Meditations on First Philosophy writing about God’s unity, employs quite another concept of it. “. . . the unity, the simplicity or the inseparability of all things which are in God is one of the principal perfections which I conceive to be in Him.6 Descartes identifies unity with simplicity. This means a shift towards the notion of God’s unity as a kind of divine “atomicity.” And in spite of his own testimony, Descartes’s notion of unity as “divine atomicity” is not exclusively derived from God’s perfection. The primary instance of unity-as-atomicity is found in the self-identity of the cogito. there is a great difference between mind and body, inasmuch as body is by nature always divisible, and the mind is entirely indivisible. For, as a matter of fact, when I consider the mind, that is to say, myself inasmuch as I am only a thinking thing, I cannot distinguish in myself any parts, but apprehend myself to be clearly one and entire. . . . And the faculties of willing, feeling, conceiving, etc. cannot be properly speaking said to be its parts, for it is one and the same mind which employs itself in willing and in feeling and understanding. But it is quite otherwise with corporeal or extended objects, for there is not one of these imaginable by me which

6 R. Descartes, Meditationes de prima philosophia, in Oeuvres de Descartes, VII (ed. Ch. Adam and P. Tannery; Paris: Boivin, 1973), 50.

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my mind cannot easily divide into parts, and which consequently I do not recognise as being divisible.7

In fact, Descartes held God’s unity to be the unique and supreme case of self-identity found in the cogito in the first place. Whereas there is no mention of transcendentals in Descartes’s works, neither in the Discourse nor in the Meditations, the notion is abundantly present in the writings of Kant. But again, it underwent a shift of meaning. For Aquinas the plural noun transcendentals (transcendentia) signifies the metaphysical concept of the properties of being qua being, while for Kant the adjective transcendental points to the philosophical investigation of pure understanding, the latter being the a priori condition of (scientific) knowledge. But, in spite of this shift of meaning, the Kantian notion of transcendentality preserves its essential reference to unity. Pure understanding distinguishes itself not merely from everything empirical, but also completely from all sensibility. It is a unity self-subsistent, self-sufficient, and not to be enlarged by any additions from without.8

and: Transcendental philosophy has the advantage, and moreover the duty, of searching for its conceptions according to a principle; because these conceptions spring pure and unmixed out of the understanding as an absolute unity, and therefore must be connected with each other according to one conception or idea.9

Kant’s transcendental investigations lead him to the principles of what he held to be universal and apodictic knowledge, but these investigations also disclosed that the subjects of the metafysica specialis of his days—God, the world and the soul—can only be conceived as regulative ideas of reason and not as objects of possible knowledge. Nevertheless, as ideas of understanding they also preserve their essential unity: the idea of the soul is essentially the idea of its unity. Instead, therefore, of an empirical conception of what the soul really is, reason takes the conception of the empirical unity of all thought, and, by cogitating this unity as unconditioned and primitive, constructs the ra7

Descartes, Meditationes de prima philosophia, 85-86. Emphasis added. I. Kant, Kritik der reinen Vernunft, 1. Auflage, 1781, in Kants Werke: Akademie-Textausgabe IV (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1968), 56. 9 Kant, Kritik der reinen Vernunft, 1. Auflage, IV, 57-58. 8

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And the same holds for the unity of God: The third idea of pure reason, containing the hypothesis of a being which is valid merely as a relative hypothesis, is that of the one and all-sufficient cause of all cosmological series, in other words, the idea of God.11

According to Kant, to think of God, the world, and the soul is to think of their unity. The essential unity of these regulative ideas, as well as the unity of pure reason, has its origin in the transcendental subject or I think from which this rationality and its ideas emerge. I think must accompany all my representations, for otherwise something would be represented in me which could not be thought; in other words, the representation would either be impossible, or at least be, in relation to me, nothing. . . . It is in all acts of consciousness one and the same, and unaccompanied by it, no representation can exist for me. The unity of this apperception I call the transcendental unity of self-consciousness, in order to indicate the possibility of a priori cognition arising from it.12

Now, from Aquinas to Kant the idea of unity underwent a number of changes. (1) From unity as an analogical property of being, exemplified eminently in God as the primordial being, it shifted into unity as the defining characteristic of pure reason, exemplified exclusively in the transcendental subject. The latter notion gave rise to (a) the concept of the self-identity and the autonomy of the subject, and (b) the concept of one universal and apodictic system of unified scientific knowledge of the phenomenal world, as far as the phenomena adhere to the principles of reason. (2) From unity as an inclusive notion it shifted to an exclusive one. Descartes’s notion of the simplicity of the soul expelled the divisible body into a domain foreign to it. Moreover, Kant’s rather scrupulous insistence on the pureness of reason resulted in a prohibition to “mix” it

10

Kant, Kritik der reinen Vernunft, 2. Auflage, III, 449-450. Kant, Kritik der reinen Vernunft, 2. Auflage, III, 451. 12 Kant, Kritik der reinen Vernunft, 2. Auflage, III, 108. Emphasis added. 11

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with the manifoldness and particularity of the contents of experience. Kant’s doctrine of the unity and universality of reason is inextricably intertwined with a doctrine of purity. (3) The combination of these two shifts of meaning gives rise to a third one: that the notion of unity as being a transcendental category (in the Kantian sense), in order to keep it pure, has its seat only in the noumenal sphere. It is “limited” so to speak to a region outside experience. There can be philosophical “declarations of principle” about it, but it can’t be found within the realm of perception. Let us return to the subject matter of this article “The unity of God.” In the first section I suggested that the question “How about monotheism?” should be preceded by a preliminary question “What do you mean by ‘one’?” Even apart from its “theistic” application, the modern Kantian understanding of unity runs into its limits, because in fact it is limited in itself. It is universal by excluding the particular, and in order to remain “pure” it should be cut off from the particularity of historical and experiential reality. From the perspective of this notion of “unity,” any religion founded on particular decisive events or historical revelations, and at the same time claiming to bear witness of the one universal God, is “impure.” It falls under the suspicion of being a illicit generalization of its own particularity. And the only candidate for a religion that justifiably claims universality can be a Vernunftglaube without particular stories and without an incarnation, but certainly monotheistic. Before I will try to give an alternative, I will investigate in what sense this concept of unity is not only lethal to monotheism, but also self-corrosive because of its limitedness.

Identity as Construction: Haraway At this point I introduce Donna Haraway as a representative of late modern thinking. The reason why I choose her is threefold. First, she reflects on the concrete historical consequences of the notions of subjectivity, self-identity and autonomy that are at the base of the modern conception of unity. Second, she does so within the framework of science and technology; the latter being dominant characteristics of

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contemporary culture. Third, she shows that the modern self-realisation of the autonomous subject in fact undermines any notion of an original unity. But let me first introduce some elements of her thoughts referring to her Cyborg Manifesto.13 The cyborg is a key metaphor in Haraway’s writings. Literally it is a bionic being, partly human and partly robot— a being in which the border between nature and (technological) culture is blurred in a body that mingles flesh and titanium. Cyborgs figure in many popular science fiction novels and films, such as those in the Robocop, Terminator, and Star Trek series. Cyborgs are made, not born. They are constructions lacking a fixed, pre-given, natural identity. They are partly ficticious—but they also partly reflect the predicament of contemporary human beings, whose existence is inextricably bound up in technological frameworks, whose lifeworld has become dominated by technology, and whose body is a field of possible and real technological suggestions and interventions. Cyborgs are highly “contaminated” beings, but they are just as well the direct outcome of the excessive “pureness” and sterility of modern technoscience. Haraway uses a wealth of empirical data in her texts; nevertheless, her philosophy is chiefly speculative in nature. She uses the image of a cyborg as a speculum; as an instrument with which she can bring to light the hidden mechanisms and possibilities of our social and political reality that are dominated by technoscience. Cyborgs, Haraway contends, offer us a glimpse into things that can disrupt our current essentialist modes of thinking. In these essentialist modes of thinking, our ethics, politics, and conceptions of social reality and historical progress are founded in an anthropology in which the essence or nature of human beings is fixed. In these ways of thinking, our ethics, political order, and so forth should ideally correspond to this original human nature. But such conceptions are out of the question for cyborgs. They have neither an original, pre-given nature nor a stable identity; they are constructions, endlessly transformable. The self-identity of a cyborg is not its primeval essence, but rather a temporary halt in an ongoing series of

13 A Cyborg Manifesto: “Science, Technology, and Socialist Feminism in the Late Twentieth Century,” in D. Haraway Simians, Cyborgs, and Women: The Reinvention of Nature (New York: Routledge, 1991), 149-189.

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constructions. This, Haraway finds, is precisely what makes the cyborg perspective so suited for shedding light on self-identity as a construction. Identity-as-construction works on a large scale when one speaks about the human condition and assumes it to take the form of a white Western male, thereby defining what it means to be a human being and implicitly excluding non-white, non-Western, non-male human beings from participating in humanity. But identity-as-construction also works on a small scale. The personal identity of each individual human being is not some originary self from which springs one’s thinking and behaviour, and from which one can be alienated—an alienation that is necessarily supposed to be inauthentic. Rather, identity is a temporary halt in an ongoing life history, which a person continually reconstructs in his or her biography—meaning all the stories that one tells about and to oneself. The term cyborg was coined, not by Donna Haraway, but by space travel scientists in the 1960s.14 They proposed that the physiological aspects of astronautics would require the development of self-regulating man-machine systems, and named such systems cyborgs, a bastardization of cybernetics and organisms. They actually developed an example of such a system by implanting into a laboratory rat an osmotic pump that continually injected nutrients into the animal’s bloodstream—thus, a living creature whose digestive system was replaced by a technological accessory. In this meaning of the term, human beings have already become cyborgs in pianissimo, with the advent of such things as implanted insulin pumps and pacemakers, artificial heart valves, hip joints and eye lenses, and so forth, not to mention the temporary taking over of an organ’s functioning by a dialysis or heart-lung machine. Technology is already grafted on to humans; it is already embodied in the literal sense of being “under our skin.” But the term cyborg can mean more than these routine facts, for it is also a figure in technological expectations: the technocratic daydream of autonomy as unlimited self-construction. In this meaning of the term, cyborgs are (still) fictitious. But fictions can be compelling, and they are able to mobilize large amounts of capital and effort towards their realization. Cyborgs can be very real; that is, as yet-unrealized goals of tech14 D. Haraway, Modest_Witness@Second_Millennium.FemaleMan©_Meets_ Onco Mouse™ (New York: Routledge, 1996), 51-52.

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nological development they can be supremely effective. Haraway has this meaning in mind when she speaks of cyborgs as the awful apocalyptic telos of the ‘West’s’ escalating dominations of abstract individuation, an ultimate self untied at last from all dependency, a man in space.”15 But besides the factical and fictitious meanings of the term cyborg, Haraway wants to invoke a more fundamental meaning: a being whose context, life-world, social relations and self-interpretation are thoroughly permeated by modern technology. In this last meaning human beings are one and all cyborgs. By the late twentieth century, our time, a mythic time, we are all chimeras, theorized and fabricated hybrids of machine and organism; in short, we are cyborgs. The cyborg is our ontology; it gives us our politics.16 Although Haraway incorporates all three meanings of cyborg in her work, she emphasizes this third one, which marks a fundamental turning point in philosophical anthropology. Philosophical anthropology is generally conceived as anthropoontology; it reflects on the human modes of being. But at the end of the twentieth century these ways of being are inextricably involved with technology: anthropo-ontology is cyborg-ontology. But what does that mean? And, if our time is correctly characterized as mythic, what would that mean for the unity of reason? Would it become a myth too? Let us dwell a little on Haraway’s notion of “myth.” In myths we frequently encounter chimeras, hybrid beings that are half-human, halfanimal or composed of different kinds of animals: centaurs, harpies, Pegasus, the Minotaurs, the Sphinx, satyrs and sirens, Gorgons, Nereus and the Nereids. These beings embody a blurring of the boundary between animals and humans. In their bodies different identities are brought together, but certainly not as a metaphysical union or dialectical Aufhebung of the differences in the form of a higher unity. Rather, they are mixtures, bastardizations, corrupt and transgressive collections of heterogeneous elements.17

15

Haraway, “A Cyborg Manifesto,” 150-151. Haraway, “A Cyborg Manifesto,” 150. 17 Haraway makes the comparison with chimeras explicit. One could also compare them with grotesques or pictures of hybrids of humans, animals, and plants. These bizarre figures are as much connected with das Unheimliche or the uncanny (a manifestation of the Freudian unconsciousness) as with carnivalistic vitality. 16

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Haraway proposes that we should imagine cyborgs similarly, as beings that blur boundaries: bastardizations of humans and technology. Moreover, there are three further fundamental boundary breakdowns to be identified, which find their origin in science and technology and which lie at the foundation of the ontology of cyborgs. The first is the erosion of the difference between human and animal brought about by modern biology. The second is the undermining of the difference between animal-human and machine. Pre-cybernetic machines did not yet know the principle of self-movement or self-regulation, but contemporary machines are autonomous in a way that makes us no longer sure of the difference. The third boundary breakdown is that between physical and nonphysical. By this Haraway means not so much the bridging of the gap between mind and matter but rather the fact that contemporary technology, although obviously a material reality in a strict sense, by miniaturization and computerization tends to make itself more and more invisible and intangible (immaterial), thereby gaining a power that becomes increasingly uncontrollable. Science and technology lie at the basis of this boundary-blurring, and this is as true from the point of view of theory—we no longer know where to draw the exact boundary between human and animal, nature and artifact, material and immaterial reality—as from the point of view of practice—we are now in the position of being able to realize endless fusions or bastardizations between such heterogeneous components. One result, for instance, is the OncoMouse.18 OncoMouse is a strain of mice whose DNA-material includes human cancer genes. The firm Dupont de Nemours requested and received a patent for OncoMouse. Imagine, a living being as an invention; an animal that carries a human carcinogen! It is a contemporary chimera, one that can be purchased for a mere hundred dollars each. Like mythical chimeras, cyborgs have something monstrous about them. They embody something un- or anti-natural. They may evoke revulsion in us because they muddle or defile the natural order of things. That is, they evoke revulsion from those for whom something like a natural order possesses an original value. But they are also monstrous in the sense that they de-monstrate something. As human constructions, they reflect the self-image and situation of contemporary people, whose 18 Haraway, Modest_Witness@Second_Millennium.FemaleMan©_Meets_Onco Mouse™, 78-80.

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life-world is shaped by the integrated circuit19 of science and technology. They are at once the extraordinarily contaminated outcome of the purest kind of scientific reason. In this self-image, a human being no longer understands him or herself as a particular instance of a unique and original human essence, but as a historical construction that is infinitely reconstructible and transformable. In cyborg ontology, a being— whether a human, man, woman, animal, nature, culture—is conceived as a constructed and constructible being. That means that it is characterized by radical contingency and situatedness.

The Self-Corrosiveness of the Modern Notion of Unity The cyborg is as much a wish fulfillment as the partially realized outcome of the Western project of domination over nature. But as a produced and constructed Being—that is, one that has neither been created nor born—the cyborg has no origin myth, no Genesis. Its “origin stories” are more akin to Dr. Frankenstein’s creation of his monster or to the bokanovski-process in the Central London Hatchery and Conditioning Centre.20 A cyborg is the product of technological (self)control. It may regain a sense of being-created or being-born insofar as it is/gets out of control, as Haraway, Shelley and Huxley suggest. But anyway: for a Cyborg the return to the Origin is a hollow phrase; it can never dream of a lost paradise. In Haraway’s words “The cyborg incarnation is outside salvation history . . . The cyborg would not recognize the Garden of Eden.21 This thought requires some explanation. The Western conception of history and progress is governed to a great extent by a particular figure of thought: archaeology-teleology. It is history conceived as a story with a plot. That story involves an original—pre-historical—unity or archè, and a fall away from this original unity. The Fall brings forth his19 An integrated circuit is a technical term for a computer chip. Haraway uses it as a metaphor for the proper connection of things in high-technological culture—just as the global village is a metaphor used to emphasize the falling away of geographic distances. 20 See, Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, Frankenstein: Or the Modern Prometheus (London: Penguin Books, 1994); Aldous Huxley, Brave New World (New York: Buccaneer Books, 1991). 21 Haraway, “A Cyborg Manifesto,” 150-151.

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tory as such, a history that is thenceforth characterized by the dream of a lost unity. The completion of history would consist of a complete recovery, a repeal of alienation, and a return to the original unity. This accomplishment is the goal (telos) of history; with it, the circle is complete. It is not difficult to recognize the religious sources of this structure: Fall, history, redemption in the New Jerusalem. Haraway often hints at those themes in her texts. There are numerous versions of this plot line. In the optimistic versions, history culminates in an enriched return to the origin; this is history with the drama of a universal epic. In the tragic versions, the Fall (the alienation from the original unity) is necessary in order to give birth to human subjects, who are then tormented by the dream of a lost innocence that cannot, however, be regained without regression or loss of self. Archaeology-teleology is found in each human project in which the final goal is determined by the origin. For instance, it is in play in the sheer obviousness with which human beings conceive their self-realization as a recovery of their own authentic self. Even classical conceptions of knowledge are characterized by it, such as Aristotle’s dictum that “What is first from the point of view of nature is the last from the point of view of knowledge.” This means that the final goal of knowledge consists in the revelation of the beginning, the principle, the fundament of its object. For Haraway the marxian conception of self-realization through work and the psychoanalytical conception of subject-formation through resolution of the Oedipus complex are nothing but secularized versions of these origin myths, in which “having a goal” is linked with “having an origin.” Because a cyborg can only conceive itself as a construction, it can never conceive itself as a moment in a history that involves recovery of an original unity or innocence that existed before the Fall. A cyborg never has such respectful or nostalgic sentiments. A cyborg is radically excluded from Paradise, and is untroubled by that fact. It is a being of everlasting dispersion; it has forever lost its innocence. For Haraway, this is the subversive character of the cyborg. But with the loss of its original innocence, it has also abolished an original guideline that serves to determine “the Enemy,” which can be anything or anyone representing or causing the situation of supposed alienation. Neither is the cyborg susceptible to utopias involving recovery of an original unity, utopias which, according to Haraway, will inevitably change into dystopias involving a deadly unity . . . deadly, because this unity is attained

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by a process of exclusion and purification. Cyborg-existence consists in the art of surviving in the Diaspora, a form of existence characterized by radical finitude and contingency.22 The origin stories are not only about a paradise to be regained; they are also unity stories, and in a double sense. The first is that these stories claim universal validity. Yet, all this talk of origin myths and universality founders for cyborgs. Cyborgs are radically factical, situated, and partial, without needing to have their own particular identity taken up into a higher unity. Cyborgs are adverse to grand narratives. However, origin stories—and this is the second sense in which they are also unity stories—are also about wholeness, integrity, and purity. They typically bear upon the unity of a subject, the wholeness and authenticity of its identity; the purity and authenticity of types of discourse, an original order of things, and the generic principles and proper rules that hold within each domain, and especially the prohibitions and taboos of transgressing the boundaries of the domains. But cyborgs are transgressive of boundaries; they are corrupt beings; chimerical monsters in the sense outlined above. From the perspective of the ideal of purity and authenticity, these beings are perverse. Their identity is a broken, bastardized identity, a fusion of incompatibles. They are not unambiguously identifiable as “man” or “woman,” “nature” or “culture,” “human,” “animal,” or “machine.” Let us now return to the subject matter of this article: the kind of unity involved in monotheism. In Haraway’s work, notions like “mono” or “polytheism” do not occur. Still, the main point of her thoughts is closely related with these notions. Haraway explicitly repudiates “essentialism” and “naturalism,” and she does so because they represent ideologies that assign an ultimate status to a primal unity or pre-given unifying identity. She once wrote: “Queering what counts as nature is my categorical imperative.”23 Her cyborg thesis is meant as an instrument to disrupt naturalistic unity stories, but in fact any story of an original unity. Haraway is an indefatigable defender of pluralism against any sort of monism. In her opinion, unity stories will always serve as a

22

Haraway, “A Cyborg Manifesto,” 170. D. Haraway, “A Game of Cat’s Cradle: Science Studies, Feminist Theory, Cultural Studies,” Configurations 2 (1994): 59-71, 60. 23

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justification of the violence of exclusion; they will always incite efforts to realize or to regain unity by a process of purification in which outsiders are produced and natural enemies are eliminated. But she is not only a crusader against unity stories. She also witnesses that the kind of disruption of unity she advocates is in fact being produced in the self-realization of the Kantian autonomous subject. The cyborg is not just a casual and unintended side product of its self-realization, it is its necessary consequence. At this point a fundamental congruity between Haraway and her monistic adversaries comes to light: they both agree that any unity story involves exclusion. The adherents of these unity stories for that reason possess a justification to exclude, while Haraway contests these unity stories in behalf of the excluded. Both tacitly hold that one is directly opposed to many. With such a conception of unity in mind, the only alternative to the violence of monotheism would be polytheism.

A Recurrence of Pre-Kantian Modes of Thought: Whitehead In the last section of this article I will propose a way out of this impasse with the aid of the philosophy of Alfred North Whitehead (1861-1947). Whitehead once characterized process philosophy24 as a recurrence of pre-Kantian modes of thought.25 In fact, it can be conceived as a continuation of the tradition of Aristotelian ontology. In that sense Whitehead’s metaphysics is akin to Aquinas’s: it is (at least for a good part) a theory of “transcendentals” in the pre-Kantian meaning of the word. On the other hand, Whitehead intended to give due weight to notions that play a central role in post-modern thought—the particularity, contingency and situatedness of things. And this marks a distinction between Whitehead’s thought and most representatives of classical metaphysics. There is yet another point at which process philosophy and most systems of classical metaphysics diverge. Metaphysics is about universality and ultimacy. Whitehead contends that one should make a clear distinction between what is ontologically ultimate (Being) and what is 24 Although it is customary to refer to Whitehead’s philosophy as “process philosophy,” he himself used the phrase “philosophy of organism.” 25 A. N. Whitehead, Process and Reality: An Essay in Cosmology, Corrected Edition (ed. D. R. Griffin and D. W. Sherburne; New York: The Free Press, 1978), xi.

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religiously ultimate (God). Metaphysical systems that conceive God as the ground of being do not sufficiently take this distinction into account. I will follow Whitehead’s line of thought and deal with the theme of ontology and the theme of religion separately.

The Ontological Ultimate: Being as an Act of Composition Ontology is about being. According to Whitehead, being in a metaphysical first sense should be taken in its most concrete form, and it should be looked for in the most concrete instances of being. Such instances are individual events and not individual substances,26 because being as being of a substance abstracts from its accidents, its relations and its temporality. Substances are simply what they are by themselves. But events cannot be abstracted from their happening somehow, somewhere, sometime, and their somehowness, somewhereness and sometimeness are essential qualifications of what they are. To take substances as the most concrete instances of being is to commit a Fallacy of Misplaced Concreteness; i.e. a capital offence against Whiteheadian metaphysics. Moreover, being in this first sense is a verb and not a noun. To be is an act. Now, the notion of the act of being or actus essendi has never been foreign to Western metaphysics, but, according to Whitehead, classical metaphysics failed to draw the conclusion that consequently reality is to be conceived as the real activity of events happening, resulting in a dynamical and totally historical world.27 Process ontology stresses that to be is to proceed, and that this procession of events consists in their own activity of coming-into-being or becoming; an autopoetical instance of self-determination. As a consequence, reality is another word for ongoingness, becomingness, temporariness and eventuality. And the world is not looked at as a bunch of things or substances that may or may not relate to each other, but as an interrelation of events necessarily qualifying each other.

26 Whitehead’s idea of “substance” is more akin to the Cartesian than to the Aristotelian conception. 27 In Whitehead’s rather technical phraseology it says “That the actual world is a process, and that the process is the becoming of actual entities” (Process and Reality, 22).

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In classical metaphysics the transcendental properties concern the properties of being qua being. Whitehead does not use the word, but he speaks of the Category of the Ultimate as the universal of universals— in fact a supra-categorical “category”—emphasizing that “actual being” and “becoming” are convertible, and expounding what “becoming” means. Let us take a closer look at this Whiteheadian transcendental. Creativity, many, one are the ultimate notions involved in the meaning of the synonymous terms thing, being, entity. . . . Creativity is the universal of universals characterizing ultimate matter of fact. It is that ultimate principle by which the many, which are the universe disjunctively, become the one actual occasion, which is the universe conjunctively. It lies in the nature of things that the many enter into complex unity. . . . The ultimate metaphysical principle is the advance from disjunction to conjunction, creating a novel entity other than the entities given in disjunction. The novel entity is at once the togetherness of the many which it finds, and also it is one among the many which it leaves; it is a novel entity, disjunctively among the many entities which it synthesizes. The many become one, and are increased by one. In their natures, entities are disjunctively many in process of passage into conjunctive unity.28

Notice that it is a complex transcendental idea, constituted by three interrelated notions of many, one and creativity. Furthermore, the Category of the Ultimate is meant as a universal principle applying to the metaphysical interpretation of all facts at all levels: the metaphysical interpretation of a natural event is its interpretation as the synthesis of its many causes and conditions, and the metaphysical interpretation of an historical event is its interpretation as the synthesis of its antecedents and its context. Process ontology has the character of a scientia universalis of situated and contingent events. However, the key to the category of the ultimate is the notion of creativity. Creativity as an activity, is the Whiteheadian account of the actus essendi. But it differs very much from its Thomistic counterpart. In Thomism the actus essendi of any being is derived by participation from the subsistent being of God. It is familiar with creation but not with something like creativity, and it interprets creation in terms of participation. In this way a theology about a first necessary Being intrudes in the heart of ontology, and by consequence this theology governs the 28

Whitehead, Process and Reality, 21.

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whole metaphysical situation. From Whitehead’s point of view this is a fatal instance of paying “metaphysical compliments” to God: making God responsible for any contingent fact in the world; God as a ruling Caesar, autocratically distributing good and evil, happiness and suffering. For Whitehead, “creativity” is exclusively an ontological concept. If God is to be conceived as a being then God is to be conceived as an instance of creativity, but never as its source or its unique possessor. Moreover, creativity is the Whiteheadian account of the principium individuationis. The Aristotelian concept of primary matter involved the notion of a purely passive potentiality informed by timeless qualities to make it an individual thing. The concept of creativity involves the notion of an activity synthesizing its many historical conditions into a complex but individual event. The Whiteheadian conception of individuality always involves this notion of composition or togetherness: to be one is to be in the act of becoming one i.e. to perform the passage from ‘disjunctive many’ into ‘composite one.’ A paradigmatic instance of this notion of dynamic and composite individuality can be found in a work of art. Its individual aesthetic value—for better of for worse—is grounded in its compository character. This is the idea of unity from the perspective of process ontology, and it is of the utmost importance when we arrive at the question concerning monotheism. On the other hand, an idea of plurality as disjunctive many can never be conceived as the battlefield of mutual frustration and cross-purposes, simply because of its disjunction. The locus of the evil of mutual disruption29 is where the many are fused into togetherness; it is there where they may turn out to be condemned or dedicated to each other, where they may promote or destroy each other. The act of being, or creativity, is always mixed up with a kind of social dilemma among the beings that qualify it. At this point there is a number of parallels between Haraway’s cyborg-ontology and Whitehead’s process ontology. Whitehead’s events, like Haraway’s cyborgs, are situated instances of self-realization without a pre-established identity. In fact, the word “contamination” covers quite well Whitehead’s conception of “many-becoming-one.” As for Haraway, the contaminated character of cyborgs points at their transgressiveness; they blur the boundaries between what counts as “man” or “woman,” “nature” or “culture,” “human,” “animal,” or “machine.” Haraway’s cyborgs primarily have a political bearing; they 29

This is not to say that this is the only conception of evil in process thought.

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are meant to be subversive towards the naturalistic status quo. Whitehead, on the other hand, does not have any direct political intentions with his ontological description of events. In his view, any identity or essence is simply a contingent and abstract defining characteristic emerged in the creative advance or becomingness of the world. Somewhat like traditions or human characters in a life-history. The contaminated nature of actual events is principally given with their composite nature, but it becomes apparent when the many-in-one comprises mutually exclusive and incompatible factors. Haraway applies the notion of contamination in her battle against essentialism and naturalism, while Whitehead acknowledges contamination at all temperatures as an inevitable and sometimes tragic fact of life. The body pollutes the mind, the mind pollutes the body. Physical energy sublimates itself into zeal, zeal stimulates the body. The biological ends pass into ideals of standards, and the formation of standards affects the biological facts. The individual is formative of the society, the society is formative of the individual. Particular evils infect the whole world, particular goods point the way of escape. The world is at once a passing shadow and a final fact.30

Neither Whitehead nor Haraway respects Kantian pureness and both put the question of life as: how to create valuable and yet temporary contaminations. And both reject the idea of a final end, consisting in the recovery of a lost Paradise. At last, creativity is the principle of novelty. And this can be taken in a formal and in a qualitative sense. In the formal sense it simply means that any event, taken as the synthesis of the many events that it finds, cannot be identical with any of these given events, for no composition can be identical with any of its components. It is different and so it is new. This is nothing else than a reformulation of Heraclitus’ insight in the irreversibility of time. In the qualitative sense it means that any event has the character of a response to its world, and in doing so it possesses the possibility of adding something new to the world; of being original. Again, art is the chief paradigm of this functioning of creativity as the principle of novelty. To be new in this qualitative sense means to exemplify something of value31—for better or for worse—for the first time. The really new is somehow ex nihilo and it cannot justify itself by 30

85.

A. N. Whitehead, Religion in the Making (New York: Meridian Books, 1976),

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the canons that bear on the things established; there can be no conservative justification of novelty. A newborn novelty is utterly vulnerable. It can only show its value in immediate intuition or it can prove itself a posteriori, once it has accomplished what is not yet there. The urge for novelty is characterized by a kind of adventurousness where something is to be gained or missed, without any guarantees beforehand. At this point ontology comes to an end. It can describe how things become, but it cannot give a clue what in any contingent situation is the best response in terms of novelty-to-become. At this point the notion of the religiously ultimate appears on the stage: when the act of being is challenged to be an art of being. It is also the point where any parallel between Whitehead’s and Haraway’s thoughts breaks down.

The Religious Ultimate: God as the Muse who Makes the Difference Although Whitehead contends that one should make a clear distinction between what is ontologically ultimate (Being) and what is religiously ultimate (God), his concept of God is situated within the ontological framework: God is not to be treated as an exception to all metaphysical principles, invoked to save their collapse. He is their chief exemplification.32

This is a very classical point of view: once ontology has determined what being or reality means, God is affirmed to be the primal instance of being: the eminently real. There’s nothing modern to it. But Whitehead’s concept of what “actual being” means, at once gives it a postmodern bearing. To put it bluntly: God is the champion of playing the creative act of becoming—of molding the disjunctive “many” into the conjunctive togetherness of God’s own nature. Ontology provides the rules, but it gives no clue how to play a fascinating game. Without any doubt, Whitehead is a monotheist. God is unique as being the “the one and only One for all.” But what does that mean?

31

The Whiteheadian notion of value is more akin to such concepts as weight or intensity of being (as opposed to triviality); it has no direct connection with goodness as opposed to evil. 32 Whitehead, Process and Reality, 343.

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It means something for the world. The ongoingness of history is not determined by an original unity that contains the pre-established blueprint of the New Jerusalem. Any factual order in nature, any factual type of culture, any factual genre of being in the world, is to be conceived as a contingent and temporary outcome of the creative advance, in which the many have entered into complex unity: this (or that) coherence in nature, this (or that) cultural type, this (or that) order of being. God— God’s “essence,” “will” or “plan”—is not to be identified with any of them. Such existential types may have a value in their own right and at the same time they may be mutually exclusive; they all have the character of a historical achievement and they all await something to be achieved. There is no ultimate completion in history. But there is something at stake—something to be gained or to be missed. It may be the overcoming of destructive forces of mutual exclusion, or it may be the overcoming of the withering of a type of being when it isolates itself in order to avoid such forces, or it may be the overcoming of the fatigue of a type of being as a result of its unchallenged self-sufficiency. The ontological principles are indifferent as to the things to be gained or to be missed, and the actual world is indeterminate as to the possibilities to be realized. They only compel to proceed without giving a clue. The notion of God comes in as the idea of the One that makes a difference, not between this or that, but between better and worse for the synthesis of this and that. God, in his role as the primordial being, is understood by Whitehead as a lure, not in a psychological but in an ontological fashion. The ontological Category of the Ultimate conceptualizes the act of being as a kind of composing or weaving different threads (many) into a complex pattern (becoming-one). If being is composing, then God is its Muse inciting it to realize novel and richer modes of being that exclude nothing that can be saved. However, every act of being is finite. It emerges from a specific context and within specific conditions. The realization of some novelty may be a blessing within some context, but it may turn out to be a curse in another. The one God of process theology necessarily disseminates itself so as to be universal, i.e. to be a relevant God within all specific situations; the Muse for many different songs, each in place, but never quite symphonic all together. On the other hand, the finiteness, the brokenness and counter-purposiveness within the world that is unable or refuses to be woven into togetherness is reflected in the tragic aspect of

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God’s suffering, which is quite another concept than the battle between de gods, because it is the unavoidable yet accidental burden of God’s unity. The Whiteheadian type of monotheism provides no easy way out from mutual frustration, and it certainly offers no justification for the violence of “self” against “other,” or of “one” against “many.” It simply means that God is one by being the fellow sufferer of all, untrammeled with any kind of xenophobia, because the disruptions in the world enter into the togetherness of God’s own nature. Let me come to a conclusion. The Whiteheadian type of monotheism implies a recurrence of the pre-modern transcendental of Unum, in the sense that it is meant to exclude exclusions. It is at odds with the modern notion of rational unity, implying a doctrine of purity that excludes the contingent and the particular. Both Haraway and Whitehead contest this concept of exclusive unity. For Haraway the issue at stake is the political struggle in behalf of the excluded. For Whitehead the issue at stake is the philosophical obligation to avoid the Fallacy of Misplaced Concreteness, and hence to conceive contingent and particular instances (events) as the only real instances of being/becoming. The notion of theism comes in where one acknowledges that no creative event can be divorced from some ideal to be gained or to be missed. Finally, Whitehead’s mono-theism arises from the confrontation of his post-modern awareness of contingency, particularity, historicity and situatedness, and the pre-modern obligation implied in the Unum: to exclude exclusions.

CHAPTER SEVEN

THE WHOLE OF LIFE BEYOND THE BOUNDARIES OF MONOTHEISM? Maaike de Haardt (Tilburg University & Radboud University Nijmegen)

Two Approaches to the Problem of Monotheism In this contribution I want to reflect on some of the fundamental questions and problems that are raised by feminist and other religious thinkers regarding “the question of monotheism.” Of course, as Erich Zenger states: “a certain amount of subjectivity in one’s appraisal is inevitable.”1 In this case, my presentation and interpretation of what I consider to be monotheistic questions and issues, are prompted by my particular viewpoint, which is a theology of everyday life. This theology reflects on the divine from the perspective of (experiences of) “presence” as found in ordinary life and practices, and, in doing so, places ordinary life and practices at the centre of theological reflection.2 This theological approach from “presence” is directed at a “transformation” of specific interpretations of transcendence, namely those interpretations that emphasise and privilege the distinction between and the separation of transcendence from the world and the ordinary, as for instance in those interpretations that focus on the “Otherness,” “Alterity” or “Absence” of the divine as its primary and most central characteristic. The following description of “the question of monotheism” is therefore not intended to be a systematic overview, nor to offer a solution to a specific problem. On the contrary, I shall present the different elements which, in my view, are constitutive for what has become “the monotheistic problem.” My aim is to interrelate these elements and 1

Erich Zenger, “Der Monotheismus Israels. Entstehung–Profil–Relevanz,” in Ist der Glaube Feind der Freiheit? (ed. T. Söding; Freiburg: Herder, 2003), 9. 2 See Maaike de Haardt, “Kom eet mijn brood . . .: Exemplarische verkenningen naar het goddelijke in het alledaagse,” Tijdschrift voor Theologie 25 (2000) 1: 5-22; Maaike de Haardt, “‘A Way of Being in the World’: Traces of Divinity in Everyday Life,” in Common Bodies: Everyday Practices, Gender and Religion (ed. M. de Haardt and A.-M. Korte; Münster: Lit, 2002), 11-26.

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thereby to find connections where they have previously been overlooked. Thus, my main concern is to present “the monotheistic problem” in its complexity. I hope that this presentation offers a new perspective as well. That is to say, that this way of reading leads to a kind of reflection that inspires new images which show opportunities to go “beyond” the classical oppositions and to make it possible to find new ways of thinking and imagining the divine and its relationship to the world. In order to clarify the discussion, I will distinguish between two “approaches” to the problem of monotheism. The first approach emphasises the monos character of monotheism, the one versus the many. Here we encounter the concept of monotheism as the dominant concept. In the second approach the perspective of the problem is primarily related to the meaning of theism, the absolute, the almighty, the “god called God.”3 Here the leading concept under discussion is the second part of the word monotheism: theism. Although these distinctive discourses hardly ever refer to each other, as far as the terminology or the sources that are used are concerned, it is important to show that they are in fact inherently interrelated. In more ways than one, a feminist perspective can be helpful in showing how these diverging approaches are indeed related to each other. The focus on gender can be found as a specific accent within both approaches.4 In fact, opinions about, for instance, gender and theism are often an implicit but strong influence on perspectives on monos and vice versa. In describing the different elements from both approaches, with special attention to the gender related contributions, it also becomes clear that the concept “monotheism” itself is highly problematic in both its monos and its “theistic” aspects. I will start my account of the “question of monotheism” with the first approach, the discourse on the monos of monotheism. Some of the 3 Grace Jantzen uses Melissa Raphael’s expression “god called God” to refer to the god whose static attributes are discussed by traditional philosophers of religion in their debates on the coherence of theism. Grace M. Jantzen, Becoming Divine: Toward a Feminist Philosophy of Religion (Manchester Studies in Religion, Culture and Gender; Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1998), 254. Raphael herself used “the word ‘God’ as a proper name for the masculine, monarchical father-deity of the biblical traditions: the god called God.” Melissa Raphael, Thealogy and Embodiment: Post-Patriarchal Reconstruction of Female Sacrality (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1996), 16. Here we see the interrelatedness of both approaches by means of gender.

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aspects mentioned in these discussions, notably the objections to monotheism and the instability of the concept, apply to the “theism” approach as well. In describing the complexity of contemporary Western monotheism, I shall focus on what, in my view, seem to be the fundamental, underlying and interrelated problems in these contemporary monotheism discussions. I hope to demonstrate first of all, that these have to do with the supposed or necessary kind of unifying or grounding “one-ness” dimension of divinity (or “the divine” or “transcendence;” the terms appear to be interchangeable). Subsequently, this grounding transcendence or divine-one seems inextricably bound up with the meaning and conceptualisation of “creating” and creator, thereby implicitly pointing to the fundamental/ontological gendered characteristics of creating. It appears to be difficult not to think of creating as a masculine act or “the Creator” as a single (male) entity or moment.5 4 Right from the first feminist reflection in theology, the “question” of monotheism came to the fore explicitly or implicitly. One of the first and most explicit themes feminists had to address when they entered the theological discourse, was “God.” The theme of the “sex of God” was soon followed by a more complex discussion of “God-talk.” In these discussions many feminist theologians regarded monotheism as the main problem. Since feminist theologians are not formulating their questions ex nihilo, these questions seem to be connected with the way monotheism recently became a “problematic” theme within theology and religious studies. However, the focus on gender gives these feminist discourses a specific weight and colour, as the following random selection of titles shows: Mary Daly, Beyond God the Father: Toward a Philosophy of Women's Liberation (Boston: Beacon Press, 1974); Christa Mulack, Die Weiblichkeit Gottes: Matriarchale Voraussetzungen des Gottesbildes (Stuttgart: Kreuz Verlag, 1985); Marie-Theres Wacker, ed., Der Gott der Männer und die Frauen (Düsseldorf: Patmos Verlag, 1987); Elizabeth Johnson, She Who Is: The Mystery of God in Feminist Theological Discourse (New York: Crossroad, 1995); Carol P. Christ, Rebirth of the Goddess: Finding Meaning in Feminist Spirituality (Reading: Addison-Wesley Publishing Company: 1997) Laurel C. Schneider, Re-Imagining the Divine: Confronting the Backlash against Feminist Theology (Cleveland: The Pilgrim Press, 1998); Kune Biezeveld and Anne-Claire Mulder, eds., Towards a Different Transcendence: Feminist Findings on Subjectivity, Religion, and Values (Bern: Peter Lang, 2001). I also mention these titles to illustrate the gradually increasing awareness of the complexity and the nature of the “problem” of monotheism. See also: Marie-Theres Wacker, Von Göttinen, Göttern und dem einzigen Gott: Studien zum biblischen Monotheismus aus feministisch-theologischer Sicht (Münster: Lit, 2004). 5 I will not discuss philosophical aesthetics, where the problem of the gender of creativity and thus of the gender of the creator is already well demonstrated, although not in relation to religion or religious concepts. See for instance: Hilde Hein and Carolyn Korsmeyer, eds., Aesthetics in Feminist Perspective (Bloomington, Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 1993).

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However, before going into the different lines of discussion, I will present some thoughts on the matter from a totally different perspective and this is what led me to the title of this contribution.

Intermezzo: To Make Holy the Hole In a wonderful article on the work of the famous twentieth century sculptress Barbara Hepworth, Jeanette Winterson writes: For centuries woman had been described as the absence, as the shadow, as the void, as emptiness, as hole. Man has been the positive, woman the negative. But the scientific developments of Hepworth’s era—Einstein’s theory of relativity, and the work in progress we call quantum mechanics—challenged our understanding of space and matter. . . . The atom itself, the supposed building-block of matter, was no longer an object, but energy-points of light surrounded by empty space. What does it mean to talk in terms of positive and negative, when the negative space has become filled with meaning? Hole turned out to be spelt with a “w” as well as an “h.” Holes were not gaps, they were connections. Hepworth made the hole into a connection between different expressions of form, and she made space into its own form.6

In her art, Barbara Hepworth has found a form and material with which she developed a new language beyond oppositions, in which she created new meaning of the hole and the whole. In her work the distinction between hole and matter has disappeared because the hole is a part of matter. I like to think of my reflections on the problematic aspects of monotheism as an attempt to find a theological answer to Winterson’s question: “What does it mean to talk in terms of positive and negative, when the negative space has become filled with meaning?” What does it mean when holes, gaps and women are not sheer negative, and hole can also be spelled as whole? According to Winterson, a Hepworth hole is not only a connection between different kinds of form, or a way of giving space to its own form, but it is a relation with the invisible, which some would call “God.”7 What does it mean for theology when the distinction 6 Jeanette Winterson, “The Hole of Life,” in Barbara Hepworth Centenary (ed. C. Stephens; London: Tate Publishing, 2003), 18. It is perhaps good to note that Hepworth in fact was the first sculptress to “add” a “hole” in her sculptures and not her friend and contemporary artist Henri Moore, as is usually stated. 7 Winterson, “The Hole of Life,” 19.

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between hole and matter has disappeared because the hole is part of matter? What does it mean when the hole and women are part of theology and of God? Inspired by the new perspective this art offers me, I wonder whether the contemporary questioning of monotheism is an expression of the struggle between oppositions that Hepworth in her art and the scientists in their theories have successfully overcome, but that still exist in theology. After all, it is not difficult to apply Winterson’s words to the Western philosophical and theological tradition. We would find that the concepts, images and language used in traditional discourses on monotheism are determined by oppositions and dimensions that presuppose the above mentioned gendered gap, lack and emptiness. However, in our days, we see these gaps and negatives being fundamentally questioned. And these “gaps” are gradually being filled with meaning. What would this imply for theological language on God if, indeed, the negative is filled with meaning? How can the relation with the invisible be re-imagined and thus the gap as well as God be re-imagined?

Destabilizing the Monos of Monotheism The question of the monos character of monotheism is the most explicit in all discussions with polytheism. Here the monos perspective is mostly and primarily understood as the Jewish, Christian (and Islamic) One-God as opposed to the many gods and goddesses (notice the capitals!). The disciplines of the History of Religion, Religious Studies and Biblical Studies are the first in which these discussions have recently reemerged with a renewed urgency. Based on historical findings, a far more complex and complicated religious culture in the history of which the Hebrew Bible testifies has emerged. Contrary to common belief, scholars point at the many signs of the far from unambiguously strict monotheistic religious culture in the biblical texts themselves.8 These new insights appear to be threatening for some theologians, church leaders or common believers. For them these findings and their possible implications contradict any doctrinal pronouncement of biblical monotheism or any firm monotheistic faith considered to be central or abso8 See the contributions of Bob Becking, Patrick Chatelion Counet and Kune Biezeveld in this volume.

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lute within Christianity or Judaism.9 For others however, these findings present new or old “different” images of God, different from the traditional dominantly male and ruler images.10 Whatever position one favours, monotheism, notably in its absolute and doctrinal form, was put into perspective by these irrefutable historic and scientific findings of cultic diversity and polyphony. At the same time these findings encouraged new research into rituals and beliefs in “other” gods and goddesses in Israel as an integral part of the Hebrew history, as well as research into a (female) partner of the (male) YHWH and into the meaning and the place of Ashera. It also stimulated new research into Lady Wisdom and her place and meaning within the whole of Scripture, and into her relation with God. In this kind of research, the gender element can hardly be overlooked. The evidence of “other” possibilities, resulting from archaeological and historical findings, gave rise to questions and criticisms of the obvious “exclusive maleness” of the divine. Regardless the implications of these findings for theology and churches, to many scholars and many “ordinary women and men” these scientific findings were very important for discovering traces, roots and faces of “other” deities, of “other” signs of the divine than the absolute male monotheistic God they were brought up with. It is the task of theologians, philosophers of religion and the churches to deal indepth with the possible implications and problems of these scientific results for the monotheistic religion that turned out to be far more ambiguous.

The Destructive Consequences of Monotheism The recent findings made it more urgent to reflect on “the question of monotheism” because they bring new, very different elements into an older tradition of debate. This older tradition is not only found within biblical studies or the history of religion, but also has a strong system9 In this sense the Christian Trinity can be seen as a kind of “oddity,” considered by some as a very loose form of monotheism, or by others, notably Jewish or Islamic thinkers, as no strict monotheism at all. Laurel Schneider speaks of the Trinity as “a tentative concession to polytheism as a means for accounting for the multiplicity embedded in any concept of divine embodiment.” Laurel C. Schneider, Re-Imagining the Divine: Confronting the Backlash against Feminist Theology (Cleveland: The Pilgrim Press, 1998), 165. 10 See for instance: Wacker, Von Göttinen, Göttern und dem einzigen Gott.

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atic theological and philosophical context. Monotheism, though not very old as a concept,11 met with opposition long before the recent archaeological findings. At stake in these continuing discussions of and objections against monotheism, is a specific form or interpretation of the monotheistic God. In recent years these discussions gained urgency because of the political dimensions of monotheism and the monotheistic religions (in which case Islam is also included).12 Summarizing the main objections against monotheism in these discussions it may be said that there is a postulated relationship between monotheism and violence, between monotheism and the abuse of power and between monotheism and exclusion. Furthermore it is said that monotheism knows no tolerance, no difference and therefore eliminates the “other/Other.” It offers no space for other religions, for other images of the divine; there is no pluralism or plurality possible, neither within nor outside a specific monotheistic religion. Therefore, it aims to control everything and everybody that is “other.” Another kind of objection points at the (sharp) distinction between God and his (sic) creation. In the end, because of the unbridgeable gap between the absolute transcendent divine and humanity, this leads to a hostility to humanity, notable in its embodied and finite form, and by implication also to the cosmos. All these characteristics imply an unacceptable submission to the monotheistic God and dismiss human freedom. Monotheism is cruel and forces us to endure and accept suffering. Also, absolute monotheism offers no experiences of divine intimacy and presence. These strong criticisms and objections are applied to the traditional monotheistic religions as well as to the (Christian inspired) Enlightenment monotheistic Vernunftglaube. Gradually, this kind of criticism of monotheism in its exclusiveness and its totalitarian concept of unity, became a criticism of (Western) culture and its mono-logic discourse. Feminist theologians have joined these critics but, contrary to most Western critics, they emphasize the gender aspect of these discussions 11 It is said the concept was coined by the British philosopher H. More in 1660. He used it to distinguish Christian monotheism from other seemingly similar forms of pagan religion. 12 See for instance: R. Scott Appelby, The Ambivalence of the Sacred: Religion, Violence and Reconciliation (Lamdan: Rowman & Littlefield, 1999); Mark Jürgensmeyer, Terror in the Mind of God: The Global Rise of Religious Violence (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2000); Hent de Vries, Religion and Violence: Philosophical Perspectives from Kant to Derrida (Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 2002).

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and objections. To put it simply: The monotheistic God is a male God. This feminist input has had a double effect. By adding the gender element to the discussions about monotheism, it also revealed the concrete historical mechanisms and effects of the gender specificity of the power and violence that are legitimised and influenced by the monotheistic God. It not only brought existing, predominantly academic and intellectual objections “down to earth,” but also made it more accessible to “common believers.”13 Western feminist theologians, like political and liberation theologians, point out everyday structures of violence and exclusion in home, church and society that have been influenced, legitimised or caused by biblical interpretations and ecclesiastical, theological and philosophical convictions. Not only concepts, symbols or images are discussed, but also the violence, exclusion and submission written on the bodies of concrete women and men. These are subsequently related to the texts, symbols and images that figure to legitimise or support—however unconscious or unintentional—this exclusion. From this perspective the practical and ethical dimensions became an important criterion for reflecting on and judging the adequacy and value of religious beliefs. On a theoretical level, these feminist insights made it very clear that many of the doctrines, concepts, symbols, images and theological reflections on understanding the divine, the cosmos, the relation between the human and the divine, and human nature, are not only highly dualistic and mutually exclusive but also highly gendered. This aspect seems to be the most complex one to deal with in relation to the problem of monotheism. In this light it is not surprising that Old Testament scholar Marie-Theres Wacker contends that the results of almost twenty years of Old Testament studies in the “new monotheism” quest have hardly influenced systematic theological reflection outside feminist reflection.14 The same holds true for gender specific reflections in philosophical and theological thinking in general.

13

Compare Susan Frank Parson on this point: “whatever personal responses one may make to feminist theology . . . women and men of faith will at some points encounter the questions it has worked through regarding our humanity, our place in the scheme of things, and the way of the divine presence in our midst.” Susan Frank Parsons, ed., The Cambridge Companion to Feminist Theology (Cambridge Companions to Religion; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), xvi.

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In my reading of the “problems of monotheism” it seems that both the acknowledgement of gender dimensions in general thinking, as well as the implications of this gender specificity for concepts and theories, are still not recognized, diminished or neglected by many religious scholars, even though most of them do recognize and reject gender injustice in society, church and interpersonal relations.15 I am convinced that ignoring these “abstract gender elements” ultimately affirms traditional gender relations. Moreover, as I intend to demonstrate, ignoring gender dimensions in theories and concepts prevents theology from overcoming or transforming many of the “objections to monotheism” mentioned above.

Defending Monotheism by Extending its Meaning Not only the ambiguous religious practice of monotheism and some of its violent implications became increasingly apparent in the recent “monotheism discussions,” but also the instability of the concept itself came to the fore. Monotheism, just like its counter-term polytheism, is a construction or a metaphor. The same goes for the dominant concepts used in the “theistic” approach: theism and its counter-term pantheism. The meaning of monotheism is not limited to a strict and fixed doctrinal description, although it has often functioned as such. In both 14 Marie-Theres Wacker, “‘Monotheismus’ als Kategorie der alttestamentlichen Wissenschaft: Erkentnisse und Interessen,” in Monotheismus (ed. J. Manemann; Jahrbuch Politische Theologie 4; Münster: Lit, 2002), 66-67. With this in mind it is striking to notice the discrepancy between the acknowledgment of biblical polytheistic cultic life on the one hand, and the strict, self-evident, monotheistic systematic reflection in theology on the other hand, and to see the denial of gender elements in these reflections. See for instance the collection: Thomas Söding, ed., Ist der Glaube Feind der Freiheit? Die neue Debatte um den Monotheismus (Freiburg: Herder, 2003). As far as I know Kune Biezeveld’s work is the most explicit and most positive example of a feminist dogmatic reflection on monotheism in the light of recent archaeological research. From a different perspective, namely the actual diversity in feminist religious experiences, with its multiple claims for divine presence, Laurel Schneider is also deeply engaged in re-thinking monotheism. See above, note 9. 15 In my view there is a difference between recognising and opposing social injustice with regard to women (people of colour or ethnic characteristics), as is indeed happening in church and society on the one hand, and the acknowledgment of the far deeper and more complex symbolic and linguistic androcentrism and gender (or race, or ethnic) subordination on the level of analytic and descriptive concepts, models, metaphors and images on the other hand.

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approaches, monotheism respectively theism, and especially their counter-concepts polytheism, pantheism and to a lesser degree also panentheism, had, and very often still have, strong polemic and disqualifying meanings. From a Western monotheistic and monologic perspective, however, polytheism is the most negatively laden concept.16 The instability of the meaning and denotation of the concept of monotheism, together with its—until recent times—unquestioned superiority over polytheism (or pantheism), often leads to a simple defence of the concept, without clarifying the concept itself. I will elaborate on one recent example because it demonstrates the complexity of the concept and the many aspects in contemporary discussions. In an interesting article Der monotheismus Israels: Entstehung–Profil–Relevanz, Erich Zenger advocates the thesis that biblical monotheism, by which he means reflective monotheism as it developed from the sixth century BCE onward, can be characterized as a “polyvalent and polyphone monotheism.”17 In line with his description, this biblical monotheism is inclusive as well as exclusive, as becomes clear in his presentation of the Wisdom theologies of Job, Proverbs and Wisdom. Still, according to Zenger, “this monotheism realizes in a fascinating and creative manner the perspective of the unity in plurality, yet with a distinct preference for unity.” This is where, in his view, Christian theology, with its concept of Trinity, can connect, even if, for many theo-

16 Feminist theologians too, seldom make use of the term polytheism as a central, let alone positive, concept in their work. Even so-called post-Christian feminist religious scholars hardly ever use this notion. An exception can be made for Christian Laurel Schneider’s elaboration of “monistic polytheism” as a possible useful future category “beyond” monotheism—although this happens only in a note (Schneider, Re-Imagining the Divine, 198n16)—, or for thealogian Carol Christ in her Rebirth of the Goddess in which she explicitly denies the adequacy of both concepts for her proposal, although she points at the polytheistic practice of Goddess religion (Carol P. Christ, Rebirth of the Goddess: Finding Meaning in Feminist Spirituality (Reading: Addison-Wesley, 1997), 109-112). Taking these fixed values added to the concepts, one wonders if Jan Assmann’s Moses the Egyptian, would have been met with such strong opposition from notably the German theologians engaged in the monotheism debate, had he described Egyptian religion as “polytheistic.” As it is, in his critical evaluation of the Judeo-Christian monotheism (the counter-religion), the concept to which he compares this monotheism is the far more neutral “Cosmotheism.” (Jan Assmann, Moses the Egyptian: The Memory of Egypt in Western Monotheism (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1997). 17 Zenger, “Der Monotheismus Israels,” 46.

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logians, the aspect of three dominates the oneness.18 He states that it is not so much the tension between mono and poly that characterizes the monotheistic principle of biblical religion, but the political. Thus, at the end of his description of the historical development of biblical monotheism, Zenger formulates: Befreiung aus Rechtlosichkeit, Unterdrückung und Entwürdigung sowie Hinführung zu einem Leben in solidarischer Gerechtigkeit. Das is das Proprium des JHWH-Monotheismus, das seine bleibende religionsgeschichtliche und theologische Relevanz ausmacht.19

It is clear that for Zenger the objections to monotheism are very serious. But despite his careful and lucid reconstruction of the development of biblical monotheism I get the impression that it brings nothing new in the end. That is to say, that however politically correct or sympathetically this position may be, it does not stimulate or challenge an already existing theological position in which monotheism is the intellectual and ethical best of all. The author does not make it clear that, in the name of the engagement he calls the proprium of monotheism, a lot of other thinkers argue against monotheism, or claim that this proprium has neither been a historic reality nor the ideological or symbolic intention of the monotheistic religions. To put it differently: The arguments that lead to his formulation of the proprium are not as consistent as they may appear. Moreover, he overlooks some important counter-arguments or questions that some of his premises raise. For instance: Why speak of an egalitarian Hebrew society when it is clear that equality does not extend to women or slaves?20 Why stress the singularity, that is the one-ness of the God YHWH, notably in relation to a possible (female) partner? Why is it not plausible, as the author states, that the

18 This is a frequently heard complaint about Trinitarian theology. Compare Johann Reikerstorfer, “Die ‘intelligibile’ Gottesspur: Trinitätstheologische Analogik und monotheistisches Gottesgedächtnis,” in Monotheismus (ed. J. Manemann; Jahrbuch Politische Theologie 4; Münster: Lit, 2002), 107-119. 19 Zenger, “Der Monotheismus Israels,” 52. (Liberation from lack of rights, oppression, and humiliation, as well as leading to a life in solidary justice. That is the proprium of the YHWH-istic monotheism and gives it its continous relevance for theology and the history of religions). 20 Zenger, “Der Monotheismus Israels,” 20.

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rejection of a female deity amounts to misogyny or sexism?21 And why not reflect on the implicit masculinity of (t)his God? Why neglect all the existing material on gender? Are this article and Zenger’s conclusions demonstrations of the thesis of Marie-Theres Wacker mentioned above? Have the results of recent historical studies in the “new monotheism” quest indeed hardly influenced theological reflection?22 Is not Zenger’s article in the end, albeit very sympathetic and intelligent, a defence of a specific kind of theological position? A position that, in the German context of the German debates on monotheism, is closely connected to a specific interpretation and privileging of monotheism.23 Or does he hope to convince conservative theologians and church leaders, notably those who dismiss plurality and diversity? Is this his motive for “demonstrating” the openness and plurality of his monotheism with the “difficult” and not too traditional monotheistic Wisdom literature? But then, whatever his intentions may be, his description of the monotheistic profile is ultimately a “defence” of the “one,” and by implication, masculine God. What is more—and worse—, is this intelligent and scholarly article finally not a straightforward apologetic defence of the one (and only?) true God and true Christian religion without explaining why this profile is both true and relevant?24 That is to say, who would object to the described engagement of biblical religion?

21

Zenger, “Der Monotheismus Israels,” 41. Wacker, “‘Monotheismus’ als Kategorie der alttestamentlichen Wissenschaft,” 66-67. 23 As is demonstrated in Manemann, Monotheismus. Most of the contemporary German discussion on monotheism seems to be dominated by the attempts of theologians to refute the arguments made by Jan Assmann in his Moses the Egyptian and/ or by Odo Marquard in his “Lob des Polytheismus” (Abschied vom Prinzipiellen: Philosophische Studien (Stuttgart: Reclam, 1984), 91-116). Both authors, though on different grounds, argue for a kind of cosmotheism or polytheism as a more humane worldview. All theologians reject these views (even while some have sympathy for parts of the insights of Assmann or Marquard) and are trying to make a strong case for (ethical) monotheism as the only guarantee for a really humane society and the only option for a Christian belief. See for instance: Georg Essen, Ethischer Monotheismus und Menschliche Freiheit: Theologische Annäherungen an den Pluralismus der Moderne (Nijmegen: Katholieke Universiteit, 2002). 24 Compare Jaffee: “In general it must be said that the moral superiority of monotheism over polytheism is more commonly assumed than rather argued.” M. Jaffee, “One God, One Revelation, One People: On the Symbolic Structure of Elective Monotheism,” Journal of the American Academy of Religion 69 (2001) 4: 756. 22

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A “Different Monotheism” and the Difference of Feminism May be we should ask other questions if we really want to deal with the “problems of monotheism.” How “realistic” or rather, “meaningful” is the asserted polyphone and polyvalent character of the monotheism presented in Zenger’s article? How can it be related to content, creed, doctrines, images and practices of Christian belief? Is not Zenger’s admirable, although ambivalent account of a polyphone and polyvalent monotheism, with an emphasis on its explicit truth claims, another beautiful construction that perfectly fits in with Western Christianity without having to change anything of its traditional format, its central concepts or claims? Is this strong advocacy of a supposed polyphone and polyvalent biblical monotheism a conceptual fallacy in which he reaffirms the monologic monos/oneness of the Western tradition he sought to overcome? Or is a polyphone and polyvalent monotheism indeed the only form of monotheism that is not oppressive, all-inclusive, without fixed boundaries and opens up possibilities for a systematic reflection on Christian religion? Can only this kind of monotheism open up a practice of belief that aims at flourishing, justice, beauty and hope for all, regardless of sex, race, ethnicity or religious conviction and so meets the earlier mentioned practice related criterion? I am ready, willing and bound by tradition to agree with Zenger on this point. But I am also convinced that we need a different approach to this polyphone and polyvalent monotheism. I even wonder whether it is necessary to continue using the concept of monotheism for the formulated aims.25 But, in case one continues to prefer the term monotheism, what kind of argumentation is needed? Zenger’s vehement presentation is ultimately apologetic, even monologic. Its theological argumentation is founded on the authority of scripture; it is a “theology by citation.”26 In my view this approach does neither offer a clarification of the assumed specificity of the concept of monotheism, nor is it convincing as a form of argumentation. Why 25

Jürgen Moltmann proposes to abandon the concept of monotheism altogether because he finds it an unsuitable concept that tries to unite elements that cannot be united. Jürgen Moltmann, “Kein Monotheismus gleicht dem anderen: Destruktion eines untaugliches Begriffs,” Evangelische Theologie 62 (2002) 2: 112-122. 26 I found this the term in Sheila Greeve Davaney, Pragmatic Historicism: A Theology for the Twenty-First Century (Albany: State University of New York Press, 2000), 179.

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would his interpretation be more solid, more biblical or more true than the (biblical) interpretations of monotheism he opposes? Furthermore, to reach his monotheism he has to ignore most (to do him justice: not all) of the violence, injustice and exclusion committed in the name of monotheism. Moreover, he had to iron out historical, philosophical and theological difficulties in order to make his polyvalent monotheism “digestible” for a traditional monotheistic theological framework with its accompanying truth claims. But then, do we have any alternative for this general conceptual instability and ambivalence? It is clear what the critics of monotheism are opposing. I even dare to say that some of the defenders of monotheism, Zenger for example, share these criticisms without accepting the supposed cause. Instead of rejecting monotheism as such, they distinguish between different ways of interpreting monotheism. Some feminist theologians would agree. Like Zenger, they reject a kind of totalitarian, absolute monotheism and, again like Zenger, they prefer other characterizations of monotheism. However, unlike Zenger, they mark their different approach with an explicit term or category like “inclusive monotheism,” “multiple monotheism,” “extended monotheism” or “polyphone and polyvalent monotheism,” to distinguish themselves from the type of monotheism they reject. Furthermore, their arguments for the continued use of the term monotheism are in general far more pragmatic than Zenger’s. Zenger claims to demonstrate the truth and the justness of biblical monotheism, its hard core, its eternal and revealed proprium. Most feminists who choose to maintain the notion of monotheism with a renewed or revisionist meaning do so for strategic or other pragmatic reasons. For instance: They do not want to estrange themselves from the religious tradition they belong to; they want to be heard within their tradition so that they might influence their religious institutions and their academic colleagues. They are convinced that by leaving out such a central notion as monotheism, they would be considered as “lost.” Besides, on an epistemological level most feminists do not believe in an “absolute” or “eternal” truth that can only be found in a specific tradition or formulation. Sharing historicist or social constructivist views, they are convinced that these formulations as well as their interpretations are always contextual. But there is more to be said on the subject. Perhaps one of the most characteristic and most important differences between Zenger and other

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defenders of monotheism on the one hand, and feminist theologians on the other hand, is their relation to existing ritual or experiential images of God. Feminists explicitly combine their different constructive interpretations of monotheism with a plea for a necessary diversity in imagination and for multiple images with regard to the divine, in particular female images.27 For Zenger and others, this diversity in concrete ritual or symbolic images plays no role whatsoever in their reflections, let alone that the existence of multiple or female images of the divine or of divine presence in the past or at present are as such acknowledged as meaningful for monotheistic reflection. The insight in the epistemological importance and the privileging of concrete practices of belief, of the everyday religious life, leads to an integration of these aspects in systematic reflection. This feminist “pragmatic,” ”practical” and “multiple imaginative” approach can be an example of another way of presenting or preserving “monotheism.” It does not use nor need the strong, monologic, and highly defensive language of Zenger; it neither uses nor needs absolute truth claims. It just states that monotheism could be a useful concept, if its dominant interpretation changes, and opens up.28 What is more, this “multiple monos” approach also claims the importance and the value of the Jewish and Christian religious traditions, while fully acknowledging the sad, violent and exclusive parts of its history, in spite of what they believe to be a misuse of the concept of monotheism. Some feminist theologians prefer to reject the term monotheism altogether and others choose to neglect this monos approach and its relation to polytheism. They often start from a philosophical context in which, apart from the concept of monotheism, the notion of “theism” is used to formulate their critique. Here we are explicitly entering the field of the second approach: the theistic perspective on the complexity of contemporary monotheism. As I said earlier, it is within this approach that we

27 In fact part of Schneider’s effort to think “beyond” monotheism finds its base in these multiple experiences of the divine. Schneider, Re-Imagining the Divine. 28 For instance: Judith Plaskow, Standing Again at Sinai: Judaism from a Feminist Perspective (San Francisco: Harper San Francisco, 1991); Schneider, Re-Imagining the Divine; Regina M. Schwartz, The Curse of Cain: The Violent Legacy of Monotheism (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1997).

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find the use of the notions of panentheism or pantheism as theism counter-terms.29 It is significant for the complexity of all these monotheism discussions that, whatever choice is made regarding the approach and use of concepts, it is clear that for many thinkers, including most feminist theologians, a reversal to a simple polytheism or a reversal to a simple monism or a simple pantheism offers neither a real, nor a desirable alternative. This even applies to those who explicitly choose the Goddess as their name for the divine or divinity. In my view this is not only due to the extremely negative connotations of the term polytheism or the far less negative term: pantheism. I assume that there is more at stake in the (feminist) monotheism problems, notably that which I have called the unifying or grounding dimension.

Divine Involvement in the World: The Pan(en)theistic Alternative? Before discussing the point of the unifying dimension, I will elaborate on the second approach in which the “monotheistic problem” is formulated mostly via the theism-pan(en)theism opposition. Here the earlier mentioned general objections against monotheism—its supposed violence, dominance, exclusion etc.—are not discussed in the context of the meaning of the One and the many as in biblical theology. On the contrary, this approach scrutinizes a specific interpretation of God, transcendence or the divine, stemming from discussions on classical theism. In other words, it aims to undermine what is called the unbridgeable gap or sharp distinction between the static, absolute transcendent Divine/God and the cosmos/humanity/creation and the absolute human dependence on God following from this distinction. The God of classical theism with his plentiful attributes that reinforce the absoluteness and the distinction between God and creation, is criticized. Furthermore, this approach aims to undermine the models of (patriarchal) 29 See for instance: Ivone Gebara, Longing for Running Water: Ecofeminism and Liberation (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1999); Grace M. Jantzen, God’s World, God’s Body (London: Darton, Longman & Todd, 1984); Elizabeth A. Johnson, She Who Is: The Mystery of God in Feminist Theological Discourse (New York: Crossroads, 1995); Catherine Keller, Face of the Deep: A Theology of Becoming (London, New York: Routledge, 2003); Sallie McFague, Models of God: Theology for an Ecological, Nuclear Age (Philadelphia: Crossroads, 1987).

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authority, power, dominance and control that are said to originate from this God-world/human relation.30 Once again we find the practicalethical motive underlying these criticisms. The mutual exclusiveness and the strong and static dualistic, hierarchical oppositions that are regarded as the characteristics of this theism, are these critics’ particular target. Once more, feminists were the ones who pointed out the thoroughly gendered character of these dualisms, starting with the gender of the Godhead.31 In these discussions we find the opposition between transcendence and immanence as one of the most striking aspects of the “monotheistic problem,” since a specific interpretation of both terms is inextricably linked up with theism.32 And, not surprisingly, both transcendence and immanence are also highly gendered, dualistic concepts. Although these theological reflections can, and often do have strong biblical roots as well,33 the feminist discourse is dominated by counterterms such as “interrelatedness, interdependency, relatedness,” which are introduced to rename the relation between the divine and the world and thereby to overcome the gap. Since panentheism (and pantheism) are notions that traditionally express the intuition of the presence of God in the world,34 they are thought to be more adequate for covering the constructive engagement of these critical theological projects. However, these terms are no less complicated or ambiguous than the notions monotheism and theism and they often function even outside a “strict 30 This is not to say that these elements do not inform the monos discussions; it only makes clear that the emphasis and the discussion partners are different. 31 The work of, for instance, Rosemary Radford Ruether can be characterised by her constant criticism of gender hierarchies and other forms of dualisms. 32 For an elaborate, though not yet gendered, exposé on this subject see Jantzen, God’s World, God’s Body. See also Jantzen, Becoming Divine. Jantzen’s earlier work then highly influenced Sally McFaque’s ecofeminist studies. On the transcendence-immanence opposition see also Rita M. Gross, “Immanence and Transcendence in Women’s Religious Experience and Expression: A Nontheistic Perspective,” in Soaring and Settling: Buddhist Perspectives on Contemporary Social and Religious Issues (ed. Rita M. Gross; New York: Continuum, 2000), 15970; Maaike de Haardt, “Gods aanwezigheid ter sprake: De radicale immanentie van de feministische theologie,” Verbum 61 (1994) 8: 163-68; Anne-Claire Mulder, Divine Flesh, Embodied Word: Incarnation as a Hermeneutical Key to a Feminist Theological Reading of Luce Irigaray’s Work (Utrecht: published by the author, 2000), Rosemary Radford Ruether, “De God van de mogelijkheden: Heroverdenking van immanentie en transcendentie,” Concilium 36 (2000) 4: 43-52. 33 As, for instance, in the works of Keller, Johnson and Ruether. 34 Gregory R. Peterson, “Whither Panentheism?” Zygon 36 (2001) 3: 395-406.

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monotheism” context. That is to say, in stressing the immanence, presence, relationality, activity, responsiveness of the pan(en)theistic God in the world, as opposed to a static, essentialist description of the classical (mono)theistic God, it is usually not the monos element that is being discussed. Leaving the monos element out, both Peterson and McFague are probably correct in noticing that almost any contemporary doctrine of God is panentheistic to a certain degree.35 Even the distinction between pantheism and panentheism seems to disappear,36 although most theologians continue to prefer the term panentheism because of the (traditional?) suspicion of diminishing the difference between God and the world,37 that is: the identification of the divine and the world in such a way that it reduces God to the physical and abandons divine as well as human freedom.38 Or because they think that there is an aspect of “God” somehow beyond or other than this world. According to Jantzen, the latter position will ultimately lapse into dualism.39 Notwithstanding the discussion on terminology, Jantzen’s own choice of the term pantheism does not imply—as some fear—giving up “transcendence,” and the same goes for others who choose a more “extreme” 35

Sallie McFague, Life Abundant: Rethinking Theology and Economy for a Planet in Peril (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2001), 141; Peterson, “Whither Panentheism?” 395. “Panentheism seems to address many of the challenges that face theology in the late modern and post-modern period, and it does so in a way that is true to the historical tradition. Panentheism seems to sacrifice little while it gains much.” (Peterson, “Whither Panentheism?” 398). 36 In McFague’s index we only find the term pantheism while in her text she presents her own model as panentheism. Grace Jantzen, who explicitly uses the notion of pantheism, is considered to be a panentheistic thinker by Peterson. 37 For instance: Johnson, She Who Is, 231; Keller, Face of the Deep, 218. Keller is firmly rooted in the process panentheism of Cobb and Whitehead, but she also refers to the Church Fathers, Cusa and Silesius in defence of panentheism. 38 This last point, the loss of human freedom in pantheism, is a danger mentioned from a specific feminist perspective by Elizabeth Johnson. According to Johnson, the pantheistic paradigm is, especially for women, a suffocating deception and for that reason she espouses panentheism. Johnson, She Who Is, 230-31. Ironically, Nancy Frankenberry finds panentheism inadequate for the same reason Johnson problematizes pantheism. See Nancy Frankenberry, “Classical Theism, Panentheism, and Pantheism: On the Relation between God Construction and Gender Construction,” Zygon 28 (1993) 1: 36-37. The danger of the loss of divine freedom is usually an argument in defence of divine transcendence according to Schneider, ReImagining the Divine. For a defence of freedom in pantheism see Jantzen, Becoming Divine, 273-74; and, in far more traditional terms and without feminist consciousness, Jantzen, God’s World, God’s Body 145-54. 39 Jantzen, Becoming Divine, 271n5.

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position.40 Once again this element makes clear that the way concepts of transcendence and immanence are conceived, is central to the theism/ pan(en)theism discussion.41 It also shows that the question is not whether God exists, whether “Otherness,” “Alterity,” “Absence” are the central characteristics of God, or whether God is in the world, but the central question is how God is in the world and how one can reflect on this divine presence. And perhaps an equally important question is why this recognition of the divine in the world—traditionally formulated as the doctrine of embodiment of God—is important. In the words of Jantzen, who agrees with Irigaray on this, the aim of the recognition of the divine as a horizon of becoming would be the “flourishing” of women.42 Even when formulated in a more dynamic ontological terminology, this “becoming,” “well-being” of women (and other outsiders, including the earth), is central to the process of transforming theism.43 According to these authors, pan(en)theism is therefore a necessary precondition for a really gendered becoming, a gendered subjectivity, of humankind.44 By implication, this paradigm also, necessarily breaks open the static and male imagination of the divine. Female symbols, metaphors and concepts are inconceivable in a traditional Western theistic model but, as all feminist authors state, a—luckily also very traditional—pan(en)theistic model 40 For instance: Carol P. Christ, Mary Daly, Daphne Hampson, or Nancy Frankenberry. 41 In this sense this discussion is completely different from the theism/atheism discussion, which in fact leaves only one conceptualisation of the divine/transcendence to be accepted or rejected: this God or no God. 42 Jantzen, Becoming Divine, 275. 43 See for instance in the works of, among others: Daly, Christ, Johnson, Keller. 44 Anne-Claire Mulder defends this position but labels it a post-theistic one. Without mentioning pantheism or panentheism as possible “labels” to meet her objections to theism (and without mentioning these pan(en)theistic choices in the authors she refers to, notably Jantzen and Ruether), she is especially interested in the functional meaning of “God” and religion in a cultural system. However, it seems to me that there is a difference to “leaving the possibility of a ‘separate existence’ of God open” and the theistic position which, according to Mulder, is concerned with the “real” existence of God and how to prove this. For Mulder, as I read her, all those theologians who in their own view do not hold a theistic position and do not explicitly deny nor confirm something like “real” presence, are “still” to be called theists. See: Mulder, Divine Flesh, Embodied Word, 340. At the same time, Mulder’s account again makes clear the strong interrelatedness of the monos and the “theistic” approach since one of her strongest objections to theism is the Oneness of God, one of the central aspect of the monos approach.

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offers possibilities on this point.45 The symbol of the female deity is important, as even a “conventional” Christian like Elizabeth Johnson indicates: “not as the expression of a female dimension of the divine, but the expression of the fullness of divine power and care shown in a female image.”46 Here we see how the importance of female imagination of the divine is intrinsically connected with female subjectivity, with the becoming of women. Surprisingly, none of the authors mentioned above used the term monotheism in formulating their criticism or their constructive proposals, not even when they argue the necessity of a female deity. The same is true of those authors who criticize classical theism without paying attention to gender. Are they in fact presupposing the casualness of the monos of monotheism, while bringing a specific interpretation of transcendence or the involvement of God in the world under discussion? However, since these authors make a strong case for multiple and female gendered images of the divine as well, their criticism of theism cannot be separated from the earlier mentioned monotheism debate. What is at stake in these anti-theistic discourses is the commitment to think “matter” in a positive relation to the divine. Matter, just like nature, women and bodies traditionally belongs to the excluded part of the divine. Matter, like women, belongs to the “gap,” or the negative, to which Winterson refers in her essay on Barbara Hepworth. If matter was to be associated with God at all, then only indirectly, through the negative poles of other dualisms such as immanence, plurality and female and femininity. Hence feminists emphasize immanence, female images, interrelatedness and plurality without “giving up” transcendence. This 45

According to Peterson, “many current panentheists argue that not only is panentheism orthodox, but it is more orthodox than the classical theism that it prominently intends to replace.” (Peterson, “Whither Panentheism?,” 397). 46 Johnson, She Who Is, 56. I mention Johnson here as the opposite of such thinkers as Grace Jantzen, Mary Daly or Daphne Hampson, who all have a far more detached or even negative relation to their original religious tradition than Johnson has. Nevertheless, we find the same kind of arguments with regard to the importance of a female divine in all of them, or the divine as a dimension of all what is. Hampson herself uses the notion of theism in describing the necessity of speaking of God, but then her description of “theism” has nothing to do with classical or even modern theism. She uses the term theism to “designate a conviction that there is more to reality than meets the eye; that there are powers on which we may draw; that we are profoundly connected with what is in excess of what we are” (Daphne Hampson, After Christianity (London: SCM Press, 1996), 213). And, she states: “I call this dimension of reality God.”

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emphasis or privileging of materiality can traditionally be found—at least in theory—in the catholic sacramental tradition as well as in religious practices that are often labelled as popular religion. In both kinds of practices the expressions of the materiality of divine presence seems to be far more natural, although this does not mean that they are beyond dualism and it is no wonder that we find feminist and others referring to these traditions. All these reflections are an indication of the importance of this “material divine,” this “embodiment of the divine,”47 this “sensible transcendence,”48 this “incarnational divine presence,”49 or this “different transcendence.”50 All these expressions are, more or less successful, attempts to find formulations beyond traditional oppositions, to materialize the gap, to hallow the hole. From this perspective, the frequently heard objections to a more “immanent transcendence” are untenable. These expressions are not domesticating transcendence, nor are they reducing God or transcendence to an extension of the world and humanity, or transcendence to mere physicality. Each of these authors stress the importance of an element of “non-identity,” be it in order to save divine/transcendent intangibility, incomprehensibility, or freedom, or in order to save the singularity and freedom of the individual. Of course, these attempts are not free from the risks of taming the divine, but the same applies to a strong theism, a strong monotheism, or the concept of “Alterity” or “Otherness.” In the end, the risk of a “domestication of transcendence;”51 is inherent in every model, and this risk is intrinsically related to the absoluteness or the ultimate truth of the claims one makes. Indeed, were not these claims one of the reasons for 47

Schneider, Re-Imagining the Divine. Mulder, Divine Flesh, Embodied Word; Jantzen, Becoming Divine; both following Irigaray. Françoise Meltzer prefers the translation of sensitive or better sensory transcendence for Irigaray’s “sensible transcendence,” since “sensory” implies a notion of embodiment in English. Françoise Meltzer, For Fear of the Fire: Joan of Arc and the Limits of Subjectivity (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2001), 169n11. 49 Maaike de Haardt, Dichter bij de dood (Zoetermeer: Boekencentrum, 1993). 50 Kune Biezeveld and Anne-Claire Mulder, eds., Towards a Different Transcendence: Feminist Findings on Subjectivity, Religion and Values 9. Religion and Discourse (Bern: Peter Lang, 2001), 9-10. 51 I derived this expression from William C. Placher, The Domestication of Transcendence: How Modern Thinking about God Went Wrong (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 1996). 48

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contemporary objections against monotheism? Moreover, these attempts to counter theisms are also attempts to tackle the male-ness of monotheism that was already discussed under the monos approach, by opening it up to an unlimited amount of divine images.52 And so we have returned to our point of departure and brought together the different approaches to the complex question of monotheism. As Laurel Schneider notes: Exclusivist monotheism cannot tolerate a divine embodiment that occurs in multiple ways and various forms. Primarily, it cannot tolerate the implications embedded in multiple embodiments that divinity may not be One, or that its unity may not be comprehensible in monotheistic terms.53

To Hallow the Hole: Unity and Creation As demonstrated above, it seems easier to envision a multiple, polygendered kind of “monotheism,” in theory as well as practice, than “traditional” or “exclusivist” monotheism would have us believe. But will this be enough to counter, at least at a theoretical level, the earlier mentioned objections to monotheism, even when the content of “monotheism” is challenged and indeed reformulated as a consequence of this “multiple monotheism”? Will a relational, embodied, an immanent and therefore “pan(en)theistic” divine or transcendence be able to offer better conditions for realising a non-exclusive religion or a life abundant for all? Will this “different” monotheism offer better opportunities for a different, that is non-violent, inclusive praxis? And, from a systematic perspective, how can we “think” the relationship between the multiple and the monos understood as “unity” in this “different monotheism”? Many theologians do indeed propose this kind of “solution” and often 52 Here I leave aside the question of the necessity of anthropomorphical images as related to the question of a personal God. Classical theism and dogmatic monotheism in general will hold a personal God, while at the same time claiming, with Aquinas, that we know better what God is not, than what God is. Feminists generally acknowledged the importance of a diversity of images and metaphors, including “personal” images, for the sake of rituals, religious experiences and for relating in one way or another to “divinity,” without, however, claiming an ontological status for this “personalised divine.” 53 Schneider, Re-Imagining the Divine, 166. She uses the term “exclusive monotheism” for the monotheism that is faced with all the aforementioned objections.

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prefer a process philosophical approach, whether or not combined with an explicit gender analysis and a gender informed transformation of process thought.54 It is in these process and gender inspired discussions that we find extensive reflection on the meaning of creation, creativity and plurality in order to overcome the monotheistic unilateral relationship between the single, male Creator/God and his creation. Inseparably bound up with these reflections is the recognition of the importance of the “God” practices of religious traditions into which “post-theistic insights” are and should be embedded or translated. Again, the praxis-related criterion is considerable, otherwise, what is left is “an elite post-theism which shuns all theologies of social and symbolic struggle,”55 or an elite post-modern negative theology that neglects actual and concrete religious images, experiences and practices. In my view it is not enough to reject, as in process theology, a creation ex nihilo and to speak of creation as an ongoing process of creativity in which “God” has to be conceived as an instance of creativity.56 The same applies to the process concept of “co-creativity” or the concept of “co-creation,” as found in feminist theology and in Jewish mystical traditions. Both indeed intend to break this unilateral model.57 It is even more important to account for the highly gendered images of the act of creating itself and for the subject of this act, the creator, as well as for the identification of creating/creator with genesis and/or sexual reproduction. After all, these gendered images belong to the core images of the religious traditions of the West. According to anthropologist Carol Delaney this gendered monogenetic model also dominates most of the so-called “secular” images of reproduction in the West, contemporary biological and anthropological findings not withstanding.58 The same is true of many theories on creativity and aesthetics in which 54 As in René Munnik’s contribution “The Unity of God” in this volume. See further and explicitly feminist the recent publications of Carol P. Christ, She Who Changes. Re-Imagining the Divine in the World (New York: Palgrave, 2003); Keller, Face of the Deep. 55 Keller, Face of the Deep, 172. 56 Compare the contribution of René Munnik in this volume. 57 See for instance: Plaskow, Standing Again at Sinai; Isabel Carter Heyward, The Redemption of God: A Theology of Mutual Relation (Washington: University Press of America, 1982). 58 Carol Delaney, Abraham on Trial: The Social Legacy of Biblical Myth (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1998/2000).

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“real” creativity or aesthetics is often regarded as “male,” contrary to “female” reproduction. In this last case it becomes clear that if “reproduction,” as in giving birth, is considered as “female creativity,” this kind of creativity has nothing to do with “real creating,” let alone with art.59 In both cases the dominant images are male and singular, with all the implications for religious concepts, stories and rituals, which tend to re-inscribe all kinds of hierarchical dualisms and many forms of exclusion.60 Therefore, would it be possible to rethink this “unifying ground,” this creative power, not singular but multiple, not single- or mono-gendered but multi-gendered? And would it be possible to relate this/these “unifying ground/s” to Western religious traditions, more specifically— from the perspective of this author—, to Christianity and the “Christian God,” at the same time? How then, would religion and the divine “come into matter?” Certainly not as “one.” At the present moment I only wanted to demonstrate that and how the issue of the interrelatedness of monogenesis and monotheism is, in my view, the most fundamental and underlying problem of both the monos and the “theistic” approach to the problem of monotheism, both on a theoretical and a practical level. It deserves a prominent place on the future agenda of theology. Recently, Catherine Keller took up the gauntlet by rethinking the doctrine of creation in her Face of the Deep: A Theology of Becoming. Rejecting the creatio ex nihilo, her alternative, creatio ex profundis, counters theism, the power structures of Jewish and Christian orthodoxies and the abstract male potency as found in the interpretations of creation in the first lines of the Book of Genesis. Keller is strongly influenced by process thinking (Whitehead), feminist religious reflection (as diverse as Daly and Johnson), Jewish and medieval Christian mystical 59 George Steiner, Real Presences (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1989), 207-08. Attention to this point is missing in Carol P. Christ’s most recent work on feminist spirituality and process thought. Christ’s solution to speak of Goddess/God, indeed reflects her awareness of the almost inescapable masculinity of “God” but she ignores the historical preference for “male” concepts of creativity and creation. Christ, She Who Changes. 60 As I demonstrated in my interpretation of Genesis 22, the monogenetic and monotheistic framework of interpretation affects not only gender relations, but also such concepts as love (god’s love and human love), obedience, faithfulness as well as social relations. Maaike de Haardt, “Abrahams Offer: Prototype van Gehoorzaamheid, Prototype van Geloof? Over Gender, Monogenese en Monotheïsme,” in Doen Wat God Wil: zegen of ramp? Over ethiek en religie in het licht van Abrahams offer (ed. R. te Velde; Budel: Damon, 2003), 36-61.

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writers, ecology as well as post-modern French philosophers such as Deleuze and Irigaray. Bringing together these different strands of thinking, Keller wrote a lucid, creative and thought-provoking book in which she reconstructs traditions, and thereby draws from the margins and the depth of the Jewish and Christian texts. She calls her proposal a tehomic theology, a reflection out of the depth, out of the “chaos” (tehom) of Genesis 1:2, as a counter-movement to the space of the “erased” chaos in which classical theism created itself. Rethinking “God” in this reflection means reading “God” as the “pluri-singularity of the text,” as a multiplicity of differences-in-relation, the Manyone, a countless divinity. In Keller’s approach, the grammar of “God’s Creation” stays ambiguous.61 It seems to me that her “divining of the multiple,” as an important and necessary act to overcome the problems of Western monotheism, can be an effective strategy beyond monotheism. It is not the only one and not a definitive one. Nevertheless, it is, in my view, one of the first and most impressive attempts at bridging the gap, at hallowing the hole, and breaking through the monologic interpretations of creation and Creator. It opens up possibilities, especially on a theoretical level. These and other proposals to rethink conceptions and images of the Divine and divine creating would imply leaving the concept of monotheism behind, at least here and now. As history shows, its “universal posturing” has not brought the victory, the affluence, freedom, or authority, be they religious, moral, social, or cultural, its users attribute to it. The insight into the historic, as well as the polemic and dualistic character of the concept has also put it into perspective. In plain words: In many cases it simply did not work. Perhaps the best strategy to deal with the complexity of the “question of monotheism” is to judge the truth and relevance of a religious tradition, notably if its truth and relevance is founded on a certain notion of “monotheism,” on its “good practices,” its reflective as well as practical good practices. Not the coherence of a monotheistic logic, not its supposed holy origin, and not its unquestionable revelatory power, but the power and the possibilities a concrete religious tradition, a concrete historical community offers for sustaining, connecting and including the holy and the “holes,” the excluded and the divine; a tradition and community that offer possibilities to become the whole of life. 61

Keller, Face of the Deep, 177-79.

CHAPTER EIGHT

ONE UNIQUE GOD FOR ALL PARTS OF LIFE RECONSIDERING AN EXCLUSIVE TRADITION Kune Biezeveld (Protestant Theological University, Location Leiden)

Introduction Although one could hardly imagine something more inclusive than the claim that there is “one God for all,” current debate on the issue of monotheism shows the opposite. Monotheism is blamed for being exclusive, intolerant, and violent at that. In the context of this debate monotheism is taken as the dominant frame of mind in Western history, in which a remarkable union between biblical commitment to the God of Israel, on the one side, and Greek philosophical conclusion to the existence of but one God, on the other, forms the basis of culture. Given this situation, a defence of monotheism could well be possible. Western culture was built on the idea of one universe, which came to form the basis of all communication, communication about “God” included.1 One might even suggest that current criticism is only possible on the basis of the idea that unity surpasses disunity. Would anybody long for a totally splintered world in which no communication is possible? That does not, however, mean to say that the current criticism of monotheism has no grounds. On the contrary, such an idea of unity always runs the risk of neglecting or overpowering the diversity and multiplicity which colours the universe, and—what is more—eternalising the norms for the centre and the margin. Exclusiveness then is only the next step. In this essay, I focus on a special sort of exclusiveness, that is, exclusiveness that concerns a certain part of religious experiences, embedded as those are in embodied daily life. My point of departure is the biblical tradition which can be seen as built on an antithetical way of thinking. For an antithesis could come to mind the one between history and nature, or, between mind and body, or, in a more categorised form, 1 Wolfhart Pannenberg, Systematische Theologie 1 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1988), 73-83.

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between monotheism and polytheism. On the basis of these antitheses, or dichotomies, a distinction has been made between those experiences which could be considered as connected to God, and those which were excluded from this privilege. Belonging to the latter category are those which “appreciate human life as embedded in ongoing daily processes of generation and decay, of birth and death, of alienation and embrace, of work and rest, of rise and fall.”2 Because of the dichotomies between body and mind, the excluded experiences are generally connected with women’s lives. I want to deal with this exclusive norm by questioning its theological basis and from there suggest incorporating once excluded God experiences into biblically based theology. I will start by questioning the antithetical way of thinking which forms the basis of the exclusivity of monotheism. Then, I will pay special attention to what has been brought forward as the grounds of this exclusivity. There could well be reason to be exclusive, but there could also be reason to reconsider the once constructed lines. From there I will try to unravel the process which once led to the contrasts and their implications of exclusiveness, thereby questioning their being normative forever. In the last section I will address the possibility of incorporating once excluded experiences into the biblically based religious tradition. My conclusion will be that we need more than contrasts, and even more than polarity. Life—and thus God-experiences—are too multiple to be restricted by any exclusivity whatsoever.

Exclusiveness Contested As all essays in this volume show, addressing monotheism in relation to Western religious tradition is addressing an extremely complex issue. For a start, the concept of monotheism is not clear as it is. From a perspective of the history of religion it is self evidently seen as an opposite to polytheism. The mere existence, however, of concepts as henotheism, monolatry, and monojahwism shows that there is more variety in choices for one God than the term monotheism contains.3 Besides, 2

Walter Brueggemann, “The Loss and Recovery of Creation in Old Testament Theology,” in Theology Today 53 (1996), 177-90, 188. 3 Fritz Stolz, Einführung in den biblischen Monotheismus (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1996), 14.

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polytheism as such is a collective term for many different sorts of religion, comparable only because of their cults of more than one God. Furthermore, the term polytheism was not born out of the context of the history of religion. It was constructed by Philo as a negative opposite to the Jewish religion, which he described as holding onto the monarchia theou.4 The term monotheism itself originated during the Enlightenment in the context of the different philosophical debates on which religion was the best for the new time. The emphasis, then, was more on theism than on mono.5 In this section I address monotheism as an historical issue, that is to say: valued on its working in history. In this concept the different lines of the biblical and philosophical traditions come together. Implying an ontological as well as a soteriological claim, this “combined” monotheism means: there is one God, who is the subject of the one story of salvation for the whole world. The tension, of course, is between “one” and “the whole.” One may ask: can inclusiveness ever be claimed? Does it not hold the risk of ironing out all sorts of differences reality contains? On this basis we see feminist theologian Laurel Schneider pleading for the concept of divine multiplicity.6 I leave this cluster of questions, however, to focus on a special part of the problem at hand, i.e., the exclusion of specific experiences from the relation with God. My starting point lies in the feminist discovery of the exclusion of women’s experiences from the “meaning-giving process of interpretation and explanation”7 which formed Western society, theology included. Via a complex interaction between cause and consequences, Western culture has resulted in a devaluation of women’s experiences under male interpretive hegemony. In this vein, women’s experiences were not part of the construction of theology which was itself part of Western culture. In its most basic form, the possible consequence was drawn by Carol

4 See Erik Peterson, “Der Monotheismus als politisches Problem,” in Theologische Traktate (E. Peterson; München: Kösel, 1951), 45-147. 5 Stolz, Einführung in den biblischen Monotheismus, 4-6. 6 Laurel C. Schneider, Re-imagining the Divine: Confronting the Backlash against Feminist Theology (Cleveland: Pilgrim Press, 1998), 154-76. 7 Gerda Lerner, The Creation of Patriarchy (New York: Oxford University Press, 1986), 5.

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Christ in her basic article: “Why women need the Goddess.”8 In that article Christ lists the components women need to develop their own identity in facing a patriarchal culture. Embedded in a restricted but indispensable theological framework—its focus is on the “role model” side of religion—the issues brought forward are more than relevant to reckon with. In short, my question is: what was why excluded in the process which formed Christian monotheism? Let me introduce this problem by turning to the concept of “myth.” “Myth” is in its own way part of the antithesis between monotheism and polytheism. The antithesis then contains: fiction opposed to history; stories about gods opposed to the testimony of the one and only real God; result of human projection opposed to the result of divine revelation. In this vein, “mythical versus biblical” becomes a key to the elaboration of what were considered totally different modes of thought. So, for instance, both Gerhard von Rad and G. E. Wright systematically contrast the cyclical, naturalistic, and mythical thinking they consider characteristic of Mesopotamia, Egypt, Canaan, with the linear, historical, and anti-mythical thought process they find central to Israelite religion.9 This antithesis is well-known in biblically based theology. Cyclical and naturalistic is connected to what has to do with fertility and procreation (and the Goddess), while linear and historical represent the call to become free from the bonds of nature and to obey the word of God.10 What to do with this antithesis which is recognised as well as questioned over and over again by feminist theologians? We could, for instance, refer to the disqualification of the “first birth” in favour of the “second birth” Sallie McFague blamed the Christian tradition for,11 or to Simone de Beauvoir’s “gendering” of the concepts of immanence and

8 Carol P. Christ, “Why Women Need the Goddess: Phenomenological, Psychological, and Political Reflections,” in Womanspirit Rising: A Feminist Reader in Religion (ed. Carol P. Christ and Judith Plaskow; San Francisco: Harper & Row, 1979), 273-87. See her later books: Carol P. Christ, Rebirth of the Goddess: Finding Meaning in Feminist Spirituality (New York: Routledge, 1997); Carol P. Christ, She Who Changes: Re-imagining the Divine in the World (New York: Palgrave, 2003). 9 See Robert A. Oden Jr., The Bible Without Theology: The Theological Tradition and Alternatives to It (San Francisco: Harper & Row, 1987), 40-91. 10 G. Ernest Wright, The Old Testament against its Environment (Chicago: SCM Press, 1950). 11 See Sallie McFague, Models of God: Theology for an Ecological, Nuclear Age (London: SCM Press, 1987), 105.

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transcendence.12 We can and may not reverse both sides of this antithesis as if they were comparable and not inextricable locked up in gender stereotypes.13 For my project, however, I will use the concepts connected with this antithesis, to analyse the roots of the exclusion of “women’s experiences” from mainstream theology. I therefore renounce from a critical approach to the opposition itself, let alone from an effort to exceed them directly, in order to touch upon the roots of the process of exclusion. My method is an indirect one. I use this very construction, to regain essential elements which have been lost by the opposition I strongly reject. In trying to regain these essential elements I use an attempt by Ricoeur to reintegrate those elements into theology which had been excluded by what he calls a “hermeneutic of proclamation.”14 By hermeneutic of proclamation Ricoeur refers to that form of biblically based theology that fits the pole of revelation, history, monotheism, or whatever elements we have put on that side of the balance. It concerns “the constant, obstinate struggle against the Canaanite cults—against the idols Baal and Astarte, against the myths about vegetation and agriculture, and in general against any natural and cosmic sacredness—as expressed in the writings of the Hebrew prophets.”15 Although firmly convinced of the worth of this critical theology, Ricoeur remarkably enough, pleads for a reintegration of exactly what is excluded, i.e., “the manifestation of the sacred.” Following Rudolf Otto and Mircea Eliade, for Ricoeur the manifestation of the sacred is the hierophany of the numinous unmediated by words, and sacralising special parts of the natural world. By integrating this element into theology, Ricoeur wants to free theology from any sterile antinomy or unmediated dichotomy and return to the use of polarity or tension. 12 As is well known, De Beauvoir claimed that Western culture has imprisoned women in an immanent circle of life, while men were called to come to existence in a process of transcendence. See Simone de Beauvoir, The Second Sex (New York: Knopf, 1971). 13 See for instance, T. Drorah Setel, “Feminist Insights and the Question of Method,” in Feminist Perspectives on Biblical Scholarship (ed. A. Yarbro Collins; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1985), 35-42. 14 Paul Ricoeur, “Manifestation and Proclamation,” in Figuring the Sacred: Religion, Narrative, and Imagination (ed. Paul Ricoeur; Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1995), 48-67. Originally: “Manifestation et Proclamation,” in Archivio di Filosofia, Il Sacro, 1974, 57-76. 15 Ricoeur, “Manifestation and Proclamation,” 55.

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With this proposal for a rebalancing of theology, Ricoeur aims to establish two things. Firstly, he wants to reclaim the notion of sacrality for the prophetical theology. There would be no proclamation of the word without “the power to set forth the new being it proclaims.”16 And, secondly, he wants to reclaim the worth of sacrality itself. Living in a secularised world, we have almost lost “a feeling of absolute dependence,”17 an “originary orientation” related to our birthplace, or even the feeling of our sexuality as tied with “the great interplay of cosmic unions.”18 For me, the point is not so much a reintegration of sacrality. My point is a reintegration of those parts of reality—embodied daily life—which have been connected with the “manifestation of the sacred” and therefore have been excluded from God experiences. My point is the relation of the “first birth”—and not only the “second birth” with God. I therefore focus on the process of exclusion which emerged from the critical character of the proclamation of the word. As a following step I want to devote attention to the very form of theology which chose for exclusivity. Looking for a re-integration of the excluded components, or a rebalancing of theology, implies asking: what was why excluded? So, in the next section, I will examine the choice for an exclusive God.

Exclusiveness Defended The familiar position taken from within the biblical tradition might best be presented via the wording of the late Dutch theologian K. H. Miskotte, when he claims: “Whether there is but one God is a second order issue, but that this God is our God, is first order salvation.”19 Of other gods Miskotte consequently proclaimed: “They may exist, but for us they do not.”20 It will be clear that, by these words, Miskotte did not intend to contribute to a discussion on the meaning of monotheism, or even to diminish the meaning of the concept of monotheism. Although his position could be defined with the word monolatry, being the con16

Ricoeur, “Manifestation and Proclamation,” 65. Ricoeur, “Manifestation and Proclamation,” 65. 18 Ricoeur, “Manifestation and Proclamation,” 64. 19 K.H. Miskotte, Bijbels ABC (2nd ed. Amsterdam: Ten Have, 1966), 37. 20 Miskotte, Bijbels ABC, 36. 17

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cept that does not deny the existence of other gods than the one worshipped, it is more appropriate to place Miskotte in the line of hard core monotheism. Without using this distant concept, belonging to another idiom than his confessing one, he claims this God to be the one and only God who deserves to be worshipped as God. It is true, Miskotte remarkably distinguishes between “God” as a generic word (Elohim), and the special God named YHWH, suggesting that he uses a phenomenological method in presenting the deities in the Ancient Middle East. Actually, however, all other gods apart from YHWH are to be considered idols, dangerous in their appealing power, but not comparable with YHWH. In this framework, the monos of monotheism bears the meaning of uniqueness more than of number. This last element, the numerous character of monos, may be the crucial point here. That is to say, it is being brought forward by everyone who—in the context of the current debate on monotheism—wants to claim the essential difference between the philosophical tradition on monotheism, on the one side, and the biblical tradition on monolatry, on the other. Or else, it is being brought forward by those who explicitly refer to the dominant line within the texts of the Hebrew Bible, i.e., the Deuteronomic tradition. So, for instance, Stephen Geller, who starts by stating that the biblical God is not unitary—he is even a plurality of conceptions—but who then goes on to focus on the dominant line, the monolatry to the God of the covenant.21 Here the roots could be found of what in a later period of Western history—the Enlightenment—would be called “ethical monotheism.” This focus on the meaning the biblical—and especially the Jewish— religion could have in modernity, was firmly connected with the prophetical claim that only the worship of YHWH would lead to a performance of justice. If we interpret this prophetical claim as bound to the content of this special covenant and its accompanying commandments, a more provocative interpretation could be a reference to the structure of monotheism. From the first interpretation, the debate could be on the moral character of a special polytheistic form of religion; from the sec-

21 Stephen A. Geller, “The God of the Covenant,” in One God or Many? Concepts of Divinity in the Ancient World (ed. B. Nevling Porter; Chebeague: Casco Bay Assyriological Institute, 2000), 273-319. See Ellen van Wolde, “Eén God of een unieke God?” in Voor het aangezicht van de Levende: Opstellen voor Wiel Logister (ed. Maaike de Haardt, et al.; Averbode: Uitgeverij Averbode, 2003), 97-114.

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ond the issue becomes weighty: might monotheism be the only guarantee for performing justice? Or, even, might monotheism be the only fundament for ethics? I address this last issue—and its claim—by introducing a contribution by Tikva Frymer-Kensky. In her book In the Wake of the Goddesses Frymer-Kensky explicitly deals with the critique on monotheism as it is formulated from the perspective of feminist theology.22 That is to say, Frymer-Kensky makes it her business to confront women like Carol Christ, who claim the need of the “Goddess” for their being “subject,” with the factual character of the ancient polytheistic world in Mesopotamia.23 On the basis of her expertise as a scholar of ancient Near Eastern religion, she poses that the goddesses of the Mesopotamian pantheon, unrestricted by borders of gender as they were, were fully part of a patriarchal divine order. Consequently, the goddesses “disappeared” in time, whereby the male gods took over their functions. For women, however, Frymer-Kensky claims a real change to have come about after the one God named YHWH had taken over the place of the many gods and goddesses of the pantheon. From that moment on, women were no longer “divinely” confined by the patriarchal distinction between “masculine” and “feminine.” In this line she concludes: “Whenever radical monotheism came to biblical Israel, the consideration of one God influenced and underscored the biblical image of women.”24 I will commentate on this claim hereafter. Apart from this structural argument, i.e., the inherent gender division within polytheism, on the one side, and the principal absence of this division in monotheism, on the other, another argument obviously has great bearing for Frymer-Kensky. It concerns the biblical presentation of God. Just as we saw with Geller, Frymer-Kensky emphasises the covenantal character of this so called monotheistic belief system. Here too, an explicit feminist drive emerges. According to Frymer-Kensky, 22

Tikva Frymer-Kensky, In the Wake of the Goddesses: Women, Culture, and the Biblical Transformation of Pagan Myth (New York: The Free Press, 1992). 23 Frymer-Kensky specifies her address as follows: “In their dissatisfaction with the manifestations of monotheism in Judaism and particularly Christianity, many modern thinkers, particularly feminists, have turned again to polytheistic religions, and in particular to the idea of ‘The Goddess.’ Earth-centered, immanent, and immediate, the Goddess of modern neopaganism serves as a refuge from, and counterbalance to, what many consider the remote and punitive god of Western religions.” (In the Wake of the Goddesses, 1). 24 Frymer-Kensky, In the Wake of the Goddesses, 142-3.

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biblical monotheism presents a belief system in which human beings are claimed to be responsible for the working of nature, this being not “an arena of powers and forces in interaction,”25 but God’s creation and as such the field of human responsibility. Instead of being dependent on the deities’ capricious interplay as concerns fertility, procreation, etc., in biblical monotheism human beings—women included—are called to a covenantal partnership with the one, reliable God who is the creator of the universe. By reasoning in this manner, Frymer-Kensky aims to offer an alternative to women who, in her eyes, are naively looking for the Goddess as a source of spirituality. The implications of this alternative, however, she realises, is not an easy belief. It weighs heavily on human’s responsibility. For many Israelites it was apparently too difficult and abstract, as is witnessed by their lapse into the cult to the old deities.26 In my opinion, some objections could be raised here. Although Frymer-Kensky makes an important contribution by presenting the positive implications of the biblical monotheist belief system for human “adult” behaviour, some questions rise. To start with, the positive conclusion concerning the one gender-free God could only be based on the alleged non-sexual character of the one God. Do not feminists who went to look for “the Goddess” base their search on the obvious male and masculine character of this one, unique God of biblical monotheism? Another objection could emerge from those feminist analyses which conclude to women being excluded from the covenant as a male centred agreement or obligation.27 Or, there could be a questioning of the form of autonomy which forms the basis of Frymer-Kensky’s argument. Many feminist opt for an—at least—relational form of autonomy.28 To make my own point, I focus on the contrast Frymer-Kensky employs in making her argument. She emphasises the essential difference between the polytheistic religion which kept human beings in dependency of the deities with regard to fertility, procreation, etc., on the one side, and the 25

Frymer-Kensky, In the Wake of the Goddesses, 86. Frymer-Kensky, In the Wake of the Goddesses, 158. 27 Judith Plaskow, Standing Again at Sinai: Judaism from a Feminist Perspective (San Francisco: Harper San Francisco, 1991), esp. 25-74; Lerner, The Creation of Patriarchy, 180-98. 28 See, for instance, Catriona Mackenzie and Natalie Stoljar, Relational Autonomy: Feminist Perspectives on Autonomy, Agency, and the Social Self (New York: Oxford University Press, 2000). 26

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biblical faith based on God’s covenant, on the other. Here, in my opinion, we touch upon the roots of the process of exclusion I wish to focus on. Due to the strict connection between the biblical God and the covenant—and, following naturally, human’s responsibility—those parts of human life which outreach what human beings could be considered responsible for, are lost for theology. This is especially true for all elements connected with “fertility” or “procreation,” those being the territory of the “Goddess.” That is to say, by having become part of the contrast to present the unique God of Israel, elements of life connected to nature, fertility, regeneration, have theologically been put in the wrong, captured as they are in the heavy laden contrast between monotheism and polytheism. At this moment, a reference to the different levels on which the Israelite religion was practiced could well put matters into perspective. As Bob Becking shows in this volume, on the level of the family or the household religious practices connected with fertility were considered full part of the “official” religion.29 Does this not give us a key to reconsider our valuation of these practices? Perhaps Frymer-Kensky could join us in the end. Although she considers the biblical monotheist belief system a far better one than the polytheist which keeps human beings at the mercy of capricious gods, she ends her book by writing: This does not mean that the biblical system is perfect. The Bible faced an enormous task in its initial attempts to conceive and develop a new way to deal with issues once mediated by the presence of many gods and goddesses, and did not fully succeed in filling the gaps left in the wake of the goddesses. Some of those gaps have been filled by our own development and the transformation of the world. It is now our task to weave the rest of the Bible’s religious fabric by filling in the remaining areas, in particular those that deal with the incorporation of all aspects of physicality into our religious view of the universe. After a long detour, we are now ready to return to the path upon which the Bible sets out and to try to take further steps along this journey.30

One could ask whether a sentence like this should not have more impact on the whole of the argument Frymer-Kensky introduces by her book. In my opinion, it should have. It should lead to a review of the “Bible’s religious fabric” which formed the basis of mainstream theology. I 29 See the contribution of Bob Becking, “The Boundaries of Israelite Monotheism,” in this volume. 30 Frymer-Kensky, In the Wake of the Goddesses, 220.

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therefore do not restrict myself “to return to the path upon which the Bible sets out and try to take further steps along this journey,” but choose to start earlier, in the process which has ever led to the contrasts theology is built on. In the next section, I will explore the possible implications of what could be called a paradigm shift emerging during this process.

The Process towards the Polemic Religion Yhwh and “His Asherah” An excavation in Kuntillet ’Ajrud in the mid nineteen seventies brought to light inscriptions in which YHWH is—in a blessing function—paired to “his asherah.” Till today the interpretation of these inscriptions is under debate. The possessive suffix may lead to the interpretation of “asherah” as the cultic object connected—to date or only in the past— to the goddess Asherah. It appears to be possible also, however, to read a reference to the goddess herself, and therefore to a connection whatsoever between YHWH and Asherah. One remarkable fact stands out: the inscriptions are not considered proofs of apostasy, but give rise to the review of the nature of Israel’s religion in the period before the exile. More than ever thought before, this period can be seen as presenting a religious patchwork, fitting in the picture the Old Testament portrays between the lines of its religious criticism.31 It is true, one would be hard pressed to find another issue which so intrusively represents the gap between different fields of research connected with the world of religious studies and theology as do the Kuntillet ’Ajrud inscriptions.32 On the one hand, vast amounts of material have been presented at conferences and collected in volumes concerning the meaning of the “YHWH and his Asherah” inscriptions. For

31 Meindert Dijkstra, “I Have Blessed you by YHWH of Samaria and his Asherah: Texts with Religious Elements from the Soil Archive of Ancient Israel,” in Only One God? Monotheism in Ancient Israel and the Veneration of the Goddess Asherah (ed. B. Becking, et al.; Sheffield: Continuum, 2001), 17-44. 32 A text found at Chirbet el-Qôm in 1967 turned out to contain a connection between YHWH and Asherah as well (Dijkstra, “I Have Blessed you,” 31-34).

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instance, in the congress volume entitled Ein Gott allein?33 one can read essays by biblical scholars, archaeologists, experts in religious studies and systematic theologians. All are united in the idea that the discovery of the inscriptions represents a challenge for reviewing the familiar view on the God of Israel. On the other hand, most systematic theologians shrug their shoulders at the idea that these strange, isolated inscriptions could have any impact on their view of God. Is not the source of their view of God the biblical texts with their undeniable rejection of Asherah and the asherahs as objects of idolatry belonging to the strange world of Canaan?34 Because of this position, most will still agree with the late German Old Testament scholar Walter Eichrodt who claimed that, even in so called “syncretistic” times, YHWH never “possessed” a female consort. For Eichrodt, it was a foregone conclusion that YHWH, different from all Semitic main gods, refused to be supplemented by a goddess.35 Behind this statement, it will be clear, lies the familiar conviction that Asherah was a Canaanite fertility goddess, strongly connected with nature. In contrast to these features, YHWH as the God of Israel became characterised as the transcendent God of history. Here, a remarkable shift comes to the fore. For a long period, Eichrodt’s claim was embedded in the general view that YHWH was Israel’s God from the beginning, and that Israel’s own ethnic and religious identity was formed in early days, in contrast to Canaan. To list 33 Walter Dietrich and Martin A. Klopfenstein, Ein Gott allein? JHWH-Verehrung und biblischer Monotheismus im Kontext der israelitischen und altorientalischen Religionsgeschichte (Freiburg: Universitätsverlag, 1994). See the contribution of Bob Becking, “The Boundaries of Israelite Monotheism,” note 11, in this volume for other literature. 34 See Marie-Theres Wacker, “‘Monotheismus’ als Kategorie der alttestamentlichen Wissenschaft. Erkentnisse und Interessen”, in Monotheismus (ed. J. Manemann; Jahrbuch politischen Theologie 4; Münster: Lit, 2002), 50-67. Wacker observes (66-7) that the exegetical debate has hardly been translated into systematic theology thus far. 35 Walter Eichrodt, Theologie des Alten Testaments I (Stuttgart: Klotz, 1957), 143. See, however, Patrick D. Miller, “The Absence of the Goddess in Israelite Religion,” in Israelite Religion and Biblical Theology: Collected Essays (Sheffield: Beltz Athenaum, 2000), 197-207, 197: “What dimension/level/party in Israel is in view when one claims that there was or was not any recognition or worship of a goddess in Yahwism? Such questions are cogent and remind us of the complexity of this issue and of the fact that we cannot say as easily as in the past that one of the distinctive features of the worship of Yahweh was the absence of any consort in the cult or theology associated with Yahweh.”

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the presuppositions valid till the 1970s: (1) Israel’s ethnic identity was originally seperate from other peoples of the land; (2) Israel was not originally among the peoples in the land; (3) specific cultic objects were alien to Israel; (4) YHWH was—from the outset—the only deity of Israel.36 This view, however, is now firmly shattered by what even could be called a paradigm shift. Now, scholars adhere on these four points to the opposite view, based on textual and archaeological research.37 At the very least it can be said, that this very paradigm shift takes the Kuntillet ’Ajrud inscriptions out of their alleged isolation. The new framework of interpretation makes it possible to place the blessing by “YHWH and his Asherah” into the period of Israel’s history in which the antitheses were not yet formulated, and for which even a religious patchwork can be pointed out. It is true, many biblical texts are critical on the asherahs and the cults they are used in, part as they are of the Deuteronomic choice for the one and unique God of Israel. But now we can come to ask: why were the asherahs criticised? Could it be possible that the arguments against the asherahs cult were constructed afterwards, due to the need of identity forming in a special period of Israel’s history? At this point some methodological questions emerge. I have to ask what the impact of this paradigm shift could be for a systematic theology built on the texts and the theological choices which imprint their final editing. As a systematic theologian, I have to deal with the texts in their final phase, as being part of the canon the tradition has been built upon. It is true, I could refer to the change in the field of biblical theology, for instance, to proposals to integrate the history of religion into biblical theology, or even to replace the last by the first, as the German scholar Rainer Albertz offered.38 This change of perspective, however, .

36 Mark S. Smith, The Origins of Biblical Monotheism: Israel’s Polytheistic Background and the Ugaritic Texts (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001), 12. 37 See, for instance, Robert Karl Gnuse, No Other Gods: Emergent Monotheism in Israel (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1997); William G. Dever, What Did the Biblical Writers Know, and When Did They Know It? What Archaeology Can Tell Us About the Reality of Ancient Israel (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2001); William G. Dever, Who Were the Early Israelites, and Where Did They Come From? (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2003). 38 Rainer Albertz, “Religiongeschichte Israels statt Theologie des Alten Testaments! Plädoyer für eine Forschungsgeschichtliche Umorientierung,” in Jahrbuch für Biblische Theologie (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener, 1995), 3-24.

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might not lead to a leaving behind of the biblical texts as an important factor for doing theology. As my aim I could therefore formulate to unravel the process which led to the antitheses as they appear in the texts. So, I ask again: what was why excluded? What would change if we came to understand the antitheses and the exclusive process as being constructed by the Deuteronomic theologians in a special context for the need of identity forming? It could be possible that the contrasts, while having their function in constructing the unique biblical religion, were less theologically laden than has always been thought. The Dismissal of Asherah Looking anew, from this perspective, at the dismissal of the Asherah cult in Israel’s religious history, the question arises: what could be the reason of this dismissal, if not the constructed one? For an answer I look at research that, while dealing with this issue, is acquainted with Kuntillet ’Ajrud. Does the paradigm shift change matters essentially? It appears that for some it does, and for others it does not. James Barr obviously belongs to the second category. When addressing the Kuntillet ’Ajrud inscriptions in his book History and Ideology in the Old Testament, Barr opts for the possibility of YHWH having had a consort as an internal possibility, be it belonging to a form of Yahwism that was obviously not that of the prophets and reformers.39 Consequently, Barr distances himself from the simple antithesis between Israelite belief and Canaanite religion. In The Concept of Biblical Theology he deals explicitly with the dismissal of Asherah. After having stated that Asherah once had her self evident place in the Israelite cult, he concludes about her dismissal: “[I]n some important stage, it was thought more important and more immediate to have no female goddesses than it was to have one single deity.”40 In this context, Barr addresses the matter while discussing the sexual conceptualisation of God. In doing so, he formulates some remarkable thoughts. Referring to the widely accepted view on the idolatrous and polytheistic tendencies in Israel, he suggests that the particular form of a male and female deity as consorts 39 James Barr, History and Ideology in the Old Testament: Biblical Studies at the End of a Millennium (The Hensley Henson Lectures for 1997 Delivered to the University of Oxford; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), 76-78. 40 James Barr, The Concept of Biblical Theology: An Old Testament Perspective (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1999), 138.

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may have been the main reason for the reorientation of the religion which led to the monolatry as regards YHWH. This, according to Barr, means that the need to expel sexuality of this kind within the deity was the core of the struggle against idolatry and polytheism. More than the idea that there could only be one God, there was the conviction that God had to be considered to rise above sexuality. “If so,” he says, “this struggle could well have been one of the most important stages in the development of what became the biblical tradition.”41 With this conclusion, Barr actually does not rise above the old position. The choice for the notion of sexuality as qualifier of the development towards monotheism may be presented as something new, in fact it is nothing more than a confirmation of the familiar view on the decisive moments in Israel’s religion. In other words, with Barr we see the construction which recent analysis has already unmasked as a gender construction: because of their being connected to sexuality, female gods had to be dismissed from the Israelite cult to safeguard the true God against such deviations. Compared to Eichrodt, who claimed that it was not by accident that YHWH was the only God who never had a female consort, we have not gained much. Strange as it may sound, looking for the meaning of Asherah, I have been most helped by those who say: we do not know. So, for instance, Patrick Miller. “The question of the place of the goddess in the history of Yahweh,” he came to conclude, “will probably always remain an elusive one. It is likely, however, that simple notions of the rejection of the feminine in the deity are inadequate to explain the various data that have accumulated and continue to do so, often in surprising fashion.”42 This is not to say that Miller does not attach to the Deuteronomist’s decision on this point. He even sees the evidence from Kuntillet ’Ajrud and Khirbet el Qôm as their well-grounded fears.43 With this claim, however, Miller does not refer to the supposed frightening nature of Asherah, but to the internal development towards the radical integration of divine power and reality in YHWH. Here we touch on an important point. More than out of an antithetical struggle with Canaanite goddess wor41

Barr, The Concept of Biblical Theology, 138. Miller, “The Absence of the Goddess,” in Israelite Religion and Biblical Theology: Collected Essays (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2000), 197-207, 205. 43 Miller, “The Absence of the Goddess,” 204-5. 42

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ship, the absence of the goddess in Israelite religion might be interpreted out of an internal—and not totally unique at that—development towards the centralisation of power and authority in one God. In this vein, Miller concludes that the Deuteronomist’s—and the prophet’s—concern seems to have been less about the point of the feminine dimension than about the danger of the disintegration of what was in the process of being integrated.44 Fertility Cult An important step in this field has been set by the German Old Testament scholar Christian Frevel. In two volumes Frevel exposes all the material at hand, but with a clear distinction between the various sorts of material, so between the possible literary, archaeological and iconographical sources.45 By—firstly—dating the biblical critique on Asherah as mainly exilic, and—secondly—questioning the usefulness of the Ugarit texts, as well as the assigned archaeological and iconographical sources, he comes to conclude that nothing can be said for certain about the nature and function of the goddess Asherah in the Israelite cult. Her actual disappearance, or better, the changing of the belief system, might be the outcome of a change in political organisation by which the cult connected to the political centre became the dominant one.46 In Frevel’s analysis, a for me central point emerges: by questioning any self evident combination of different sources, he comes to criticise the traditional view of the Canaanite religion as being a fertility religion, with Asherah as a fertility Goddess, a vegetation Goddess, a Mother Goddess, or a loving Goddess determined by sexuality. On this point, he sees no clear indication from any source by itself, given the coloured 44 Miller, “The Absence of the Goddess,” 205. Under the title “God and the Gods,” Miller elsewhere offers an analysis of what he considers a progressive, symbiotic and dialectical relation between YHWH and the gods. This process he describes from the subtitles: YHWH out of the Gods, via the Gods in YHWH to YHWH against the Gods. Patrick D. Miller, “God and the Gods: History of Religion as an Approach and Context for Bible and Theology,” in Israelite Religion and Biblical Theology, 36596; see Mark S. Smith, The Early History of God: Yahweh and the Other Deities in Ancient Israel (San Francisco: Harper & Row, 1990, 20032). 45 Christian Frevel, Aschera und der Ausschliesslichkeitsanspruch YHWHs: Beiträge zu literarischen, religionsgeschichtlichen und ikonographischen Aspekten der Ascheradiskussion (Weinheim: Beltz Athenaum, 1995). 46 Frevel, Aschera und der Ausschliesslichkeitsanspruch YHWHs, 925-930.

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character of the biblical texts. In fact, according to Frevel, we do not know much. Here, it must be said, we descry the same complexity as regards the nature and function of the goddess(es) that Frymer-Kensky presented when addressing the Mesopotamian pantheon. A clear conclusion emerges. The world of the Canaanite deities was much more complex than biblically based theology has made us believe. The Canaanite religion did not represent a “fertility religion” in the way we have always learned, i.e., with a focus on sexuality, holy marriage, and cult prostitution. Canaanite fertility cult could be described as containing, among more, begetting, pregnancy, giving birth, the offering of the first born, the seasons, the harvest. So, the Canaanite religion most probably was a religion as there were many: one that tried to help people cope with “the perennial problems of life.”47 On the more basic levels of life—the family level—the Israelite people will have practiced the same sort of religion, connected to their daily life problems. In the Deuteronomic struggle for the exclusive and unique God YHWH two things happened: a caricature was constructed of everything that had to do with “fertility,” and in the construction of theology the family level was passed by. The process towards monotheism was led by other concerns than the concerns of ordinary people. Following this conclusion, we lose a component of the contrast which has been functioning so firmly for so long. That is to say, the once rejected pole of the contrast appears to have a much more complex—or could we say “normal?”—character than has always been suggested. What, I might ask, could be a consequence for the other component, the one connected to proclamation, to monotheism, to mainstream theology? Could it be opened to let in those components of embodied daily life which were excluded from being theologically accepted God experiences? Or should we proceed the other way round and show that the elements connected to “proclamation” do not contradict the “manifestation” ones? Perhaps better still, we should leave this whole thinking, not only in “sterile antinomy” or “unmediated dichotomy,” but even in “polarity.” Should we in doing theology not depart from, and ever return to, life in all its complexity? And should we not come to see God free from these restrictive categories? Why not “unlearn” to use the term monotheism, captured as it is in a contrasted way of thinking? 47 See the contribution of Bob Becking, “The Boundaries of Israelite Monotheism,” in this volume.

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These are questions to be considered on their implications. For now, I restrict myself, at the end, to underline the need of this reshuffling of theology. I do that, by showing what important parts of life have been excluded from acceptable God experiences because of what was once constructed as a new belief system.

What Asks for Inclusion In this last section I will name some possible implications of the change of perspective which comes into reach by the loosening up of the antitheses. A first question that could be asked, is whether there is reason to reintegrate those elements into theology which could be seen as part of the fertility cult, but are now seen as part of daily life. It is true, in modern times, we do have another relation with nature than people did for whom a fertility cult was the only way to deal with the powers and capricious behaviour of nature. In addition, Frymer-Kensky has made a good point in referring to the fundamental change in the view of nature by the monotheistic, covenantal belief system, which is seen as the “start of modernity.” The implicated emphasis on human responsibility is of an enormous importance. It, however, undoubtedly has its borders as well, as “post modern” people know. We could easily refer to those very fields of human life related to the element of fertility. Despite all changes in human’s relation to nature and to human’s influence on nature, let alone human’s dominating nature, every human being will recognize the feeling of being totally dependent on the capricious working of nature. And it is here that religion has its place. Does religion not always have to do with those parts of life—or those life experiences— that extract themselves from human’s capacity to act? Here we touch upon a remarkable fact. When focussing on the issues of fertility and procreation, we could observe that in mainstream religious life these elements of daily life have ever been strongly present. We could refer to all kind of forms human beings—and especially women—developed to entertain the relation between this aspect of daily life and religious experience. We could think of the—still practiced—custom in the Roman Catholic Church of just married women offering their bridal bouquet to Saint Mary in the hope of being able to become pregnant. We could think of all kinds of amulets Jewish women

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used to support their pregnancy and birthing, as an exhibition in the Amsterdam Jewish Historical Museum on the Jewish life in nineteenthcentury Russia once showed. Alongside these observations, however, lie the findings of Susan Starr Sered, based on research she did on the birthing experiences of women in a Jerusalem hospital.48 While Sered—a Jewish scholar in sociology and anthropology—knows of elaborate rituals to protect the new mother and baby in many cultures, she found that only very few Jewish women could report any ritual activity immediately after having given birth. There appears to be a lack of any official form of ritual for this crucial experience by women. How to explain this absence? We could not say that, within the context of the Jewish religion, there was no attention for what concerns birth and bodily experiences. To define those experiences themselves as religious, however, is another issue. Even women themselves were not inclined to define the intense experiences they encounter as religious. At the same time, however, so Sered discovered, all of the women were adamant in their belief that they had experienced a miracle, that they “really felt” the miracle afterwards—when they saw that the baby was healthy, when they recognized that the baby had its own personality, when they began to care for or nurse the baby. Due to the fact, however, that male theologians and ritual creators have generally been unable to recognize women’s religious experiences because “the experience was of nothing but a single person in a single moment and place,”49 many of the women were prevented from identifying their feelings about birth as “religious.” Their cultural language simply lacked a vocabulary for describing a physical-spiritual event. On this point the task to change theology clearly presents itself. We have to re-integrate those elements which have become excluded in the process of exclusion which led to the belief in the one, unique biblical God. By doing that, we make a first step on the long road towards overcoming the antitheses between myth and story, between nature and history, between religion and belief, between the first birth and the second birth. Is there then no reason left to differentiate? Does, for instance, 48

Susan Starr Sered, “Childbirth as a Religious Experience? Voices from an Israeli Hospital,” in Feminism in the Study of Religion: A Reader (ed. D. M. Juschka; London: Continuum, 2001), 239-51. 49 Sered, “Childbirth as a Religious Experience?” 245.

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“second birth” not refer to something special which has to be preserved? It does. But let us remember that the metaphors did their work and let us therefore rid ourselves of the ultimate implications involved, i.e. the implication that our “first birth” belongs to Canaan, and our “second birth” to the biblical God. Let us remember that all theology is rooted in embodied daily life and that “proclamation” will never function if it has not integrated what “manifestation” represents. I summarize my conclusions. The form of theology which could be equated with the term monotheism, bears an inherent exclusive character because of its biblical heritage. The process in which this exclusive character was formed, can, however, well be put into perspective since new research has revealed that the constructed contrasts were less theologically laden than Christian theology has always claimed. On the path to a theology constructed beyond contrasts, dichotomies, or even an ever risky polarity, we have to find words for those experiences which urgently ask to be considered religious experiences. As the most “exclusion experienced” human beings, women should take the lead.

CHAPTER NINE

DIALOGICAL THEOLOGY AS AN ANSWER TO THE APORIAS OF MONOTHEISM Akke van der Kooi (Protestant Theological University, Location Kampen)

Behold, I put my words in your mouth (Jeremiah 1:9)

Introduction This collection of essays raises critical questions about monotheism as a historical form of religion. Various authors point to the phenomena of exclusion and violence produced by monotheism in the course of history.1 The history of monotheism shows many aspects of history written by the victors. Feminist theology has pointed to the traditions which were sacrificed to the development of monotheism, such as the suppression of Asherah from the cult and the religious consciousness of Israel. I refer to the articles by Kune Biezeveld and Maaike de Haardt in this volume. It is undeniable that monotheism expressed itself in a monar-

1

Is the word “monotheism” a suitable label for great world religions? Some authors have answered this question in the negative. See for instance the contribution by Etienne Cornélis to the special issue of Concilium on “Één God: Ontwikkelingen in de westerse cultuur noodzaken ons opnieuw na te denken over het historisch en theologisch monotheïsme,” [One God: Developments in Western culture force us to rethink historical and theological monotheism], entitled: “De vloeiende grenzen van het begrip ‘het uiteindelijke,’” [The fluid boundaries of the concept of “the ultimate”], in Concilium 21 (1985) 1: 10-20. The conclusion of Cornélis’s (religio-phenomenological) discussion is that irreconcilable formulations of the divine in various world religions may nevertheless go back to compatible experiences. The question, next, is whether other dilemmas than the dilemma of monotheism-polytheism are not more important in the present situation, for instance that of “personal or impersonal,” “objectivity or subjectivity.” See also the “Introduction” on page 7. Without entering into this here, I will try further on to justify the use of the term “monotheism.” See also Bernhard Lang, “Die Jahwe-allein-Bewegung,” in Der einzige Gott: Die Geburt des biblischen Monotheismus (ed. B. Lang; München: Kösel, 1981), 47-83.

DIALOGICAL THEOLOGY AS AN ANSWER TO THE APORIAS chist and patriarchal image of God and thus gave an ideological foundation to various forms of patriarchal systems both within the Western world and outside of it. Should monotheism not be banned? In this article I discuss whether, despite all pertinent criticism, we can nevertheless talk about an unrelinquishable element of truth in monotheism as it has been expressed in the biblical belief in God. In my view, the path of biblical monotheism extending to the New Testament and rabbinical literature can also be read as a counter-history against demonic powers, a counter-history which stayed alive in various ways in Judaism and Christianity.2 In the past few decades this has been particularly emphasised by political theology and liberation theology.3 In this way of reading, the truth of monotheism cannot be found in a teleological conception of world history as the unfolding of the Absolute Spirit (as Hegel believed), but in the historical discontinuities retained in the dialogical character of the scriptural texts. The dialogical (in the penitential psalms, in the Book of Job for instance) shows that there is a residue of unfulfilled, damaged history. The dialogical style helps us to see that God is not the regulatory principle of historical events but the presupposition of a resistance which holds its own in the historical conflicts of human beings.4 A resistance to particularism and exclusion. In what follows I will take closer look at this dialogical style as an approach to talking about God. First I will offer some comments on the use of the term “monotheism” and will put my own contribution in a 2 I follow here René Buchholz in his Körper–Natur–Geschichte: Materialistische Impulse für eine nachidealistische Theologie (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 2001). Buchholz borrows the term “Counter-history” from David Biale, who defined it as follows: “I mean by this term the belief that true history lies in a subterranean tradition that must be brought to light, much as the apocalyptic thinker decodes an ancient prophecy or as Walter Benjamin spoke of ‘brushing history against the grain.’” The historian who practises counter-history “affirms the existence of a ‘mainstream’ or ‘establishment’ history, but believes that the vital force lies in a secret tradition.” See Buchholz, Körper–Natur–Geschichte, 296. David Biale, Gershom Scholem: Kabbalah and Counter-History (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 19822), 7. 3 See Johann Baptist Metz, Glaube in Geschichte und Gesellschaft: Studien zur einer praktischen Fundamentaltheologie (5th ed.; Mainz: Matthias Grünewald, 1992); Metz, “Thesen zum theologischen Ort der Befreiungstheologie,” in Die Theologie der Befreiung: Hoffnung oder Gefahr für die Kirche? (ed. J. B. Metz; Düsseldorf: Patmos, 1986); Gustavo Gutiérrez, A Theology of Liberation (rev. ed.; NewYork: Maryknoll, 2003); Enrique Dussel, “The Exodus-Paradigm in Liberation Theology,” in Concilium 23 (1987) 1: 54-60; Josuah Young, “Exodus as a Paradigm of Black Theology,” in Concilium 23 (1987) 1: 60-65.

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broader perspective. This is followed by an introduction to the dialogical approach as a systematic view in relation to biblical monotheism. In this context I point to the meaning of response. Next, Paul opens up an avenue to a biblical foundation and explanation of the dialogical character of belief in God. Following on from this, I elaborate on the significance of dialogical thought in a historical and systematic respect. After a brief historical description of the way in which dialogical thought was incorporated in theology, I use two present-day examples of dialogical theology to indicate that it involves a truth-disclosing style of believing, reading the Bible, and practising theology. Some final remarks conclude the discussion.

Monotheism as Philosophical, Historical and Theological Category As the theologian Ebeling says, the word “monotheism” is in sich selbst tot;5 it is a word which is in itself empty, a formal principle of unity for explaining the world which can be filled and experienced with all possible contents. A useful organisation of how we deal with the word “monotheism” can be found in the work of the theologian David Tracy. He argues in an article that although the basic meaning of the word “monotheism” is unambiguous: mono–theos: the One–God, there is nevertheless plurality of meaning depending on the context in which the word “monotheism” occurs.6 Tracy points to three contexts. First, philosophical: monotheism is a modern philosophical word denoting an abstract property (“oneness”) which belongs to God alone. “Monotheism” is an invention of the 4 See the contributions by Bernard Lang and Jürgen Moltmann in the special issue of Concilium mentioned in note 1, who both argue that monotheism in the people of Israel is a reaction to a crisis situation and that soteriological monotheism is older than dogmatic monotheism. Bernard Lang, “Yahweh only! Origin and shape of biblical monotheism,” Concilium 21 (1985) 1: 40-46; Jürgen Moltmann, “The inviting unity of the triune God,” Concilium 21 (1985) 1: 47-54. 5 Gerhard Ebeling, Dogmatik des christlichen Glaubens III (2nd ed.; Tübingen: Mohr, 1982), 540. 6 For what follows, see David Tracy, “Trinitarian Speculation and the Forms of Divine Disclosure,” in The Trinity: An Interdisciplinary Symposium on the Trinity (ed. S. T. Davis, D. Kendall SJ, and G. O’ Collins SJ; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999), 280-86.

DIALOGICAL THEOLOGY AS AN ANSWER TO THE APORIAS Enlightenment (Henry More, David Hume) and so bears the features of the Enlightenment’s rationalism. In this evolutionist view, monotheism is a more rational understanding of the logic of the divine which implies the unicity of divine power, not a diffusion of this power in many gods and goddesses. As in other isms of the Enlightenment (deism, pantheism, theism, panentheism), the main characteristics are: rational and ethical. How this notion of monotheism could explain the historical religions of Judaism, Christianity, and Islam was obscured by the Enlightenment’s negative assessment of the historical religions as opposed to so-called natural religion. Tracy points out that the theological use of the notion of monotheism often still echoes the dehistoricized and decontextualized sense of the Enlightenment. A second context of “monotheism” is that of history of religion. Here monotheism stands for the family resemblances among various religious phenomena: the “high gods” of some old traditions (e.g. the deus otiosus traditions in Africa), the philosophical reflections of the logic of unicity among the Greek thinkers from Xenophanes to Aristotle, religions like Sikhism and Zoroastrianism; the revisionary monotheism of Pharaoh Akhenaton; above all the three classical “religions of the book,” or in terms of history of religion: the historical, ethical, prophetic monotheism of Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. History of religion shows the genesis of radical monotheism in the prophets of “Yahweh alone” (especially Amos, Elijah, and Hosea), a movement which culminated in the prophet of the Babylonian exile (Deutero-Isaiah). Here Yahweh is not just the God of Israel but also the creator of the entire world and the one and only God who determines not only Israel’s history but all history. It is above all the Deuteronomistic reading of Yahweh which influences the theological, radically monotheistic reading of Israel’s history in the Bible. The history of religion’s development shows that there were just as many forms for divine reality as there were names for divine powers. A question which needs to be answered here is: what are the theological implications of the fascinating history of the older names and forms for the divine in the complex history of ancient Israel?7 The third context in which the word “monotheism” acquires meaning is that of theology in the narrow sense. According to Tracy, the main question here is: how, since the rise of radical monotheism, should we think about the various forms for experiencing, naming, and understanding divine reality? My discussion can be seen as a contribution to

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attempts to answer this question.8 In this third, more dogmatic discourse on the heart of biblical monotheism, Tracy sees “love” as the most characteristic feature. “The radically monotheistic God, the origin, sustainer, and end of all reality, is characterized by the kind of relationality proper to that most relational of all categories, ‘love,’” he says.9 In my contribution I want to point up the meaning of this “love” by calling attention to the dialogical style in scriptural texts and the theological approach which it implies.

God and Monotheism in Dialogical Approach My thesis in this article is that authentic articulation of the biblical belief in God is impossible without paying attention to the dialogical as an approach to talking about and living in God. In my view, monotheism should not be dismissed too readily. The intention of the biblical belief in the One God is that it stimulates dialogue. I thus endorse those who state that biblical monotheism has a soteriological rather than an ontological character. The dialogical contains an assumption of unity. But the nature of this unity must be interpreted soteriologically, in terms of a God who gives a new chance to lost reality. This last seems to me to 7 See, e.g., Marie-Theres Wacker, “Feministisch-theologische Blicke auf die neuere Monotheismus-Diskussion,” in Der eine Gott und die Göttin: Gottesvorstellungen des biblischen Israel im Horizont feministischer Theologie (ed. M.-T. Wacker and E. Zenger; Quaestiones Disputatae 135; Freiburg: Herder, 1991), 17-48. Silvia Schroer, “Die göttliche Weisheit und der nachexilische Monotheismus,” in Wacker and Zenger, Der eine Gott und die Göttin, 151-82. Silvia Schroer, “Auf dem Weg zu einer feministischen Rekonstruktion der Geschichte Israels,” in Feministische Exegese: Forschungsbeiträge zur Bibel aus der Perspektive von Frauen (ed. L. Schottroff, S. Schroer, and M.-T. Wacker; Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1995), 83-172. Kune Biezeveld, “Verrassende vondsten: Kuntillet ’Ajrud en de systematische theologie,” in Voor het aangezicht van de Levende: Opstellen voor Wiel Logister (ed. M. de Haardt et al.; Averbode: Altiora, 2003), 135-50. 8 Tracy mentions the following characteristics of historico-ethical monotheism: “(1) God is one: an individual distinct from all the rest of reality; (2) God is the origin, sustainer, and end of all reality; (3) God, therefore, is the One with the personlike characteristics of individuality, intelligence and love; (4) God, and God alone, is related to all reality. Indeed God is Creator of all reality, both natural and historical; (5) In sum, God, and God alone as the Wholly Other One, is both transcendent to all reality and totally immanent in all reality; (6) God discloses Godself in chosen prophets, historical events, and scriptures.” (“Trinitarian Speculation,” 282) 9 Tracy, “Trinitarian Speculation,” 286.

DIALOGICAL THEOLOGY AS AN ANSWER TO THE APORIAS be exactly the unrelinquishable element of truth in biblical monotheism. It does tell us where the dialogue leads (God all things in all), but the original unity in which it is rooted remains elusive to human thought. The initiative of a divine love is impervious to human probing. There are three things which stand out in the emphasis on the dialogical as an approach to biblical God-talk: (1) God is not a concept: God is the Word in the words. (2) The singular (God’s word involves something that concerns each human being in particular) and the universal (God is a God of all human beings) go hand in hand. (3) The dialogical shows that the texts have gaps; scriptural passages are not self-contained texts with a timeless meaning. I will briefly explain these three elements here and will return to all three further on in the article. First: No theory can be made of God. “God” is not an “it” in the Bible, “God” never becomes man’s property. God has to do with Ich und Du. God allows himself to be known to man (Jer 23:21, 28; 1 Cor 2:4, 5; 2 Cor 4:2; 2:17; 1 Thess 2:4). Therefore God and the Word belong closely together in the Bible: see Jer 23:29; Isa 40:8; 55:10, 11; Deut 30:11ff.10 God is the Word that makes all our human words possible: God’s word constitutes the creature as creature, as “you.” Martin Buber found the heart of the Old Testament in the Anredbarkeit Gottes.11 This means that not an ethical monotheism, not belief in the Creator as such, not a deep understanding of man, not the idea of God’s exaltedness or involvement in history primarily form the special character of the Old Testament, but this simple fact of a relationship which Yahweh started with a people in goodness and freedom.12 If we want to talk about the Bible’s belief in God in terms of monotheism, we must respect these three elements of the biblical witness: (1) God is not a lonely God; God turns to people and in turning to them remains himself;

10

Otto Weber, Grundlagen der Dogmatik 1 (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener, 1955, 4th ed. 1974), 197. 11 Weber, Grundlagen der Dogmatik, 324. 12 Weber, Grundlagen der Dogmatik, 325. See also Ellen van Wolde, who in a religio-historical and exegetical study of the Hebrew Bible concludes that we are not concerned here “with the existence of God an sich or with a God whose entity and unicity are determined by his sole existence, but with a God unique in his dedication.” Ellen van Wolde, “Eén God of een unieke God?,” in Voor het aangezicht van de Levende: Opstellen voor Wiel Logister (ed. M. de Haardt et al.; Averbode: Altiora, 2003), 97-114; quotation on p. 114.

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(2) God is not a dead God (the Bible does not unfold a concept of God but tells of a speaking and acting God); (3) God is not a self-enclosed God. God seeks man’s response.13 Second: Mono stands for “God alone.” Mono in biblical monotheism does not stand for an abstract, nameless absolute, but for the recognition that no other power can come between God’s love for humankind and human beings, including opposition to this God and rejection of God’s love.14 Mono stands for “God alone;” not in the sense of a numerical specification but as quality of the power of God’s love. It means that God’s love is a sovereign love, searching for the love of people but not depending on their love.15 The Trinitarian doctrine is not at odds with this mono, but is its explanation. Jesus (everything I say I have from the Father, see John 7:16) and the Spirit (he will take what is mine and declare it to you, John 16:14) are a confirmation of this divine love. The New Testament shows that, in Jesus Christ, God did not choose loneliness but a shared life with all people, and of people with each other.16 Biblical monotheism is therefore characterized by the connection of this particularity (Israel and Jesus Christ) and a universal love. That is what the dialogical structures in Scripture indicate. Israel and the Christian congregation exist in a situation of dialogue, in which the dialogical itself is the way leading to truth. This does not take place in the maieutic manner of Plato’s dialogues, aimed at exposing self-delusion and discovering the truth which people unwittingly carry in themselves. As a stylistic device in the Bible, dialogue is a way of showing, communicating, and perceiving the truth of God which is first discovered in dialogue. Truth falls to them, as it were. But not without this dialogue. Think of Job. Or think of Paul, whose letters draw his readers into a conversation which in the movement of question and answer goes towards

13

See Weber, Grundlagen der Dogmatik, 396. See Weber, Grundlagen der Dogmatik, 398. 15 Gerhard Ebeling, Dogmatik des christlichen Glaubens III, 544. 16 See Hans-Georg Geyer, Andenken: Theologische Aufsätze (ed. H. T. Goebel et al.; Tübingen: Mohr, 2003), 446. 14

DIALOGICAL THEOLOGY AS AN ANSWER TO THE APORIAS the truth of God.17 Wissen ist immer nur in Form des Gesprächs im Werden, Sauter rightly states.18 Third: the dialogical shows that there are gaps in the texts of Scripture. The texts remain incomplete until the reader participates by reading. The reader who finds her own place in the text completes the unity which the text lacks in itself.19 The texts do not direct interpretation but invite the reader to see the texts as incomplete, as repeatable from very different points of view.20 I will return to this point at the end of my contribution.

The Meaning of Response in the Dialogue Situation The German theologian Gerhard Ebeling, one of the theologians that point to the dialogical structure involved in the biblical belief in God, states: Der christliche Glaube hat nicht das Bekenntnis zu dem einen Gott aufgebracht. Indem er sich zu Christus bekennt, fügt er aber auch nicht etwas zu dem Glauben an den einen Gott hinzu, sondern bekennt er Gott als den lebendigen und legt das, was hier Leben heißt, als Liebe aus. Darum bekennt er Gott als den dreieinigen.21

The stories in the Bible show how contact with this love activates people. The Dutch theologian Gerrit Neven points to the meaning of response in man’s dialogue situation with God. He talks about a reversal: the Christian experience of God is that God has left his/her traces in life, death, and resurrection of Jesus. Now everything turns on

17 See Gerhard Sauter, “Dialogik, II” in Theologische Realenzyklopädie 8 (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1977-2004; henceforth TRE), 703: “Im biblischen Dialog muss die Wahrheit von Gott mitgeteilt werden. Auf diesen Akt der Mitteilung geht das Gespräch—auch ganz absichtslos und unverhofft—zu, und von ihm geht es wiederum aus.” See O. Noordmans, “Herschepping,” in Verzamelde werken van dr. O. Noordmans, 2 (Kampen: Kok, 1980), 216-217. 18 Sauter, “Dialogik, II” in TRE 8, 705. 19 Thus Kathryn Tanner in her article “Scripture as Popular Text,” in Modern Theology 14 (1998) 2: 279-98. See Sarah Heaner Lancaster, Women and the Authority of Scripture: A Narrative Approach (Harrisburg: Trinity Press International), 36. 20 Lancaster, Women and the Authority of Scripture, 37. 21 Ebeling, Dogmatik des christlichen Glaubens, III, 540-1.

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man’s response as the place where God lives, speaks, and acts.22 Response as a lived memory which activates people. An example is the story of the travellers to Emmaus, whom Jesus puts back on the trail of the living God (Luke 24:13-35). This remembering assumes the form of an answer: people start to relate differently to each other and to God. The trail which God blazed in history in Jesus now shows through the witnesses and becomes visible in a new way of acting. “The history of Jesus,” as Rowan Williams rightly says, “enacts a judgment on tribalized and self-protecting religion, on the confusion between faith and ideology; it is a history of God with us insofar as it declares that there is liberty to act, to heal and to create community ‘outside the gates’ of religious practice that has become oppressive or exclusive—God’s liberty.”23 The special, particular thing about the story of Jesus is that it creates room to live for everybody. It highlights what had no right to exist in established positions and had been thrown outside the gates. Lost reality is given a new chance. Can what people do and what they are pass the test of this love and this freedom? That is the issue here. In the words of Kevin Hart: “In loving each other, the Trinity has passed through us as a trace.”24

The Dialogical Nature of Pauline Monotheism: Singularity and Universality In my view, the above characteristic of the dialogical: response as a lived memory of the divine love for all, is the essential view of Paul’s theology. In this I link up with the work of Gerrit Neven mentioned earlier.25 My guide here is the Dutch theologian Oepke Noordmans (18711956). His entire theology can be called a kind of a commentary on Paul. The meditations which he wrote on Paul’s letters are among his most profound writings. In his view, which I also find in recent theological literature,26 Pauline monotheism implies criticism of a monological 22 Gerrit Neven, Barth lezen: Naar een dialogische dogmatiek (Zoetermeer: Boekencentrum, 2003), 48. 23 Rowan Williams, On Christian Theology (Oxford: Blackwell, 2000), 104. 24 Kevin Hart, “‘Absolute Interruption’: On Faith,” in Questioning God (ed. J. D. Caputo, M. Dooley, and M. J. Scanlon; Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2001), 202. 25 Neven, Barth lezen, 48.

DIALOGICAL THEOLOGY AS AN ANSWER TO THE APORIAS monotheism which entails particularism. Paul’s faith in God stands for a living experience of God which searches for the singular element in a truth which in its singularity is directed at all. This truth involves a commitment to something which is called love in the earliest Christian writings (1 Cor 13). This love is universal, extends to all, concerns each and every one of us. There is no place here for particularism. Singularity and universality are connected here. This love is capable, in the various positions in which human beings find themselves, of bringing out that which joins rather than divides. For instance, in the letter to the Galatians, Paul, against the law, wants to make the radicality of God’s love present in the world for all. This is the belief in God which I also recognise in the gospels when Jesus questions the position of the Pharisees who want to stone the adulterous woman. “Let him who is without sin among you be the first to throw a stone.” (John 8:7) Jesus confronts the Pharisees with what connects them with the woman: their imperfection, and places this in the circle of divine love. Jesus practises theology as a conversation, as dialogue. This dialogue introduces a new register: something is called up which was not there before: the men and the woman discover in this dialogue the truth of God’s judgement and love in their own lives and their own decisions. Imprisonment by the letter is over; differences lose their violent potency. This is an example of what I want to call the unrelinquishable element of truth in Christian monotheism: God disregards established positions and calls forth what is not, what has been denied the right to exist and the right to speak. This is how truth happens. The essence of this Christian monotheism is: God is the love which challenges me and confronts me with questions. This God has nothing to do with the metaphysically one as opposed to the physically many. God’s unity is not an exclusive but a differentiating, inclusive unity.27 Theology which vouches for this is by definition dialogical theology.

26

For instance Ernst Käsemann, Paulinische Perspektiven (3d ed.; Tübingen: Mohr, 1993); Martin Rese, “Der eine und einzige Gott Israels bei Paulus,” in Und dennoch ist von Gott zu reden (ed. M. Lutz-Bachmann; Festschrift H. Vorgrimmler; Freiburg: Herder, 1994), 85-106; James Dunn, The Theology of Paul the Apostle (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1997); John G. Gager, Reinventing Paul (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000). 27 Thus Moltmann, in Concilium 21 (1985) 1: 49.

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I sum up the foregoing: (1) The essence of Christian monotheism in terms of the biblical belief in God is the love which extends to all. (2) This love cuts across the differences between people and calls into being what was silenced and excluded. (3) Everything thrusts towards man’s response: towards a life in which people learn to live with their differences in an open and conciliatory way. A further justification of these positions requires us to consider the dialogical and the responsorial as a key to talking about God and living in God. The Bible itself, as we noted earlier, gives every reason to take this route in talking and thinking about God. Not only the biblical but also the Hellenic sources of Western civilisation provided impulses towards dialogical thought. One can think here of Plato’s Dialogues. Here, however, dialogue comes to mean: dialectics, a methodological means to a pre-determined end. There are many dialogical texts in the tradition which are actually monological in disguise. We find the reverse too: e.g. Augustine’s Confessions. The external form is not decisive. Dialogical thought as a philosophical movement broke through in the first century after the First World War. Only after the Second World War did its influence become widespread, also in theology. It is associated with names like Martin Buber (Ich und Du, 1923), Ferdinand Ebner (Das Wort und die geistigen Realitäten, 1921), Franz Rosenzweig (Der Stern der Erlösung, 1921), and Gabriel Marcel (Être et avoir, 1953). These thinkers introduced a new view of Du, of encounter, time, and language, inspired by a religious, Judeo-Christian personalism which they considered neglected in the then dominance of positivism and idealism in science. If in Antiquity “dialogue” was above all a literary genre, in these thinkers it is articulated as a philosophical concept of conversation which leads to a “between” (Buber), to a fund of truth that cannot be traced back to one of the conversation partners. This dialogical thought had predecessors in the nineteenth century like F. H. Jacobi, J. G. Hamann, and W. von Humboldt. Schleiermacher, in his Dialektik und Hermeneutik, can also be regarded as a precursor of dialogical thought, where he sees the reality of transcendence opening up in the

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ever-failing struggle of the dialogue. There is no room to discuss this in the compass of my article.28 The emphasis put in dialogical thought on time as a factor which makes encounter and relation to the world possible acquired theological significance through the dialectics of the definitive nature of God’s discourse on the one hand (God does not go back on his love for all: that is the foundation of the dialogue between God and human beings and between human beings among themselves) and the unfinished discourse in the expectation of God’s future on the other hand. Dialogue is conversation in the expectation that God is encountered in the conversation partner and speaks unexpectedly in his words.29

Dialogical Theology as Disclosure of Truth In what follows I give two examples of present-day dialogical theology. Both involve dialogue as a truth-disclosing style of believing, reading the Bible, and practising theology. First I would like to draw attention to an intriguing book by George Pattison, Dean of King’s College in Cambridge: The End of Theology: And the Task of Thinking about God.30 In this work he introduces the principle of dialogue as the key to a God-centred understanding of life. “Dialogue” is a category which has more to do with form or style than with content. In modern hermeneutics we find examples of the centrality of form in the work of Gadamer (Wahrheit und Methode) and Tracy (see above). Truth is seen as an original manifestation through form. Along the same lines dialogue, too, can be seen as a truth-disclosing form.31 Pattison also points to the dialogical character of biblical texts. Someone who reads the Bible monologically hears the texts as: exclusive, authoritarian, and legalistic. Pattison proposes a distinction 28 See Heleen Zorgdrager, Theologie die verschil maakt: Taal en sekse-differentie als sleutels tot Schleiermachers denken (Zoetermeer: Boekencentrum 2003), 12363. 29 Sauter, “Dialogik, II” in TRE 8, 707. 30 (London: SCM Press, 1998). For what follows, see especially chapter 2: “From Void to Dialogue,” 30-56. 31 Tracy, “Trinitarian Speculation,” 276-277.

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between monological and dialogical styles of thinking and expression. Despite the fact that our culture is full of stereotypes from the Bible to which people appeal monologically, we can rediscover behind these stereotypes the biblical texts as fundamentally dialogical, constantly in debate with themselves, constantly presenting different and shifting perspectives on the ongoing, multifaceted debate between God and humanity. We discover the dialogical in the Bible in Abraham, who debates with God on the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah, in Rizpah, who keeps watch over her hanged sons, in Job, who upholds his cause, in the prophets (e.g. Jeremiah), in the tension between some of Jesus’ words and the claims attributed to him in the Letters, in the tension in Paul to give meaning to his double life as Jew and Christian. If we become aware of the internal-dialogical as embodied in the biblical texts, we will soon see, according to Pattison, that this goes further than a purely intertextual affair. This dialogical is a reflection of the larger debate between Israel and its world. Israel is not its own creation but the result of an age-long interaction with the entire religious, political, economic, and cultural life of the region. In this way the present-day reader of the Bible also comes into view as a participant in an ongoing conversation. If I read the Bible dialogically, I am not only occupied with text and context, but also with the fact that my present world is not the world of the Bible, at least not in an immediate sense. In my own dialogue with the Bible I search for points of contact, but am also wary of overhasty identification. Attention to the dialogical sharpens our perception of the one-sided views and oversimplifications of both biblicists and their opponents. As an example Pattison points to Feuerbach: theology is anthropology, Christianity is nothing but what people have invested in an illusory supreme being. Pattison observes in Feuerbach’s arguments (religion is nothing but the result of human desires)32 a reductionism which can also be found in the other so-called “masters of suspicion,” Marx, Freud, Nietzsche. Much of modern theology, in Pattison’s view, has taken up this reductionism: religious language is not jenseits but diesseits, Christianity relates to the secular and not to the holy, etc. In this case reductionism serves as an intellectual justification to be able to remain religious in a situation in which revelation and metaphysics have lost their power of persuasion.

32

Pattison, The End of Theology, 36.

DIALOGICAL THEOLOGY AS AN ANSWER TO THE APORIAS In dialogical thought truth is never an isolated truth. Truth is always truth which is voiced or expressed by somebody. What truth ultimately reveals is nothing but the truth of the person. Not by means of dialogue but in dialogue itself I start to know who I am and who you are and I only “know” this as long as I stay within the movement of dialogue. “Neither an instrument nor a method, dialogue is a style that discloses substance—and the substance that dialogue discloses is none other than that of the person.”33 As an example I refer again to the story of Jesus, the Pharisees, and the adulterous woman in John 8. Dialogical theory, says Pattison, is not interested in the construction of concepts and categories which have the same meaning in all times and in all places. Dialogical theory tries to understand what God’s universal love means in this particular place and in this particular time, and this cannot be done without taking on a particular morality and political involvement. “The concern of dialogue is not only with what I must say of God, but also with what, before God, I must do and how I am to be in relation to my neighbour.”34 Religion is response. God should not be sought outside of the responsorial, in an abstract idea. This implies that dialogical thought ultimately has an ethical character. It cannot be reduced to self-cultivation or self-discoveries but is fundamentally orientated to the reciprocity of the self and the other. Notions such as responsibility and trust are central to dialogical thought as an intellectual project. “The ethical and the political do not exhaust the task of dialogue, but dialogue can never dissociate itself from the responsibilities arising in those spheres.”35

Response and Responsibility I note: response and responsibility belong together in religion. The connection of these two preserves the vitality and the purity of the concept of God: the love for all and the resistance to a spiritualisation which cancels out the antagonistic dynamics of history and ignores the messianic labour pains of the entire creation. Faith should not become docetic: it cannot be that the cries of the dying and the desperate are no longer 33

Pattison, The End of Theology, 45. Pattison, The End of Theology, 56. 35 Pattison, The End of Theology, 147. 34

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heard.36 Pauline monotheism, as I understand it, does not pass triumphalistically over the crises of history to which biblical and post-biblical history react. The promises still stand. Paul does not boast of the possession of Spirit, but talks about Spirit as the pledge and power of hope. The Spirit takes part in man’s suffering, is the foundation of human resistance (Rom 8).37 This resistance entails a freedom of which the fulfilment and completion are yet to come. But this freedom is also a promise of the other than what is, and such a promise belongs essentially to the self-revelation of God.38

Dialogue and the Truth of Silence Knowledge of God can only be reached by listening to the multiform responses which form the heart of religion. The responsorial is part of the dialogical style of scriptural texts. The statement that response forms the heart of religion comes from Derrida in his Foi et savoir.39 A second example of present-day theological thought which I want to introduce here points to the meaning of silence in responses. I am referring here to the work of Regina Mara Schwartz, author of a book on the violent legacy of monotheism.40 In an interesting article she dwells on the fact that stories about God soon tend to become idolatry, are only projections and instruments of human desires and conflicts. The turn to the story threatens to fall into the same traps as the metaphysical concept of God. “Like the God of metaphysics, narrative tries to offer up a God of determinate meaning.”41 In itself this is a familiar theme, but Schwartz searches for a surprising way out. She searches for a way of approaching the story, including biblical stories, without instrumental36

Buchholz, Körper–Natur–Geschichte, 310. See John Polkinghorne and Michael Welker, Faith in the Living God: A Dialogue (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2001), 76. 38 Buchholz, Körper–Natur–Geschichte, 311. 39 Jacques Derrida, “Foi et savoir,” in La religion (ed. J. Derrida and G. Vattimo; Paris: Éditions du Seuil, 1996), 39. 40 Regina M. Schwartz, The Curse of Cain: The Violent Legacy of Monotheism (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1997). 41 Regina M. Schwartz, “Questioning Narratives of God: The Immeasurable in Measures,” in Questioning God (ed. John D. Caputo, et al.; Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2001), 210. 37

DIALOGICAL THEOLOGY AS AN ANSWER TO THE APORIAS ity. Is there a view of language which is not instrumental, which does not want to conquer, explain? She finds this language in the dialogical, the conversation; in the language of praise and lament. She argues for an attentiveness to the process of conversation: the turns, the rhythms in conversation, the silences in particular, precisely in order to see whether this can lead to an escape from narrative idolatry. By “conversation” she means: converse, going to and fro, versing to and fro, but also it suggests dwelling among, living . . . , and then, converse, the opposite, the negation of verse, and conversio, a transformation, and conversio realis, the conversio realis.42

She sees this “conversation” as a way which can overcome the exclusivism and the violence of monotheism, of “the curse of Cain.” As an example she suggests that we should listen to the story of creation as a conversation instead of as an idolatrous description of divine activity. Could we not then say that this story is an expression of gratitude, of praise instead of an explanation of the beginning that does not satisfy our rationality? In many examples Schwartz shows what happens when the biblical stories are not approached as “description” but as “performance.” Then we hear something different: for instance we do not hear in Jacob’s theft of Esau’s blessing the divine sanctification of injustice but Esau’s weeping. I cannot reproduce the wealth of all her ideas here, but put my finger on an intuition of Schwartz that, in my view, can bring forward reflection on the dialogical as an approach to talking about and living in God. Schwartz states that, in conversation or dialogue, the space between what is said and what is heard is also relevant. This is reminiscent of Buber’s emphasis on the Zwischen, but it takes on another shade of meaning. The “between” is exactly the space which makes two monologues into a dialogue and in which subjectivity is first constituted. This happens in a special kind of silence: a silence between sounds, between “measures.”43 This silence is not absence of response, but is response. It is silence as expectation. This silence, unspoken and unwritten, is the location of conversation. Such silence is anticipatory, full of expectation of an answer. It is the silence of attention, hearing that precedes an 42

Schwartz, “Questioning Narratives of God,” 212. Consider what I noted before about time as a constitutive factor in philosophical and theological dialogical thought. 43

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answer and makes it first possible. There is also another silence: that of the indifference which makes people mute. A silence which does not contain any promise of a response. Schwartz refers to the cry during earthquakes, mass murders, the cry which encounters nothing but an empty, deafening silence.44 According to Schwartz, listening to the dialogues in the biblical stories can teach us a great deal about silence. In these stories silence as expectation fights with the silence of becoming mute, of giving up. Jeremiah no longer wishes to speak of God; he wants to fall silent but is unable to. “If I say, I will not mention him, or speak anymore in his name, there is in my heart as it were a burning fire shut up in my bones, and I am weary with holding it in, and I cannot.” (Jer 20:9) Our search to find a language for God and a language for man should perhaps begin here, in this silence which is answer.

Concluding Remarks My concern in the above was to collect arguments for a possible unrelinquishable element of truth in biblical monotheism. I pointed to the dialogical structures of scriptural texts and the theology initiated in them as a location of this truth. Biblical monotheism, I argued, gets a dialogue going, a dialogue in which the soteriological is dominant. The dialogical structures of the Bible show that, in Israel and in Jesus, God searches for a common life with all people and of all people with each other. God is found to be the foundation of a resistance in people to particularism and exclusion. The Trinitarian dogma as an articulation of biblical belief in God is nothing but the explanation of this power of divine love. It is characteristic of the dialogical style inherent in scriptural texts that it opens up a path to the finding of truth. It does not fixate knowledge but introduces a going towards truth. The Bible always involves knowledge that first announces itself in the form of a conversation. Present-day theologians who call attention to the dialogical approach show that the truth which presents itself in this approach is the truth of the person who comes to respond. This approach sheds light on insufficiently understood possibilities of scriptural texts: the view of a lan44

For this paragraph, see Schwartz, “Questioning Narratives of God,” 219-29.

DIALOGICAL THEOLOGY AS AN ANSWER TO THE APORIAS guage which is not instrumental, does not fixate and conquer, but a language which respects the silence that constitutes every genuine conversation. In my view, redirecting attention to the dialogical structure of scriptural texts offers a way out of the perversions of biblical monotheism pointed out in this collection of essays.

CHAPTER TEN

GOD JUDGING “IN THE MIDST OF THE GODS” (PSALM 82:1) CONFESSING TO ONE GOD AFTER CULTURAL MONOTHEISM Erik Borgman (Tilburg University)

Introduction The Bible and the Koran seem unequivocal in stating that believers should worship only one God. As a key figure and exemplary believer in Judaism, Christianity and Islam, Abraham/Ibrahim leaves his country, his kindred and his father’s house, answering to God’s word and travelling to the land that God promises to show him (Gen 12:1). Thus he witnesses to an unconditional and exclusive faith in the transcendent God. For a long time, no believer or theologian would have doubted whether Abraham made the right choice. Our contemporary situation, sometimes called post-modern, seems to show in a sense the return of the gods once left behind or even—as the Ibrahim-story in the Koran narrates—smashed. The sociologist Max Weber already suggested that in a rationalized world that is in a sense the cultural product of monotheism, the gods of polytheism would return to haunt us.1 Maybe this is the situation in which we are currently living. In the course of this article, I will propose that “Hear Israel, YHWH is our God, YHWH is one; and you shall love YHWH our God with all your heart, and with all your soul and with all your might” has a very important point to make. It still is important to confess to God as the one-andonly. At the same time, the idea of God’s unity that is usually associated with it, is highly problematic. To evoke the complicated way in which this is the case, I will start by discussing Salman Rushdie’s novel Fury. The author portrays his protagonist as someone who becomes Abraham in reverse and breaks away from the monotheistic submission to the

1 Max Weber, “Die protestantische Ethik und der Geist des Kapitalismus (190405),” in Gesammelte Aufsätze zur Religionssoziologie I (M. Weber; 9th ed.; Tübingen: Mohr, 1989), 17-206: 203-06.

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supposedly one-and-only true God.2 As I will show, from the viewpoint of systematic theology this does not make the questions of God’s uniqueness and universality and of God as the focus of our undivided love obsolete, as Rushdie himself seems to suggest. I will show what I think is still important in the idea and how we could and should hold on to it. Using a novel as a major source for reflection in systematic theology is still quite unusual. A novel is not a philosophical analysis or a wellordered description of a situation. A novel attempts to represent what it describes in a way that is both enlightening and revealing its mysterious and opaque nature. Theological reflection on this kind of representations of the current chaotic and confusing situation necessarily mirrors this representation in some way. I am convinced that it is important and even necessary for theology to become aware of its own involvement in our ambiguous religious situation and this is the best way to shed light on it. It means that theology can no longer present itself as a detached, disinterested analysis. It becomes an act of solidarity, attempting to make sense of the unclear and uncertain situations contemporary people live in by submitting to that situation. This essay is an attempt to explore what it can mean to confess to one God in a situation in which not so much “monotheism” is under attack—although that is the case, too— but in which pluralism and a flux of ongoing metamorphoses are the determining factors which have made it difficult to think about God as the one-and-only. It is this situation that Rushdie’s Fury represents in a literary fashion. For a theological reflection on this situation, I subsequently engage in conversation with this representation, not because I want to develop an abstract theory with a high degree of theoretical autonomy, but because I want to gradually develop a theological view on our situation in which—if it still makes sense to speak in these terms—it should still be possible to find traces of the God who promised to be ours, according to the Christian tradition.

2

See Salman Rushdie, Fury (London: Vintage, 2001).

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Salman Rusdhie’s Fury is very much about what the title suggests: fury, anger and rage, the feeling of spite because of humiliations and lost opportunities, because of expectations that have not been met and desires that were left unfulfilled.3 It is about the anger that seems to be everywhere, in everyone in our global culture. Its main subject, however, is the rage that inhabits, and time and again overcomes, the protagonist of the novel. Rushdie describes him in the very first sentence of his book as: “Professor Malik Solanka, retired historian of ideas, irascible doll maker and since his recent fifty-fifth birthday celibate and solitary by his own (much criticized) choice.” In “the digested read” of The Guardian, the plot of the novel is ironically summarized as “selfregarding fifty something man dumps his wife, moves to New York, meets the most beautiful woman in the world and writes about it.” This in a sense is indeed what the novel is about—at the surface level. Many literary critics have limited their interpretation to that level and suggested that the novel presents Rushdie’s wet dream: the rather improbable story of a middle aged Indian man—like himself—who moved to the United States—like himself—and not just falls in love with, but is being loved in return by an young woman of Indian origin who is so overwhelmingly beautiful that wherever she appears, men are suffering all kinds of catastrophes. They walk into lampposts, they throw themselves under cars, they fall from ladders. However, to reduce the novel to this is like summarizing the story of Abraham as “elderly man unexpectedly becomes a father, tries to get rid of his son by stabbing him, but changes his mind.” Which, if we change the name of the protagonist to Malik Solanka, also qualifies as summary of Rushdie’s Fury.

3 For interpretations of other works in Rushdie’s oeuvre, see Roger Y. Clark, Stranger Gods: Salman Rushdie’s Other Worlds (Montreal: McGill-Queens University Press, 2001); Sabrina Hassumani, Salman Rushdie: A Postmodern Reading of his Major Works (Madison: Fairleigh Dickinson University Press/Associated University Presses, 2002). Madelena Gonzalez, Fiction after the Fatwa: Salman Rushdie and the Charm of Catastrophe (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2005), has a chapter on Rushdie’s Fury (177-96). As the title of this chapter—“Fury: Devoured by Pop”— already suggests, the emphasis is on the way the novel adapts to pop culture and is devouring all distinctions between true and false, reality and fantasy: Fury “tempts us to enjoy fiction as a consumer item rather than a lasting challenge to perception” (195). The religious motives that are central in my interpretation do not get attention.

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Malik Solanka in Fury is Abraham in reverse. Solanka is not only a retired professional historian of ideas, but also the embodiment of the ideas of our historic era, of which he reveals the histories by acting as a travesty of Ibrahim in the Koran. Solanka lives Abraham’s story backwards. He leaves his wife and son in Hampshire, England for the United States of America after he has found himself with a knife in his hand, ready to kill his sleeping son, whom he loves. “We gave him the glad tidings of a prudent boy,” writes the Koran about Abraham, but after a while Abraham says to him: “My son, I have seen in a dream that I should sacrifice you” (Koran 37: 100-101). Malik Solanka flees in order to avoid really killing his son, but his son is very willing to surrender himself to him, just like is said about Abraham’s son in the Koran: “O father, do what you are ordained to do.” After Malik Solanka has left his wife and son, afraid of what he might do, his son Asmaan—which is Urdu for heaven—keeps calling him and begging him to come home. Because of Abraham’s readiness to kill his son, the Koran says that he will be remembered among the generations to come, and that God has called him “one of Our believing servants”—that is, a Muslim. Malik Solanka however does not want to kill his son and tries to flee from what he experiences as the fury that almost made him do just that. He travels to New York, hoping to lose himself amidst the amalgam of life-stories and attempts to be successful that populate the metropolis. But instead he has to carry the fate of becoming a pathologically successful doll maker. It is here that the travesty of the Abraham-story really begins. According to the Koran, Abraham is not a maker, but a destroyer of dolls. Sûrah 21 tells how he turns himself against the worship of idols by “his father and his people,” saying: “What are these statues to which you pay devotion?” They said: “We found our fathers worshipping them.” He said: “You and your fathers are in manifest aberration. . . . But our Lord is the Lord of heaven and earth who originated them; and to that I am among the witnesses. And by God, I will surely contrive against your idols after you have gone away turning your back.” Then he reduced them to fragments, all but the great one of them. . . . They said: “Have you done this to our gods, O Abraham?” He said: “Nay, it was this great one of them that has done it. So question them, if they can really speak.” . . . Then they returned to him hotheaded, saying: “You know that these do not speak.” He said: “Do you then worship, apart from God, that which neither avails you anything nor hurt

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By staging a little puppet show in which the idols are smashed, Abraham makes clear according to the Koran that they are not just powerless, but that even their worshippers in fact know that. They do not really believe in their ability to do anything, let alone influence their lives. In Rushdie’s novel, on the other hand, Malik Solanka becomes a doll maker, translating the history of ideas and the contemporary clash of ideas into television and internet puppet shows. Their success makes clear that in today’s world the idols do have enormous powers and are fervently believed in. According to the Koran, the people were outraged at Abraham after he had shown them their foolishness: They said: “Burn him [=Abraham] and stand up for your gods. . .” [But] We [= God] said: “O fire, be you a coolness and a safety for Abraham.” And they desired to contrive against him, but We made them the worst losers (21: 67-69).

In Rushdie’s story the people are extremely grateful to Malik Solanka for providing idols they can believe in, enabling them to make sense of an otherwise senseless world. But this does by no means rescue Solanka. It puts him in the hot and threatening fire of the fury that rules the contemporary world and confronts him anew with the fury in himself. In other words and in the imagery of Rushdie’s novel, it puts him under the spell of the Furies, the Greek goddesses of wrath that in Rushdie’s view are in a sense responsible for the turbulence that determines our lives and our actions. Rushdie’s view on the contemporary world is a religious one. He uses religious motives to fathom the current situation and presents that situation as an ultimately religious situation. The forces working in it are of a religious nature. For Rushdie there is no chasm between modernity and post-modernity on the one hand and religious myths on the other. On the contrary, the only way to understand our post-modern situation is to use the myths of the religious traditions in a subversive manner to unveil the religious significance of the present. The ultimate issue in Rushdie’s Fury is how to live responsibly in this religious present. He addresses this issue by confronting monotheism and polytheism. On the one hand—and very much in line with his Satanic Verses4—Rushdie presents monotheism first and foremost as violence. Parodying Abraham’s sacrifice in Malik Solanka’s impulse to kill the

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son he loves, Rushdie portrays monotheism as a violent act of exclusion, of repressing the plurality of meaning and the uncertainties this implies. What The Satanic Verses symbolize in Mohammed’s attempt to write the one book of true meaning, is in Fury attributed to Abraham as the common father of the three monotheistic world religions. However, Abraham’s attempt to destroy all gods to the benefit of one, univocal centre of meaning does not only live on in Judaism, Christianity and Islam, according to Rushdie, but also in modern ideologies which in name of the one true liberation enforce on their followers the obligation to absolute faith. In an explicit reference to the case of Galileo, Rushdie makes the leader of the prototypical revolutionary movement in the prototypical Caribbean country, Lilliput Blefusco, say that a period of discipline is needed in which, if the leader tells his people that the earth is flat, it is flat, and if he decrees the next day that the sun revolves around the earth, it will be the sun that moves around (244). Rushdie suggests that our current cultural polytheism makes clear that any renewed attempt a repressing plurality, ambivalence and uncertainty will be unsuccessful. The idols once smashed are remade into the images and icons of our popular culture. The furies once tamed are on the loose again. As unavoidable as this may be to Rushdie, it is by no means simply a positive development in his view. He reminds his readers of the ways in which the Greeks made the furies, who represent the unfocussed, uncontrollable and therefore scaring forces in the cosmos, part of their pantheon of gods and goddesses. Thus they re-ensured themselves by encapsulating in a coherent story that what is by definition incoherent and thus threatening. But nowadays, Rushdie concludes: the goddesses, less regarded, were hungrier, wilder, casting their nets more widely. As the bonds of family weakened, so the Furies began to intervene in all of human life. From New York to Lilliput Blefusco there was no escape from the beating of their wings (251).

Which is Rushdie’s way to account for, among other things, the chaotic speed and unpredictability of cultural and social developments, and for the individual and collective frustration resulting in violence continually ready to erupt. In Fury Rushdie brilliantly expresses the general mood of our world in the monologues of the Islamic taxi driver Ali Majnu, who drives through the streets of New York screaming things 4

Salman Rushdie, The Satanic Verses (London: Pinguin, 1988).

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like “Unclean offspring of a shit-eating pig, try that again and the victorious jihad will crush your balls in its unforgiving fist” (66), without even being consciously aware of it. Here Rushdie is not accusing Islam of being an unduly aggressive religion, he is presenting the rage of Muslims as an expression of the inexplicable fury that inhabits the current course of events and the people who are part of it, in ways they themselves do not control or even fully comprehend. Ours is a polytheistic world, Rushdie states by making Malik Solanka a puppeteer and his puppet shows on television and Internet hugely successful. We are re-instating the gods that were dethroned at the beginning of Western civilization. Ours is a more dangerous world because of its polytheism, Rushdie shows by narrating how Solanka’s puppet shows not only show how television and computer games make explicit the violence implicit in our culture, but also how reality imitates fiction in the seemingly random outbursts of violence characterizing our historical situation. Monotheism is unable to stop this violence, in Rushdie’s view, because it is itself a violent attempt to kill plurality, to suppress the multiplication of centres of thinking and acting, to prevent autonomy of the other because autonomy makes him or her uncontrollable. In other words, Abraham’s willingness to sacrifice his son and Malik Solanka’s urge to stab his son, reveal the essence of monotheism as Rushdie sees it: hatred and fear of what will ultimately be beyond control. This hatred and fear are in themselves quite understandable. In Fury, Rushdie slowly uncovers the deepest source of Malik Solanka’s reluctance in surrendering to what he does not control, even if it is the son he loves most dearly. As a child Malik was a victim of a particular humiliating form of sexual abuse. This suggests that, the world being what it is, to abstain from violence and to let the other be other implies the risk of becoming a victim of violence oneself. In Rushdie’s view we apparently ultimately depend on the benevolence of others. And benevolence is always and by definition uncertain and unwarranted. Depending on it is therefore necessarily dangerous.

The Importance of Surrendering to Human Dependency If there is a hero in Salman Rushdie’s Fury, it is Galileo Galilei. That is to say, not the Galileo who retracted his claim that the earth circulates around the sun, but Galileo as he could and should have been: standing

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up for his deepest convictions. Galileo is in Rushdie’s view not just the lonely and heroic scientist, shaking off the religious prejudices and only believing what he can verify himself, as he is in Bertold Brecht’s famous 1939 Leben des Galilei. He is not portrayed as an Abraham of modernity, breaking the idols of his contemporaries and being threatened because of it. The significant paradox for Rushdie is that what Galileo autonomously discovered is that we are not autonomous in the absolute sense. In Rushdie’s view, Galilei discovered that the earth— and therefore humankind and the individual human being—is not the centre of the universe: not source and goal of everything of importance and not the origin and focus of all meaning. That is what we have to understand and accept, according to Rushdie: that we are not the centre of the universe but instead depend on something and someone else, on something we cannot control, but which influences us fundamentally. To know that and to surrender to it is, in a sense, our redemption. In Fury Malik Solanka, after he finds himself ready to kill his son, flees to America and the chaos and restlessness of today’s world it embodies, praying it will “eat him and give him peace.” He wants to be “free of attachments” as a post-modern sanyashi, and thus to become free of fear, pain, anger and the urge to hurt others. But what he had almost done to his son Asmaan, Asmaan ends up in a metaphorical sense doing to him: “Asmaan”—the love of Asmaan, the pain of not being with him and not being seen by him—“twisted in him like a knife” (126) Rushdie tells us. That was exactly what Malik Solanka subconsciously tried to avoid when he almost stabbed his son. He was unable to handle the idea of not being the centre of his own universe anymore and to depend on someone other he could not control. But what the exposure to the modern and post-modern fury of ever changing meanings and new idols, of unexpected success and influence but also equally unexpected deadly violence, what America standing for all of this could not do, the knife of love ultimately succeeds in doing: it kills Solanka’s ego. At the end of Fury Malik Solanka surrenders to the discovery he shares with his one time hero Galileo Galilei: that he is not the centre of his own universe. Just like little Asmaan made Malik Solanka, then still living with him and his wife, notice how well he can bounce the bed, higher and higher, Malik Solanka in the very last paragraph of the novel tries to make his son see him. Without announcing it, he travels back to England to his wife, her new lover and his son, and finds them in the park near their home. There is a funfair with a bouncy

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castle in the park. “It was bright blue, bright as an iris,” Rushdie informs his readers—the iris being the symbol of the Furies in Greek mythology. Although there is a sign announcing that the castle it is for kids only, Malik Solanka forces entry to it and starts bouncing and yelling his son’s name: grand and high was his bouncing; and he was damned if he was going to stop leaping or desist from yelling until that little boy looked around, until he made Asmaan Solanka hear him . . . , until Asmaan turned and saw his father up there . . . flying against the sky, asmaan, the sky, conjuring up all his lost love and hurling it high up into the sky . . . His . . . father taking flight like a bird, to live in the great blue vault of the only heaven in which he had ever been able to believe. “Look at me!” shrieked Professor Malik Solanka, his leather coat-tails flapping like wings. “Look at me Asmaan! I’m bouncing very well! I’m bouncing higher and higher.” (259)

The last words being exactly the ones his son used to yell. This final paragraph of the novel can be read almost as a mystical text.5 By changing the perspective from self-centred to other-centred— and in fact asmaan-centred, heaven-centred at that—Malik Solanka is liberated from the grip of the Furies possessing his live. His devastating and violent anger is changed into harmless bouncing, expressing the yearning for his son’s love. The Furies who, as Rushdie tells us, according to Hesiod were born of Earth and Air, but whose siblings were among others “Terror, Strife, Lies, Vengeance, Intemperance, Altercation, Fear and Battle” (251), are reduced to their rather harmless origin: the human longing to be loved and thus to connect heaven and earth. Malik Solanka bouncing in the bouncy castle is Salman Rushdie’s alternative to Abraham destroying the idols of his father. To surrender to the longing to be loved is Rushdie’s alternative to monotheism and its violent tendency to kill the other, as well as to polytheism and its tendency to subject to and enhance the violence ruling the world already. It is a religious alternative, because it comes down to surrendering to the unknown, the uncontrollable, to the other and his/her benevolence. It means to be dependent; to know to be dependent, and to decide to accept this. 5 See, in contrast, Gonzalez, Fiction after the Fatwa, 195: “the ‘bouncing’ leitmotif taken up again in the past paragraph . . . fails to elevate the hero’s fate above the banal. On the contrary, it seems an example of indiscriminate intertextuality. . . . Literary reaching for the sky (Asmaan is ‘sky’ in Urdu), the ending falls (intentionally?) flat”.

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Religiously Dependent, but on What? In Fury, it becomes clear once again that Salman Rushdie is a religious writer. First of all he shares in the religious aspect of writing and reading in modern and post-modern literature. It professes secularity, notwithstanding the fact that contemporary literature is religious in the sense that it represents human life as part of a larger whole: not as the autonomous centre of the universe but as a planet in a complex solar system. Contemporary literature can be understood as a collection of performances and ongoing explorations of the dependency that is an unalienable part of the human condition.6 Next, Rushdie is a religious writer because of his intensive and creative, be it twisted and sometimes blasphemous use of religious mythology. But most of all he reveals himself as a religious writer by propagating a consciousness of human dependency in Fury. To deny our dependency is irresponsible behaviour as is, according to Rushdie, to submit to the one, exclusivist God of monotheism. Calling Rushdie a religious writer is not to deny his self-presentation as non-religious, as a critic of religion. Without falling into the trap of tying Malik Solanka’s adventures directly to Rushdie’s own life—as many literary critics in fact did—it seems nevertheless appropriate to say that in picturing Solanka as a skeptic, an agnostic and a nonbeliever, Rushdie presents to his readers what he thinks is the right attitude towards life. Although he obviously comes from an entirely different tradition, Rushdie’s approach to religion is very much akin to that of the so-called Frankfurt School. Its leading philosopher Theodor W. Adorno was also a skeptic and a non-believer in confessional religion, but he took from the Judaism of his ancestors the idea of God’s absolute greatness and infinite sublimity, never to be fully identified by human beings. For Adorno, God symbolizes the ultimate truth that is never present and always yet to be found and revealed, the ultimate meaning of the world that is not only still hidden, but after Auschwitz permanently darkened by the excess of human suffering in history. God is a word for the redemption that can only be present as absent and missed. From this point of view, all confessional religion is almost by definition 6 See my “Missing Links between the Arts, Religion, and Reality: An Introductory and Explanatory Essay,” in Missing Links: Arts, Religion and Reality (ed. J. Bekkenkamp et al.; Münster: Lit, 2000), 1-14.

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sacrilege and idol worship. Every image of God is a transgression of the second of the Ten Commandments in the Book of Exodus: “You shall not make for yourself a graven image . . . ; you shall not bow down to them or serve them.” (Ex 20:4-5). For Adorno, the Bilderverbot, the ban on imagining and representing the Divine, is the core of the Jewish religion he wants to be faithful to and for which he is willing to abandon the rest of the Jewish tradition, because like every other tradition, by its very existence it violates and compromises that very core.7 In analogy for Rushdie the awareness that one is not the centre of the universe but instead depends of the loving gaze of the other to be able to make sense of one’s own life, is the core confessional religion, and Islam in particular, presents and at the same time violates. Thus Adorno’s as well as Rushdie’s iconoclasm is ultimately religious, turning against religion for reasons that are in the end themselves religious. But clearly there is also a major difference. Adorno sees his own thinking as being in line with Abraham’s smashing of the idols, Rushdie is convinced he has to break away—and did break away—from Abraham. To a large degree this difference is caused by the different historical contexts. Adorno in his time was resisting the totalitarian worldview paradigmatically embodied by National Socialism. This ideology presented itself not only in theory but also in practice as the ultimate and definitive truth, first excluding the “others” symbolically and next very literally destroying them: the Jews, the gypsies, the marginal, the mentally ill. It made Adorno change Hegel’s famous dictum das Ganze ist das Wahre, the whole is the truth, into its opposite: das Ganze ist das Unwahre, the whole is the false.8 In a world of what Adorno ultimately interpreted as idolatry, truth is present hidden in what is margin7 See Theodor W. Adorno, Kulturkritik und Gesellschaft II (1958; repr., Frankfurt: Suhrkamp, 1977), 608-616: “Vernunft und Offenbarung.” See also Friedemann Grenz, Adornos Philosophie in Grundbegriffe: Auflösung einiger Deutungsprobleme (Frankfurt: Suhrkamp, 1974), 211-221. For further background on the relation between Adorno’s philosophy and religion c.q. theology, see Michel Traubel, Die Religion in der kritische Theorie bei Max Horkheimer und Theodor W. Adorno (diss. Freiburg, 1978); Werner Brändle, Rettung des Hoffnungslosen: Die theologischen Implikationen der Philosophie Theodor W. Adornos (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1984); Reneì Buchholz, Zwischen Mythos und Bilderverbot: Die Philosophie Adornos als Anstoss zu einer kritischen Fundamentaltheologie im Kontext der späten Moderne (Frankfurt: Peter Lang, 1991); Ralf Frisch, Theologie im Augenblick ihres Sturzes: Theodor W. Adorno und Karl Barth: Zwei Gestalten einer kritischen Theorie der Moderne (Wien: Passagen 1999); Mattias Martinson, Perseverance Without Doctrine: Adorno, Self-critique, and the Ends of Academic Theology (Frankfurt: Peter Lang, 2000).

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alized, excluded and destroyed to make the totality seem total. This calls for absolute commitment to this truth and the rejection of all falsehood.9 Rushdie, on the other hand, writes in a situation characterized not by the exclusion and silencing of potentially threatening stories, but by a superabundance of stories and claims to meaningful significance. He pictures a world in which, as Michel de Certeau writes, the media constantly “transform the great silence of things into its opposite. Formerly constituting a secret, the real now talks constantly” in “news reports, information, statistics, and surveys,” but also in the images, icons and plots of popular culture.10 Although everybody is aware of the fact that what is written and imagined manipulates reality rather than presents reality itself, words and images nevertheless have a reality of their own, and undeniable effects. In this situation, it does not make much sense to try and break the false images in order to make it possible for the truth to reveal itself in its marginality in the tradition of Abraham and Adorno. For Rushdie the issue is how to deal with the cacophony in which the distinction between truth and falsehood itself has become virtually obsolete in the ever-changing flow of images and stories, that in its capriciousness is at the same time always identical. Rushdie suggests that the appropriate and appropriately critical way of acting in this situation is to stop the resistance to being and becoming created and shaped by stories which are out of our control. It means admitting that we as human beings have become marginal ourselves, no longer claiming the centre but being aware that it is not what we achieve that make our lives worthwhile, but what we receive. In Rushdie’s imagery: everything we do is in the end as productive and impressive as a child bouncing his bed. What makes our lives worthwhile is that we are noticed by a loving eye. This is what transfers our passions and efforts from the area of meaninglessness to the realm of the meaningful.

8 Theodor W. Adorno, Minima Moralia: Reflexionen aus dem beschädigten Leben (1951; repr., Frankfurt: Suhrkamp, 1980), 55. 9 Theodor W. Adorno, Negative Dialektik: Jargon der Eigentlichkeit (1966; repr., Frankfurt: Suhrkamp, 1973); see Lucia Szíborsky, Rettung des Hoffnungslosen: Untersuchungen zur Ästhetik und Musikphiloposophie Theodor W. Adornos (Würzburg: Königshausen & Neumann, 1994), esp. 118-51. 10 Michel de Certeau, The Practice of Everyday Life (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1984), esp. 186.

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In the Christian tradition, the apostle Paul stresses human dependency just as strongly as Rushdie does. However, he discriminates clearly between being a slave to sin and being a slave to the true God and his Anointed One in faith (see Rom 6: 20-23). This brings back the issue maybe not of smashing idols, but at least of recognizing them, criticizing idolatry and finding the places where, amidst all falsehood and illusion, truth lives and reveals itself. It takes us back to what Adorno calls his Negative Dialects, the complicated but stubborn attempts not just to speak about what is only present in its absence, but to speak about all of reality starting from this absent presence. The point is not just to accept our dependency, thus calming our rage. We should just as much accept the protest implied in this rage against being subjected to the circumstances, the course of history, the current interpretations. The latter is not just “bouncing the bed,” expressing the desire to be loved for our own sake—as Rushdie suggests in Fury—but the embodiment of the insight that the world we are part of is not the world in which we can live a good life. Therefore, we should not just accept our dependency on this world, it also remains our responsibility to mend and remake the world, thus searching for the reflection of the goodness of the true and only God in it: “Hear Israel, YHWH is our God, YHWH is one; you shall love YHWH our God with all your heart, and with all your soul and with all your might.”

The Universal Significance of God It is hardly surprising that theologians saw parallels in Adorno’s idea of a Negative Dialectics and the Christian presentation of the story of Jesus’ suffering and crucifixion as the parable of God’s presence among us.11 The so-called New Political Theology of Johann Baptist Metz and his disciples stresses that in a violent and destructive world, becoming a victim is a form of protest against its culture of victimization. By submitting to and suffering violence, Jesus witnessed to the hope for an authentic, gracious life and a world which showed its absence by this very violence; in remembering his suffering and death, the faithful keep awaiting the advent of a qualitative new future.12 Ultimately, only from 11 See especially Josef Hochstaffl, Negative Theologie: Ein Versuch zur Vermittlung des patristischen Begriffs (München: Kösel, 1976).

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death as the realm of total exclusion, a new and inclusive life can be born, the beginning of what the Christian tradition calls a new creation, already present but veiled and hidden in the first creation in which we continue to live. This implies that, for Political Theology, Divine revelation and human redemption are not once and for all attained in what Jesus Christ did for us, as classical theology claims, but still have to be completed. From their point of view, Metz and his disciples are very critical of the post-modern stress on multiplicity and plurality. To them, it means drawing away the attention from the crisis of all meaning implicit in all suffering and dying. In their view, post-modern thinkers allow themselves to become seduced by the fascinating metamorphoses of life in the present, the ongoing flow of images and experiences. The new, postmodern openness to religion for them witnesses to a misguided willingness to reconciliation with what should be repudiated and to find meaning in what should be considered absolutely meaningless, a cry for redemption and the revelation of sense and meaning.13 After reading Rushdie’s Fury however, this criticism seems rather abstract. It seems to ignore all too bluntly the criticism of monotheism and the violence of excluding mechanisms working in it. In German theology it has been especially Egyptologist Jan Assmann who analyzed monotheism as banning God from everywhere in order to give the authorities of monotheistic religion itself the monopoly of representing God’s presence. Theology, according to Assmann, is closely related to this logic of monotheistic religion. Theology in his view intents to expose false gods who are supposedly everywhere and presenting the God of one’s owns tradi12

See Johann Baptist Metz, “Zukunft aus dem Gedächtnis des Leidens: Zur Dialektik des Fortschritts (1971)” in Glaube in Geschichte und Gesellschaft: Studien zu einer praktischen Fundamentaltheologie (J.B. Metz; Mainz, Matthias Grünewald, 1977), 87-103, where the thesis is developed in principle. See also Benjamin Taubald, Anamnetische Vernunft: Untersuchungen zu einem Begriff der neuen Politische Theologie (Münster, Hamburg, London: Lit, 2001). 13 See Johann Baptist Metz, “Theologie versus Polymythie oder: Kleine Apologie des biblischen Monotheismus,” in Einheit und Vielheit (ed. O. Marquard, P. Probst, and F. J. Wetz; Hamburg: Meiner, 1990), 170-86; J. B. Metz, “Im Eingedenken fremden Leids: Zu einer Basiskategorie christlicher Gottesrede,” in Gottersrede (ed. J. B. Metz, J. Reikerstorfer, and J. Werblick; Münster: Lit, 1996), 3-20; J. B. Metz, “Im Pluralismus der Religions- und Kulturwelten: Anmerkungen zu einem theologisch-politische Weltprogramm,” in Zum Begriff der neuen Politischen Theologie: 1967–1997 (J. B. Metz; Mainz: Matthias Grünenwald, 1997), 197-206.

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tion as the true and only one. This Assmann calls the inherent violence in monotheism of which it has to be stripped to regain its credibility.14 Assmann’s criticism is topical, because claiming to proclaim a liberating God, the Christian tradition cannot depend on subjecting people to silence and seeing their experiences and expressions of the religious as a priori irrelevant. A theology that claims to voice the protest of the excluded and the suffering against their exclusion and their suffering, can it itself hardly be based on a way of theorizing that produces exclusion and the suffering that comes with it. On the other hand, Metz and his disciples have an important point to make too. For Metz, God is either a theme for humanity as a whole, or no a theme at all: Gott ist entweder ein Menschheitsthema, oder überhaupt kein Thema. Speaking of God should be universalistic not on the basis of an abstract philosophical idea of a true God as necessarily unique, but because of the universality of suffering that can only be redeemed by universal liberation. All tears have to be wiped away, as is promised twice in the Book of Revelation (7:17; 21:4). This opens possibilities for a different view on God’s uniqueness. It has been shown in some detail that the Biblical confession to God as “the one-and-only,” differs fundamentally from what is commonly understood as “monotheism.” The idea of a “Biblical Monotheism” is therefore to a large degree a modern misunderstanding.15 But what does this mean for systematic theology? Metz’s disciple Tiemo Rainer Peters has called the Political Theology of his mentor a Theologie des vermißten Gottes, a theology of God missed. God is proclaimed present in people missing God, searching God, crying for God and God’s redeeming presence.16 The history of which we are part clearly indicates that God still has not fulfilled our human yearning and is therefore 14 See especially Jan Assmann, Herrschaft und Heil: Politische Theologie in Altägypten, Israel und Europa (München: Hanser, 2000); Jan Assmann, Die Mosaische Unterscheidung: Oder der Preis des Monotheismus (München: Hanser 2003). 15 For an overview of research in Old Testament studies on monotheism, see F. Stolz, Einführung in den biblischen Monotheismus (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1996); R. K. Gnuse, No Other Gods: Emergent Monotheism in Israel (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1997); M. T. Wacker, “‘Monotheismus’ als kategorie der alttestamentlichen Wissenschaft: Erkenntnisse und Interessen,” in Monotheismus (ed. J. Manemann; Jahrbuch politische Theologie 4; Münster: Lit, 2002), 50-67. 16 Tiemo Rainer Peters, Johann Baptist Metz: Theologie des vermißten Gottes (Mainz: Mattias Grünenwald, 1998).

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not indisputably present even in Jesus Christ and his history. According to Metz’ Political Theology, remembering Jesus’ suffering, death and resurrection in this situation means to keeping open the unbridgeable chasm between our actual history and the liberating holiness of God’s Name, to which all the earth will sing a new song when it is revealed. Speaking of the Crucified as the kenotic incarnation of God’s presence, means confessing to every revelation of that chasm as also revealing the paradoxical presence of God’s universal will to save.17 In other, even more paradoxical words: God is one and universal because God is present in all traces of yearning and hope for redemption, in all their multiplicity and pluralism. God’s unity cannot be conceptualized, but is present and hidden in the plurality of experiences of missing the liberation God’s presence stands for, according to the Christian tradition. Theologically speaking, with the vulnerability of our bodies and the violence of our world we are already dedicated to and dependent on the God of redemption. But in order for this dedication to make sense and for this dependence not to be a sign of the unavoidable victory of death and nothingness, the power of God should be universal, all-encompassing. God should be the one-and-only and nothing should be excluded from God’s nearness and God’s power. This is what is expressed when the Biblical tradition confesses to the God of redemption as the one passing judgment among the gods (Psalm 82:1). Amidst the abundant plurality of principalities and powers, God is hidden as the one speaking the final, righteous judgment that means universal redemption and revelation (see Col 2:15).

The Plural Revelation of God as the One-and-Only In other words, the revelation of God as the one-and-only is historical. The pain of missing God reveals God’s presence and nearness. Jewish philosopher Peter Ochs has connected this idea to the Christian image of God as a Trinity.18 In his view, talk of the Trinity is the way in which 17 See for Metz’s Christology: Paulus Budi Kleden, Christologie in Fragmenten: Die Rede von Jesus Christus im Spannungsfeld von Hoffnungs- und Leidensgeschichte bei Johann Baptist Metz (Münster: Lit, 2001). 18 Peter W. Ochs, “Trinity and Judaism,” Concilium 39 (2003) 4: 51-59; see also P. W. Ochs, “A Jewish Reading of Trinity, Time and the Church: A Response to the Theology of Robert W. Jenson,” Modern Theology 19 (2003) 3: 419-28.

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the Christian tradition bears witness to the fact that it is a living religion. Talk about the God revealed in Jesus the Anointed One always arises from the presence of the Holy Spirit, which time and again makes people experience new and surprising traces of God. In Ochs’ view, Jewish thought about the relationship between God, Law (Torah) and the People of the Covenant has a similar structure to that between God presence as Father, Son and Spirit in the Christian tradition. Religion offers space to live in confrontation with the uncertainty, fragility and uncontrollability of existence. In Christian terms this emerges from the nearness of the Spirit of the God who created heaven and earth as space for good life, who has emptied himself in Jesus’ human and deadly history and was incarnated in a body that suffered and died from the fact that the world as it really exists is often in no sense such a space, the Spirit who opens up new life in it ever again. Catholic Hindu-philosopher and -theologian Raimundo Panikkar has pointed out the opacity and the impenetrability of the presence of the Spirit understood in this way. The connection of what are experienced as traces of God to the history of Jesus’ life, death and resurrection, is often unclear. According the Panikkar this should not lead to the rejection of these experiences, but to firmly holding on to the idea that—in my words—the God of Jesus is the God of heaven and earth, of history and of each individual personally. As long as the end of history has not dawned, the pluralism of views, experiences and longings cannot be reduced without cutting off essential insights into God and human life.19 This is not to say that we should give up the idea of God’s unity and have to be content with the given plurality, but it does mean that we do not know what the exact character of God’s unity is. The Christian confession that God was in Jesus in an unique manner and that in him God’s face has come to light in ways that cannot be equalled or surpassed, does not imply that we know what that means. The significance of God’s revelation in Jesus’ history only becomes clear in the ongoing process of confrontation of what we think we know with old and new experiences we ourselves and others have had, even if they are at odds with them. Or, to put it in Trinitarian language, the unity of the Father, the Son and the Spirit that is the identity of God, can be known in our 19 Raimundo Panikkar, “The Jordan, the Tiber, and the Ganges: Three Kairological Moments of Christic Self-Consciousness,” in The Myth of Christian Uniqueness: Toward a Pluralistic Theology of Religions (ed. J. Hick and P. F. Knitter; Maryknoll: Orbis, 1987), 89-116.

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human history only in the interaction between our experiences of and reflections on the three divine hypostases, and the relations between them.20 Any insight we express about these things is at the most a snapshot in the midst of an ever-ongoing movement.

Conclusion I started this essay with an analysis of Salman Rushdie’s Fury to clarify our current religious situation. I have shown how the pluralism that characterizes it has at least three aspects in Rushdie’s view: (1) the breaking loose of violent and often dangerous religious forces, once contained within ordered systems of belief; (2) the exposure of and breaking away from the violence present in the monotheistic attempt to monopolize sense and meaning and exclude all multiplicity; and (3) the insight that no group, people, culture or religion is the centre of the world and that there is a invitation inherent in this insight to surrender to dependency and heteronomy. I have argued that in revealing this invitation, Rushdie is a religious writer trying to be faithful to an important aspect of his Islamic tradition. However, I have also made clear why a non-specific appeal to surrender to dependency is not satisfactory and the question of how to avoid serving false gods cannot be avoided. On the other hand, in discussion with Johann Baptist Metz’ political theology I have shown how insisting on the necessity of the traditional idea of a one-and-only God is also problematic, because it leads almost unavoidably to violent exclusions. I have argued for a Christian view of God’s uniqueness as eschatological and not yet attainable. What God is, is not yet fully revealed and as long as we live this side of the end of history, we will gain new insights and new experiences of God’s liberating, supporting 20 Thomas Aquinas underlines the principle difference between relations for humans and relations for the divine: for humans relations are accidental, but for the divine persons they are part of the essence. In other words, God is one in the relations between Father, Son and Spirit (Summa theologiae I, q. 39, art. 1. The idea that speaking of God in terms of Father, Son and Spirit means that we can not yet understand the specific unity of God in our history, is the basis of the reflections on the Trinity in Friedrich-Wilhem Marquardt, Was dürfen wir hoffen, wenn wir hoffen dürften? Eine Eschatologie III (Gütersloh: Kaiser/Gütersloher Verlaghaus, 1996), 212-35; F.-W. Marquardt, Eia, wärn wir da! Eine Utopie (Gütersloh: Kaiser/ Gütersloher Verlaghaus, 1997), 539-66.

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and comforting Presence irreducible to what is already known from the tradition. In dialogue with the Christian image of God as Trinity and Three-unity, I argued that God’s unity is hidden in the as yet irreducible diversity of experiences, images and thoughts God’s presence awakens in and among us, and the ongoing search for their interrelations. Thus a violent monopolization of sense and meaning is avoided, the plurality of contexts and viewpoints is honoured and the relativity of all insights in recognized. At the same time, the it is stressed that God will in the end be revealed as the one-and-only who conquered all evil, defeated death and liberated everything and everybody to the good and fulfilled life the Gospels of Marc and Luc call the Kingdom of God, the Gospel of Matthew calls the Kingdom of Heaven, the Gospel of John calls Eternal Life, and the Apocalypse calls an New Heaven and a New Earth, and a New Jerusalem coming down out of heaven from God—in irreducible diversity and unmistakable unanimity.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

THE BOUNDARIES AND GIFTS OF MONOTHEISM EPILOGUE Anne-Marie Korte (Tilburg University & Utrecht University)

The aim of the authors of this book, as stated in the introduction, is to give an account of the problematic and promising aspects of biblicallybased monotheism, considered as a formative religious idea, belief, and practice in Western history and culture. This objective shows that not only monotheism as a scholarly subject, but also the question of how to approach and discuss monotheism in current academic and public debate, has been put on the agenda here. In the course of the past century an increasing critique of monotheism has been formulated related to the dissemination of the more general Enlightenment criticism of the intolerant, exclusive, and patronizing aspects of the biblical faith traditions. Distinguished authors in the field of philosophy, theology, and religious studies not only vehemently criticized the monotheistic faith claims and practices of the biblical traditions, but also pleaded for a replacement of these claims by polytheistic or pluralist alternatives. In the twentieth century this was argued, for different reasons and from different points of view, by authors such as Friedrich Nietzsche, Max Weber, Odo Marquard and Bernard-Henry Levy.1 Despite their various scholarly backgrounds and divergent points of view, these authors had a common agenda of cultural critique. They wanted to break open the theological and political monoculture of European religious tradition in the name of human individuality, autonomy, and responsibility. They did not recoil from affirming the tragic and uncontrollable aspects of human existence

1 Friedrich Nietzsche, Die Fröhliche Wissenschaft (vol. 3 of Kritische Studienausgabe der Sämtlichen Werke; München: De Gruyter, 1980); Max Weber, “Wissenschaft als Beruf,” in Gesammelte Aufsätze zur Wissenschaftslehre (ed. M. Weber; 1924; repr., Tübingen: Mohr, 1988), 582-613; Odo Marquard, “Lob des Polytheismus: Über Monomythie und Polymythie,” in: Idem, Abschied vom Prinzipiellen: Philosophische Studien (Stuttgart: Reclam, 1982), 91-116; Bernard-Henry Lévy, Le testament de Dieu (Paris: B. Grasset, 1979).

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that need to be confronted from this position of cultural critique, and they were convinced that polytheistic or pluralist stances could better support this world view. At the start of the twenty-first century, the reasons and motives for criticism of the monotheistic faith claims and practices of the biblical traditions have changed. Although all the contributors of this anthology acknowledge more or less severe problematic aspects of these claims and practices, none of them advocates a complete relinquishment of these traditions or pleads for a replacement of them by polytheistic or pluralist alternatives. This indicates that they do not any longer consider the opposition between monotheism and polytheism that dominated twentieth-century academic and public debate on monotheism to be the most appropriate focus to explore and discuss the monotheistic aspects of the biblical religion. Actually the authors of this book formulate several other stances and approaches for their critical assessment of monotheism as a religious concept, belief, and practice. In this epilogue, I will collect and present these points of view.

Re-searching Biblical and Early Christian References to Monotheism As mentioned in the introduction to this book, literary scholar and philosopher Regina Schwartz has argued in The Curse of Cain2 that, in the course of Western history, the biblical texts have predominantly been searched and used for theological conceptualizations of divinity that have strengthened a confining and totalizing monotheism. Little attention has been paid to the inconsistencies and tensions in the biblical references to monotheism and to alternative biblical visions of monotheism, according to Schwartz. This is a challenge that has been taken very seriously by several authors in this book, in particular by those who study biblical and early Christian texts. They have studied the references to monotheism in these texts from a stance that is critical toward current theological conceptualizations of monotheism. Their aim is not to look for solid foundations or clear confines to define bib-

2 Regina M. Schwartz, The Curse of Cain: The Violent Legacy of Monotheism (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1997).

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lical monotheism, but rather to confront and interrogate prevailing theological concepts of monotheism that are considered to be biblically based. As Bob Becking states in his article on monotheistic forms of religion in the Old Testament, the question of how and to what ends doctrinal concepts of monotheism are founded on biblical texts deserves more attention and research. He points to the many steps and decisions involved in the construction of a theological concept of monotheism based on biblical texts. The complexity of religious world views in and behind the biblical texts makes it extremely difficult to speak of “biblical monotheism” from a strictly historical and exegetical point of view. According to Becking, who does not exclude the possibility of speaking of “biblical monotheism,” it is primarily a hermeneutical decision if and how theological concepts of monotheism can be founded in biblical texts. Patrick Chatelion Counet, studying early Jewish monotheism in relation to the divinity of Jesus as proclaimed in the texts of the New Testament, also comes to the conclusion that twentieth-century theological and exegetical assumptions about biblically-based monotheism are in need of revision. Early Jewish monotheism was not only plural and layered, as Becking argues, but actually encompassed various forms of veneration and divination of intermediaries between God and human beings, in particular of angels, prophets, kings and high-priests. The self-understanding of Jesus and the early understandings of Jesus as Lord and Son of God are, according to Chatelion Counet, situated in this context. They do not depart drastically from early Jewish monotheism, nor are they the mere product of Hellenistic influences, as is often assumed. Very interesting is Chatelion Counet’s observation that in incipient Christianity a new type of deification appears, namely the identification of Jesus as a particular and unique human person with God. Chatelion Counet supposes that the new Christian inclusive form of monotheism that arose out of this constellation is related to an imagoDei theology developed within early Jewish monotheism. Another compelling proposal for revision of the study of early Christian monotheism is formulated by Celtic and Religious Studies scholar Jacqueline Borsje. She shows that, in early Irish Christian texts, a more inclusive type of monotheism can be found than is often assumed. Studying the mutual perception of ‘foreign’ supernatural instances from Christian and Celtic perspectives that can be traced in these early Irish

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Christian texts, Borsje demonstrates the limitations of the use of the theological concept of Jewish-Christian monotheism for the study of religious beliefs and conceptions of the divine in these texts. Borsje not only questions the assumed exclusive character of early Christian monotheism (its “one versus many” opposition), but she also problematizes its particular theistic claims, i.e. the definition of where and when we can speak of “god(s).” By carefully analysing a broad variety of references to supernatural beings and instances in early Christian texts of the Irish-Celtic culture, Borsje demonstrates that clear demarcation lines between theistic and non-theistic supernatural instances cannot be drawn here. Rather, in these texts, an ongoing interrogation takes place that aims to discover the identity of the supernatural instances that people believe in. According to Borsje, not only conceptual aspects but also practices (like praying, singing, inspired speaking, storytelling and commemorating the dead) should be considered to reconstruct the perception and the identification of supernatural beings and instances in early Irish Christianity.

Facing the Gender(ed) Polemics of Biblically-based Monotheism The oppositional stances that have been harboured and endorsed by the Western, biblical concept of monotheism have often been analysed in twentieth-century theological research and religious studies, in particular as far as these stances function as a source of religious superiority, national conflict, racial hatred and ethnic division. There is a growing awareness that biblically-based monotheism not only runs the risk of neglecting or overpowering diversity and multiplicity, but also of legitimizing and eternalizing the (power) structures and norms for what counts as centre and as margin, as “us” and “them,” as “self” and “other.”3 In this volume, special attention is paid to one of the most deeply ingrained oppositional stances of biblical monotheism, namely the one based on gender dichotomy. As Maaike de Haardt shows, feminist theologians, by adding a critical gender perspective to the contemporary scholarly debates on monotheism, expose the specific gender-related power mechanisms and effects of monotheist theological and philosophical discourse. Feminist theologians have demonstrated that the founding suppositions of this discourse are not only dualistic and exclusive, but also thoroughly based

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on gender dichotomy, implying a devaluation of femaleness in close association with materiality, corporeality, emotionality, changeability, immanence, and finiteness. De Haardt finds it remarkable that many theologians and philosophers of religion are able to recognize and reject gender injustice in society, church, and in individual relationships, but do not relate this critique to the “new monotheism quest” that has managed to inspire many disciplines within theology and religious studies during the past two decades. De Haardt esteems the ways in which feminist theologians rethink theological conceptualizations of divinity and move towards more inclusive, extended and multiple embodied “imaginations” of “another monotheism” exemplary for the overcoming and transforming of many pertinent and pressing objections that still cling to the Western, biblically-based concept of monotheism. Endorsing this point of view, Kune Biezeveld states that the feminist project of revising monotheism is not only in need of critical theological and philosophical reflection and of reinterpretation of the biblical references to monotheism, but also of a revaluation of what was actually excluded in the process which formed Christian monotheism. Studying the specific historical setting and the oppositional mindset (as history versus nature, mind versus body, creation versus fertility) that created the exclusivity of biblical monotheism, Biezeveld concludes that the process towards monotheism in Israelite religion resulted in caricatural repudiations of the complex religious practices of “others,” as for instance the rejection of Canaanite religion as a “fertility religion.” According to Biezeveld, the absence of the goddess in Israelite religion could be seen as the result of an internal development towards centralization of power and authority in one God, rather than as the outcome of a highly antithetical struggle with Canaanite goddess worship. The 3 Rita M. Gross, “Religious Diversity: Some Implications for Monotheism.” Cross Currents 49 (1999): 349-367; Jürgen Manemann, ed., Monotheismus (Jahrbuch Politische Theologie. 4; Münster: Lit Verlag, 2002); Thomas Söding, ed., Ist der Glaube Feind der Freiheit? Die neue Debatte um den Monotheismus (Freiburg: Herder, 2003); Hermann Düringer, ed., Monotheismus, eine Quelle der Gewalt? (Frankfurt am Main: Haag & Herchen, 2004); Marie-Theres Wacker, Von Göttinnen, Göttern und dem einzigen Gott: Studien zum biblischen Monotheismus aus feministisch-theologischer Sicht (Münster: Lit Verlag, 2004); Hans Hübner, Wer ist der biblische Gott? Fluch und Segen der monotheistischen Religionen (NeukirchenVluyn: Neukirchener, 2004); Peter Walter, ed., Das Gewaltpotential des Monotheismus und der dreieine Gott (Freiburg: Herder, 2005); Stefan Stiegler and Uwe Swarat, eds., Der Monotheismus als theologisches und politisches Problem (Leipzig: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt, 2006).

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oppositional constructed contrasts were less theologically founded than Christian theology has always claimed. To Biezeveld this means that we are in urgent need of theological reflection on the many aspects of embodied daily life that were excluded from being theologically acknowledged and valued experiences of God, especially those of women as the most “exclusion experienced” human beings. The critical point that Biezeveld brings to the fore about monotheistic faith tending to withdraw from daily human life—a point of view already formulated in the eighteenth century by David Hume4 —has been intensified by various feminist movements in the last quarter of the twentieth century. Goddess Movement and Feminist Spirituality groups have expressed this critique from a radical feminist perspective.5 They have offered alternatives based on pluralist and polytheistic forms of religious faith. But, generally speaking, these alternatives did not diminish but rather affirmed the opposition between monotheism and polytheism as one based on gender dichotomy. In their contribution to this volume, Bert Blans and Marcel Poorthuis suggest that a direct confrontation between monotheism and polytheism—without substituting one of them for the other—can decrease the polemics between them and can offer insight into the gendered aspects of this polemics. Their case study of literary texts of German Romanticism shows that explorations and even incorporations of the “opposite side” of biblically-based monotheism actually took place in Christian philosophical reflection and literary imagination. German Romanticism, according to Blans and Poorthuis, was not only marked by a well known romantic interest in “Greek gods,” but also by a serious attempt to face polytheism as a genuine questioning of Christian belief. This confrontation was marked by a fascination for the sensual and erotic aspects of religious belief that have a long and complicated history of recognition as well as denial within Christianity. Analysing the texts of 4 David Hume, The Natural History of Religion (London, 1757; repr., Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1976). 5 See among others, Mary Daly, Gyn/Ecology: The Metaethics of Radical Feminism (Boston: Beacon Press, 1978); Naomi R. Goldenberg, Changing of the Gods: Feminism and the End of Traditional Religions (Boston: Beacon Press, 1979); Carol P. Christ, Laughter of Aphrodite: Reflections on a Journey to the Goddess (San Francisco: Harper & Row, 1987); Melissa Raphael, Thealogy and Embodiment: The Post-Patriarchal Reconstruction of Female Sacrality (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1996); Carol P. Christ, Rebirth of the Goddess: Finding Meaning in Feminist Spirituality (New York: Routledge, 1997).

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some outstanding poets of German Romanticism, Blans and Poorthuis show that the exploration of these repressed aspects is interwoven with a male fear and distrust of female attractiveness and corporeality that has been cultivated in Western culture on a firmly biblical base. They also show that, during this same period, a rediscovery of the Hebrew origins of the Bible took place, that offered new biblically-based incentives for the revaluation of the sensual and erotic aspects of human existence. This double biblical heritage apparently offered German Romanticists a framework to ponder the possibility that divine transcendence does not imply undervaluation of earthly bodily existence but rather allows the humanization of eroticism and love as divine gift to humanity.

Re-orientating the Critical Potential of Biblically-based Monotheism What do the authors of this book consider the most important and valuable aspects of biblically-based monotheistic faith? In the past decade, Egyptologist Jan Assmann has fuelled the debate over the singularity and relevance of biblical monotheism by emphasizing the thoroughly polemical stance of this faith towards the “natural evidences” of life. Assmann has argued that biblical monotheism is by definition a secondinstance religion and an anti-religion. Its founding impulse consists of the liberation of biblical faith from the embrace of “religion,” understood as the symbolic-affirmative deciphering of the encompassing and overwhelming reality of life. Biblical monotheism therefore has come into existence as a particular form of religious faith that, in contrast to the religions of surrounding peoples and nations, made a sharp distinction between true and false gods. However, according to Assmann, biblical monotheism was not only characterized by iconoclasm and a very critical stance toward “false gods,” but also by a severe criticism of the sacralization of all earthly powers and instances. Assmann has exposed the thoroughly ambivalent character of this criticism. On the one hand, biblically-based monotheism has had from its origin a tendency to question and surpass the power of natural evidences, including its own sacralizing inclinations. On the other hand, biblical monotheism has sought to ban the divine from the mundane level in order to give its own reli-

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gious authorities the monopoly of identifying and mediating God. Assmann has pointed out the inherent violent tendencies that are contained in this self-affirming logic of monotheistic religions.6 The debate over the double bind of the critical stance of biblical monotheism has evoked a new interest in the meaning and relevance of biblical faith traditions for today’s world. Is it possible to re-orientate the critical and the self-critical aspects of biblical monotheism in ways that address the religious tensions and needs of contemporary pluralist and multi-religious societies? Several authors of this book argue that, before these questions can be answered, standing opinions about the critical potential of biblical monotheism should be confronted and discussed. As already mentioned above, one of the most characteristic and outspoken ways in which biblical monotheism has manifested its critical stance concerns a distrust towards the sacralization, or even the religious valuing, of ordinary life, which it conceives as idolatry pur sang. In her contribution to this book, Kune Biezeveld, building on feministtheological scrutiny of this particular form of idolatry critique, shows the importance of resisting the tendencies to reify and de-historicize this critique. With the institutionalizing of opposition towards the ‘natural world’, monotheistic faith risks disqualifying the struggle for healing and atonement in daily life and legitimizes power relations that are established on a hierarchical division between spiritual and mundane life. The critical force of monotheistic faith towards “earthly powers” needs to be continuously reassessed in the face of actual earthly power relations, to prevent biblically-based monotheism losing its credibility as well as its self-critical power. Other established opinions on monotheism need to be confronted as well, in order to re-evaluate the critical and self-critical potential of biblical monotheism within postmodern culture. One of these concerns the self-evident prolongation of modern philosophical conceptualizations of monotheism, and in a broader sense, of modern concepts of oneness, unity, uniqueness, and identity. The critical impact of biblical monotheism can, in particular, be obfuscated by an indiscriminate continuation of the twentieth-century wave of criticism that has been made against monotheism in the name of political and cultural pluralism and of 6 See Jan Assmann, Moses the Egyptian: The Memory of Egypt in Western Monotheism (Cambridge, Mass: Harvard University Press, 1997); Idem, Die Mosaische Unterscheidung oder Der Preis des Monotheismus (München: Hanser Verlag, 2003); Idem, Monotheismus und die Sprache der Gewalt (Wien: Picus, 2006).

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human freedom, autonomy, and responsibility. This criticism has been driven by a modern understanding of the idea of “oneness” that incorporates unity as well as uniqueness, as René Munnik argues in his contribution to this volume. He points out that it is only from a modern point of view, that is to say from a reflective position informed by the understanding of unity as developed by Descartes and Kant, that monotheism becomes questionable in regard to its exclusive and excluding character, in a way it could not have been to Augustine or Thomas Aquinas. When, from Early Modern times onwards, oneness is increasingly defined in a rationalist way from the perspective of simplicity and identity, doctrines of purity, separation, and exclusion tend to overpower the understanding of (biblical) monotheism. According to Munnik, the contemporary philosophical and theological challenge is to incorporate the contingent and the particular in the idea of God’s oneness. Following Whitehead, he argues that it is possible to conceive of contingent and particular instances and events as the only real instances of being/ becoming and to envision a “reformed, inclusive monotheism” on this base. Rethinking monotheism along these lines means that the postmodern awareness of contingency, particularity, history, and situatedness can be fully confronted.

Theological Revision of Biblical Monotheism In these concluding remarks, the legacies and boundaries of biblicallybased monotheism have been discussed thus far in relation to its particular textual origins and its conceptual developments in the course of Western history. The last point I wish to raise here concerns the relevance and the value of this monotheist faith for today’s postmodern, pluriform Western culture. As stated in the introduction to this book, within this culture, new questions have arisen concerning the role and impact of the monotheistic religions. In particular, the idea that monotheist religions foster or legitimize terrorism and violence has gained widespread plausibility. But as Canadian philosopher Charles Taylor has stated repeatedly, it is equally important to acknowledge the active contribution of monotheist religions to terrorism and violence as to explore the “spiritual dimensions” of these religions that are capable of resisting and diminishing the use of violence.7

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In their contributions to this book, systematic theologians Akke van der Kooi and Erik Borgman explore these capacities of resistance related to the confession of one God as expressed in the biblical faith tradition. Both argue that what we may call the truth of this confession becomes revealed in the critical, dialectal dynamics of the biblical faith itself, by its various forms of inner iconoclasm, that are never clearly given in advance but can only be discovered at work in the particular situations of conflict and confrontation in which we are involved. In the view of Akke van der Kooi, the core of biblical monotheist faith can be conceived of as a counter-history against demonic powers. This counter-history is revealed in the historical discontinuities that are formed in and by the narrative and dialogical character of the scriptural texts. This dialogical character, that can be traced, for instance, in the penitential psalms and in the book of Job, brings to the fore that there is a residue of unfulfilled, damaged history that cannot be undone, nor be forgotten. This dialectics of the unfulfilled helps us to see that God is not the regulatory principle of historical events, but the presupposition of a persistent resistance in the historical conflicts of human beings. Van der Kooi emphasizes the soteriological meaning of biblical monotheism above its ontological meaning. The intention of the biblical belief in the one God is that it evokes dialogue, based on the assumption of a unity that is still to come, but that as such remains elusive to human thought. The dialogue leads to the God who is all things in all and who gives a new chance to lost reality. A similar theological view is formulated by Erik Borgman, who explores the meaning of confessing to one God in the current situation of pluralism and “cultural polytheism.” Relating biblical iconoclasm to the critical hermeneutics and negative dialectics developed in twentieth-century political philosophy and political theology, Borgman argues that God’s uniqueness should be conceived of as eschatological and not yet attainable. God is one and universal because God is present in all traces of yearning and hope for redemption, in all their multiplicity

7 See Charles Taylor, Sources of the Self: The Making of the Modern Identity (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1989); Idem, Multiculturalism and “The Politics of Recognition”: An Essay (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1992); Idem, Modern Social Imaginaries (Durham N.C.: Duke University Press, 2004).

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and pluralism. God’s unity cannot be conceptualized, but is present in the plurality of experiences that the lack of and yearning for the liberation God’s presence stands for, according to the Christian tradition. There are, of course, other theological aspects of the confession of one God that should or could be reconsidered as part of the project to investigate the problematic and promising aspects of biblically-based monotheism for today’s world. There are several characteristic boundaries of biblical monotheism that seem to be of particular interest and that have not been explicitly discussed in this book. They concern boundaries of biblical monotheism that could be considered as gifts as well, as is suggested in contemporary debates on the ‘gift’ of Babel (the divine gifts of difference and the plurality of language)8, the gift of the prohibition of “graven images”9 and the gift of the Decalogue (the divine gifts of law and justice)10, gifts whose acceptance and meaning are closely related to the soteriological and eschatological interpretation of biblical monotheism that has been discussed above. By exploring the capacities of resistance to violence and of hope for redemption related to the confession of one God, the authors of this book have tried to focus on the gifts of biblically-based monotheism that we consider most timely and relevant. We hope this anthology will inspire others—theologians as well as scholars of religion, philosophers as well as literary and cultural critics—to continue our explorations into the boundaries and gifts of monotheistic faith. 8 See, among others, Jacques Derrida, “Des Tours de Babel” in: Idem, Acts of Religion (ed. G. Anidjar. New York: Routledge, 2002), 104-133; Hent de Vries, “Anti-Babel: The ‘Mystical Postulate’ in Benjamin, De Certeau and Derrida,” Modern Language Notes 107/3, (1992): 441-478; Brian D. Ingraffia, “Deconstructing the Tower of Babel: Ontotheology and the Postmodern Bible,” in Renewing Biblical Interpretation (eds. C. Bartholomew et al. Carlisle: Paternoster Press, 2000) 284306; Ellen van Wolde, “The Earth Story as Presented by the Tower of Babel Narrative,” in The Earth Story in Genesis (eds. N. C. Habel and S. Wurst. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2000), 147-157. 9 See, among others, Jean-Luc Marion, L'idole et la distance: Cinq études (Paris: Grasset, 1977); Idem, La croisée du visible (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1996); Andreas Wagner et al., eds., Gott im Wort—Gott im Bild: Bilderlosigkeit als Bedingung des Monotheismus? (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener, 2005); Micha Brumlik, Schrift, Wort und Ikone: Wege aus dem Bilderverbot (Berlin: Philo, 2006).

10

See, among others, John D. Caputo and Michael J. Scanlon, eds., God, the Gift, and Postmodernism (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1999); John D. Caputo et al., eds., Questioning God (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2001); Regina M. Schwartz, ed., Transcendence: Philosophy, Literature, and Theology Approach the Beyond (New York: Routledge, 2004); Yvonne Sherwood and Kevin Hart, eds., Derrida and Religion: Other Testaments (New York: Routledge, 2005).

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CONTRIBUTORS

Bob Becking is professor of Old Testament Study at Utrecht University. Among his publications are Between Fear and Freedom: Essays on the Interpretation of Jeremiah 30-31 (Leiden: Brill, 2004) and From David to Gedalaiah: The Book of Kings as Story and History (Fribourg: Academic Press Fribourg, 2007). He acted as co-editor of the Dictionary of Deities and Demons in the Bible (Leiden: Brill, 1995/1999) and of Only One God? Monotheism in Ancient Israel and the Veneration of the Goddess Asherah (London: Sheffield Academic Press, 2001). Kune Biezeveld is lecturer in Systematic Theology and professor of Women’s Studies in Theology at the Protestant Theological University, Location Leiden. She edited with Anne-Claire Mulder, Towards a Different Transcendence: Feminist Findings on Subjectivity, Religion and Values (Bern: Peter Lang, 2001). Bert Blans is lecturer in Philosophy at the Faculty of Catholic Theology of Tilburg Universitity, and honorary professor in Philososophy at Wageningen University. He was editor of Mystiek duet: Tweestemmigheid binnen christelijke spiritualiteit (Nijmegen: Valkhof Pers, 2006). Among his further publications are “Lyotard and Augustin’s Confessions,” Augustiniana 53 (2003) 31-51 and with Martijn Schrama, “The Inseperable Connection of Knowledge and Love. Giles of Rome and the Practice of Theology,” Augustiniana 53(2003) 267295. Erik Borgman is professor of Systematic Theology—Theology of Religion, especially Christianity—at the Department of Religious Studies and Theology of Tilburg University. Among his publications is the first volume of an intellectual biography of Edward Schillebeeckx: Edward Schillebeeckx: A Theologican in his History. Volume 1: A Catholic Theology of Culture 1914-1965 (London: Continuum, 2003). His research concentrates on religion and theology in their relation with contemporary culture.

242

CONTRIBUTORS

Jacqueline Borsje is leader of the NWO-VIDI research project ‘The Power of Words in Medieval Ireland’ at the University of Amsterdam, and is research lecturer in Traditional Medieval Irish and European Cultures at the University of Ulster. She wrote From Chaos to Enemy: Encounters with Monsters in Early Irish Texts. An investigation related to the process of christianization and the concept of evil (Turnhout: Brepols, 1996) and has published widely on medieval Irish mythology, religion and literature. Patrick Chatelion Counet is professor of The Bible in Dutch Culture at the University of Amsterdam; since 2007 he is tribunal judge of the Archdiocese of Utrecht. He has published a.o. John, A Postmodern Gospel: Introduction to deconstructive exegesis applied to the Fourth Gospel (Leiden: Brill, 2000). With Sjef van Tilborg he published Jesus´ Appearances and Disappearances in Luke 24 (Leiden: Brill, 2000); and with Ulrich Berges he co-edited One Text, a Thousand Methods: Studies in Memory of Sjef van Tilborg (Leiden: Brill 2005). Maaike de Haardt is Catharina Halkes/Unie NKV professor of Religion and Gender at the Radboud University Nijmegen and lecturer in Systematic Theology at the department of Religious Studies and Theology of Tilburg University. She co-edited several books a.o. Common Bodies: Everyday Practices, Gender and Religion (Münster: Lit, 2002). She writes on everyday life and theology, for example “Incarnation in the City? Some Tentative Explorations of the City as a Locus for Theology,” Journal of the ESWTR 14 (2006) 133-142. Akke van der Kooi is senior lecturer in Systematic Theology at the Protestant Theological University, Location Kampen, the Netherlands. Recently she published De ziel van het christelijk geloof. Theologische invallen bij de praktijk van geloven (Kampen: Kok, 2006). She works on topics in the fields of pneumatology and ecclesiology, and published for example in Onno Zijlstra (ed.), Letting Go: Rethinking Kenosis (Bern: Peter Lang, 2002). Anne-Marie Korte is senior lecturer in Systematic Theology at the Department of Religious Studies and Theology of Tilburg University and honorary professor of Women´s Studies in Theology at Utrecht University. She edited Women and Miracle Stories: A Multidisciplinary

CONTRIBUTORS

243

Exploration (Leiden: Brill, 2001); with Maaike de Haardt Common Bodies: Everyday Practices, Gender and Religion (Münster: Lit, 2002); and with Kristin De Troyer e.a. Wholly Woman, Holy Blood: A Feminist Critique on Purity and Impurity (Harrisburg: Trinity Press, 2003). René P.H. Munnik is lecturer in Philosophy at Tilburg University and Radboud professor at Twente University. He wrote a.o.: “ICT and the Character of Finitude,” in U. Görman a. o. (eds), Creative Creatures: Values and Ethical Issues in Theology, Science and Technology (London 2005) 15-33; “Der Geist weht: Zum Thema ‘Mobilität’ in der theologischen Eschatologie und der technischen Utopie,” in H. Meisinger a.o. (eds), Physik, Kosmologie und Spiritualität: Dimensionen des Dialogs zwischen Naturwissenschaft und Religion (Frankfurt a/Main: Peter Lang, 2006) 53-71. Marcel J.H.M. Poorthuis is senior lecturer in Jewish – Christian relations at the Faculty of Catholic Theology of Tilburg University. He has published on Rabbinic Judaism, early Christianity and philosophy. Together with J. Schwarz he is editor of the international series Jewish and Christian Perspectives (Leiden, Brill). With T. Salemink he published Een donkere Spiegel: Nederlandse katholieken over joden tussen antisemitisme en herkenning, (Nijmegen: Valkhof, 2006), a survey of 150 years image formation of Judaism among Catholics.

NAME INDEX

Abbán, Saint, 58 Adorno, T. W., 8, 201–203 Albani, M., 12 Albertz, R., 17–18, 166 Alexander the Great, 46, 50 Anton, H., 87 Appelby, R. S., 135 Aquinas. See Thomas Aquinas, Saint Aristotle, 108, 119, 177 Arneth, M., 22 Assmann, J., 138, 205–206, 217–218 Augustine, Saint, 73, 184, 219 Aurelius, E., 11 Barker, M., 30, 47 Barr, J., 167–168 Beauvoir, S. de, 157–158 Becking, B., 4, 9, 16, 25, 42–44, 55, 133, 163, 170, 213 Begemann, C., 92 Berger, K., 42 Bergin, O., 79 Best, R. I., 79 Bieler, L., 55–56, 60–62, 70–76, 79 Biezeveld, K., 7, 43, 131–149, 154, 174, 178, 215–216, 218 Billerbeck, P., 45 Binger, T., 17 Black, M. B., 11 Blans, B., 5, 83, 86, 216 Blefusco, L., 197 Block, D. I., 18 Boehlendorff, 99 Boehme, 89 Borgman, E., 7–8, 192, 220 Borsje, J., 5, 53, 213–214 Bourke, A., 53, 81 Bousset, W., 28, 32 Boyarin, D., 45 Brändle, W., 202 Brandon, S., 38 Breatnach, L., 66 Brecht, B., 199 Breen, A., 53, 60

Bremmer, J. N., 69 Brueggemann, W., 10, 155 Buber, M., 184 Buchanan, G., 34 Buchholz, R., 175 Bultmann, R., 36 Bury, J. B., 71, 73 Capes, D. B., 29 Caputo, J. D., 221 Carey, J., 53, 56, 64, 66, 80 Carney, J., 71, 73–74, 76 Carter Heyward, I., 151 Casey, M., 35 Certeau, M. de, 203 Charlesworth, J., 39, 41 Chatelion Counet, P., 5, 28, 44, 133, 213 Chilton, B., 36 Christ, C., 131, 138, 147, 157, 216 Clark, R. Y., 194 Cleary, B., 53–54, 81 Cleary, M., 53 Collins, J. J., 39 Cornélis, E., 174 Cornfeld, G., 32 Daly, M., 131, 147–148, 152, 216 Davila, J., 45, 51 Day, J., 17, 20 Delaney, C., 151 Deleuze, G., 153 Derrida, J., 188, 221 Descartes, R., 6, 107, 110–111, 219 Dever, W. G., 166 Devine, K., 60 Dietrich, M., 17 Dietrich, W., 165 Dijkstra, M., 20, 43, 164 Dillon, M., 63 Dionysius, 97, 99, 102 Disney, W., 53 Draak, M., 58–59, 66, 70–71, 76–78 Dreyfus, F., 37 Drorah Setel, T., 158

NAME INDEX Duff, J. D., 62 Dunn, J., 183 Düringer, H., 215 Ebeling, G., 176, 180–181 Ebner, F., 184 Eckhart. See Master Eckhart Eichendorff, J. von, 6, 89–94, 96, 104 Eichrodt, W., 165, 168 Einstein, A., 132 Eliade, M., 158 Essen, G., 140 Euhemeros of Messen, 85 Evans, C., 36 Falaky Nagy, J., 57 Ferdomnach, 56 Feuerbach, L., 186 Flavius Josephus, 46, 50 Fletcher-Louis, C., 50 Frank Parson, S., 136 Frankenberry, N., 146–147 Frankenstein, 118 Freeman, P., 69 Freud, S., 186 Frevel, C., 169 Frey, J., 39 Frisch, R., 202 Frymer-Kensky, T., 161–163, 171 Gadamer, H. G., 100, 185 Gager J. G., 183 Galilei, G., 198 García Martínez, F., 39–41 Gathercole, S., 32 Gebara, I., 144 Geller, S., 160 Gerdes, M., 28 Gerstenberger, E., 10, 18 Geyer, H.-G., 180 Gnuse, R. K., 166, 206 Goethe, J. W., 53, 88 Gogh, T. van, 1 Goldenberg, N. R., 216 Gonzalez, M., 194 Greeve Davane, S., 141 Grenz, F., 202 Gross, R. M., 145, 215 Gründer, K., 88 Guardini, R., 100, 102

245

Gwynn, E., 68 Gwynn, J., 58 Haardt, M. de, 6, 8, 129, 145–152, 174, 214–215 Hadley, J. M., 17 Haettner Blomquist, T., 22 Hamann, J. G., 184 Hamel, A. van, 77–78 Hamp, E., 54 Hampson, D., 147–148 Handy, L. K., 18–19 Haraway, D., 6, 107, 113–121, 124–126, 128 Harbers, M., 63 Hart, K., 182 Harvey, A., 60 Hassumani, S., 194 Häussermann, U., 100 Hegel, G. W. F., 87, 95, 106, 175, 202 Hein, H., 131 Henderson, G., 79 Hengel, M., 28, 37, 49, 51 Henten, J. W. van, 45 Hepworth, B., 132–133, 148 Heracles, 97, 99, 102 Heraclitus, 125 Herder, J. G. von, 95 Hinz, B., 91 Hochstaffl, J., 204 Hogan, E., 58 Hölderlin, F., 6, 87, 97–100, 102, 104 Holland, T. A., 16 Horst, P. W. van der, 16, 46, 55 Houtman, C., 21 Howlett, D. R., 55 Hübner, H., 215 Humboldt, W. von, 184 Hume, D., 106, 177, 216 Hurtado, L., 28, 30, 37, 45, 51 Huxley, A., 118 IJsseling, S., 86 Ingraffia, B. D., 221 Irigaray, L., 147, 153 Jacobi, F. H., 184 Jaffee, M., 140 Jantzen, G., 130, 144, 146–148 Johnson, E., 131, 144, 146, 148, 152

246

NAME INDEX

Jong, F. de, 66 Jonge, M. de, 40, 44 Jürgensmeyer, M., 135 Justinus Martyr, 84 Kammler, H.-C., 32 Kant, I., 6, 106–107, 110–112, 219 Käsemann, E., 36, 183 Keller, C., 144–145, 152–153 Kenney, J. F., 58 Kleden, P. B., 207 Kletter, R., 16 Klopfenstein, M. A., 165 Knauf, E. A., 13, 24 Koch, K., 21 Kooi, A. van der, 7, 174, 220 Koppelmann, F., 34 Korpel, M. C. A., 24 Korsmeyer, C., 131 Korte, A.-M., 1, 211 Kuitert, H., 33, 37

Meyer, F., 37 Meyer, K., 65, 67, 79 Miller, P., 165, 168–169 Miskotte, K. H., 159–160 Moltmann, J., 141, 176 More, H., 10, 106, 135, 177 Muirchú, 71, 74–75 Mulack, C., 131 Mulchrone, K., 57, 61 Mulder, A.-C., 8, 131, 145, 147, 149 Munnik, R., 6, 106, 151, 219 Neumann, P. H., 86 Neven, G., 181 Niehr, H., 19, 21 Nielsen, K., 24 Nietzsche, F., 88–89, 98, 186, 211 Nissinen, M., 23 Noll, 19 Noordmans, O., 182 Novalis, 93–94

Lang, B., 174, 176 Lemaire, A., 13, 17–18 Lerner, G., 156 Lessing, G. E., 34 Levy, B.-H., 211 Lewis, T. J., 24 Loretz, O., 11, 17 Lucan, 62

Ó Cathasaig, T., 54 O Daly, M., 67 O’Rahilly, C., 68 Ochs, P., 207 Oden, R. A., 157 Ornan, T., 21 Otto, R., 158 Otto, W. F., 87, 97

Mac Cana, P., 53, 60 Mackenzie, C., 162 Malul, M., 23 Manemann, J., 215 Marcel, G., 184 Marcion, 10 Marion, J.-L., 10, 221 Marquard, O., 140, 211 Marquardt, F.-W., 209 Martinson, M., 202 Marx, K., 186 Master Eckhart, 89 McCone, K., 66, 75 McDonald, N., 10–11 McFague, S., 144, 146, 157 McKenzie, S. L., 18 Meltzer, F., 149 Mettinger, T. N. D., 22 Metz, J. B., 8, 175, 204–207, 209

Panikkar, R., 208 Pannenberg, W., 154 Patrick, Saint, 55–57, 67, 71, 75–76, 79– 80 Pattison, G., 185–187 Peters, T. R., 206 Peterson, E., 84, 156 Peterson, G. R., 146 Peterson, R., 145 Philo of Alexandria, 45–46 Placher, W. C., 149 Plaskow, J., 143, 162 Plato, 184 Platvoet, J., 53, 56, 78 Polkinghorne, J., 188 Poorthuis, M., 5, 83, 86, 89, 216 Rad, G. von, 157 Radford Ruether, R., 145

NAME INDEX Rahner, K., 30 Raphael, M., 130, 216 Reikerstorfer, J., 139 Reimarus, H., 34–35 Renz, J., 16 Rese, M., 183 Rh s, J. Sir, 77 Riches, J. K., 36 Ricoeur, P., 158 Riley, G. J., 23 Ritter, J., 88 Rosenzweig, F., 184 Roukema, R., 49 Rushdie, S., 7, 192–204, 209 Sanders, E. P., 48 Sauter, G., 181 Scanlon, M. J., 221 Schelling, F. W. J., 87–88 Schiller, F., 86 Schleiermacher, F., 184 Schneider, L., 131, 134, 150, 156 Schrage, W., 32 Schroer, S., 178 Schulz, E., 100 Schüssler Fiorenza, E., 31–32 Schwartz, R., 2–3, 143, 188–190, 212, 221 Schweitzer, A., 35 Sered, S. S., 172 Shelley, 118 Sims-Williams, P., 54 Sison, A., 28 Smelik, K. A. D., 68–69 Smith, F. J., 60 Smith, M. S., 12, 18, 21, 166, 169 Söding, T., 137, 215 Solanka, M., 194–198 Sperber, I., 70 Spinoza, 108 Steiner, G., 152 Stern, E., 43 Stiegler, S., 215 Stokes, W., 57–59, 61–65, 79 Stoljar, N., 162 Stolz, F., 155, 206 Strachan, J., 59 Strack, H., 45 Stuckenbruck, L., 37 Swarat, U., 215

247

Taminiaux, J., 85 Tanner, K., 181 Tartt, D., 85 Taubald, B., 205 Taylor, C., 219–220 Telford, W., 36–37 Tertullian, 69, 85 Theobald, M., 31 Thomas Aquinas, Saint, 6, 107–112, 121, 209, 219 Thompson, M. M., 29, 31–32 Tírechán, 56, 70–71, 76, 79 Toner, G., 53 Toorn, K. van der, 16, 21, 24, 55, 69 Tracy, D., 176, 178, 185 Traubel, M., 202 Vandermeersch, P., 8 Vergeer, Ch., 38 Vries, H. de, 135, 221 Wacker, M.-T., 131, 134, 136–137, 140, 165, 178, 206, 215 Waddell, J., 67 Wagenaar, J. A., 21 Wagner, A., 221 Walter, P., 215 Weber, M., 192, 211 Weber, O., 179 Weippert, M., 17–18 Welker, M., 188 Wellhausen, J., 34–35 Whitehead, A. N., 6, 107, 121–126, 128, 152, 219 William of Malmesbury, 91 Williams, N., 54 Williams, R., 182 Winterson, J., 132–133 Witherington, B., 37 Wolde, E. van, 160, 179, 221 Wollstonecraft Shelley, M., 118 Woude, A. S. van der, 40–41 Wrede, W., 28, 35 Wright, G. E., 157 Xenophanes, 177 Zenger, E., 129, 139, 141–143 Zevit, Z., 13, 17 Zorgdrager, H., 185