To Love Otherwise: Essays in Bible Philosophy and Ethics 9789042942165, 9789042942172, 9042942169

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To Love Otherwise Essays in Bible Philosophy and Ethics

Roger Burggraeve

PEETERS

TO LOVE OTHERWISE

To Love Otherwise Essays in Bible Philosophy and Ethics

Roger Burggraeve

PEETERS LEUVEN – PARIS – BRISTOL, CT

2020

Cover Art: ‘Lamentations autour du corps du Christ’ (Maternal Jesus), Anonymous, 16th Century. (See pp. 302-303). Located at Hôpital Notre–Dame à la Rose Lessines (Belgium) Reproduction right via Raphaël De Bruyn, curator, Hôpital Notre-Dame à la Rose, Place Alix de Rosoit, 7860 Lessines (Belgium). A catalogue record for this book is available from the Library of Congress.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, by print, photoprint, microfilm or any other means without written permission from the publisher © 2020 – Uitgeverij Peeters, Bondgenotenlaan 153, B-3000 Leuven (Belgium) ISBN 978-90-429-4216-5 eISBN 978-90-429-4217-2 D/2020/0602/58

TABLE OF CONTENTS Introduction: The Ardor of Reading the Bible Philosophically . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Chapter I. The Bible Engenders Thought On the possibility and proper nature of Bible philosophy . . . . . . . . . Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1. The Bible gives rise to thought . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1.1. A thoughtful approach of Scripture . . . . . . . . . . . . 1.2. Stages in reading the Bible . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1.2.1. The Bible speaks to our imagination . . . . . . 1.2.2. The Bible speaks to our curiosity. . . . . . . . . 1.2.3. The Bible speaks to our sense of reason . . . . 2. Biblical thought as ‘poetic’ thought . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2.1. Which truth is it? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2.2. The poetic. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2.3. Trans-empirical truth. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2.4. Revelation in a non-religious and Biblical sense . . . 2.5. The poetic does something with us. . . . . . . . . . . . . 3. Original Biblical thought . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3.1. Relationship between Bible and ‘Talmudic’-critical commentary . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3.2. Relationship between Bible and community of faith 4. The Biblical priority of doing (Jerusalem) over thinking (Athens) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4.1. Preference for the spontaneous élan of life . . . . . . . 4.2. The love of wisdom. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4.3. In search of a reasonable unity behind conflicting multiplicity . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4.4. The mother of all temptations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4.5. A form of doing that makes thinking possible . . . . 4.6. The wisdom of love. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

1 7 7 8 8 10 10 11 13 15 16 18 20 23 24 26 27 29 36 38 39 40 42 44 46 48

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Chapter II. Man and Woman Created in God’s Image The first creation narrative: giving rise to thought on difference and sameness and our creational responsibility . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 51 Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 51 1. An ‘original’ dynamism of separation and difference . . . 52 1.1. Chaos as anonymous ‘no-thing-ness’ and ‘no-one’ . 53 1.2. Radical opposition between sacred and holy . . . . . . 56 1.3. God’s creative word and the paradox of ‘creaturely’ existence . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 57 1.4. Human independence and divine self-emptying . . . 59 1.5. Creation as separation and differentiation. . . . . . . . 63 2. Sexual difference crowns creation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 66 2.1. The creation of human beings as man (male) and woman (female) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 66 2.2. In contrast with the myth of androgyny . . . . . . . . . 67 3. Sexual difference gives rise to reflective thought . . . . . . . 70 3.1. The body as source of meaning: critique of a hidden dualism . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 70 3.2. Sexual difference as radical difference . . . . . . . . . . . 73 3.3. Sexual difference shows non-omnipotence: ‘I am not everything’ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 75 3.4. Sexual difference opens up a perspective on dialogue 75 3.5. Sexual difference stands as a symbol for fruitfulness 77 4. Sexual difference: neither the alpha nor the omega . . . . . 79 4.1. Sex and gender theory (or gender ideology?) . . . . . 80 4.2. Being-human precedes sexual difference . . . . . . . . . 83 4.3. A sexual revolution can never be a total revolution. 84 4.4. ‘Adam’ encompasses all people . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 85 5. Called to responsibility as human beings . . . . . . . . . . . . 90 5.1. The human person as ‘image of God’ . . . . . . . . . . . 90 5.2. Called to carry on creating creation (Gen 2,3) . . . . 94 5.3. How to critically (re)interpret ‘to have dominion’ and ‘to subjugate’ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 95 5.3.1. Against the background of the current ecological critique . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 96 5.3.2. The ambiguity of creation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 97 5.4. De-divinization of nature (and its risk). . . . . . . . . . 99 5.5. A meaningful perspective for ‘creational responsibility’ of human beings . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 101 Conclusion: The mystery of our creaturely ‘created-ness’. . . 102

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Chapter III. Are We Each Other’s KeeperS? The story of Cain and Abel provokes us to reflect on violence and the awakening of conscience . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1. A demonizing prejudice towards Cain?. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2. Evil does not come out of the blue. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2.1. From the asymmetry by birth . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2.2. Other reasons for the conflict between the brothers? 2.3. Surpassing the natural order . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3. The difference between the two sacrifices . . . . . . . . . . . . 4. The wrath of Cain and the murder of Abel . . . . . . . . . . 4.1. Understanding Cain’s wrath . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4.2. “Cain’s sober coldness” (Levinas). . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5. Questioning by the Other . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5.1. “Where is your brother?” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5.2. “What have you done?” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5.3. “Whoever kills Cain…” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6. Fraternity: human and divine . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6.1. Ethical ‘fraternity’ as a human condition . . . . . . . . 6.2. Ethical fraternity as divine ‘affection’ . . . . . . . . . . . Conclusion: “Everyone for all, in the name of God who is for all”. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Chapter IV. The Long Path from Evil to Forgiveness and Reconciliation The story of Naboth and his vineyard (1 Kings 21) provokes to thoughtful reflection on inflicted injustice, judgment and beyond . . . Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1. First panel: The story behind the evil inflicted . . . . . . . . 1.1. Evil doing on a human scale . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1.2. The rootedness of evil doing in hurt desire. . . . . . . 1.3. From the confluence of circumstances and causes. . 1.4. Evil doing and complicity . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1.5. The justification of evil doing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1.6. The lethal gravity of evil . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2. Second panel: Judgment takes evil seriously . . . . . . . . . . 2.1. The act of the prophet Elijah . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2.2. A God who becomes enraged over inflicted evil . . . 2.2.1. The prophet speaks on account of an ethically qualified God . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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107 107 109 110 111 113 115 117 120 120 124 126 127 129 131 133 134 136 139

141 141 142 143 144 145 147 148 150 151 151 154 154

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2.2.2. A God who is good also becomes angry at evil . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2.2.3. Injustice as idolatry . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2.3. Expressing anger can be healing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2.3.1. Not repressing feelings of anger . . . . . . . . . . 2.3.2. The positive possibilities of anger . . . . . . . . 2.4. Anger as the source for feelings of revenge . . . . . . . 2.4.1. From a collective right to revenge to personal feelings of revenge . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2.4.2. Neither denying nor cultivating feelings of revenge . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2.5. From revenge to retribution . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2.5.1. Retribution as rule of law . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2.5.2. Proportionality between evil and punishment 2.5.3. From retribution to compensation (payment) 2.5.4. The law of retribution still remains in force 2.6. Evil as the reverse side of the good . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2.6.1. When ethics absolutizes itself. . . . . . . . . . . . 2.6.2. A historical form of the terror of ethics: to never forget . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2.6.3. Current forms of ethical terror. . . . . . . . . . . 3. Third panel: Confession and an ‘ambiguous’ perspective on mercy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3.1. Confession thanks to judgment . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3.2. Escaping the weight of judgment and ethics. . . . . . 3.3. Confession as a condition for forgiveness . . . . . . . . 3.3.1. Forgiveness as a special form of memory . . . 3.3.2. Unhealthy remembrance and healing remembrance . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3.3.3. Authentic confession?. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3.3.4. Shocking ‘promise’: punishment transferred to the next generation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4. Beyond the narrative: Forgiveness and reconciliation . . . 4.1. Forgiveness brings about liberation . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4.1.1. Breaking through the irrevocable . . . . . . . . . 4.1.2. Not a compensation but a hope for redemption . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4.2. From forgiveness to reconciliation. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4.2.1. The confusion between forgiveness and reconciliation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

156 157 158 158 160 161 161 163 165 166 167 168 169 171 171 172 174 175 175 176 179 180 181 183 184 186 186 186 188 190 191

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4.2.2. Reconciliation as restoring a broken relationship . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4.2.3. Reconciliation: limits and opportunities . . . 4.3. Forgiveness: from conditional to unconditional . . . 4.3.1. Forgiveness is also unconditional . . . . . . . . . 4.3.2. Forgiveness as promise . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Conclusion: No mercy without judgment and no judgment without mercy. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Chapter V. Called to an ‘Impossible’ Mission The annunciation narrative provokes thinking about the paradoxical relationship between vocation and freedom . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1. ‘Extra-ordinary’ vocation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1.1. Being called by a strange Other . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1.2. Beyond the personal ideal . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1.3. From elsewhere, yet intimate . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2. Vocation as mission . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2.1. Chosen for uniqueness . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2.2. No privilege but mission as motherhood . . . . . . . . 2.3. Dedicated to the Good in spite of oneself . . . . . . . 3. Called to the impossible . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3.1. No vocation without crisis . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3.2. “How can this be?” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3.3. A child of promise . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3.4. Jesus as the child of promise . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4. No vocation without answer. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4.1. A mature counter-word. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4.2. A free and incarnated ‘yes’. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Conclusion: Despite oneself but not without oneself, for the other . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Chapter VI. “If You Wish to Enter into Life” The narrative of the rich young man gives to thought on the paradoxical relationship between ethical prohibitions and love . . . . . . . . Introduction: Diversity, a new social and ethical mantra . . . 1. A paradoxical relationship between prohibitions and freedom . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1.1. “Good Teacher, what good deed must I do?” . . . . . 1.2. “If you wish to enter into life, keep the commandments”. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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191 193 195 195 197 199

203 203 204 204 205 208 208 209 211 213 215 216 217 219 224 227 227 231 233

235 235 236 237 239

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1.3. How prohibitions can reveal the path to full life . . 1.4. Prohibitions reveal dead-end roads . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1.5. Prohibitions create space for ethical growth . . . . . . 1.6. How the good and the beautiful converge . . . . . . . 2. Landmarks for a consistent relational and sexual ethic . . 2.1. “You shall not kill” and a culture of respect and caring proximity . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2.2. “You shall not lie” and a culture of genuine communication. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2.3. “You shall not steal” and a culture of shared difference 2.4. “You shall not commit adultery” and a culture of creative fidelity . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2.5. “You shall not covet anything that is your neighbour’s”: to love with a pure heart . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2.6. A consistent ethic for a diversity of intimate relationships . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Conclusion: The challenge of ‘dispossession’ . . . . . . . . . . . . Chapter VII. “Gestation of the Other in the Same” The narrative of the Good Samaritan leads to thoughtful reflection on the soul and the embodiment of our multidimensional responsibility . Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1. Questions and answers ‘embracing’ the narrative . . . . . . 1.1. “What must I ‘do’?” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1.2. Commandments and prohibitions . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1.3. The ‘soul’ of the Law . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1.4. “Who is my neighbour?” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1.5. The neighbour and the stranger . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1.6. Who is a stranger?. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1.7. “Which of these three?” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2. Three people on the way (‘I’ in the nominative) . . . . . . 2.1. Responsible for oneself . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2.2. Fallible freedom and responsibility . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3. Responsible for the other (‘Me’ in the accusative) . . . . . 3.1. The other ‘inter-rupts’ people on their way . . . . . . 3.2. Affected and appealed by the naked face of the suffering other . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3.3. Responsibility begins as prohibition and restraint. . 3.4. Touched to the guts . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3.5. Incarnated responsibility . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

240 242 243 244 247 248 249 251 253 255 257 262

265 265 265 265 266 267 268 269 270 272 273 273 274 275 276 277 279 281 282

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3.6. Ethical transformation of self-development. . . . . . . 3.7. “You shall not let anyone die alone” . . . . . . . . . . . . 4. Responsibility beyond the face-to-face . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4.1. Where is the indignation against inflicted evil?. . . . 4.2. Organized and institutionalized responsibility. . . . . 4.3. Money as ‘mediator’ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4.4. ‘Wisdom of love’ as compromise and ‘ethical individualism’ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5. Beyond the narrative: Small goodness and a new vision on the future. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5.1. A ‘small’ goodness . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5.2. Reversal of the view on the future of a humane society 6. Religious resonance: The divine ‘soul’ of the responsibility for the other . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7. “Our Redeemer lives”: Beyond the ethical Jesus . . . . . . . Conclusion: Redeemed ethics . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

XI 284 285 286 287 288 289 290 292 292 294 299 304 312

Narrative and Reflective Postscriptum with a story of protesting angels to start . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 315 Bibliography . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 319 I. Works of Emmanuel Levinas . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 319 II. Other works. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 321 Index of Names. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 331

Introduction

The Ardor of Reading the Bible Philosophically The objective of this book is to reflect on the relationship between Biblical thought and Christian ethics. This will be done by means of a philosophical reading of several Biblical texts in both the Hebrew and Christian Scriptures. The ensuing commentary is inspired by the conviction that a mature Christian faith must be conscious and contemplative. Hence the need to approach Scripture in an attitude that is thought-full – a way of thinking that passionately attempts to make sense of the bedrock upon which the Christian faith rests. As I am not an exegete, the philosophical interest in the Bible has roots in something personal and existential. In the final year of secondary school my classmates and I studied under a memorable teacher. He taught us both Greek and religion. While teaching the former he was capable of unlocking the contents of the texts we studied (the Odyssey, Antigone, etc.), thus making them accessible. He taught us in such an enthusiastic and erudite way that all the pupils, myself included, were captivated. As a result, he succeeded in awakening and stimulating our young, searching minds. However, when it came to teaching religion, this very same teacher seemed to turn into a different person altogether. To put it mildly, he was less than enthralling when speaking about the contents of faith. The disparity between his teaching styles in relationship to the subject was enormous. I once asked him why he did not tackle the texts of the Bible with the same vigour and interest that he maintained for those of Homer, Sophocles, Euripides and others. He dismissed my question as though it were impertinent or even ridiculous. Implicitly, his response told me that religion and the texts of the Bible were simply not as interesting as the ones by the Greek poets. A number of years later – when as a theology student I began to study Biblical exegesis as well as immerse myself in the thought of the Jewish philosopher, Emmanuel Levinas – the question from my youth reappeared. Classic historical-philological exegetical investigation left me unsatisfied, and thus my search for something more meaningful, something beyond the analytical approach to the texts of Scripture began. When I started to read and study the Talmudic commentaries of Levinas, I realized that

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this something ‘more’ that I was longing for was attainable. Reading the Bible through the thought of Levinas marked the origin of a kind of intellectual passion that has never subsided. That passion flows and culminates in this book concerned as it is with approaching the Bible philosophically. The unique manner of thinking that is part and parcel of the Bible can be characterized by a statement from Levinas as “the wisdom of love at the service of love” (AE 207/162). This ‘wisdom of love’ runs as a constant backdrop throughout the different chapters of this book. It binds them all together, thus indicating how this wisdom is a particular wisdom being simultaneously universal and specific. This can lead us to new, unexpected and provocative insights into the human person and the world, in history and God, accessible to everyone. At the same time it develops pathways ‘to love otherwise’. The first chapter will discuss philosophical Biblical hermeneutics articulating and further elaborating on the initial premises touched upon in this introduction. This will give access to the Bible as a ‘mode of thinking’ where one can delve into the anthropological, ethical and metaphysical insights about the human person, God and the world in their mutual relationships. By ‘digging deep’ these insights become communicable in such a way that they can contribute to a dialogue between thinking people irrespective of religious or ideological tendencies (Lapide, 1986, 60-61). A philosophical, in-depth reading of the first creation narrative (Gen 1-2,4a) will be presented in the second chapter. Here the emphasis lies on how creation is a dynamic articulation of the paradoxical relationship between sameness and difference. The dynamism of separation and distinction that culminates in sexual difference will be addressed as well as the way in which it gives rise to reflection on the significance of our being-man and being-woman for our being-human. The thoughtful observations and insights thus reached, include the challenge neither to minimalize nor to absolutize sexual difference. In fact, the first creation narrative prods us towards this by embedding sexuality in an equality that precedes sexual distinction. That equality lies in the vocation of humans to further the process of designing the world responsibly and creatively in the ‘image of God’. Our being-human is driven by good and evil. This we can observe every day. The story of Cain and Abel (Gen 4,1-16), which will be given a philosophical reading in chapter three, provides a first insight into the origin and dynamics of violence. At the same time, conscience emerges

THE ARDOR OF READING THE BIBLE PHILOSOPHICALLY

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as ‘crisis’ and ‘judgment’, and as a relational event in which the ‘voice of God’ resounds. Thus the story moves us towards the ‘divine soul’ of conscience whereby light is shed on ‘brotherhood’ in both its humane and divine aspects. The reflection on good and evil is carried through in the fourth chapter where we will reflect philosophically on the story of Naboth and his vineyard (1 Kings 21). The starting point here is, once again, the ‘intrigue of evil’. Without minimizing the hard fact of inflicted evil, the story behind the actuality of the event gets full attention so that the demonizing of the perpetrator can be avoided. This ‘understanding’ of the perpetrator(s) does not push away the seriousness of inflicted evil. Holy anger and the judgment of the prophet, made in the name of God, who again reveals Himself as the ‘affected Holy One’ make this clear. However, this Holy anger does not seek the destruction of the perpetrator but, on the contrary, seeks to create space for his confession and repentance. This in turn opens the way for mercy and forgiveness of which the story conveys but a first beginning. One that, moreover, turns out to be ambiguous. Hence, we search beyond the narrative for what is and is not authentic forgiveness, paying attention to the interaction between its conditional and unconditional character. Last but not least, the distinction and the connection between forgiveness and reconciliation will be discussed. Thus the calling ‘to love otherwise’, that has emerged in the story of Cain and Abel as the appeal to humane ‘brotherhood’, acquires a new, even ‘extra-ordinary’, dimension. After three stories from the First Testament, three stories from the Gospels will be presented from chapter five onwards. The intention here is to develop in greater depth the appeal to love otherwise. This does not purport, however, to a separation or an opposition between First and Second Testaments. Neither does this espouse an undervaluation nor a subordination of the first with regard to the second. In the reflective in-depth reading of the three Gospel stories, the continuity and mutual fructification between the First and Second Testaments will become apparent. Their particular uniqueness will likewise be respected. The fifth chapter offers a philosophical reading of one of the most tenacious texts of the Second Testament, the narrative of the evangelist Luke on the annunciation of the angel to Mary (Lk 1,26-38). Starting from the ‘strange’ calling that comes to Mary ‘from elsewhere’, it will become clear how the Biblical idea of vocation, as it also appears amongst the prophets in the First Testament, contrasts with the modern and ‘enlightened’ concept of the ideal. The question then arises whether

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this heteronomy does not imply a denial of freedom and autonomy. The same query applies to the idea of mission, which in Mary and in the whole Bible is directly linked to vocation. If it then turns out to be a ‘mission impossible’, it will reveal that no vocation and mission is possible without crisis and how the ‘yes’ as a response is a risky venture that moreover can only be an incarnated response. Last but not least, it will become clear how the ‘mission impossible’ of Mary, and of every human person, is a vocation that is directed towards the other, that is: allowing the other to be born. The wisdom of love, as an appeal to love otherwise, returns in the sixth chapter. Here a philosophical reading of the well-known story of the Rich Young Man is explored and developed. The first part of this narrative will provide the main emphasis. (Mt 19,16-26; Mk 10,17-22; Lk 18,18-23). In his search for the fullness of life, the rich young man collides with the refusal of Jesus to be his absolute, divinized master who determines the path for him. He does point towards a way but that is not the one of rules and regulations. It is, rather, the one of prohibitions, as found in the second table of the Ten Commandments. These prohibitions do not indicate what must be done. As boundary rules, they only present the conditions for the love of one’s neighbour. As such they challenge the rich young man to let go of his obsessive relationship to the law and to possessions, and to live up to those conditions in a free, creative manner, with distinction and taste. This view on the prohibitions as conditions to love acts as a hint in the second part of the chapter where the main structure for a consistent relational ethics that is valid for all intimate relationships becomes apparent. In the seventh and final chapter, the ‘narrative philosophy’ that unfolds throughout the entire book, will reach its completion. A reflective in-depth reading of the narrative of the Good Samaritan (Lk 10,25-37) reveals the reality, the meaning and the different dimensions of human existence as ‘being responsible’. The ethical relationship to the other will be at the centre, but without the kind of exclusivism that neglects the aspect of the self and the dimension of social responsibility. In and through the responsibility-by-and-for-the-other, which also forms the basis for organized and institutionalized responsibility, it will become entirely clear what the appeal ‘to love otherwise’ implies. Since this narrative is no ‘total narrative’, i.e. no encompassing doctrine, the philosophical reflection intends to reach beyond the narrative and this in a dual direction. Firstly, the behaviour of the Samaritan sets us on the tracks of small goodness and a new vision of the future in a more humane

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society. Secondly, in conclusion to the chapter and to the entire book, the religious resonance, which appears in the responsibility-by-and-forthe-other, will be discussed. As its starting point, we will present the thought on God’s ‘rahamim’ (‘mercy’), that is taken up by Jesus and deepened in his proclamation of the Kingdom of God. The way in which the Christian tradition has extended its understanding of Jesus’ deeds and words onto his very own being, namely to the confession of the Christ as ‘God-human’, offers the clue to understanding God’s incarnation in the humane-human Jesus as unique, historical and inclusive. Last but not least this christological hermeneutic opens a new perspective for the (eschatological) future and ‘redeemed ethics’.

Some Practical Information Concerning the Bibliography and References The bibliography can be found at the end of the book. The authors consulted are mentioned in alphabetical order. The works of one and the same author are arranged chronologically, beginning with the oldest to the most recent work. Throughout the present text, we refer to the work cited by mentioning the name of the author, followed by the year of publication and the consulted page(s). Some authors have more than one work published in a given year. In this case, the reference will mention the year to be followed by a,b,c, etc., according to the sequence of the works under the same year of publication listed in the bibliography. The cited studies of Levinas are listed in alphabetical order, as first part of the Bibliography. References and citations are indicated in the text with an abbreviation of the original French edition, along with the cited page or pages. The cited page or pages from the available English translation are indicated after the forward slash (/).

A Word of Thanks A special word of thanks goes to Edmund Guzman, who has, with professional dedication, admirably accomplished the demanding task of translating the bulk of the original Dutch transcript of this book into English. I would also like to give due recognition to W. Wolf Diedrich and Marianne Servaas for their fine editing work of the Introduction and

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the different chapters. I am likewise grateful to Peeters Publishers for enthusiastically having given this book a chance, and for having guided its publication with their yearlong expertise. 31 January 2020 Roger Burggraeve SDB Faculty of Theology and Religious Studies Catholic University Leuven (KU Leuven) Private: Holy Spirit College Naamsestraat 40 B-3000 Leuven Tel.: + 32 (0)16 32 45 04 E-mail: [email protected]

Chapter I.

The Bible Engenders Thought On the possibility and proper nature of Bible philosophy Introduction We accept it as a challenge to link ‘Bible’ and ‘thought’ together, or rather to search for the bond that is already operative between ‘thought’ and ‘Bible’ in the Scriptural texts themselves. Such an enterprise is by no means foolhardy: similar attempts in this vein have been effectively rendered, such as the work Penser la Bible – Thinking Biblically, which grew out of the collaboration between the exegete, André LaCocque, and the philosopher, Paul Ricœur (1998). Our intention in this first chapter is to explain what a thinking and thoughtful approach to the Bible might look like. Stronger still, we shall explore what the Bible itself as a manner of thinking – literally as a ‘mode of thought’ – can mean. In this hermeneutical undertaking not only do we draw inspiration from Paul Ricœur (LaCocque & Ricœur, 1998, XV-XIX; Ricœur, 2001a, 147-255) but also from the Jewish-Talmudic and philosophical thought of Emmanuel Levinas (1905-1995) (Burggraeve, 2002, 21-39). Thus, in this chapter we intend to accentuate different aspects of the relationship between the Bible and thought. Firstly, we will demonstrate how thought is not appended onto the Bible by an external logic used by the philosopher, but how the Bible contains an intrinsic mode of thought, a form of thinking unto itself. The Bible exhibits its intrinsic form of thought in a manifold way, through its many literary genres, narratives, histories and sayings. This brings us, in the second part – thanks to Ricœur – to the insight that Biblical thought is a ‘poetic thought’. Thirdly, we will clarify how this ‘poetic reflexivity’ of the Bible engenders its very own form of thought (a ‘self-willed’ thought, in the literal sense of the word) insofar as it develops its own characteristic insights regarding the human person and society, the world, history and God. In the fourth part, we will point out how this characteristically Biblical mode of thought has everything to do with the priority of love,

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meaning to say, with the priority of ‘doing’ (Jerusalem) over ‘thinking’ (Athens), and how this love in turn makes possible and brings forth a ‘self-willed’ wisdom.

1. The Bible gives rise to thought Philosophies of life are truly authentic and germane only when they transcend intimate subjectivity and particularity, and help in co-founding social and cultural objectivity. They display their communicability and vitality only when they also bring about civilization, and can be appealed to and questioned on that account. This is the case for religious and confessional attitudes alike, as well as a-religious, a-confessional and freethinking views on life. 1.1. A thoughtful approach of Scripture In order to approach Christianity as civilization, we opt for a specific methodology, namely, a thoughtful approach to the Bible. The Bible is not only a book of revelation and faith, but also – or rather as a book of revelation and faith – a book full of human experience and civilization from which one could draw ‘wisdom’ in order to live meaningfully and build up a humane society. This is why a life-committed approach to the Bible cannot exist within structures of blind obedience, without an unprejudiced and critical reflection on what one has read and heard. In order to understand the meaning and scope of Scripture, one cannot rely solely on spontaneous intuition in the immediate dealing with the text; an acute form of attention is required. One must be capable of thinking, reflecting, and consideration. Nevertheless, a thoughtful approach to Scripture is anything but self-evident. Ricœur and others rightly point out how the Bible itself does not directly or unambiguously present itself as a mode of thought, in the way we have learned it from Greece and have developed in our western, academic, professional-philosophical world (Ricœur, 1974, 54; 1994, 307-308). In the Bible, we find narratives: some are of an historical tint, others are simply mythical narrations, or parables – still others take the forms of laws, proverbs, prophetic announcements, hymns and psalms. What is of importance is that these non-philosophical, linguistic genres refer back to well-defined historical experiences

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of liberation and redemption from suffering and oppression. An eminent example is the book of Exodus, which is the narrative of liberation from Egypt and the journey to the Promised Land. It is thus apparent that the Bible is not in the first place a ‘doctrinal tradition’, but a ‘narrative tradition’ (Baudler, 1996, 15-16). The Bible is a disparate, noncohesive corpus of texts, comprised of sundry genres and literary forms, which are furthermore construed in a style that often seems a far cry from anything we might consider today as ‘reasoned’. Whoever attends to the Bible as a philosopher lands in foreign territory and inadvertently feels out of place and uneasy. Even theologians who desire to approach Scripture in a thoughtful way experience this same kind of ‘alienation’ when confronted with what we might call the ‘distance’ of the texts. Many Biblical books display a greater affinity with their profane equivalents, poetry and Greek tragedy, than with the detached, objective reasoning of philosophy and speculative theology. Perhaps that is why Ricœur states that whoever wants to read the Bible philosophically should learn instead to deal directly with the specific linguistic forms of Scripture and discover their own inherent ways of reasoning (Ricœur, 1998a, XV-XVI). That being said, we are undeterred in opting for a thoughtful, even philosophical, approach to Scripture, for it is our aforementioned thesis – and this thesis forms the core of our argument – that the Bible, in spite of its non-discursive forms that in one way or another give an account of liberating historical events and experiences, is a form of thought unto itself. It is our firm conviction that there is thought that can be distinguished in kind from that of strict philosophical thought (following Athens, Kant, Hegel), and that this thought is to be found in the Bible. In saying this we do not mean to insinuate that the Bible is the solitary locus for this other kind of thinking, since other great world religions, like Hinduism and Buddhism for example, have texts that contain ideas that are certainly worthy of reflection and offer an important contribution to our search for that which gives scope and meaning to humanity, to the world and to history. A philosophical or reflexive approach to Scripture cannot, in the first place, come from the outside, as if this thought would drop its ideas onto the Biblical texts which of themselves would be ‘thought-less’ or ‘bereft of ideas’. On the contrary, a thoughtful approach to Scripture presupposes that the Bible itself – from the inside out – gives rise to thought and reason.

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1.2. Stages in reading the Bible All of this raises the question of precisely how such a reflective approach to Scripture is to be understood. Since it is not the only possible conception, it is desirable to compare our approach with others, bringing its proper definition into sharp relief. Concretely, we will situate it among three stages through which every Judeo-Christian believer passes, sooner or later, in his or her reading of the Bible (Standaert, 2018, 48-49).1 1.2.1. The Bible speaks to our imagination To begin with, we can identify the stage of what may be called the “fantastic Bible.” This is the level of what was once referred to as “sacred history.” We are concerned here with the “first Bible” that the child encounters and that parallels fairy tales and other fantastic stories, all of which speak to our imagination and surprise us with colourful and literally “extra-ordinary” mysteries. The child’s Bible gives a central place to majestic and magnificent stories that a child listens to with wide eyes and open ears. This is the Bible that functions like a picture book – it mobilises our imagination. In short, this is the Bible as “story.” We also find this Bible as image and fantasy in some films, including “The Ten Commandments,” “Quo Vadis,” and Zeffirelli’s “Jesus of Nazareth.” Bible atlases as well as travel and pilgrimages to the Holy Land can also contribute to this fantastic approach to Bible reading. Through them, we can become, as it were, contemporaries of Moses, Isaiah, David, and Jesus. One sees that at this level the reading of the Bible is mediated by images. We must not look condescendingly toward this child-like relationship to the Bible as an enchanting storybook. This is a stage with an enduring worth, even if it is true that growing through it into the succeeding stages we have yet to sketch provides fundamental enrichment. Without images and imagination, there can be no thinking or meaning. In this respect, our relationship to the Bible expresses a modality of our very being. Our existence is not only an in-der-Welt-Sein (Heidegger), but also a zum-Buch-Sein (Levinas). The manner in which we relate to our 1 Benoit Standaert also indicates a fourth stage which we do not take into consideration here: the stage of “the Book without book.” In this stage, one no longer “reads” the Bible because one has learned to live from the inner source which, through years spent reading and living by the Bible, has come into existence as one’s own “interiority” (Standaert, 2018, pp. 49-50).

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Judeo-Christian tradition via representations, stories, and images is a means and “milieu” at least as important for orienting our existence as are streets, houses, villages, squares, and landscapes (EI 15-16/21-22). Of course, there is a certain kind of danger to remaining on the level of imaginary representation, for then the child-like relation to the Bible becomes childish and even infantile and, as the child grows up, ridiculous. The fantastic but also naive relationship to Scripture is therefore to be transcended and taken up in critical reflection. 1.2.2. The Bible speaks to our curiosity Hence, we arrive at our second stage: the stage of the “historical Bible.” This is the stage of the adolescent who is curious and wants to know how everything fits together. The adolescent is a critical investigator who no longer believes in “stories”, but finds history important. He wants to know the facts, and so pursues the question of whether everything the Bible says is indeed true: did things really happen that way, or are Biblical accounts sometimes enigmatic or mythical? He wants to investigate, verify, and prove, in much the same fashion as a private investigator. Who is the author of this book? When was it written? What was the historical, cultural, social and political context? Is there archaeological evidence substantiating, for instance, the Exodus story? What sources do we have to support the way the Bible tells the stories of David, Solomon, and the construction of the temple? How can one distinguish the properly redactional role played by the evangelist Mark from the sources available to him as he went about that task? Which among the so-called Pauline letters were actually written by Paul himself and which were not? In case some were indeed from other hands, then whose? And what, then, is their cultural and ecclesiological context? As with the previous stage we outlined, this stage too can either be subsequently transcended or taken to be enduring by a given reader or group of readers. To be more accurate, the possibility exists to transcend this way of interacting with the text, but even after it has been transcended, elements from this way of thinking of the text will doubtlessly remain in some way or another. Historical and literary-critical investigation is in fact inexhaustible and can keep one busy for entire lifetime. The stage of knowledge and research into the reality and historicalcultural context of Scripture answers to an essential desire in human beings to understand what has happened. Humans are by nature curious; they want to know about things. Sartre has pointed out how a person

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neither begins from nor ever occupies a neutral standpoint in existence, but relates to the whole of existence by interrogating and investigating. Reality, like history, is never a simple “given,” but gives itself only when one seeks it out and recognizes it. As questioning beings, we expect concrete and tangible answers to our questions, and begin from the premise that reality itself has something to offer us. To investigate and ask questions presupposes not merely searching, but also finding, and discovering. Our methods of investigation must eventually yield a reproduction of something as it is “in reality.” The questioning person does not seek fiction, but objective truth, a clear positive or negative answer to her question, a determinate statement that “it is so and not otherwise!” (Sartre, 1989, 3-6). To a certain degree, the classical and modern exegesis of texts has become an enduring expression and realization of this stage. Their increasingly refined methods of historical-literary investigation aim to satisfy our feverish curiosity as much as possible. This so-called “scientific” character has much to do with the specific character of the history of exegesis (Van Iersel, 1983, 54-55). Above all, in Protestant theology, modern Biblical study has emerged to a large degree in resistance to systematic or speculative theology, sometimes also called dogmatic theology. The latter was accused – not always fairly – of dogmatism and the manipulation of Scripture. In the spirit of modern ideals of emancipation, there arose an unambiguous call for free and unprejudiced research. Opposed to any form of dogmatism, this perspective included a suspicion against speculative theology for defending, no matter what the cost, the interests of the established church and its pertinent ecclesiological structures. It propounded the idea that a strictly historical and strongly scientific exegesis – which considers all supernatural revelation either unscientific or irrelevant – is the most excellent means to break through all theological and ecclesiological dogmatism. Consequently, this has led to a radical distinction between so-called scientific exegesis and “thinking” theology. At present, the distinction is so great that nears the point of an intellectual “schism”. The Catholic world has also seen exegesis and dogma grow progressively apart, though the “schism” has certainly not been nearly as aggressive or pronounced (the work of figures like Renan and Loisy notwithstanding). Here, the split was due largely to the development of exegesis into a science upholding a modern Biblical criticism able to show the painful lack of support for the theological arguments from Scripture appearing in the handbooks. In modern exegesis, historical-literary

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criticism comes to the fore. This includes, among other things, the socalled introductory questions, which is to say research into the unknown authorship, whether pseudonymous or anonymous, of various texts; research into the period in which an author lived and wrote, from studies of cultural-historical context, or “Sitz-im-Leben,” to studies of possible contemporaneous parallel texts; and research into the use of sources, genres employed (Formgeschichte), and the input of the author himself (Redaktionsgeschichte) (Schmid, 1972, 290-293). Since coming into existence, the historical-literary study of the Bible has had an enormous influence and yielded an immeasurable wealth of scientific “know-how” through which Scripture can, for us today, be situated very concretely in time and place, facilitating a healthy resistance to ideological manipulation. 1.2.3. The Bible speaks to our sense of reason Although such a conception of Scripture requires a great deal of penetrating insight and scientific competence, it is not, strictly speaking, a reflective approach to the text. For one thing, it can close itself up in its own method and approach to such a degree that it remains a mere distant and disengaged study of Scripture. The question then is what such a reflective relationship to Scripture can indeed be? A thoughtful relationship with Scripture proceeds from the understanding that in the Scriptural texts themselves lie explicitly, or at least implicitly, certain anthropological, ethical and metaphysical insights. Inasmuch as these insights lie contained in the text, they can be brought to the surface and be made accessible to each and every thinking person (EFP 110-111/61-62). To approach the Bible as thought, therefore, means to take it back to the level of discussion and interpretation precisely in order to lay open for us today the intrinsic meaning and truth value of the texts themselves. This approach is based on a conviction that tries ‘in actu exercitu’ (in the actual process) to substantiate itself. That is, the Bible gives rise to thought about humanity, the world, history, God, good and evil and the future and the meaning of life in such a way that this thought can today still pass on orientations and perspectives for a contemporary, humane civilization. Through this method we can redeem the Scriptural texts from their unfortunate situation as a static book in order to make its strong and living voice of a ‘foundational and meaningful message’ resound once again (AV 125-126/101-102). In this way, the Bible’s very own thought may come to life for people who enter into

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dialogue with this thought, and thus reflect on and critically ‘think through’ Biblical thought itself (HN 71/59). This implies the challenge not to reduce the Scriptural texts to ‘archaeological fossils’ from a far-flung, completed past.2 We must refrain from approaching Scriptural texts as ‘speciosa’ that are only valuable for the basements of an archive, or for a museum where important plunder of by-gone cultures are painstakingly preserved as interesting ‘objects’ for historical studies or brought ‘in display’ as showpieces during certain memorial festivities (HN 77-78/65). Naturally, one cannot dispute the value of the philological-historical approach to texts, but this so-called ‘diachronic’ reading and interpretation has only preparatory worth. Neither do we dispute that a philologist-historian, who subjects the texts to his critical apparatus, can and may well be imbued with a great tenderness for all the factual data and poignant pieces of information of which these texts are the bearers. The problem is that this poignancy is ambiguous since it ensues from the method of approach itself. On the basis of his historical criticism, the philologist-historian inadvertently proceeds with the notion that the text before him is an antiquated document from the past. His freedom as a ‘scientist’, however, in approaching the text as an historical document, demands a terribly high price. The studied text remains a lifeless thing for which, according to an ironic statement by Zunz, a splendid funeral is arranged by the practitioners of the ‘science of Judaism’ (DL 42/25, 220/168). Therefore, without wishing to subtract anything from the importance of the achievements of the so-called ‘scientific’, historical-philological, diachronic investigation for a correct interpretation of the Biblical texts, we must indeed strive for a trans-historical (not anti-historical) and trans-philological (not anti-philological) approach to Scripture, called a ‘synchronic’ reading and interpretation. The traditional, allegoric reading during the Patristic time is well-known. Today, there are the literary-critical, namely semantic, linguistic, rhetorical, reader-response and narrative, and structural readings of Scriptural texts. Last but not least we have to mention all sorts of ideology-critical and ‘liberationist’ readings, namely socio-economic-cultural, psycho2

On the famous ‘Wissenschaft des Judentums’ (Science of Judaism), which was developed in the 19th century in Germany under the influence of Leopold Zunz, Heinrich Graez and Zacharias Frankel, with the intention of studying Judaism in a strictly historical way and thus call to a halt reformist Judaism, Levinas says: “Fifty centuries were catalogued – an immense Jewish epigraphy, a collusion of epigraphs – for which historical accounts were important and which had to be placed at the crossroad of different influences. What a graveyard! A graveyard of 150 generations!” (DL 344/268).

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analytic and psych-social, feminist, homo-emancipatory or ‘queer’ readings (Gillingham, 1998, 115-231; Gowler, 2000). We have to be aware that not every interpretation of Scriptural texts is equally appropriate or sound and that, furthermore, no single reading observes a total and exclusive claim to validity. A philosophical reading of the Bible can be considered as a synchronic hermeneutics, without the pretentious step of offering a synthesis of other synchronic readings. However, the factual diversity of readings and especially their divergent, often contradictory results, require a critical approach that confronts with each other the views thus formulated and gained, and that tests them as to their truth, meaning to say as to their rationality and communicability: “not contesting philosophically, but accepting the suggestions of a thinking which, once translated, can be justified by what manifests itself. (…) A believer can search out, behind the adopted intelligibility [– adopting to enter first into the language of the nonphilosophical tradition which is attached to the religious understanding of Jewish writings –], an intelligibility which is objectively communicable and thus dialogical. A philosophical truth cannot be based on the authority of a verse. The verse must be phenomenologically justified. But the verse can allow for the search for a reason” (EFP 110-111/61-62). This potentiality of reason, implied in the Biblical verse, requires the reflexive efforts of thinkers so that the abiding insights and values that lie contained therein could time and again be unlocked and unfolded. One does injustice to the Bible when one takes it as a source of information or as an ‘implement’. Our relationship to the Bible can never be purely instrumental or functional. One unjustly interprets the Bible as a ‘Zuhandenes’ (Heidegger), meaning to say as something that lends itself to our grasp. We must rather experience the Bible as a ‘modality of our being’, that is, as the relationship to a ‘founding’ word, a word that ‘founds’ and orientates our existence by means of its inner truth and meaning. A founding word is very much different from an ‘edifying’ or pious word; it places me in relationship to what founds my existence, provides space and depth, inspires and breaks open towards meaning and reason (EI 17-18/22-23).

2. Biblical thought as ‘poetic’ thought By making use above of the word ‘truth’, a new question immediately arises; namely, what is meant by truth? In order to answer this question,

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we begin with a paradoxical, intentionally shocking statement: “It is not true because it is in the Bible, but it is in the Bible because it is true, if it is true”. A fundamentalist approach starts with the assumption that all of what is in the Bible, in the exact way it is expressed, is simply true. After all, the Bible is God’s revelation for humanity. One thereby assumes that God has spoken directly, ‘senkrecht von oben’. The Bible, however, is thoroughly a human text, which has arisen and was composed through a long history, going back to separate textual units and ultimately to an oral transmission. Ordinary people just like you and I, on the basis of their own experiences and the contribution of others, expressed certain things and relayed them on to the next generation. They were so affected by what had befallen them or their community that they did not want to, nor could not, keep it to themselves. They, therefore, ‘proclaimed’ it. Not only did they express that experience and those insights, they also wanted to keep and preserve them. For them, it involved ‘foundational’ experiences, events and adventures, which were so vivid to them that they could not afford to lose them. They wanted them to remain engraved in the memory of the community, not only as an inspiration for that community but also because they founded the community and gave it identity and meaning. Precisely for that reason, they sought out means, forms and a language to put down as suitably as possible their essential and fundamental experiences, so that these could have the same supporting and orientating significance of the following generations (LaCocque & Ricœur, 1998, XVII). 2.1. Which truth is it? We can thus state that the original communities behind the Biblical texts who maintained the oral traditions that continue today in written form were so convinced of the truth of what happened to them that they had to remember, pass on and write it all down. The question that immediately arises, however, is: ‘Which truth is it?’ For the answer to this crucial question, let us follow the lead of the Christian philosopher, Paul Ricœur, who has reflected and written much on the Bible and hermeneutics (Ricœur, 1994, 307-326; 2001, 188-201, 217-231). In general, we speak of a communication or discourse when someone speaks to someone else about something (that which exists, happens, and is experienced…). This means that every discourse unmistakably has a referential dimension or ‘referring function’. Now, it is important

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to distinguish between two forms of discourse. If we start with our spontaneous, daily experience, the descriptive discourse immediately comes to mind. Our ‘ordinary’, everyday speaking is about facts that take place, about things that happen to us, about all sorts of things that we hear from others and which we, in turn, also pass on. We call this ‘ordinary’, daily discourse because it is about the seemingly obvious things in life that we quite simply need, go through and communicate. The classic, scientific discourse lies as an extension of the daily, descriptive discourse. At first sight, this may seem surprising, but upon closer inspection, it is quite transparent. The positive sciences especially want to discover and explain facts and how they ‘work’ as such, so that we can do things with them in order to make our practical, daily lives more pleasant and prosperous. Their truth is an empirical truth, which rests on the principles of verifiability or, at least, falsifiability. The necessary methods were developed and are still further refined in order to build up this empirical truth, to test it, and to make it more reliable. Such striving for empirical truth is also found in other, non-empirical, socalled human sciences – like history and sociology, for instance. Historical discourse is directed towards events that have truly taken place, while sociological discourse enters into the function of institutions, structures, bodies, but also of behaviours and their underlying laws, insofar as they really take place or evolve in an existing societal structure. In these and in all other similarly strict, scientifically developed human sciences (like economics, psychology, literary and cultural sciences, among others), the descriptive remains the starting point and the goal. Just as in the positive sciences – where one wants to know how things work in the physical world – in the human sciences, which present themselves as ‘real’ sciences, one desires to know what truly happens in the human world, and how a society, culture or group effectively functions. Not only does one want to identify facts and behaviours, one wants to understand them by means of tracing them back to certain causes, laws and mechanisms. On this level, what is true is that which is factually and controllably true. This is expressed succinctly in the classic adage on truth: “adaequatio intellectus ad rem”, the agreement between words or statements and facts. We could also state that the empirical truth establishes and presupposes the order of the visible. Only that which can be seen and observed can be true, meaning to say, actually and really. On the level of the descriptive, empirical truth, that which is invisible and thus unverifiable simply does not exist (Ricœur, 1993).

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2.2. The poetic The descriptive discourse, however, is not the only discourse. What’s more, it may not even be the most important discourse. Alongside descriptive discourse, there is also what Ricœur calls the ‘poetic discourse’, or simply ‘le poétique’ (Ricœur, 1994, 282-288). In the poetic he distinguishes different layers, aspects and levels, which we shall now explain further. The poetic seems to block the descriptive function of daily and scientific language. In other words, the poetic appears initially as a contrast to the descriptive discourse. Poetic language introduces a semantic renewal by means of giving language something other than a referential function. In poetic discourse, language pays homage to itself, whereby its referential character is inadvertently pushed to the background. The flatness of mere announcement is suspended, and this suspension allows language to become expressive by means of exalting itself. While everyday and scientific language is merely functional and thus refers beyond itself to what is real, in the poetic, language stops short of itself in order to take delight in itself and transform itself – à la limite – into linguistic virtuosity: ‘language for the sake of language’. If poetic discourse ever refers to something, then it refers not so much to an objective, external reality, but rather to a subjective, internal experience – namely the experience of the person who designs, or appropriates and makes use of, the poetic discourse. The poetic is essentially expressive, or stronger still, ‘auto-expressive’: it expresses the world of experience of the performer. The central point here is not a concentration on sober facts, conditions and events, but modes of experience: ways of undergoing, feeling and desiring. Even though relationships to certain realities are represented, this concerns, in the first place, the relationship to oneself, which is indeed rendered in and through these external relationships. Even though certain facts and objects of the world are spoken of, this concerns, in the first place, the expression of emotions. In the poetic, the objective reference seems to be replaced by a subjective referential function insofar as the poetic expresses what is going on within the subject, i.e. the speaker who expresses himself or herself. The poetic discourse does not add any matter-of-fact information to what the descriptive discourse is already able to tell about the world and reality. The poetic discourse teaches us nothing new factually, empirically, historically or sociologically about reality. On that level the poetic is simply useless and worthless. Our knowledge is not enriched.

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Nevertheless, poetic language cannot be reduced to mere emotionality, for then the poetic discourse would get bogged down in subjectivism. A romantic view sees the poetic only as self-expression in linguistic form. We do not read poems or sing songs only to discover and reveal the subjectivity that is expressed therein. There is more to it than that, says Ricœur (1996). Upon closer inspection, poetic language also has its very own referential function – meaning to say its very own way to refer to reality – whereby it concerns ‘another’ reality than factual, empirical, historical, sociological or economic reality. Poetic discourse does not annul the referential function of everyday and scientific language in one majestic stroke. By means of suspension, it also wants to establish in a ‘self-willed’ manner a relationship with the world and with reality. Moreover, poetic discourse presumes to evoke a reality – and a relationship to that reality – that is more original than what descriptive discourse does. Even though the referential function of everyday and scientific descriptive discourse seems to be first rank, whereby poetic discourse is degraded to a second rank discourse, upon closer inspection, poetic discourse does seem to establish a referential function of the first order. After all, poetic discourse not only refers to the subject with its emotions, endeavours and experiences, it also evokes a well-defined reality – a reality ‘behind’ the everyday, factual and measurable reality. We may call this reality the ‘trans-empirical’ reality, which is, strictly speaking, invisible but thereby no less real. We must endeavour to understand ‘Real’ in this context very differently than ‘matter-of-fact real’. Poetic language celebrates itself precisely in order to be able to open up a perspective to a new world, to a deeper reality lying somewhere beyond, transcending the ordinary world. This surpassing can take place both ‘downwards’ (en deça), as a ‘trans-descendence’, as well as ‘upwards’ (au-delà), as ‘transascendence’. By means of poetic discourse, one reaches out towards something that is hidden either in the depths (‘under-ground’) or in the heights (‘the most high’) (Moyaert, 2014). The world to which poetic language refers is not the world of objects that can be manipulated to suit our everyday surroundings or scientific investigation. Poetic discourse can even be seen as a refusal to accept this world as the only meaningful world. Poetic discourse refers to the different ways in which we belong to the world. Thus, it is not so much about things, aspects or data from that world to which we relate, but about the world and reality – being – as a whole to which we belong. The subjectobject-relationship, wherein we stand face to face with ‘things’ or ‘facts’, is transcended to allow a form of participation from within. We are

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submerged in the world and in reality as an encompassing event in which we are rooted and anchored, wherein we are also at home and are allowed to come home. In this regard, poetic discourse does not so much stand beside or apart from descriptive discourse, but it likewise questions the latter.3 Poetic language implies, in other words, a non-objectifiable, and thus non-descriptive, reference to the world. Hence, poetic discourse also uses evocative, non-everyday and non-empirical language, precisely to evoke or establish this trans-empirical belongingness to reality (Ricœur, 1994, 300-302). 2.3. Trans-empirical truth In the world that embraces us in its totality, the Real directs itself to us and entrusts itself to our ‘circumspection’. This implies that the truth aimed at by poetic discourse is of an entirely different nature than that of empirical truth sketched above. It concerns a ‘trans-empirical truth’, which is anything but a non-truth. A trans-empirical truth is rather an ‘other’ truth that lays bare another reality, the reality of the invisible or the metaphysical. Here we should take the term metaphysical in its utterly literal sense, namely as that which is located beyond, further than or above the physical: ‘meta-physical’ (Ricœur, 1984). We can illustrate the distinction between empirical and trans-empirical truth on the basis of the first creation narrative, and concretely on the basis of the discussion in the United States whether the Biblical narrative of creation may be taught in public schools. Some firm believers are of the opinion that teaching the Biblical version of creation should be 3

This should not, however, lead to a radical opposition between everyday and poetic language. If we examine our everyday language more closely, we discover constantly that poetic language forms (metaphors, comparisons, long or short stories, emotional expressions, etc.) are interwoven continually in descriptive, factual, matter-of-fact language. We cross over continually, and apparently without much difficulty, from one language use to the other. A merely descriptive language is not possible, just as a merely poetic language without any content on the level of matter-of-fact reality is impossible. This mixture even holds for strict scientific language. Notwithstanding that the positive and the human sciences strive for objectivity, empirical and demonstrable factuality, they often use evocative – i.e., poetic – language forms and images in order to render their most abstract claims and insights accessible. In other words, a purely poetic discourse does not exist, no less than a purely descriptive, scientific discourse exists. The distinction, or rather the separation between descriptive and poetic discourse is, in reality, artificial. In philosophy, however, the distinction is useful and necessary. It concerns two paradigms, which differ substantially and even essentially from each other, although in reality they appear together whereby the constant crossing over from descriptive to evocative language use is possible and effectively takes place.

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permissible because the creation narrative, according to them, conveys the actual and unadulterated truth about the origins of the world and of humanity. Furthermore, Christian believers of a strongly fundamentalist bent hold that the Biblical story of Genesis is the only valid truth that should be taught about how the world came to be, such that any varying scientific explanations are taken to be wildly erroneous by comparison. According to these groups of people, the theory of evolution is not true because it contradicts the creation narrative (and because the real truth about anything can be found in the Bible alone). Diametrically opposed to these groups are defenders of the theory of evolution as a perfectly plausible scientific explanation of how the world came to be. They find that this is the only feasible truth and that only this scientifically substantiated view should be taught, and in no way should the Biblical creation narrative be taught, precisely because it is not supported by science. The question then in most people’s minds turns to deliberating which of the two positions is correct. According to the perspective that we have developed up till now, we intend to demonstrate how both are correct and incorrect at the same time. We shall now show that in fact both the view of the religious fundamentalist and scientific fundamentalist play an indispensable role. Let us begin with the theory of evolution. From a strictly scientific point of view the supporters of the theory of evolution are probably right (it will later become clear what ‘probably’ refers to). The theory of evolution must be explained at the level of empirical truth, with the understanding that one makes use only of scientific arguments to clarify the concepts it propounds. This implies, therefore, that one accepts that further scientific research and, for instance, new discoveries in palaeontology, can nuance and correct, or even question, the current theory of evolution. It is precisely by means of scientific research, and only on the basis thereof, that we call the scientific correctness of the theory of evolution ‘probable’. Criticism of the theory of evolution can never be based on religious or Biblical arguments, but must always follow the strict codes of reliable scientific research, since it is only within a scientific context or discourse that the theory of evolution can be understood or properly placed. Evolutionary theory only becomes a problem when the defenders of the theory state in an exclusive way that their view is the one and only truth. Once this step has been taken, defenders of the theory adopt an empirical, positivistic and scientifically fundamentalist attitude, in the sense that they absolutize empirical truth into the only valid truth, precluding all other modes of approach. When one accepts

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the scientific approach concerning how the world came to be, with all internal critical sense for verification and falsification, then this does not have to mean that one rejects a trans-empirical truth about creation. In other words, in a scientific view, those who want the theory of evolution to be taught in public schools are right, or justified in the pursuit of their cause. They are not right, however, when on the basis of their scientific approach, they deny the freedom to teach any other, non-empirical approach to the same multifaceted and perplexing reality. On the other hand, the defenders of the Biblical creation narrative are mistaken when they intransigently claim that the first creation narrative is correct with regard to the facts, the construction and the existence of the world. From a scientific standpoint we must simply state, in all honesty, that the Bible is incorrect, in the sense that the world did not come to be in the manner the first creation narrative describes it, just as the first humans did not fall ready-made from sky as one human pair. By means of scientific, cultural-historical and philological research, it has been made clear for some time now that the cosmology employed by the first creation narrative is simply time-bound and culture-bound. The cosmological worldview of the Jews of the 7th century B.C. is, among others, completely surpassed by the modern worldview, especially since the discoveries of Galileo Galileï and Nicolaus Copernicus. It is beyond all disputes that the earth is not a flat disc that rests on pillars, or that the firmament is not some kind of solid dome where the heavenly bodies are fastened each to their own fixed place, and that earth and heaven are not surrounded by water, etc. As far as matter-of-fact reality is concerned, we certainly cannot, at this point anyway, attach any faith in the Bible when it comes to the Bible’s ability to represent empirical facts according to the rigor demanded by modern science. We must simply acknowledge the results of scientific investigation. Actually, we should remind ourselves that to be able to do so is an achievement. It’s remarkable that a number of Christians even still today often still seem to have problems giving science its due (which points to an irascible fundamentalist strain that is likely endemic to all religions). With this not everything has been said, however. The Biblical creation narrative of Genesis 1 cannot be reduced to a merely empirical, cosmological view of the existence of the world. Unfortunately, a totally scientific approach implies such a reduction (see further, Chapter II). What is unique to the Biblical texts, however, is that they are never merely empirical, historical, cosmological texts, but that they already imply trans-empirical perspectives. What are involved in the Biblical texts are

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trans-empirical or meta-physical insights, which rightly implies their revelatory character (on revelation, see further below). Even if on an empirical-cosmological level that which the first creation narrative describes on how humans and the world came to be is entirely untrue, this does not yet mean that the whole meaning of the narrative is then ‘exhausted’. Even today, Genesis 1 provides us with a number meaningful things to think about, like creation as a dynamism of separation and difference, the position of humans in the cosmos and the inclusive meaning of ‘adam’, in the sense that in Adam – literally the earthling (adamah) – every human yesterday, today and tomorrow is understood, which provides a ground by which all forms of racism can be critiqued. What the creation narrative tells us about the human as the image or representative of God, or about the foundational significance of sexual difference and fertility, continues to challenge our thinking today about the relationship between man and woman, between humans and nature, in particular between humans and animals, and so forth. In this regard, the Biblical creation narrative enjoys the right to be taught alongside the scientific narrative of the theory of evolution. We thereby plead the case for a double perspective, namely the ‘physical’ (empirical, cosmological, scientific) perspective and the ‘meta-physical’ (trans-empirical, transhistorical) perspective of meaning. These modes of approach should not be pitted one against the other, but rather they need to be involved complementarily – in mutual critical respect – with each other. 2.4. Revelation in a non-religious and Biblical sense All this means that poetic language also has a ‘revelatory significance’, whereby revelation is understood in a general, non-Biblical, non-confessional and even non-religious sense. This general meaning of revelation, however, is presupposed by the strict religious meaning of God’s revelation. In it, we acquire a first approach to what Biblical revelation can mean. We stated that by means of its rejection and surpassing of positivism, poetic discourse opens up the perspective to a non-empirical dimension of reality. This implies that poetic discourse reveals, unveils and evokes that which hitherto remained hidden, or rather that which was covered and pushed aside by flat, everyday or objective-scientific language. This general concept of revelation allows for stating more sharply the already mentioned idea above of trans-empirical truth. In contrast to the truth-as-agreement, based on verification and falsification, poetic discourse is about ‘truth-as-manifestation’. That which shows itself is

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a ‘world behind the world’, a deeper reality that is more real than factual reality. It is about a deeper layer of meaning, literally a ‘meaning-giving’ truth. It is reality, the world that ‘let’s itself be seen’, and which I should also ‘let be’. It is about the ‘other’ than what I see, understand and have the ability to understand. It is this ‘other’ that is brought ‘to the surface’ by evocative, poetic language, without reducing it to the ‘superficial’ and ‘flat’ dimension of the functional, everyday and scientific outlooks. Thanks to poetic discourse itself, an unlocking, an ‘un-fastening’ of a deeper reality takes place that lets itself – beyond the visible – be seen (Ricœur, 1994, 288). In every religious revelation, and more specifically in the Biblical revelation, the ‘other’, the deeper ‘something’ that rises beyond the factual, is indicated, confessed and experienced as a ‘personal divine Someone’: the One who is special. In a confessional and Biblical context, religious language is never simply poetic. It involves a qualified discourse insofar as God Himself is the referent who is named by name and surname. This calling does not happen formally and in the abstract, but is anchored in all sorts of contexts of events, actions, situations, experiences, challenges and vocations, whereby God is both the one who speaks and acts. God is also the one who is approached and addressed and with whom one enters into relationship from – or in contrast to – the situation, event or experience sketched. In short, in Biblical revelation, God is the founding and orientating referent of poetic discourse (Vanhoozer, 1990). 2.5. The poetic does something with us There still is a third and final aspect of poetic discourse that deserves attention and that, in the meantime, has already appeared inadvertently but has not yet been made thematic. Aside from the postponement of everyday and scientific language use, and aside from the access to another, deeper, meaning-giving layer of reality, the poetic also does something with us. Poetic discourse, after all, is a form of creating meaning that is directed towards someone. It does not want to be objective and neutral, but it strives, on the contrary, to make the speaker, reader and hearer participate explicitly in a reality that is ‘dis-covered’ (in the literal sense). Poetic discourse displays its evocative unveiling as an invitation, thus not only as an expressed, but also as an addressed word, both to the one who pronounces the poetic as well as to the one who receives (or reads or hears) it. Poetic discourse links one with the trans-empirical and metaphysical, ‘invisible’ world behind or above the facts, which not only

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precedes the world of facts, but also bears it and gives meaning to it. The poetic does not open up a neutral and indifferent field of meaning, but rather a field of meaning that invites us to participate in it and thus discover for ourselves the meaning of our own lives and of the reality in which our lives our situated. The subjective involvement and participation, which is desired and realized by poetic discourse, is concretely made possible by the emotional dimension of the poetic already mentioned above – the emotional dimension that we initially, rather clumsily identified with the nondescriptive function of language. After all, emotions are not merely subjective; such a reduction would be all too simplistic. They are, to make use of a concept from Husserlian phenomenology, characterized by ‘intentionality’, meaning to say, involved with ‘the other than itself ’, whereby at the same time they authenticate an involvement with itself. To put it more simply, not only do they have a subjective pole, but also an objective pole. Their intentional directedness to the world also implies an explicit, lived-through self-experience, whereby emotions indeed are feelings. Emotions are modalities of our relationship to the world. They express the way in which we relate to the world, to reality. Things, persons, conditions, events, all sorts of suffering and evil instil in us joy, fear, sorrow, repulsion and anger. These feelings express the way in which we relate to those ‘things’. In this regard, emotions and moods link us, just as they are expressed in poetic discourse, in a well-defined way to the ‘meaning-giving reality’, and likewise to ourselves as anchored in that meaning-giving reality. Moreover, that anchorage is committal, for it awakens us to responsibility and care for the reality out of which we receive the meaning of our existence. This means that poetic discourse is creative. Even though we create the poetic, conversely, it also creates us. It brings about something, both in the one who pronounces it as well as in the one who hears (or reads) it. As an expression, the poetic word is not non-committal, but performative: disturbing or consoling, pleading, at times even literally ‘overdemanding’. It is what John R. Searle calls a ‘speech-act’ (1969). The poetic intends ‘to touch’, whereby both the ‘speaker’ as well as the ‘hearer’ ends up in a new situation – they ‘find’ themselves in a new way. Both speaker and hearer change, they become ‘different’ and, stronger still, they acquire the feeling that they can and should live differently. Poetic discourse is unambiguously an ‘efficacious’ discourse! In light of poetic expression, I am going to understand myself in a new or renewed way. I will now desire to bind myself to the meaning suggested by the text

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whereby my life acquires a new, full meaning. The evocative aspect of poetic discourse, in other words, consists not only in evoking a different – deeper or higher – world than the everyday, visible world, but also rousing a different and new self and a deepened self-understanding, out of which in turn a new or renewed commitment to life flows forth. With this, we come across what Marie Balmary calls a reading of the Bible “that is not so much as subjective but subjectifying”. We read the Bible not so much to become well-read, or to know more, but rather in order to become wiser and live more meaningfully. By that, we mean to become all the more and all the better a human being, a child of God, a son of man, a saint, a friend or ally of God. Such a reading does not seek to establish an objective truth, or to derive any proofs for certain scientifically verifiable or falsifiable laws of reality. It does not in the first place seek for pieces of information and the perfection of our technical, utilitarian knowledge of tangible reality to which we relate everyday, but it strives for the creation and the growth of a human being who finds by means of the confrontation with the meaning – or rather meanings, in plural – evoked by the text, their own meaningful path in life. It concerns a reading of Scriptures that is driven “by a wholly different longing, not by the longing to know but by the longing to be born” (Balmary, 1999, 9-16).

3. Original Biblical thought So as not to end up in fundamentalism at the level of the transempirical, we must approach poetic discourse as a thought, meaning to say as a way of interpreting insights. These insights must be tested as to their meaning and truth, and not only investigated as to their ‘genesis’ or the history of their origins – that is, the source from which they actually arose (Schüller, 1980, 221-230). Only in this manner shall we discover how the Jewish and Christian Scriptural texts not only give rise to thought but also provide an original and irreducible contribution to human culture worthy of the name. It is not because a philosophical reading looks in the Scripture texts for rationally accessible and communicable anthropological, ethical and metaphysical insights that they would be common sense and thus not original. Even if the Biblical texts are deemed to be bearers of abiding fundamental insights and values about human life and the world, out of a sort of intellectual embarrassment there are attempts to reduce them to general humanistic ideals.

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They then lose their attractiveness and relevance. Religious intellectuals formed in Western culture cannot be blamed for the fact that they feel indifferent or apathetic when confronted with the study of such recalcitrant texts, when indeed all insights and values that lie contained therein can be, to greater and lesser degrees, found in Western humanism (Athens) and consequently are much more easily accessible. Thus, Lessing stated that revelation only has an historical-necessary function. When full knowledge ‘according to reason’ is then reached, revelation – in terms of its content – becomes superfluous (De Boer, 1989, 23-25). To be able to demonstrate the very own contribution of the Biblical texts (Jerusalem) they must be taken as starting points, in the conviction that they are not merely ‘remnants’ from a ‘completed past time’, but bearers of a living culture that is indispensable for the realization of a meaningful existence and humane society. For that purpose, the Scriptural texts need to be set on the same level of reflexive investigation as the other great Western texts, like those of Plato, Montaigne, Pascal, Goethe or Shakespeare, for instance (Drijvers, 1983). 3.1. Relationship between Bible and ‘Talmudic’-critical commentary In this regard the manner in which the Jewish tradition sees the relationship between the Bible and the Talmud (the Jewish commentaries on Scripture)4 can be enlightening. The Bible, also called the Torah,5 is particular, valid specifically for Israel due to the special character of its revelatory content. The Talmud, on the other hand, is Biblical thought on a general, human level. The Talmud goes beyond the particular ‘incidents’ of Israel’s history and generalizes them by making explicit its intrinsic meaning and human truth-value. The teachers of the Talmud were not priests, theologians or prophets, but sages who in their commentaries engaged in all sorts of discussions.6 Their aim was to explain 4 See QLT 10/3: “The Talmud is the transcription of the oral tradition of Israël. It governs the daily life and the ritual life, as well as the thought – including Scriptural exegesis – of Jews confessing Judaism”. 5 See AV 165/213; “The written Torah refers to the twenty-four Books of the Jewish Biblical Canon and, in a narrower sense, to the Torah of Moses, the Pentateuch. In the broadest sense, Torah means the whole of the Bible and the Talmud with their commentaries and even with their collected works and homiletic texts called Aggadah”. 6 See AV 165/125: “The Talmud is presented in the form of discussions between rabbinical scholars that took place in the period between the first centuries before the Christian era and the sixth century after Christ. From the point of view of historians, these discussions continue more ancient traditions and reflect a whole process in which

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reflexively and to make communicable the meanings that appealed to reason and were often clad in a religious, ceremonial or theological language, without denying or disparaging its very own content. On the contrary, this characteristic content, as it was expressed in texts, formed for them the source of their very unique thought by means of all kinds of commentaries and discussions. The Talmud and the rabbinic literature express an effort that for centuries was directed at going beyond the letter of the Biblical text, with precisely the Biblical text as the basic foundational data. An undaunted Talmudic mind considers, in other words, the texts of the Bible and tradition as a unique mode of thinking, which must fully be taken seriously as the source of its own thinkingfurther and thinking-through (Bouthors, 2019, 124-127). Levinas illustrates this Talmudic reading of Scripture with the story of Rabbi Raba, buried in study, “holding his fingers beneath his foot and rubbing it so hard that blood spurted from it”. And Levinas comments: “The sight is not edifying. One might have expected to see Raba meditating dreamily, while caressing his beard or rubbing his hands? Raba’s gesture is odd: he rubs his foot so hard that blood spurts out. That was the degree to which he forgot himself in study! As if by chance, to rub in such a way that blood spurts out is perhaps the way one must ‘rub’ the text to arrive at the life it conceals. (…) Has anyone ever seen a reading that was something besides this effort carried out on a text? (…) It can only consist in this violence done to words to tear from them the secret that time and conventions have covered over with their sedimentations, a process begun as soon as these words appear in the open air of history. One must, by rubbing, remove the layer which corrodes them. (…) Raba, in rubbing his foot, was giving plastic expression to the intellectual work he was involved in” (QLT 101-102/46-47).

When one takes the text of the Bible itself as a starting point for reflection and deepening, one arrives at an irreducible thought with its own originality. This reflexive reading searches for the ‘objectively communicable comprehensibility’ of the text, as we stated above. It rests on the conviction that the Biblical texts, as expressions of a religious culture that is at the same time a human culture, contain a profound rationality, and therefore can and should be accessible to thought. They can thus make their own contribution to the philosophical tradition, which has the centre of Jewish spirituality was transferred from the Temple to the house of study, from cult to study. These discussions and teachings were principally concerned with the prescriptive part of the Revelation: rituals, morality and law. But they are also concerned in their fashion, and by way of apologues, with the whole spiritual universe of men: philosophy and religion”.

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its roots in Greece, not on the basis of their belongingness to the Biblical tradition, but on the basis of their conceivability and communicability. This insight is especially germane to the texts in Scripture that have been a source of scandal like, among others, the anti-Semitic texts in John (particularly John 8:31-59). Passages found in the Bible are never automatically true simply because they are found in the Bible. Since the Scriptural texts themselves are already interpretations, and not simply revelation – as we shall see below – every interpretation must be viewed critically, and this must be done time and time again. As such, the text as interpretation is never a guarantee of truth, but precisely as an interpretation, it lends itself to critical thinking. This applies clearly to the text of John 8:31-59, which can never be separated from its inseparably interwoven interpretation, as if it were a sort of ‘pure revelation’. That is why we can candidly, and with becoming suspicion, question this text in a critical way with regard to the view on Judaism that it implies. In the considerations that now follow, effort will be made toward making this hermeneutic principle explicit, the relationship between the Bible and the community serving as its hinge (Bieringer, Pollefeyt, VandecasteeleVanneuville, 2001, 3-40). 3.2. Relationship between Bible and community of faith The relationship between the Bible and the Talmud is not an abstract relationship between two kinds of texts, or between individuals and texts. The relationship between the Bible and the Talmud sketched above offers a point of departure for posing the question on the relationship between text and community, and how a thoughtful approach to the text functions in this relationship. What is the contribution of this thoughtful textual reading to the relationship between text and community itself? Both the Bible as well as the Talmud, and mutatis mutandis, the commentaries on Scripture in the Christian tradition, did not arise in the pure interiority of a solitary contemplative soul, but rather in the circle of well-defined historical communities, which Ricœur rightly labels as ‘communities of reading and interpretation’ (LaCocque & Ricœur, 1998, XVI). We are faced with a unique phenomenon, which as such is not to be found in the strictly philosophical world, and which not only surprises but likewise perplexes and even confounds the philosopher who desires to approach the Bible in a thoughtful way. In the philosophical world we encounter certain schools where students gather round a master (‘maître

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à penser’) with the intention of handing down and further continuing the thought of the master, both in a faithful as well as creative way. In the relationship of the different religions to their sacred texts, there is more to it than people who gather round in order to learn from a thinker. In a religious tradition it is a matter of a real ‘hermeneutical circle’, meaning to say a twofold movement between text and community. In this case, the Jewish and Christian communities put themselves in relationship with the Bible by reading and interpreting the Scriptural texts. This is not the only movement, nor is it the first movement, even though at first blush it may seem to be so. The Jewish and Christian communities do not only apply themselves to the Bible, they are also ‘established’ and ‘founded’ by the Bible. That is why they likewise experience Scriptural texts as ‘sacred Texts’. We can even express this in more powerful language, since the community comes to be a community of faith precisely through the reading and interpretation of the Biblical texts. One should note well that the community cannot come about without a text and then, only later, create and fashion manuscripts and interpretations; it is through the reading and the endeavour to understand and apply interpretations that the community arises and also comes to find and know itself. Likewise, there is no text without a community that makes this text come to be, whereby this community is ‘founded’ and ‘established’, or rather founded more and more to the extent that the text arises in its bosom and that the interpretation of the text also unfolds within itself. By interpreting texts the community also interprets itself, by means of which it finds itself and invents itself at the same time. With Ricœur we can rightly speak of a remarkably “mutual election” between the founding text and the community (LaCocque & Ricœur, 1998, XVI-XVII). Before we further explore this mutual relationship, we would also suggest making a connection with the traditional Catholic idea of ‘Scripture and Tradition’. We propose, in other words, that the relationship between Scripture and Tradition also be understood as the relationship between founding texts and ‘communities of reading and interpretation’, without reducing that relationship (between Scripture and Tradition) to it. The Catholic tradition rightly rejects the idea of ‘sola scriptura’ because there is no Scripture without community. Scripture arises within a community, and founds a community. Furthermore, the community also endeavours to understand and apply its interpretations of Scripture, and thus time and again tries ‘to explain’ it and to make it ‘accessible’ in time and space. Hence, what we shall further say about the relationship between Scripture and community is at the same time a characteristic way of thinking about the relationship between ‘Scripture and Tradition’.

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Now we turn our attention to the question of how to rightly understand the ‘mutual predilection’ between the Bible and the community of interpretation. Surely, this mutual predilection is not a formal exchangeability. The reciprocity between text and community displays a welldefined structure that is a determinant not only for the meaning of the text but also for the status of the community. Although the text arises in and through the communication between people about the ‘sustaining meaning’ of their common experience, a deep awareness lies within the community itself that it did not create, as such, the sacred text. It does not experience itself as the autonomous source and the initiator. A ‘sacred’ Scripture does not arise on the basis of a mere voluntary decision made in a vacuum, but in very concrete life situations and contexts of experience. One takes part in something that is ‘definitive’ in nature and wherein one is grasped by an ‘ultimate’ and ‘founding’ meaning. This not only remains lingering in one’s memory, it is likewise narrated forth. Since this ‘oral’ communication is fleeting, one desires to hold onto it, and thus, one lays it down in a written text, a narrative, which one can time and again bring up and read. Through the written text one creates the possibility to be able ‘to explain’, so that the meaning that is experienced can come to life again. Later, these separate texts are then ‘put together’ and collected until finally a ‘canon’ of ‘sacred’ Scripture is formed. At a certain moment, this canon is likewise closed (Baudler, 1996, 15-16). It cannot be denied that both the human person and the community play an essential role in the creation and growth of Scripture, and that without human experience and the exchange of this experience between people in the community – whereby community is likewise formed – there can be no Scripture. Nevertheless, the community does not consider itself as the beginning and origin of Scripture. Here indeed lies the paradox: even though Scripture comes to be and grows thanks to a certain community of persons, this community does not in the slightest consider itself the ‘designer’ of Scripture. The community feels and experiences its relationship to the text as a heteronomous relationship, even though it actually remains the mediator and the interpreter of the text. For the community, the text is, in the first place, not a self-expression. The community is aware that the text comes ‘from elsewhere’, that the text refers back to a meaning or significance which, to be sure, has manifested itself in human experience, but has precisely ‘broken through’ in this human experience as something that cannot be reduced to that human experience. In the experience of meaning, which one wants to ‘preserve’ at all costs and thus transmit and later also write down, there

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is more at work than an experience of oneself, more than a deepening of one’s own subjectivity. Something ‘else’ imposes itself as it were onto the one who takes part in the experience, by means of which one experiences that which one did not create oneself. In the experience that one lives through, something presents itself that does not arise from within oneself, and that is moreover so ‘fundamental’ that it gives a ‘foundation’ to existence. In this regard, one may speak of a real ‘revelation’; a founding meaning reveals itself to the person in his or her experience, by means of which the experience is the paradox of transcendence in immanence, of heteronomy in autonomy, of the other in the same. This meaning is not understood in the abstract, but it displays a ‘sacred’ or ‘divine’ character. It is experienced as a revelation that comes from an ‘Other One’, namely from God’s very self who makes God’s self-known as the bearing and orientating meaning of what happens in the experience of people. In this regard, the community through which the text arises never adopts a pretentious or haughty attitude, as if it would be its very own foundation and reason for existence. On the contrary, the community is characterized by an essential humility and obedience, insofar as it attunes itself to the message of the text which comes to the community by means of the community’s own creative articulation. The community both listens to and listens through its own text to the foundation that it receives and that likewise ‘instructs’ it. The literal meaning of the Torah, after all, is instruction, learning, or lesson. We take these meanings not in the subjective but in the objective sense of the word. I am not the one who wants to ‘teach’ or impart something to the other; I am the one who wants to hear and learn something from the other. Torah is the word from the Other One, from God’s very self, that addresses something new to me and teaches me. Even though the community indeed is the historical and existential source of the text, it still remains the receiving reality who listens to what is ‘given’ to her through her own experience. In the relationship between the text and the community, what is at hand is a non-exchangeable, irreversible difference. This relationship is marked by a radical, definitive and non-collapsible asymmetry. The (Jewish and Christian) community of faith is not the origin of itself by its own means. The community is passive while being founded by the heteronomous Word of God. This God reveals Himself through meaningful experiences of a human community that are expressed and written down. Even if the relationship of the community to the texts transcends the mere relationship of authority and obedience and evolves into an

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attitude or bond of attachment to the text, the difference between the Word that teaches with authority and the attitude of the community that responds in full acknowledgement and gratitude to this Word is in no way whatsoever annulled. The asymmetry present in this relationship should not be abandoned, eschewed or taken to be a handicap in any sense. First and foremost – chronologically speaking – the community lies at the actual historical origin of the text. At the same time, the text is experienced – essentially, in the order of logic – as primary, as revelation, as preceding the community. The paradox is that this revelation, exactly because it is expressed in the human language of the community, is experienced at the same time as interpretation and explanation, literally as ‘exegesis’. That the community understands itself as a community of reading and interpretation indeed means that it does not understand itself as the revelation itself. By reading and interpreting, it applies itself to the revelation, to the Word of God, in order to understand this Word and in order to critically investigate whether no injustice has been done to the revelation itself throughout the interpretations that have developed through time. Has that which has been revealed, the ‘message’, been reproduced accurately and correctly? By the fact that the sustaining meaning that has opened up itself in the experience is rendered by the community in the language of a specific time and in well-defined circumstances, sooner or later the critical doubt arises whether this meaning has indeed been rightly and fully understood or interpreted and rendered. Perfectly rendering the original meaning is, of course, never possible, since every language is a human artefact, even the language of sacred Scripture. The term ‘interpretation’ itself confirms the original heteronomous asymmetry of the Word to which it submits itself. Interpretation presupposes that something has been given beforehand in order to be interpreted and explained, and therefore that there is a difference between the message of revelation, on the one hand, and the explanation, on the other, even though the text and the explanation are never purely separated from each other. Interpretation never converges with itself; it exists thanks to an inner disunity. One always interprets that which lends itself to interpretation, or that which ‘gives’ itself in order to be understood and explained. And since this interpretation can never converge one hundred percent with the revealed – the given – this interpretation is in need of critical questioning, of re-interpretation, of commentary and discussion.

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This means, as we have already stated above, that it is also very much possible that through the historical-dynamic process of interpretation, reinterpretation, commentary and discussion, we have to ascertain that certain interpretations cause scandals and are unacceptable. This is the case with, among others, John 8:31-59 (cf. supra). As a result, the implied view on the Jews in this text cannot belong to the deposit of revelation given by God. To express it in more general terms, the insight that no single text of Scripture in itself is pure revelation, but is always couched in human language and thus at the same time must be considered an interpretation, implies that revelation never happens in a straightforward way. Revelation always takes place in and through interpretations that need to be critically questioned, which in turn will give cause for shifting, even contradictory, interpretations. It is this interpretation that we have termed above as ‘Tradition’ in relationship to Scripture – which gives way to a never-ending understanding. It is a dynamic continuation of reading and interpretation, via dialogue and exchange, which engenders misunderstanding, elucidation, rectification, re-understanding, and ultimately better understanding. In this regard, the idea of interpretation – or ‘hermeneutics’, to use the technical term – proceeds from the understanding that there are at least two forms or levels of the word: the original founding, divine word of revelation and the interpreting word (which does not mean that both appear separately, although they do not converge). There can never be a founding word of revelation that comes to humanity ‘from elsewhere’ (from God), which is not at the same time also an understood and thus interpreted word, and which precisely on that account also lends itself to further interpretation. The fact that the same texts have given rise to more than one community, to different communities even, confirms the basic doubleness of word and interpretation. The multiple voices of communities of faith that refer to the same sacred Scripture as their foundation and source of inspiration likewise confirm the idea of interpretation, of interpretations of the interpretations, including the differentiation of these interpretations. This multi-vocal feature of interpretations and hermeneutics does not lead, however, to a radical fragmentation. All these different communities of reading and interpretation keep on referring to the same ‘fundamental text’ as their foundation, that not only precedes the communities but – notwithstanding their diversity and contrasts – also unites them because they are ‘anchored’ in the same fundamental text. Through their devotion to the text – their faith – the different communities

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rightly affirm that the text has chosen them. Any choosing on their part is rather secondary with respect to the being chosen by the text. After this first choosing, or better still, as an answer to this original choosing, the communities in turn also choose the text containing revelation. The communities accomplish this feat by means of making this text their very own, by interpreting it and interpreting it tirelessly all over again. What is important is that throughout these interpretations they do not incur the feeling of having been unfaithful to the primary divine Word spoken to them, but that they desire to demonstrate and realize precisely through these renewed interpretations their faithfulness to the original message, the revelation of God entrusted to them. With this, the mentioned paradox is laid bare in acute form: the community is at the same time effect and cause of the text, whereby the founding force of the sacred texts can never be eradicated and consequently is never simply exchangeable with the contribution of the community to the text’s coming to existence. If something like ‘Biblical thought’ is indeed possible, then it is in this circle of asymmetrically mutual involvement between text and community that the philosopher must enter. This does not presuppose that the philosopher has to be a believer or has to ‘convert’ himself, meaning to say that he must perform an act of faith and consequently accept the text as a foundational text for the meaning of his own existence. The philosopher who approaches Scripture can also happen to be a believer, but this is not necessary. A thoughtful approach to Scripture is impossible, however, if the philosopher does not at least adopt an attitude that is sympathetic towards the text and the interpretation of that text. The philosopher must remain open in mind and imagination, unprejudiced concerning the manner in which a historical community becomes attached to its sacred texts. Only through this affability can he be in tune with the ‘reasons’ why the texts, to which, in casu, the Jewish and Christian communities are so attached, have a foundational meaning. The central criterion of a thoughtful approach to Scripture is not couched in the act of faith but in the respectful and yet thoughtful and thought-through understanding and explanation of the Scriptural texts in the foundational sense that they bear within them. That is why the philosopher will also try to penetrate this meaning via the interpretations that have been woven around this fundamental meaning, and which actually find their starting points already in the original texts themselves. In so doing, the philosopher lays bare the ontological, metaphysical, anthropological and ethical implications so that they become communicable ‘in Greek’ – in the philosophical, general human language and

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conceptuality – by means of which they can contribute to human civilization. And what we have to say here about the ‘sympathetic and empathic stance’ of the philosopher towards the Jewish and Christian texts is equally applicable to the philosopher who desires to approach, in a thoughtful way, the sacred texts of other religious traditions, such as the ones at the hearts of Islam, Hinduism or Buddhism. If one proceeds with the understanding that the attachment with which a historical community considers and experiences a certain corpus of texts as foundational is nothing more than an attachment, one cuts oneself off as a philosopher from a thoughtful approach to the holy Scripture (irrespective of the religious tradition). In other words, if no exigent reasons are provided for describing why the attachment is worthwhile or at least intrinsically relevant, the philosopher severs the link with the subject that he studies. Only when one operates a priori that there are inner reasons and arguments for the devotion of a community to its texts, which precisely manifest themselves in the interpretations woven around it, can one apply oneself in a thoughtful way to these texts, or consider these texts themselves as forms of thinking. In this way, the philosopher participates in his or her very own way in the movement of interpretations and interpretations of the interpretations. Its point of reference and evaluation is the original ‘sacred’ text, which also lends itself to thought insofar as no ‘sacred’ or ‘foundational’ text is possible without including a view on the world, on humankind and our fellowhumans, on history and the meaning of life. The text then needs the philosopher in order to be made communicable ‘in Greek’, that is, in general human terms.

4. The Biblical priority of doing (Jerusalem) over thinking (Athens) It is time that we say something with regard to the content of the Bible’s very own, meaning-giving thought. Obviously we can only provide a global view here and not enter into detail. Moreover, we can only sketch a synthetic or summary view, without further attention to the many developments that make Biblical thought a diversified and dynamic thought. We can characterize the quite distinctive thought that unfolds in the Bible and that marks thoroughly both the Jewish and the Christian traditions with an expression by Emmanuel Levinas as “the wisdom of love at the service of love” (‘sagesse de l’amour au service de l’amour’)

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(AE 207/162). This implies that thinking is at the service of love, and that love – or doing, therefore -- is the source of this thought. Not only does this mean that doing takes central stage, but also that we are concerned with a well-defined doing, namely a doing of the Torah (Law). The fulfilment of the Law implies the practice of the good, or in short, love. We shall first reflect on the centrality of doing itself, in contrast to the Greek preference for thinking, in order later on to enter into a reflection on love and its own wisdom. In the first verse of the Acts of the Apostles, Luke refers to his first book, his Gospel, where he introduced the story of Jesus. This story is nothing less than the story of all that Jesus has done and said (Acts, 1,1). What is remarkable is that Luke reverses common expression by first mentioning doing and then speaking. Spontaneously or uncritically, we are inclined to give priority to the word (the head) and only then make mention of action (the hands). Luke reverses this uncritical expectation. It is clear that for Luke the deeds of Jesus form the condition and the ground for his speaking, which make clear (or reveal) the meaning of his appearance. Moreover, it is only out of ‘the doing’ of Jesus that we can penetrate his essence, his being the ‘Anointed’ or ‘Christ’ of God, his being the ‘Son of God’, as the development of teaching in the Christian tradition demonstrates. Out of the priority of doing, which is more than a chronological priority in the sense that it lets itself count as a foundational and orientating priority, it is then not surprising that a number of gospel narratives tell of how people (a lawyer, a Pharisee, a rich young man, or others) (cf. Chapters VI & VII) come to Jesus with the question: ‘Master, what must I do to gain eternal life’. Their first question is not: ‘What should I know?’ People in the Bible aren’t concerned with questions like ‘what should I know for my final examinations, so that I may enter heaven or the Kingdom of God?’ It should also be striking that people in the Bible do not have as their first question: ‘What may I hope for (after this life)?’ Rather, their question is phrased: ‘What do I have to do here and now, in this world, in order to respond to God’s will?’ This is no question that is introduced haphazardly or coincidentally by Jesus in the gospel accounts; it is the question that is rooted in the heart of the Jewish tradition. After all, as a Jew who wishes not to remove or change a single teaching of the Torah, Jesus is aware of being directly and intimately linked to the Jewish tradition of questioning. Jesus desires to radicalize the Law as such that it be brought back to its true soul and inspiration, and thus come to fulfilment (cf. Mt 5,17-19). When Jesus

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discusses the ‘last judgment’ (Mt 25), the only condition that he poses in order to receive the Kingdom of God is an ethical condition: to clothe to the naked, feed the hungry, give drink to the thirsty, heal the sick, give alms to the poor, visit those in prison, etc. (cf. Chapter VII). In short, Jesus preaches that the Kingdom of God lies in offering oneself to all fellow humans who are suffering or in need. These examples, which are but illustrations of the entire gospel message, show how Jesus places himself entirely along the lines of the Jewish tradition, which deems the ‘doing’ of the Torah more important than anything else, even more important than knowing about God (Becker, 1978). 4.1. Preference for the spontaneous élan of life This priority of doing over knowing is at odds with the Western tradition, which has instead developed since the Greeks as a tradition that values science and insight as the grounds and conditions for adequate and responsible action. Philosophy came to be as an attempt to conquer ‘doxa’ or ‘opinion’ by means of reason. As ‘the reasonable par excellence’, philosophy draws its entire nobility from this, whereby it has at the same time grown into the “solid basis of our old Europe” (QLT 76/34). In the well-thinking West since the Greeks, the pre-rational or so-called ‘spontaneity’ of opinion and feeling was again considered as the temptation to be most dreaded, which can only be transcended by means of unprecedented emphasis on thorough, all-penetrating and foundational thinking. According to the paradigm, we begin with the pre-rational spontaneity of doxa and afterwards ascend to thinking in order to conquer emotion and opinion (QLT 75-79/34-36). There is a pervasive notion that time and again raises its head in a number of milieus today – the notion that reflection and intellectuality are ‘great temptations’, while insouciant manners of letting oneself go are praised and striven for as the great redemption. Unreserved involvement is seen as the way of being authentically human. As a human being, one must be open for everything, one must be busily seeking to live through everything unabatedly, to experience and taste everything entirely. To live means to feel oneself alive from head to toe, full of impatience and full of surrender, without looking aside or behind, without letting oneself be distracted by something or someone. One must dare to live, full of passion and risk, adventurously and daringly. This is why one should not reflect too much, or not reflect at all. Certainly, one must avoid calculating habits at all costs. One must totally collapse therein, otherwise one ends

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up in a boring, confined and limiting petty middle class existence, which cannot move and fulfil, but only bore. In this regard, spontaneity is posed as a condition for the nobility of the élan, as a condition for innocent action that is child-like and beautiful because it is spontaneous and noble. That is also why a temptation ensues time and again from the adventurous life of Odysseus, for despite – or rather thanks to – all the calamity and unhappiness that overcame him, he lived a wondrous and attractive life. And along these same lines, Don Juan keeps consistently exerts appeal, for notwithstanding his tragic end, his life of conquest after conquest intrigues us, precisely because after every conquest he is left with a new temptation that takes everything he can muster in order to conquer. We say to ourselves, ’at least here is someone who dares take risks and loves challenges, and does not settle with what he has acquired!’ In full surrender to life, bordering on the reckless, the characters of Don Juan and Odysseus pour themselves into new adventures, thereby enjoying temptation itself to the fullest. According to this mentality, thinking appears as the greatest of all temptations, for by means of critical investigation and striving for lucidity, one blocks the ‘vital élan’ and kills the fresh innocence of youthful lack of inhibition, which notwithstanding its drive, is still to be chosen above any kind of distant, non-committal reflection. 4.2. The love of wisdom In contrast to this preference for the involvement in spontaneity and élan above the aloofness of thinking, Greek culture has reversed this order and promoted thinking to the possibility of ridding oneself of opinion and of all forms of irrationality. The ‘mother of all temptations’ is not thinking, but opinion, characterized as it is by passion and blind élan, by an immediacy that is nothing more than a lack of reflection. In knowing, in the total lucidity of reflection that precedes action, not only does the legitimate need to act consciously and to discover meaning in this action find satisfaction, but a refusal of naïve spontaneity also manifests itself. Thinking thus exerts itself in lifting itself out of naiveté and in protecting the glow of life from the danger of ignorance so that in one’s spontaneous élan one would not be the victim of the confusion between good and evil. That is why knowing presupposes that every action that does not let itself be led by a preceding insight must be condemned as negative. Precisely for that reason, in the context of knowing, ‘naiveté’ is labelled negatively, while in the preference for the spontaneous, élan is simply qualified as positive and worthy of aspiration.

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Human action that is detached from knowing, meaning to say the nobility of mere unreflective spontaneity, finds philosophy a serious danger. The grand task of philosophy is to think. It is precisely this preference for thinking, this ‘love of wisdom’ – which is what philosophy literally means – that makes spontaneity suspect and labels it an expression of ‘opinion’ (doxa). For philosophy, opinion is unquestionably the greatest enemy because it abuses the sensitivity and ignorance of people. The disadvantages of opinion are so great that it gives thinking the opportunity to justify its universal curiosity and unbounded indiscretion. The perverse character of opinion allows for the fact that we no longer take any notice of the wrong and unpleasant gratifications that also ensue from thinking. It allows us to be oblivious to shamelessness, indiscretion, betrayal and the powerlessness of knowing. The irrationality of opinion, in other words, makes us blind to the dangers of thinking and leads us to consider knowing infinitely more valuable than opinion. 4.3. In search of a reasonable unity behind conflicting multiplicity Thinking acquires honour because it seems to find an answer to the violence that is inherent to the realm of opinion. Opinion is linked directly to multiplicity and diversity, creating an unmanageable number of contradictions in the eye of the perceiver. The multiplicity of opinions expressed by humans (and gods) gives rise to never ending discussions and oppositions. This never ending discussion becomes a continuous source of annoyance in which the relationships between people are not based on harmony but rather on resentment, tension, opposition and conflict. According to Greek thought, violence can be attributed solely to the realities of multiplicity and diversity, meaning to say that violence is the product of the separation and rupture in being between the same (the one) and the other. Since multiplicity and diversity are the first experiences to present themselves to our powers of observation, the thesis seems obvious that war is the father of all things: ‘polemos patèr pantoon’. It is clear that this phenomenology of reality in its conflict-ridden multiplicity and diversity evokes a particular concept of peace and harmony. The only possibility to annul the violence that flows forth from the one and the other consists in reducing everything to the same, meaning to say to assimilate the other into the same. This is precisely what philosophy sees as its task, and it thinks it can fulfil this task only by

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knowing. Indeed, knowing here is understood in a certain manner, not as an acknowledgement of the other over and against the same, not as respect for separation and difference, but as understanding, grasping, or comprehension. From the very beginning, according to Levinas, Western philosophy has understood itself as an attempt to determine the other (‘l’Autre’) by means of the same (‘le Même’) (TI 8/38), in order to tailor down the other to the measure of the same, and to find in oneself the measure of the other. Stated alternately, philosophy is engaged in reducing to the same all that is opposed to it as other (TH 56/13). Western philosophy presents itself mainly as the reduction of the other to the same (TI 13/43). The manner or mode in which this reduction of the other takes place is knowledge, which applies itself to draw in and to understand reality in its conflicting multiplicity and diversity. We shall see further that this is not the only form of knowing, and that aside from this ‘understanding knowing’, another form of thinking is possible, namely, the aforementioned ‘wisdom of love’. To phrase it succinctly, the core of the philosophical, Western way of knowing is understanding. Understanding in this sense manifests itself as the longing and the passion of thinking that takes place within a culture that embraces asking critical questions regarding all that exists in order to be able to understand and explain everything. Such a culture does not allow for the questioning and the seeking to end, and thus the thinker realizes himself or herself and comes to his or her ‘telos’ or perfection (EN 252/191). The thinker desires to understand and fathom everything, searching to literally ‘to discover the ground’. Starting from a description of the phenomenon as it presents itself to our observation according to its multiplicity and precariousness, one tries to explain these ‘data’ by returning to their deeper underlying causes and finalities, by which they have received their unity and solidity (notwithstanding their diversity and becoming). Thus, one attempts to discover what the ‘principles’ and ‘goals’ are that allow for the phenomena to be what they are and to ‘function’ the way they function. This mode of thought has not only been the core of Greek philosophy, but it is also the core of the so-called ‘positive’ sciences that have arisen from this view of philosophy. The difference is only that the (positive) sciences only seek empirically verifiable causes and mechanisms whereby the ‘data’ of reality not only become understandable but also ‘graspable’ and controllable, whereas philosophy lends itself to ‘meta-physical’ matters and seeks the ultimate and encompassing efficient and final causes whereby everything that is becomes understandable and displays coherence. Philosophy pursues its

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goal all the way up to the ‘divine’ first and ultimate ‘Efficient and Final Causes’, the highest Principle in which reality can be traced back to its First Origin and Ultimate Finality (Bouthors, 2019, 120-124). 4.4. The mother of all temptations However, as it has already been suggested, we should not turn a blind eye to the negative effects of knowing. The kinds of regulative thinking and technocracy that have ensued from the West’s approach to knowing demonstrate the need for critical questioning regarding knowing as understanding. Has our enthusiasm and lust for knowledge not been too overwhelming? Even today, isn’t it still overpowering in the extreme? Knowledge is not only power, but also the abuse of power. An immediate consequence of human comportment to knowing as understanding is the fact that we have been burdened with tremendous social ills during the previous century – the need for understanding has led to technical externalization and the underlying ideology of manufacturability. The most notable examples along these lines are nuclear armaments, environmental pollution, the current explosion of medical or the so-called reproductive technologies, the attempt to acquire total medical power over death and dying and, last but not least, the ‘globalizing’ neo-liberal economic technocracy. In this regard, a healthy suspicion towards knowledge as understanding is indubitably in order, so long as we remain vigilant so as not to ignore its positive contributions, avoiding a possible relapse into a cheap cultural pessimism. Perhaps Levinas was indeed right when, from an explicitly Jewish perspective, he labelled knowing as understanding (rather than spontaneity or opinion) as ‘the mother of all temptations’, literally “the temptation of temptation” or “the temptation of temptation of temptation, etcetera” (QLT 74/34). Intermingling good with evil, hazarding into the ambiguous corners of being while endeavouring to avoid becoming engulfed by evil, thereby raising oneself above good and evil – that is knowing. It is about testing and trying everything oneself. We do not speak here of the kind of ‘trying’ that we might unwittingly associate with spontaneous élan, which here and now, unreservedly and totally, submerges itself in trying before ever testing. Knowing, however, elevates itself as the condition to be able to try anything: first test and then try. In other words, knowing is about testing before one engages oneself in the world – it is about a kind of testing that is not yet trying. Knowing is testing in advance without simply surrendering oneself to life. We yearn for a tested knowing, that is verified as to

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our own evidence and insights. The maxim we subconsciously follow is to undertake nothing without first knowing everything in advance about what we are to undertake. One claims that she knows nothing without first seeing it for herself, whatever the vicissitudes may be that are brought along by this preceding exploration. Such a life is a life is risked, to be sure, but at the same time it is an ensured life, thanks to patiently constructed, reliable insights and controllable truths. In this manner we have managed to construct lives that are adventurous without ever having to be really dangerous. In this regard, knowing appears as the real, great temptation. Knowing is characterized by absoluteness: it does not want to leave anything out or leave anything to chance; it wants to investigate and understand everything, so that all becomes ‘manipulable’, meaning to say accessible to our actions. It therefore wants to keep sufficient distance from everything, in order to be able to dispose of everything freely. In short, the temptation of knowledge is power, or stronger yet, omnipotence. However, Levinas identified knowing as the temptation par excellence for another reason. He claims that it actualizes in an extreme, pure way the being of every temptation. The temptation of knowing consists not so much in the power of attraction that proceeds from a certain delight or pleasure, for which one risks losing soul and body. Upon closer inspection, in the temptation of pleasure it is not the delight itself that is the actual temptation, but rather the ambiguity of the situation wherein pleasure is still possible, in the sense that towards myself I still preserve my freedom – I still have not renounced my self-determination, my ‘as far as I am concerned’. The heart of temptation lies in the possibility that is my disposition to remain independent, or rather to remain sufficiently independent in yielding to the temptation. In being a victim, I am not entirely a victim, meaning to say not wholly delivered up to the passion of the enticement. Temptation consists essentially in the idea that I stand above everything and at the same time participate in everything. We can call this the ‘disengagement in engagement’, or distance in involvement. This disengagement is made possible by knowing as understanding, which proceeds from an I that does indeed concern itself with the other than itself, but in such a way that it maintains its distance. It does not let itself be determined by the other, but the I itself determines the other by drawing the other to itself by means of its thinking. It draws the other near concretely by means of confining the other inside the walls of concepts and categories and thus integrating it within the totality of the I’s own insight. The price that needs to be paid for this

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method of understanding that becomes enclosed in such distant, overlooking and controlling manners of knowing is exorbitantly high; the price is nothing less than the reduction of the other to the same, meaning to say the denial of the alterity of the other as already stated above. In this regard, knowing as understanding is crudely violent and criminal, and as the principle of ‘immanence’ – the reduction of all forms of alterity to the one, the same, or oneself – it must be radically questioned (TI 75-78/102-105). 4.5. A form of doing that makes thinking possible It is here that the Jewish approach makes its entrance, insofar as the Bible places priority on doing, as we already indicated above. But this preference immediately raises a new question. One could indeed riposte that the priority of doing signifies a return to opinion with its irrationality. The priority of doing, which unmasks thinking as understanding as the great temptation of the West, does not at all imply a destruction of thinking and cannot be dismissed as a nostalgic regression to a state prior to thinking. That is, there can be no recourse to the spontaneity of the passionate élan that is experienced exuberantly and without reflection. After all, this is not about an arbitrary form of doing, but a very specific type of doing that moreover bears its own thinking within itself, at least as a possibility. Thus, we now would like to make clear that (Biblical) doing not only precedes thinking, but is also the source of a very ‘selfwilled’ manner of thinking, which we have previously announced above as ‘the wisdom of love’. The Biblical tradition has always characterized ‘doing’ as the observing of the Torah, the Law, which orientates our actions according to the commandments and prohibitions of the ‘ten words’ (Decalogue), in order to make them ‘good’ and worthy of the human and at the same time also worthy of the Divine. In his Talmudic reading, ‘Temptation of Temptation’, Levinas points out how the task of, and the obedience to, the Law does not rest on a preceding round of information or to a prior insight, but how just the opposite takes place. When the Israelites receive the Torah they immediately begin to observe it, without first investigating and wanting to understand it. This implies a reversal of normal, Western logic. Insofar as the natural order is thrown upside down, we can also call this reversed order a trans-natural or super-natural order. Moreover, this reversed order begets scandal, for, according to the natural, daily order of things, it is nothing less than a dis-order. The form of doing just sketched seems like a form of blind faith, or the spontaneous

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naiveté of childlike trust. The question is whether it is indeed about such a naïve and childlike surrender. To clarify the point, we refer to artistic inspiration that is based on the heteronomous principle of inspiration, or becoming ‘stirred up’ despite oneself. By means of inspiration, the artist is set on the path to expression, an image or a form that does not arise from one’s own thinking or design, but is introduced inside oneself, so that by means of this ‘discovery’ one is animated into a creative expression that is entirely one’s own and yet entirely comes from elsewhere. In an analogous manner, we can understand God’s gift of the Torah to Israel as an utterly heteronomous event that precedes all prospects and insights of Israel, but then avoids a childlike naiveté that excludes any form of thinking outright. Overcoming the ‘mother of all temptations’ does not mean returning to the underdevelopment of the fickleness and whimsicality of opinion. On the contrary, it concerns a perfectly adult engagement, whereby a new ‘logic’ is established, namely, the logic of a knowing that flows forth from doing. While the acceptance and observance of the Torah is not rooted in understanding as knowing, even less does it return to the pre-rational impulsiveness of the spontaneous, unreflective ‘vital élan’. By means of obeying, the Israelites have expressed their trust in God, the giver of the Torah. Rather, precisely on the basis of trusting in Him who has spoken the ‘ten words’ to them and thus has expressed Himself towards them, they promise obedience and they begin to do what they have promised. The paradox is that the Israelites only discover the truth and significance of the commandments and prohibitions assigned to them when immersed in obedient observance. The new logic is thus much more than just a reversed logic of ‘doing and understanding’, whereby understanding follows doing; it is, in the strictest sense of the word, also a different logic insofar as understanding also is made possible by means of doing: ‘we will do in order to understand’. In this manner, one avoids the ‘great temptation’ or the ‘mother of all temptations’, one avoids the intrusiveness and the violence of knowing as understanding that first desires to lay out and see everything before proceeding to subsequent movements of choosing and acting. Naturally, this does not mean that one can no longer be tempted. Temptation in this paradigm presents itself as the common moral temptation – not choosing the temptation for the good. When God gives the Torah to Israel it means that Israel was not first in choosing for the Torah and, consequently, it is neither evident nor easy to obey the Torah effectively. The temptation is never far away – that is, the temptation not to obey and not to observe the Torah, and thus not to do the good and allow the existence of evil which comes about by default in the absence of good

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deeds done. Perhaps disobedience is even easier than obedience and not observing the Decalogue is the path of least resistance. However, the reverse order is not about a surpassing of the ordinary temptation that does not want to do the good or that refuses this form of doing by escaping to one or the other form of ease or superficiality. On the contrary, it is about a radical surpassing of the ‘temptation of all temptations’, namely, of the temptation that exalts knowing as understanding as the condition and ground of doing. The reverse order states that action, as the assent to the good, is the condition and ground of a new kind of thinking. It is utterly disturbing in some sense that the Israelites receive the Torah and are commanded to do what it tells them without any exploratory or investigatory preparation at all. The Torah is given to Israel ex abrupto, from elsewhere, by an Other One. It is almost imposed upon them without precursor, meaning to say without God or someone else first announcing, explaining and legitimizing His idea and intention. From the side of humanity we are unable to witness any attempt of testing to find out if it works. The Torah is given so directly and totally to the person that he or she has no time to first sit down and think about it, to explore if it is at all possible, fair and meaningful. Doing is immediately and unconditionally, without preceding introspection and reflection, demanded of Israel or the person. But as was already mentioned, this obedient observance does not happen in a childlike-naïve manner, with eyes shut or with palms covering one’s face, as if one does not want to know. The obedience of acting before thinking is not obscurantism, nor can it be fairly labelled as a kind of reactionary neo-conservatism or fideism that is based on a rejection of insight, scientific investigation and critical verification. Obedient forms of doing take place as adult forms of doing, not in twilight, but in clear daylight and with eyes wide open and lucidly aware. Even though the obedience demanded to the Torah is unconditional, meaning to say not bound to the condition of prior reflection, it is indeed not naïve. The ‘yes’ that needs to be given takes place without further ado and is done directly. Nevertheless, this ‘yes’ is not stupid or infantile, since it is based on a cognizant surrender that arrives at the knowledge and truth of that which is demanded in the surrender of doing (QLT 91-106/41-48). 4.6. The wisdom of love Now that it has become clear what the formal structure of the reverse order consists of, we can make explicit what the ‘self-willed’ knowledge

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consists of – a form of knowledge which flows forth from doing and that sidesteps choosing between the fruitless, spontaneous naiveté of irrational opinion and the arrogant, selfishly appropriating form of knowing that wants to understand everything. For this purpose we appealed to the content of the Torah or the Law, of which the Ten Commandments form the hinge. We can state loosely that the commandments, which are primarily prohibitions (especially in the second tablet), form the conditions for love, without further concretizing that love in terms of its content (cf. Chapter VI). Whoever transgresses the prohibitions (through murdering, lying, stealing, infidelity, covetousness, etc.) makes love impossible. In this regard, love is the content and the goal of doing. The question now is, in which way does love – which is an unmistakable priority according to the entire Biblical mode of approach, both in the First as well as in the Second Testament – imply a very unique sort of thinking, which moreover is not grasping, controlling, totalizing nor violent. In order to show what the unique wisdom of love consists of, we shall once again consult the Jewish thinker, Emmanuel Levinas, who has explicitly reflected on this ‘thinking of love’. His entire thought can perhaps be traced back to this notion. In his second major work, Otherwise than Being, he discusses the compelling idea of “the wisdom of love at the service of love” (AE 207/162) or “the wisdom in the guise of love” (EN 252/172). As involvement to the other than oneself, love is a very special attention to the other which is expressed as a dedication ‘despite oneself ’ to the being and well-being of the other (cf. particularly Chapter VII). This turning towards the other implies an openness, literally an ‘ac-know-ledgement’ towards the other. This ethical attitude leads to the authentic knowing and confirming of the other as other. One should take note at this juncture that this knowledge is not added from the outside, but flows forth from the practice of love itself. As the highest form of non-indifference, love is simply the attention to the other than oneself. As respect, not only is it an honest manner of approach to the other, but also an open and honest way of seeing (in the literal sense, thus meaning knowing). Precisely for these reasons, the ethical relationship to the other is not only the foundation of truth, it is the foundation of all human civilization worthy of the name. The ‘longing for the other than oneself ’ is, like ‘thinking-of-the-other’, the essence of love. That is why we call it an ‘other-wise’ love: a love that bears its own wisdom and also substantiates and displays itself as love in and through its execution. It gives rise to

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thought in a ‘self-willed’ way. The quite unique, irreducible meaning that reveals itself through its ‘lived life’ surpasses the love of wisdom, although it needs this wisdom in thinking in order to make itself accessible ‘in Greek’, with all its risks of misunderstanding and reduction. The tragedy of this obfuscation throughout its indispensable thinking necessitates in turn not only corrections and ‘re-visions’ but also an unending return, an endlessness that ‘makes itself endless’ – a humble return to the source, love itself, as the first and ultimate experience of ‘decisive’ truth and meaning. Through the following pages of this book it will become clear how this ‘wisdom of love’ brings us in a very unique way closer to God, or stronger still, transports us into the intimacy of God. We are not brought closer to just any ‘God’, but of a God who is no other than love itself, and this in a fully extravagant and unimaginable manner. Only a ‘civilization of love’ sets us on the path towards God, who, as love, is Himself the source and strength of the love that we have to substantiate as human beings. Our love is ‘unto-God’, literally ‘à-Dieu’, and for that reason is precisely the ground and condition for human civilization worthy of the name. Not only is it possible that people ‘know’ and ‘understand’ each other only when love resides in their hearts, but likewise that they ‘know’ and ‘understand’ God. It is only out of a love that is lived can people meaningfully speak ‘unto-God’. It is only thanks to love, which ‘gives’ itself over to people as something to be done, does God become ‘visible’, tangible and palpable.

Conclusion We have now come full circle. The starting point for Biblical thought and for the thoughtful dealing with this Biblical thought is not thought itself, the Greek: ‘the thinking about thinking’ (noèsis noèseoos). No, the starting point for Biblical thought lies in action, and not so much in any kind of action whatsoever, but in the practice of love. This love manifests itself in a way that far exceeds our ‘natural’, utilitarian schemes of reciprocal self-interest, calculability and do ut des. It is the ‘nonindifference’ itself that in a self-transcending way directs itself to the other in the other’s being-other, for the sake of their being-other. This ethics of ‘responsibility by and for the other’ commences the wisdom of love by means of which one really ‘knows’ the other. Now according to the entire Biblical tradition, this human love is not original datum.

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It is indeed radically preceded and made possible by the divine love, which in its immensity and extravagance, surpasses endlessly our natural, so-called ‘common sense’, and consequently baffles us. The divine love has a foundational and orientating priority, from which all human love flows forth! This specific way of dealing with the Bible in a thoughtful way likewise desires to make a modest contribution to the deeper rapprochement between Jews and Christians. The qualification ‘deeper’ means that it is not about a mere formal conciliation, based on politeness and amicability, or on the present a priori imperative that religions must dialogue with each other. On the contrary, it is about a conversation whereby both respective forms of thought, Jewish and Christian, taken as thought, comprise the condition and the path of future dialogue. Christians have an enormous amount to learn from the thoughtful dealing with the Bible that has been practiced by the Jews for centuries. The Jewish manner of Talmudic thinking, that is, the thinking on the Bible on the basis of the thought that already lies within the Bible itself, must be kindled just as one blows on the ashes that cover the smouldering fire beneath it. This concept is not exclusively reserved for Jews; it also offers Christians the possibility of dealing with Scripture in a thoughtful way. In this way, Jews and Christians can come to a common reflection on Scripture, thanks to Scripture itself as thought out of love, and as appeal ‘to love otherwise’.

Chapter II.

Man and Woman Created in God’s Image The first creation narrative: giving rise to thoughtful reflection on difference and sameness and our creational responsibility Introduction We shall approach the first creation narrative (Gen 1) as a text that ‘gives rise to thought’. This does not mean that we disregard the historical, social and cultural context in and through which it was written, but that we take the challenge it presents us with to reinterpret it critically from our contemporary situation. In doing this, however, we reject any reduction or collapsing of the meaning of the text into its historical and cultural context. Paradoxically, the text surpasses its own historicity and contextuality. In itself it gives rise to thinking about an interpretation of reality: “The Word of God, as expressed with all the ambiguity of human language, nevertheless reveals the ultimate issues of human existence” (Fuchs, 1983, 33-34). The text of the first creation narrative functions in this way because, as a ‘mythical narrative’, it does not reproduce any historical, cosmological, or ‘evolutionary’ facts, but rather tries to uncover and expose ‘meanings’ in the context of well-defined coherence. It is a source for the creation of meaning, yesterday, today and tomorrow.1 With this in mind, we allow it to shed light on its own characteristic uniqueness and to lay bare its specific emphases and insights, without any pretence. We cannot encompass the entirety of Biblical thinking on creation. Moreover, it is impossible to speak of any narrative in the Bible as if “This is the entire message”. Each text bears its own profile and perspective, so much so that this necessitates the comparison with other texts followed by commentary and interpretation. There is no single description without explanation and commentary, no single verse without a “going beyond the verse”, the dignity of “language, 1

For an exegetical interpretation of the first creation narrative as a background for a ‘reflective’, i.e. philosophical deepening, see: Vervenne, 1991, 2001.

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capable of signifying more than it says”, “a revelation which is forever continued” (AV 7/X). The splendour of truth does not lie in a dogmatically closed text but in a dynamic openness, in that which ‘gives rise’ to thinking in a ‘self-willed’ or ‘other-wise’ manner, literally ‘according to its own, intrinsic wisdom’, to be critically ‘thought-through’. Not the verse has the last word, but its interpretation. This is the case as the verse is interpretation, challenging to re-interpretation or, rather, to a neverending interpretation. In this sense, the first creation narrative is a myth that conveys meaning “by providing a recognizable framework for addressing questions that will never be fully explained” (Selling, 2019, 6). In a particular and surprising way the first creation narrative stimulates thoughtful reflection about difference as a dynamism that belongs to the essence of creation itself. Within this sexual difference is given its own unique and eminent place. Throughout this reflexive, philosophical and in-depth reading we venture in (that, in the literal sense of the word, is ‘ventured’), it will become clear that sexual difference is not a raw, selfenclosed fact. On the contrary, it is a ‘pro-vocative’, ‘forward-summoning’ givenness that induces to thinking, interpretation and critical re-interpretation (Schüngel-Straumann, 1989). However, in order not to succumb to absolutizing difference, we shall demonstrate how sexual difference must be thought of in relation to sameness. This equally provokes us to (re-)think and deepen our view of humanity and world in their mutual relationship.

1. An ‘original’ dynamism of separation and difference The first creation narrative begins by evoking the ‘first beginning’: “In the beginning when God created the heaven and the earth” (Gen 1,1). This immediately evokes the idea of ‘chronology’ in the sense that something that happened earlier – a very long time ago – is being retold. Thanks to the form of the narrative, the reader can imagine in the ‘now’ (today) the event of creation that took place ‘in the past’ (earlier), just as fairy tales begin with ‘Once upon a time…’. Human thought has always found its starting point in the imagination that has by way of telling a story, anchored the present in the past and pointed towards the future. Hence, human imaginative thinking about creation returns back to a far, immemorial past when there was nothing. And yet there is more at hand with the expression ‘In the beginning’, as Ricœur also suggests. By conceiving of the expression only according to the idea of

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chronological time, we fall short of its full significance. That is why we must make a distinction between ‘beginning’ and ‘origin’: “The notion of the origin must itself be freed from the idea of a haunting by the past (…); it must be entirely dissociated from a beginning that one would try to date. (…) The origin, to my mind, does not function as an ordinal, as the first in a series, as a beginning that could be dated, but as what is always already there within a present word. This concerns an anterior of the order of the fundamental rather than the chronological” (Ricœur, 1998, 147). At the same time, we should not forget that the ‘original’, namely that which establishes, orientates and gives meaning, always bears ‘chronological traces’. We cannot do but summon the original chronologically, without, however, reducing it to that: the idea of anteriority is not sequential. Precisely for that reason, we call the creation story in Genesis 1 an ‘origin narrative’ that is formulated chronologically while transcending this articulation. As a narrative about the ‘origin’ and the ‘original’, we discover in the first creation story (Gen 1 – Gen 2,4a) the movement from indistinguishability to separation and difference. God’s creative activity consists not only in effecting a neutral-ontological transition from ‘non-being’ to ‘being’, in the sense of calling forth beings to be, but likewise an alteration from chaos to order. God does so by creating reality in a certain manner and thus giving it a particular ‘meaning’, direction and goal. In this regard, Genesis 1 is not a children’s story whereby one proceeds from the general abstract thought that someone – God – is the creator of al that exists and lives, to the child – that only thinks by imagining things for itself – towards illustrating in an enumerative, expansive exuberance what God has created: heaven, earth, the sun, the moon, the stars, the plants, the animals, human beings, and so forth. 1.1. Chaos as anonymous ‘no-thing-ness’ and ‘no-one’ After stating that God created heaven and earth (thus God created everything) in the beginning the original state of creation is sketched as the ‘tohu bohu’ – ‘Irrnis und Wirrnis’ in the German translation by Rosenzweig and Buber – to indicate chaos. Chaos is not a so-called mythical remnant, but an ever recurring experiential given. Time and again we are confronted by a condition of indifference or an absence of difference. We are literally faced with a situation wherein differences exist no more. That is why it is not coincidental that chaos is characterized by darkness. In darkness everything disappears into nothingness, not as

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the absence of being, but of beings: ‘no-something’, ‘no-someone’ (Rosenzweig). Chaos is an anonymous, neutral and impersonal reality within which everything is engulfed. ‘There is’,2 without here or there, far or near, above and below, inside and outside, this or that. There are no colours or forms, no I and you, no human, animal or plant, no distinction between creatures whatsoever. As Hegel put it, “At night all cows are black”.3 Chaos is the shoreless sea of beings wherein everything is swallowed and submerged in a mere ‘being-without-being’, an endless duration, which we also hear faintly sighing when we hold an empty seashell to our ear. Everything is the same, coalescing indiscriminately and randomly. On the human level, this translates into the experience of depersonalization, as well as the feeling of horror that accompanies it. It is a feeling that anticipates de-subjectivation and makes us recede into the background until we are swallowed in the ‘Nothing’ as the saturation of everything in and through everything. This alienation is then experienced as a fundamental evil that leads us personally to the absurdity of a merciless destruction – literally, an ‘an-nihil-ation’. We can identify many such experiences from contemporary culture that correlate with this Biblical notion of chaos. Take for instance how during the time of the ‘cold war’ the depersonalizing manner of speech and calculation of the strategy of ‘nuclear deterrence’ was embodied in the ironically eloquent word ‘MAD’(which stands for ‘mutual assured destruction’). One spoke of one mega-death – which means one million dead people – to facilitate balancing equations and to be able to have ‘control’ of the situation. At the same time, however, this language of mega-deaths connotes an outright absorption of each individual and unique person, robbing them of name and surname, subsuming all under one, general, common denominator. One no longer counts as an individual – everyone is the same. Being a person becomes being nothing but an accidental atomic fragment of a larger whole, merely an exchangeable number in a pure quantitative mass. One more or one less, it does not matter! It literally makes no difference anymore. There is no longer any

2 The Jewish philosopher Emmanuel Levinas (1905-1995) has accorded the biblical idea of chaos a philosophical status by describing it as the fully neutral and impersonal ‘il y a’, ‘there is’, as is already evident in his earliest independent writings De l’existence à l’existant (1947) (EE 93-105/57-64) and Le temps et l’autre (1947) (TA 24-30/44-51). See also his Éthique et Infini (1982) (EI 45-51/47-52). 3 “die Nacht… worin… alle Kühe schwarz sind” (Phänomenologie des Geistes, al. 16).

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‘self-interest’, only a general fate – a fatality – wherein ‘one’ is swallowed up and is literally made ‘ill at ease’, leaving a bitter taste of abhorrence. We can also refer to the horrible stories of depersonalization from the extermination camps during the Second World War (1940-1945) (Pollefeyt, 2018, 112-116). Upon arriving in the camp, Jewish prisoners were literally stripped of everything. Not only did they have to surrender their baggage but also every personal possession and memento. Afterwards, they were undressed in the open, and while still naked, arranged in groups. After taking a shower, they were disinfected and shaved bald. Completely identical blue and white striped pyjamas, which they had to wear as prison costumes, were thrown at them. Finally, they were listed in the camp register and their ‘number’ was tattooed onto their forearms. From then on, they were only an arbitrary number, so that they could no longer address or be addressed by each other. Many ended up in terrifying conditions of serious weight-loss and mental numbness. They began to walk around like zombies or remained lying on the ground fully apathetic. The Jews of the European extermination camps lost the ability to say their own names, and much less still their date of birth, and they had an empty gaze in their eyes. They were degraded into ‘Muselmänner’, persons without souls as it were, living dead, swallowed up in a nameless and all-neutralizing terror (Pollefeyt, 1996). It is exactly this kind of experience that Levinas means to evoke when he speaks of the ‘there is’: it is pure generality without a subject, like ‘it’s raining’– in radical contrast to ‘I am’ or ‘you are’. The hostages in concentration camps found themselves in the dim condition of chaos and darkness, where no differences and distinctions count, where everything writhes in mutual, though isolated, depravity, regardless of this here or that there. In such a state or situation, one ends up in an equalizing, fully neutral condition, wherein nothing or no one counts in him or herself and is addressed as such. At the end of the war, the Nazi’s did not even bother registering and numbering the arriving prisoners anymore….4

4 In contrast to this, it goes without saying that the name and the use of the personal name, both in everyday forms of inter-personal encounter and relationships as in specific or professional forms of care and assistance, are not only ‘interesting’ and ‘recommendable’, but also simply fundamental for a qualitative rapport. To know someone’s name and to address persons by that name opens the possibility of a qualitative relationship, and in that sense has a ‘foundational’ force.

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1.2. Radical opposition between sacred and holy We can consider the world of chaos as the world of the ‘gods without a face’, or of ‘the’ sacred in the impersonal sense of the word. In this, the divine and the secular or human are no longer separate, but merge in to each other and fuse. The sacred, or the numinous, then appears as a transcendent and ‘internal’ quality of reality at the same time. In a very peculiar way, we find this approach in the religious holism of the current New Age movements, with cults that speak of oceanic feelings of oneness with and in everything (Verkuyl, 1990). The ‘divine’ is adorned with the prestige of a great and inaccessible mystery that, as the supporting ground to which everything participates, fascinates and instils fear at the same time (Rudolf Otto). Consequently, the distinction between the divine and the world is under threat of being annulled. Furthermore, one notices how the sacred is understood as impersonal precisely because it is usually conceived of as coming from nature. Hence, it is spoken of in the neutral, as the terms the sacred, the numinous, and the divine readily betray. As an anonymous power, the numinous then displays inadvertent affinities with the indeterminate and undifferentiated chaos of beings of the period before the dynamism of creation. Over and against this neutral ‘divinity without a face’, with which one does not speak and – according to a Biblical image (Gen 32,23-33) – one does not fight, the Biblical tradition poses a personal God as ‘The Holy One’. He does not converge with his creation and is radically distinguished from it. This is actually constitutive of his ‘holiness’ and ‘glory’. God is no longer an all-encompassing and overwhelming power, to which – or rather ‘within which’ – creation is submerged and participates. He is a personal God who radically surpasses His creation. This does not mean that He does not want to have anything to do with it or that He would be inclined towards indifference. He is separated from His creation so that precisely out of that separation He can enter into a relationship or covenant with it, without merging into each other and disappearing (SaS 89/141; AV 150-151/122). The Bible does not proceed with the idea of a convergence of representations of God, but rather emphasizes the contrast and the discontinuity. Not all religious images are of the same value, and thus identical; they differ thoroughly, and thus should be judged according to their quality and content. From the first creation narrative, the Biblical tradition sees a stark contrast between the impersonal divinity or ‘Sacred’ and

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the personal God or ‘The’ Holy One, who creates in order to conquer the anonymous gods. As opposed to the darkness of the terrifying ‘divine forces’, the Bible poses the brilliance of the creator God who conquers darkness (Vergote, 1997, 81-84). This is effectively apparent in the strong Biblical indictment against the so-called ‘sacred sexuality’ or ‘temple prostitution’. The First Testament does not desist reacting against an experience of sexuality, which results in the loss of oneself in ecstasy or indistinguishability, and thus signifies the evil of chaos and darkness. This takes place in a particular way when one puts sexuality at the service of an experience that devalues and even excludes the word and the ‘face-to-face’ between two separate beings, with the intention of striving for an immediate participation in and fusion with the divine power or energy. Precisely for this reason, the First Testament tradition continuously and consistently indicts idolatrous sexuality, which presents itself as the possibility for the ‘place’ of a direct link with the divine. Throughout the very long history of Israel, we repeatedly encounter a fierce struggle against the orgiastic cults and cultic orgies of Baal in Canaan. These cults link the perception and experience of the divine with the experience of sexual orgasm – of an intensifying fusion leading to undifferentiation. The critique on this ‘religious’ experience of sexuality is not of a moral nature, but ‘metaphysical’ and theological in nature. The critique of Israel on the ‘sacred’ experience of sexuality is so unmerciful because the notion of God itself is at stake. The creator God is not the All into which one is merged and lost. God is The One who creates in order not to let his creatures disappear in his own bottomless, dark depths, but in order to make them ‘come to be’ as independent beings with their specific ‘individuality’. In particular, God creates human beings, not to make them ‘die’ in an engulfing fusion, but to make them ‘live’ as distinct beings that precisely out of their separateness can commit themselves to The Holy One as partners (Fuchs, 1983, 39-40). 1.3. God’s creative word and the paradox of ‘creaturely’ existence Against this background, we see how Genesis 1 unfolds divine creation evocatively as conquering the sacred-demonic powers of darkness (Fuchs, 1983, 45-52). The first thing we notice is that this dynamism begins, and is time and again executed, with the word of God – an act of speaking: “And God said” (Gen 1,3a) (see also Gen 1,6.9.11.14.20.24.26.29). In contrast

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to the second creation narrative, where God appears as the potter who moulds the human from the dust of the earth and afterwards blows the breath of life into him (Gen 2,7), God creates according to Genesis 1 by the effortless power of his word, i.e., by means of the act of his living speech (‘dabar’).5 This word is not simply a word, but a creative word in the literal sense. We can call it a ‘speech act’ (John R. Searle), precisely because it is an efficacious word. Concretely, it is executed as a ‘performative’ utterance by means of which it is clearly distinguished from an informative or descriptive word, to put it in the famous distinction of linguistic analysis. An informative or ascertaining and communicative utterance simply represents a certain state of affairs, shares a particular content of knowledge, affirms that a certain ‘given’ (object or person) conducts itself in a well-defined manner, that something has occurred in one way or the other, and so forth. A performative utterance effectuates something, or intends at least to effectuate something in that to which the utterance is spoken, and usually in the person himself or herself who utters it as well. By means of the utterance itself, a new situation is created which was not there before. Moreover, both the addressee and the addressing or speaking person are involved in the new situation through the utterance, whereby they change, literally become ‘different’, and at the same time are appealed to in order to react and ‘do’ something.6 Now, the performative power of God’s creative word is of a special nature. In a unique way it acts on the one speaking, the Creator, as well as on the one spoken to, the creature. By speaking and through the creative, performative word, God becomes ‘different’. From a being that is closed in itself and at rest, 5 According to the rabbinical view, which we find in the tractate Avot (5,1) from the Mishna, God created the world by means of ten divine utterances or words of creation. By speaking ten times, there appeared the earth and the firmament, the plant and animal kingdoms, and finally human beings. They find an authoritative confirmation of this view, namely that God’s acts of creation were direct spoken language expressions, in Ps 33,6: “By the word of the Lord the heavens were made, and all their host by the breath of his mouth.” Cf. Laenen, 1998, 261-262. 6 For instance, when I say: ‘I promise I shall help you with that’, I take the obligation upon myself in the future to indeed take the necessary steps in order to assist the other to whom I have spoken the promise. I thereby create a new situation that did not exist before I made my promise and which for that matter only exists out of the force of the utterance itself. Starting from the uttering of the promise, I am bound by the obligation that I have taken upon myself in that manner. Neither the other nor I can remain indifferent. We feel and know ourselves involved in the new situation established by the utterance, albeit this does not yet indicate the result or the direction of our involvement.

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He becomes a being that is ‘out-ward’, ‘extro-verted’, turned to the outside. He expresses himself and thus shares himself to beings, which, thanks to this process of externalization, receive the ‘gift’ of existence, uniqueness and difference. We shall clarify this in greater depth later. Subsequently, God’s creative word acts in its own very unique ‘selfwilled’ way on creation. This word not only places a being in a new condition, it also establishes this being in existence. It involves this being with the Creator in such a manner that it leads to an intimacy with God as a ‘received existence’. This intimacy, however, which ensues from the creative and performative dynamism of God’s word, is in its turn of a special nature as due to this the creatures receive their independence and irreducibility on the level of being. The world is a creation that exists in and of itself, even though the earth is ‘founded’ and thus imbued with a divine word. This is the paradox of creatureliness, namely, that those created receive their independence thanks to the other-than-themselves, which thus implies a full-fledged heteronomy. However, this heteronomy is also the ground and condition for the independence – existing in and of itself – of creatures apart from God. Creatures do not derive their being causa sui, but in and through this dependence they receive their independence as such. In spite of the fact that the power of His creative word is the source out of which creatures draw their being, God lays no claim on them. Instead, He offers them ontological autonomy. The question naturally is how this ‘inverted’ world, the paradoxical relationship between dependence and independence whereby dependence is the source of independence, can be thought of, or rather ‘imaged’. We shall enter into that after we have made the same paradox among and between human beings more explicit. 1.4. Human independence and divine self-emptying Human independence consists of freedom in a particular way, that is as self-determination, based on the will and faculty of decision.7 It is here that we discover the astonishing paradox that human beings acquire their autonomy in and through their creaturely heteronomy which radically precedes them. This ‘createdness’ is the most fundamental human condition. As one created, I am not my own origin and principle. Before I even begin to exist, someone else has established me in existence. ‘To be 7

It is on the basis of this freedom that God places human beings as His image as responsible for the world.

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created’ means that my origin precedes the self-conscious creation that is ‘myself ’ as the ‘archè’ or ‘primary principle’. I encounter myself as someone who has a ‘past’, i.e., an ‘origin before my originality’. Something has already happened to me even before I can make myself come into existence. This ‘primal passivity’ reveals my creaturely condition: I am created, and this createdness constitutes my primal-condition or ‘nature’: I am literally ‘in spite of myself ’ (QLT 182/85).8 In this regard, my existence is a ‘given existence’, a ‘given being’ (‘étant donné) (Marion, 1997). Our life is preceded by the divine act of creation that ‘gifts’ us life in a fully gratuitous way, without any merit or intervention on our part. That God ‘gifts’ us life is the first and most fundamental sign of his love. To put it simply, God has loved us first. In order to comprehend this more concretely, we must refer to our own existence as one characterized most intimately by the term ‘birth’. As a ‘begotten’ and thus ‘conceived’ existence, it was – or rather it can be (insofar it is not already de facto thus) – preceded by the love of two people who have gifted us not only with life but also with their love, by means of which our most original relationship is fully asymmetrical and non-reciprocal. The love that we show our parents can never be of a primary nature, but must always be secondary, a response to a previous investiture of love. The idea of our ‘createdness’ thus enunciates that we are not the alpha and omega of ourselves but that we ‘have been preceded’. According to the first creation narrative, neither the world nor my own existence comes from me. This means that I cannot lay any claims on my existence or exact any ‘copyright’. I owe everything to someone else, to a creative Other. I am in debt to the Creator, and this from the very outset and for good, without having personally made any error (Moyaert, 1998, 38-39). The creation narrative lets me discover how an existential debt, or debt of being, stands without moral debt. Starting from my ‘beginning’, I stand in an asymmetrical relationship to the ‘Giver’ of my life. My received existence is marked by an essential non-reciprocity, an inexorable imbal8 This creaturely condition is further enforced in the first creation narrative in the fact that human beings were not created first but last. Human beings are the ‘final creation’ for according to Genesis 1 they are created on the vigil of the Sabbath. They have come into the world as the last, the ‘rear guard’ of creation. In other words, the world is not what human beings have willed and designed themselves. The world which human beings see is not even that of the beginning as the world precedes them five full days and is itself created. The cosmos has not originated from the creative freedom and fantasy of human beings but from the sovereign Word of God. Human beings are placed in a created world that had already entirely been there. The world is first encountered by human beings (with emphasis on the passive form ‘is’) and only afterwards re-worked. Cf. SaS 136/170, 138-139/171.

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ance: I find myself in an existential – non-intentional – dependence that directs me to the other than myself. To believe in God as Creator thus implies that we acknowledge that we owe Him everything, without our ever being able to ‘settle’, ‘rectify’, ‘make up for’ this. Therefore, we can only give back what we have received ourselves, without being able to annul our original ‘indebtedness’. This discrepancy will always be there. Only those who acknowledge this can give back without the pretension of annulling their own being-given and of equalling the Creator in his giving. “Only those who acknowledge that they can never settle their debt can give a gift that, in that which they give, makes it known at the same time that they cannot give. (…) Whoever acknowledges that they cannot give can, not without piety, direct themselves to God” (Moyaert, 1998, 39).9 However, in this fundamental – and at the same time foundational – ‘being given’ lays the paradox of human existence. Thanks to this radical creaturely receptivity, we receive our independence as free beings. Without being causa sui, i.e., without having originated ourselves, human beings receive through the creative act of God’s effortless yet active Word, the power and dignity of an autonomous, ‘secondary cause’, and not of a consequence or result (Thomas Aquinas) heteronomously. This independence on the level of being is not temporary but definitive. It is in itself so radical that human persons can forget their ‘createdness’, without thereby being actually perturbed. Their ontological autonomy allows for the possibility to be uncritical, to withdraw into a safe dogmatic sleep, and pose themselves, i.e., spontaneously as the first and last word, the ‘measure’ of their own existence – and by extension, as the ‘measure of all things’. In this sense, human creatures can conduct themselves as orphans who know not – as ones who renounce their origins (AE 133/105). 9

It is apparent from this how the profession of faith in God as Creator and thus of human beings as creatures immediately implies an ethics as well. By ethics, we mean a well-defined manner of living one’s own life. There is no profession of faith in God as Creator without any consequences for the being and actions of human beings. To acknowledge God as Creator requires human beings to heed and accept the summons to absolutize or divinize no single creature, and certainly not oneself. To profess God as Creator can only be authentic when human beings conduct themselves as ‘created’, as ‘creatures’. This likewise implies that whoever does not conduct oneself as a creature does not ‘know’ God in truth, and conversely, whoever does not ‘know’ and acknowledge God as Creator does not have any guiding light for their behaviour as creatures. To ‘confess’ God as ‘my Creator and Lord’ immediately implies an existential-ethical decision for a ‘creaturely’ existence, and that decision is in its turn a constitutive element of the knowledge of God. See Vergote, 1987, 117-118.

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For God’s part, this independence presupposes in a similar mode, thanks to the creaturely dependence of human beings (and of all nonhuman creatures, as discussed above), a paradoxical condition, which we can label as creaturely self-emptying. God’s infinite perfection realizes itself precisely by means of relinquishing a shamelessly forcible or subtly tempting reduction of all his creatures, and of human beings in particular, into his all-encompassing totality of being. This happens paradoxically enough by means of a ‘self-contraction’ that grants place to the created beings. An infinite being that does not close itself in itself, like an immanently closed circle, but withdraws as it were from the space of being in order to make place for radically distinct beings, exists in a divine way. The predicative quality that makes God sublime and holy is the humility of his ‘self-curtailment’ and self-emptying. This idea, or rather this image, of God’s withdrawal (‘anachoresis’) is related to a concept from the Jewish tradition. ‘Tsimtsum’ as a concept, was first developed by Isaac Luria (1534-1572), the founder of the 16th century renewal movement in the Kabbalah mysticism (Laenen, 1998, 174-176; Richard, 1997, 139). The core of ‘tsimtsum’ is the concept of divine self-limiting. We can best translate it as ‘self-contraction’ or a concentration of the divine. By contracting himself, God wants to leave space free outside of himself for something other than himself. By withdrawing into His depths and, as it were, disappearing, He makes place for his creatures and in a special way for human beings as independent and free beings. In this way, one attempts to resolve the apparent contradiction between God’s omnipresence and the existence of ontologically independent creatures, and in particular of free persons. It is here that we transform the contradiction into a paradox: The perfection of God consists in Him emptying Himself of the perfection of His omnipresence to make place for distinct beings whom exist in and of themselves and who unfold themselves according to their own design and dynamism. Here God does reveal the One’s own unique love precisely. It is a discrete, fully non-obtrusive love that has given existence to creatures so that they can exist by themselves and thus no longer need their Creator, so that they go to God out of their fullness – and not out of their dearth – in perfect freedom to enter into the grace of the One’s covenant.10 10 Specifically applied to the relationship between God and human beings, we find a similar idea in the creation frescoes on the ceiling of the Sistine chapel (Rome, the Vatican). Michelangelo evokes God’s creative activity by making God’s finger touch the finger of the human. By this image the painter expresses that human beings are creatures, and at the same time that as God’s creatures they are independent beings. In the divine

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1.5. Creation as separation and differentiation The creative ‘pronouncement’ of God (every act of creation begins with: ‘And God said’), not only involves the separate creatures in themselves but also the unfolding of the cosmos as a dynamism of separation and distinction. In this dynamic the beings that are established acquire meaning both towards the whole as well as towards each other. By means of the direct, effective power of His spoken and addressed Word, God creates the cosmos out of the ‘no-thing-ness’ of chaos. He carries out successive separations and splitting of different elements and beings, and ascribes to them, based on this ‘distinguishing separateness’, their own time, place or living space, their ‘calling’ or role and meaning. All creatures are summoned to appear out of chaos in an unforeseen unfolding, almost like a ‘big bang’ that literally bursts apart into plurality and diversity. This dynamism of creation takes place according to the time-bound cosmological views of that era that have been superseded by our contemporary scientific insights and are therefore no longer appropriate to the present epoch as such. Nevertheless the fundamental idea of a progressively differentiating dynamism of creation remains meaningful. In this the terms ‘separate’, ‘be separated’, and ‘keep apart’ that run through the text are of significance. The expression ‘from the one and the other’, with regard to the arrangement of what today is called the lifeless cosmos (Gen 1,6) equally deserves reflection, as is the recurring ‘with its own kind’, ‘according to their various kinds’ in relation to the plants and animals (Gen 1,1.12.21.24.25). touch, we see how the finger of the human is always relaxed. The divine touch is at the same time still a touch and already almost not a touch anymore; it is not a touch that lays claim but a liberating and fleeting touch. Another image is that of God’s creating as ‘exhaling’, as is found in some traditions. Every time God ‘exhales’, a new creature is created. As far as human beings are concerned, He exhales so that human beings effortlessly come to be, and afterwards He holds his breath briefly, so that human beings have the chance to stand apart from their Creator and become fully autonomous. In His creative activity, God is not an expansionist, power-hungry being who only creates beings as parts or functions of his all-encompassing totality of being. Rather, God is a fully humble and modest God who in His ‘withdrawal’ into himself gifts to his creation, and especially to human beings, all the space for existence and an irreducible uniqueness. Now it is precisely thanks to the essential independence, which was made possible by God’s withdrawal, that human beings can approach God ‘fully free’, without any exigency or force, entirely out of their own selves, in order to enter into a relationship with Him, in order to establish a covenant, as the Bible has it. Essential to this covenant is that human beings are not absorbed into the relationship nor lose themselves, just as in this covenant, for which He takes the initiative, God keeps His ‘holiness’, i.e., His transcendence, separateness and alterity.

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Concretely, the dynamism of creation begins with the unfolding of the fundamental categories for time: light and darkness (Gen 1,3.5). It is no coincidence that light comes first. After all, it is the counter pole of darkness and therefore of chaos. With light, we are able to see and thus observe space, perspective and difference, to distinguish between high and deep, far and near, here and there, between colours and forms, and so on. By means of the creation of light, darkness loses its all-encompassing and all-absorbing menace. In its separation from darkness, it receives its own place and function. Thus it loses its absolute menace associated with chaos. Thanks to the creation of light, the dynamism of creation can now be carried out fully. Concretely, God unfolds the fundamental categories of space: the air, the sea and the land (Gen 1,6-10). Afterwards, the creation of plants follows. These are still classified under the category ‘space’ because, according to the Hebraic view of that time, plants belong to inanimate nature as they lack blood. It is thus obvious that the Hebraic world view understood blood to be the sole animating element and criteria of determining life. As plants are not considered living beings their creation is linked with that of the earth. In any case, though, the unfolding dynamism of creation continues. Plants are created ‘each according to its own kind’ (Gen 1,11-12). The second part of the narrative is concerned with how different living beings come to occupy their specific living space. First, we have the creation of the heavenly bodies, the sun, the moon and the stars. At first glance, this seems remarkable for to us they are not living beings at all. In ancient Israel, however, they are classified as such. This is understandable when one knows that ancient Israel no longer considered the sun, the moon and the stars as gods like her other neighbouring peoples did, particularly so in Babylon where she stayed in captivity (see further). Here, according to the cosmology of the time stars and planets were not yet considered as pure physical entities. As creatures, they are taken up in the dynamism of separation and distinction (Gen 1,1-14-18). The sun and the moon receive not only their unique place in the heavenly firmament, but also their own task and function – to separate day and night. Stars are given their place in the firmament, and like the sun and the moon, they stand in function of the separation between light and darkness, i.e. in service of conquering chaos. Next follow the animals as living beings that have a ‘soul’ (‘nefesh’). They are also according to their own kind. Simultaneously, each is allotted its own living space in which it is in its ‘element’. As a result, every animal has its own role to fulfil. Today we would call this the ecological environment: the monsters in the sea,

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the fish and all the teeming animals, with which the waters swarm; the birds in the air; the tame, wild and crawling animals on land (Gen 1,2021.24-25).11 With every distinguishing act of creation is added: “And God saw that it was good” (cf. Gen 1,4a.10b.12.21.18c.25). The word ‘good’ is the common translation of the Hebrew ‘tov’. ‘Good’ could imply a moral significance but ‘tov’ has a much broader meaning and is related to what is positive, pleasant, cheerful or ‘nice’ and a source of happiness. Originally it was used to indicate persons and objects that induced or brought about pleasant experiences or the well-being of the whole subject: a good meal, an attractive man or woman, pleasant company, a successful initiative… in short everything that makes one content or eases one’s bodily, psychological, affective and spiritual life. When in the first creation narrative the fact that God finds the results of his work of creation ‘tov’ and agreeable, is repeated this denotes that He feels positively about His creation. It does not only mean, however, that God finds the separate creatures tov, but that God beholds his work of separation and distinction in a rising, dynamic line with growing satisfaction. Thanks to difference, by means of which the many creatures delineate and situate each other in time and space according to value and function, a great 11 For that reason it is no coincidence that the Bible makes a distinction between ‘clean’ and ‘unclean’ animals. The term ‘clean’ refers to the presence of the order of difference, while ‘unclean’ refers to the absence or the destruction thereof. In Leviticus the animals are classified according to the order of differentiation in Genesis 1: land animals (Lv 11,2-8), water animals (Lv 11,9-12) and the winged animals (Lv 11,13-23). The clean animals are those that are adapted to their life environment, at least in the eyes of the then empirical observer (after all, we should not forget that this interpretation is socio-cultural and thus time-bound). Thus water animals are clean when they are equipped with fins and scales (Lv 11,9). Then they are in accordance with the demands of the water and cannot be confused with the land and sky animals. The same applies for the birds that have feathers and wings and that fly in the sky. Animals are labelled unclean insofar as they are not in accordance with their environment (according to the differentiating creation dynamic). Thus the ones who live in the water but have no fins nor scales are unclean. Equally those with wings but do not fly (Lv 11,20). Or the animals that live on land but do not walk but crawl (Lv 11,42), and so on. In short, all animals that were not in conformity with the characteristics of the differentiating world order, as the Israelites then understood it, are unclean and, at the same time, form a threat to those who come into contact with them. That threat consists in the possible return, through the unclean animals, of the primal chaos that can swallow both human beings and the world with its creatures. Every animal that bears in itself signs of disorder or obfuscating of the clear differentiation, precisely because it is a badly defined and structured creature, must be avoided. In the same line lies the prohibition to cross animals of different kinds (Lv 19,19). According to Genesis 1 the animals were created ‘each to its own kind’, and thus must be separated clearly from each other.

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and literally ‘un-folding’ wealth comes to be. That is why at the end of his work of creation, He surveys all that He has made and declares, “and indeed, it was very good” (Gen 1,31a).

2. Sexual difference crowns creation Finally, the divine creation activity of ‘separation and distinction’ culminates in the creation of human beings. Human beings are not only created in the image of God, which we shall examine more closely in the subsequent discussion, but they are also taken up in the on-going dynamism of differentiation. To be more exact, the dynamism of differentiation does not only pertain to human beings, but also in human beings themselves. In this sense, it is allotted a very unique meaning (Lacroix, 1995, 127-129).12 2.1. The creation of human beings as man (male) and woman (female) As sexual differentiation takes part in the divine dynamism of creation whereby both the cosmos, as well as the relationship between human beings and between humanity towards God, receive structure and direction, the question rises as to how to understand this. Our first clue, in response to this, is found in the text itself – it says, ‘male and female 12 In Leviticus the obfuscation of sexual difference is also called unclean (whereby we should not forget that the interpretations are culture-historically marked) precisely because sexual difference belongs to the divine order of creation. What is declared sexually unclean does not stand separately from the ‘founding and meaning-giving’ significance that sexual difference acquires in the Biblical image of what it is to be human. Especially in Leviticus 15, situations are mentioned as unclean because they no longer function according to the order of difference. In the situations enumerated (cf. also Lv 12 and Deut 22,25). Yet, though this would sound to us today strange or even alienating, the very same logic still applies: that which causes confusion and brings back the chaos of undifferentiatedness, is questionable. Even though the situations mentioned lose their normativity, the point still remains that experiences and relationships should not eliminate difference but, on the contrary, should develop into a source of creation and connection. This likewise explains the long list of sexual prohibitions in Leviticus 18: incest, sexual relations with a woman during her cycles, adultery, child sacrifice, male homosexual behaviour and sodomy, bestiality (Lv 18,19-23). Whatever sows confusion and abolishes (sexual and other) differences, according to the prevailing cultural beliefs – differences between the interior and the exterior of the family, the clan, the couple, between human beings and animals, between species of animals and plants (hybrids) – is forbidden because it brings back the deadly threatening forces of chaos, destroying God’s order and ‘holiness’ (Fuchs, 1983, 35-39).

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He created them’. One can interpret this statement, following the rabbinical tradition, in line with a kind of psychological androgyny (Doyle & Paludi, 1991, 115-116, 346-347), as a sexual duality that persists in every human being. Following this interpretation, the text seems to insinuate that there exists a female and male dimension in every human being.13 But the plural ‘them’ in the famous verse ‘male and female He created them’ (Gen 1,27c) can equally point to man and woman separate ‘in persona’ within him and herself concretely and distinguished from each other on the basis of sexual distinction. This interpretation is rather obvious, considering the reality that any kind of thinking on sexuality starts with the tangible and verifiable data that there are men and women (see further). One cannot construe sexual difference. It is. In any case, both interpretations mean that human beings, on the basis of sexual difference, are marked by difference in their flesh and in their psyche and mind, i.e., in their longings, imagination, feelings and will. 2.2. In contrast with the myth of androgyny Sexual difference is established by the Creator and receives a place in the whole dynamism of separation and distinction. It even forms its culminating point. This means that sexual differentiation is highly valued as a fundamental anthropological structure willed by God. By implication sexuality is not ‘evil’, nor an ‘unfortunate accident’. On the contrary, it is a gift from God. This is extremely important in regards to some later Christian developments that approached human sexuality one-sidedly as negative, disqualifying or debasing it. Thanks to Genesis 1, the Biblical tradition emphasizes the ‘original’ (and thus abiding) goodness of sexual difference and human sexuality. This positive approach of the Bible to sexual difference stands in stark contrast with the known myth of androgyny, as we find it in the Upanishads and in Plato’s Banquet (through the mouth of Aristophanes). In order to avoid confusion, we must place the caveat that this myth does not simply coincide with the idea of ‘psychological androgyny’. The myth of androgyny, in the strict sense, is about the origin of sexual difference and desire, and not about the double sexual-emotional nature 13 Cf. also the Eastern Yin-Yang idea, as well as Freud’s idea that a double sex is present in every person, which he calls the essential bisexuality of human beings. See also Jung’s distinction between ‘animus’ and ‘anima’ in each person, whereby ‘animus’ is the hidden but active aspect in the woman, and ‘anima’ the withdrawn but no less real aspect in the man.

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of every human being. According to the myth of androgyny, the human person was originally one (Lacroix, 1992, 287-298) and our sexual condition is the result of divine punishment. In origin, human beings were ‘complete’, i.e., man-woman (or in a few exceptional cases, some were man-man or woman-woman, which helped to explain homosexuality). These integral human beings attempted to climb up to heaven and thus conquer the gods. Out of self-defence and jealousy, the gods cut the human beings in two, an imagery which we still see in the original meaning of the Latin word ‘sexus’ which goes back to the Latin ‘secare’, ‘to cut’, ‘to split’. With this incision, human beings lost their power and began to search for their ‘lost’ other-half in order to regain their original unity and power. According to this view, sexuality is a ‘coupure‘, a cut, hence an incompleteness, an injury that arouses the desire for restoration. Being sexual means being separated, not only from the other as partner, but also from one’s own origin and from the double-creature from which human beings arose (or rather ‘fell’ after being spliced). This deterioration can only be repaired by returning to the original unity to merge together instead of remaining in twos, just as Hephaistos whispers into the ear of the beloved in Plato’s text. This is in line with the original Greek metaphysics that seeks for the underlying unity amidst plurality. It starts from factual separation and plurality, as it experiences it ‘with its own eyes’ in a world of becoming and change. But it interprets this plurality as a deterioration, or even as a deceptive illusion. Plurality and difference are a negativity that must be conquered by digging ‘thoroughly underneath this plurality’ towards the depth, the ground, the one fundamental principle out of which everything can be explained and connected. It must be made to refer back to its source, unity: “Multiplicity is a fall of the One or the Infinite, a diminution in being which each of the multiple beings would have to surmount so as to return from the multiple to the One, from the finite to the Infinite” (TI 268/292). The meaning and task of all beings, even of human beings, and that of man and woman, is to return from their ‘plurality’ – their tragedy and misfortune – to the original unity out of which they have ‘fallen’. In other words, classical Greek metaphysics is characterized by the exitus-reditus scheme. By means of their ‘exit’ (‘exitus’) from their first and foundational unity – an exit that is not wealth but a degeneration – beings can only be characterized by the nostalgic longing to return to their roots and thus find ‘restoration’ for their wound of separation and difference. Such a metaphysics understands the meaning of existence as ‘a nostalgia for a paradise lost’: one

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desires to re-find the lost unity that brought happiness by annulling the differences – these are but the source of irrationality and violence – and thus achieve the only, true ‘fullness’. The Biblical view runs entirely in the opposite direction. What is essential in Genesis 1 is that separation is neither seen as punishment nor as deterioration. It is an original and positive given of creation of which God even says that it – in the entirety of the event of creation – is ‘very good (tov)’ (Gen 1,31). As the crown of the entire dynamism of separation and difference, sexual difference is a benefaction which constitutes human beings as a distinct ‘image of God’. It is not that separation and difference are negative with respect to the original state of solidarity and interwovenness. On the contrary, the preceding state of ‘fusion’ and ‘indistinguishability’ is the ‘evil’ that needs to be conquered precisely by means of the dynamism of separation and difference, even in human beings. Through the creation of sexual difference, human beings are ‘commissioned’ to be the ones responsible for preserving and unfolding the differentiation-dynamism. It is precisely within this dynamism that the fecund, literally ‘creative’, character of creation resides according to God’s intentions. Hence, in the Biblical view ‘unity’ does not belong to the past, as in the myth of androgyny. It opens the perspective towards a new future: that of a covenant wherein two separate persons do not merge into one another, but confirm and promote each other in their difference. This future will never be self-evident. Struggle and effort will be necessary, coupled with the unavoidable crises, in order to experience the covenant as covenant and not as a fusing alliance that annuls the separation and difference of the partners. In this regard, we must again point to the struggle against the idolatrous experience of sexuality in the entire Biblical tradition, and in particular in the First Testament (idolatry implies a divinizing or an absolutizing of a created reality). The Hebrew Scriptures do not cease to react against an attitude towards sexuality that culminates in the loss of the self – and the other – in an absorbing ecstasy that leads to indistinguishability. One that simply signifies the evil of chaos and darkness. This takes place in a specific manner when one puts sexuality at the service of an experience that devaluates and even excludes the word and the ‘face-to-face’ between two separate beings, with the intention of striving for an immediate participation in, and a fusion with, the divine power or energy. Precisely for that reason, the First Testament tradition time and again denounces sexuality that presents itself as the possibility and the ‘place’ for a direct connection with the divine by being absorbed into the divine.

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Throughout the entire history of Israel, we encounter time and again a furious struggle against the orgiastic cults and cultic orgies of Baal in Canaan (which Israel debases as ‘temple prostitution’). These cults link the perception and the experience of the divine to the experience of sexual orgasm, designating it as a merging absorption in the non-differentiated. The critique on this ‘religious’ experience of sexuality is not only of an anthropological and ethical nature (insofar as it reacts against the fusion between partners), but also of a ‘meta-physical’ nature. The critique of Israel on the ‘sacred’ experience of sexuality is so ruthless because the notion of God itself is at stake. The creator God is indeed not the All into which one is absorbed and lost. He is the One who creates in order that His creatures do not disappear in their own bottomless, dark depths, but in order to let them ‘exist’ as independent beings with their specific ‘particularity’. Human beings are not created in order to let them ‘die’ in an engulfing fusion, but in order to let them ‘live’ as distinct beings that, precisely in their distinctiveness, can enter as partners into a covenant with God wherein the two separate and distinct beings do not disappear in each other but relate with each other through speaking (addressing, appealing, responding, contradicting, …).

3. Sexual difference gives rise to reflective thought With this, we have arrived directly at a reflection on the ‘meanings’ that sexual difference implies and suggests. However, before we enter into these, we will first say something about the underlying principle of interpretation: the significance of the body as a specific source of meaning. 3.1. The body as source of meaning: critique of a hidden dualism Here, we move against the one-sidedness of a current, popularized ‘modern’ dualism that bases itself unilaterally on the Enlightenment and its emphasis on independence, in particular on the active and intentional meaning-giving by the human subject itself. The idea of transcendence present in the ‘modern’ thinking on autonomy (transcendence in the sense that human beings are capable of going beyond the merely biological, natural and somatic) is indeed valuable on various levels. However, it is our intention at present to decry the one-sidedness of a specific ‘modern’ dualism that has grown out of the Enlightenment emphasis on the active and intentional creation of meaning by the human subject

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him or herself. This modern thinking on the subject risks to remain one-sidedly spiritualistic insofar as it lays emphasis on the ‘spiritual’ (non-biological, cultural) at the cost of the ‘bodily’ (biological, natural). Concretely this means that the body is too swiftly and easily degraded into an object of intention, organization and planning, into a means in order to do and express things, without the body itself ushering in its own meaning, significance or wisdom to which the meaning-giving subject would have to ‘obey’. To give ‘hearing’ or ‘to lend an ear’ or ‘to listen to’ lies at the core of what it means ‘to obey’. Where other authors set these two in opposition as ‘modern’ and ‘postmodern’ approaches, we can reproduce the tension between the two views on bodiliness just sketched with a double expression by Levinas. In modernity, with its emphasis on autonomy and the active creation of meaning, we can state: ‘Le même s’exprime dans l’autre, définit l’autre’; ‘the same expresses itself in the other, determines the other’. Nevertheless, this only makes sense after posing another expression: ‘L’autre s’exprime dans le même, définit le même’; ‘The other expresses itself in the same, determines the same’.14 Applied to sexual difference, this means that the heteronomy of sexual bodiliness brings in a dimension of my existence that I cannot simply manipulate and control autonomously. It does supply, however, the initial possible meanings for creative integration in a personal and/ or communal (cultural) design. In this regard, ascribing sense to sexual difference is only an interpretation, and not a creation-of-meaning ‘ab ovo’, ‘out of nothing’. The interpretation and experience of sexual difference are strongly culturally determined. However, it is only out of the biological, physically visible (genetic, neurological) givenness that 14 In this regard, we can also refer to how a revaluation of nature, the body, and the cosmos as constitutive sources of meaning can be found in the ecological movement in an unique way. This does not concern the economically orientated ecological movement that only aspires for a better and more adequate management of nature for the sake of human self-interest (albeit with a perspective for future generations) (Greisch, 1994). Rather, it concerns ‘deep ecological thinking’ (‘deep ecology’) that develops a new philosophy and even a new metaphysics concerning nature (with the unavoidable onesidedness thereof ). In contrast to a pragmatic ecological mindset, that as a strategic and adaptive thinking only aspires for long-term, better living- and survival-conditions of human beings, ‘real’ ecological thinking proceeds with the understanding that nature itself is a source of the creation of meaning and significance for human beings. The ‘discovery’ of the intrinsic value of nature, and in particular of animals, requires a specific respect, appreciation and care. Naturally, this can evolve into an eco-fascism when nature becomes the first, the only and the total source of meaning (this then is an extension of a one-sided somatic and ‘naturalistic’ thinking, which we shall discuss further), but this imbalance is not unavoidable.

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interpretation is necessitated. In other words, what is cultural is not accidental and merely relative, notwithstanding its huge flexibility. This, however, should not make us blind to the risk of the so-called ‘naturalism’. This exaggerates or even absolutizes the contribution of meaning of the (sexual) body. One example where this becomes apparent is that of suffocating biological-procreative thinking about natural law. In this way, naturalism ends up in the opposite extreme of modern spiritualism, also called culturalism, insofar as it reduces everything to a cultural creation of meaning. This in turn implies a total relativizing of the so-called sexual differences as is laconically expressed by, among others, Simone de Beauvoir: ‘On ne naît pas femme, on le devient’ (‘One is not born as a woman, one becomes one’). An integral view of the human person sees him or her as a bodily-spiritual being, as flesh and spirit. Also as a spirit thanks to the flesh and as a ‘human’ body thanks to the spirit.15 This thesis also contains an anthropological, i.e. a general human critique on modern or enlightened ‘expressivism’ that emphasizes particularly the dynamism from the inside towards the outside. An essential core is supposed to exist that precedes every form or shape and that in a second instance would become externalized. In this approach, the ‘essence’ or the ‘core’ determines the external form. That in its turn would only be the ‘garment’ or the ‘cover’ of that which has been given beforehand as an inviolable essence (eidos). The inside is the essential, while the outside is the accidental. This expressivism (‘stretched’ to its extremes), however, goes beyond the dynamism and creative impact of the external form. Form or shape is not merely something accidental and neutral that can be used in any way whatsoever in order to externalise itself. After all, the form determines the content in such a manner that another form would also imply another content. Or, in this context, the body is not only a means for the spirit to express itself, it is also constitutive for the spirit itself. In other words, it determines the being and content of the spiritual as well. We see the same reciprocal, creative relationship at work between sign and significance in the context of symbols and rituals (i.c. the sacraments). The ‘modern’ approach starts from an essential, pre-given significance that then searches for a form – 15 A specifically Christian, theological foundation of the sexual body as signifier lies at the core of the Christian faith itself, namely in the faith in the incarnation: God’s ‘becoming flesh’ in the earthly person Jesus. It is not without significance that John the Evangelist says: “The Word became flesh” (Jn 1,14). In other words, if we want to know something about the ‘Word’, about God, the ‘Spirit’ and the ‘spiritual’, then we must look towards the ‘flesh’, the earthly, concrete lived-through body of Jesus in this world.

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a sign – in order to express its meaning. The subject that provides significance and expresses itself in a sign resembles the absolute signifier. Nothing, however, could be further from the truth because even the sign itself is creative in its significance. The sign itself is a signifier (without the sign becoming an absolute signifier as well: that would mean a relapse into naturalism and materialism). This is also called the thesis of the ‘incarnation of meaning’: the sign not only embodies or expresses the meaning, it also co-determines that meaning. The form or the shape – the sign – itself is ‘meaning-creating’, without having the entire creation of meaning reduced merely to the activity of the sign. ‘No one knows the strength of the body’ (to paraphrase a statement by Spinoza in his Ethica). 3.2. Sexual difference as radical difference It is our conviction, therefore, that not only the ‘mind’ (the will, reason) but also the ‘body’, or better still, the lived bodiliness, is an essential source of the creation of meaning. Thus, the body cannot be reduced to an object or means for an active creation of meaning. From here, we proceed to the understanding that sexual difference is not only a mere somatic or biological fact, but also suggestive of meaning. It thus invites us to its discovery and creation. From our reading of the first creation narrative above, we have seen how the Bible takes up sexual difference as an essential ‘signifier’ in the ordering of separation and distinction by means of which creation itself takes place as a divine event of creation. Sexual difference in itself therefore gives rise to thinking. The question then is, “what sort of thinking does it give rise to (Belford Ulanov, 1989)?” Firstly, sexual difference presents itself as a radical difference. This is no coincidental or inessential difference that can easily be altered and cancelled. Our experience confronts us with many differences, but they are not all of the same standing. Many forms of difference are relative, in the sense that they are reversible. For instance, the differences between teacher and student or between employer and employee are not absolute. They are liable to change and to evolve as a consequence of certain circumstances. Thus, the student today can become the teacher tomorrow – at times faster than one expects – and replace his teacher. Likewise, the employee today can become the employer tomorrow, and vice versa. These are not absolute or fundamental but relative differences. Only the differences that are inscribed in the body are strong and they often display

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an irreversible character (unless by means of surgery, with the accompanying hesitations, complications and unpleasant consequences thereof ). Since we are confronted with it in and through our bodies, bodily differences seize us deeply and encroach into our existence. As a ‘son’, for instance, I can never become ‘my father’ (even though I myself can naturally become a father). The nature of procreation is such that I am always the son of my father, and I can never become the father of my father. I am always the procreated one, meaning the one who has received life from someone else who precedes me. I cannot change the difference son-father according to my own whim or desire. It is inscribed for good in my existence, precisely because of my biological origin and sexual procreation. As ‘son’ I cannot but experience that I am not of my own origin. This is engraved in my body, which precisely constitutes my being-son. This also applies to sexual difference. The entire thinking on sexual difference, and likewise on sexual identity, on being-man or beingwoman and gender (cf. infra),16 starts with the insurmountable fact of that which is anatomically given by and in the ‘bodily’. By extension this includes the biological and genetic fact of the sexes, i.e., of the bodilybiological-genetic sexual organs. Whether it concerns traditional, stereotypical thinking on man-woman roles, or progressive, emancipatory feminist thinking, it must always start with the brute facticity of two sexes, which are present and unambiguously distinct from each other in a kind of bodily givenness. In this regard, we can simply state that the sexual body gives rise to reflective thought. It is not the so-called autonomous, free mind that gives rise to thought about sexuality and man-woman relationships, but the given, the discovered, not invented, bodily difference with which we, ‘in spite of ourselves’, are confronted. Without contesting the huge personal ageing, and cultural flexibility and diversity of this thinking, our main concern here is rather on the ‘condition’, the prerequisite or starting point for this. Our understanding of sexuality does not begin with the notion that there would be a sort of neutral sexual energy which would then branch out into two or more 16 ‘Gender’ is distinguished from ‘sex’ in order to refer to the psychological and sociocultural, economic, demographic and political forms of interpretation and experience of the biological ‘sexes’. Thus, ‘gender identity’ refers to the ‘feeling’ of belonging to a particular sex, while ‘gender role’ refers to the way in which society considers behaviour as male or female, including all possible stereotypes that could give rise to all forms of discrimination and oppression and that are often institutionalised into systems of family and kinship, upbringing, economics (work, career), politics and legislation, religion (churches) and traditions… Cf. Basow, 1992, 2-22.

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specializations that are interchangeable with each other, or would be ‘the same’ in any case as far as their value is concerned. On the contrary, we must state that this interpretation of an initial neutral sexual energy, which is differentiated only afterwards, is already an interpretation that goes back to the intractable given that there are men and women. All sexual thinking and feeling departs from the insurmountable given that there is sexual bodily difference that, by its very appearance, intrigues and challenges us to understand it, to interpret it, and to give meaning to it. 3.3. Sexual difference shows non-omnipotence: ‘I am not everything’ Sexual difference gives rise to thought about myself. As a man or a woman, I am not everything, and therefore I am not omnipotent. The sexual body confronts me with the essential boundary of my existence: not everything is like me. There is also the other, the strange one, the one whom I cannot reduce to myself. I can never consider myself as the source or foundation of all meaning and value. On the basis of sexual difference, I am confronted with the limitedness and finiteness of my existence, even though contingency is at the same time a source of wealth (more with regard to this below). As difference, the sexual appeals to me, in a radical manner, not to wrap myself in the image that I form about myself as a man or a woman. Sexual difference, namely that I am a man or a woman, means the presence of an objective, insuperable boundary in the subjective, in my autonomous being-subject. In my self-awareness, which through thinking and desiring thinks itself to be omnipotent, the confrontation with my own ‘sexual-ness’ ushers in an awareness that unavoidably refers to the outside, to elsewhere, to the other than myself, to that which does not come from me and to what is irreducibly separate and distinct from me. This confrontation means a hard, but at the same time healing asceticism, that returns me to reality and plants my feet firmly on the ground. 3.4. Sexual difference opens up a perspective on dialogue There is more to this as this reference to the other outside myself does not only lead to the awareness of the boundary, but also opens up the perspective on encounter. As we have alluded to before, if I am not everything, I am also not the only source of meaning. That is why I must step outside of the solipsistic world of my own construction in order to learn,

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to find and get to know the ‘other’. It is only when the other ‘reveals’ his or herself that I will get to know the other, because I do not find in myself the starting point for understanding the other. Naturally, this requires the necessary humility that comes only from one’s own experience of contingency. I must be able to surrender the pretension to know everything by means of self-knowledge (‘gnothi seauton’), as well as give up the idea that I can have mastery over the indispensable wisdom of life. Conversation and revelation, to be understood as the discovery of something truly new, is only possible on the basis of the distinction between the one and the other, both irreducible to each other. If the one is the all, then everything is identical. The one will then swallow all into itself and become the only source of meaning and truth. Thus, a monolithic, totalitarian and megalomaniacal source arises. This source either consumes or excludes. It destroys the strange and all that is not itself. This then becomes the source of violence, persecution and racism. Authentic dialogue in the first place requires a duality, (i.e., a separateness) and then it requires difference (i.e., alterity). In this alterity, the appeal to approach each other arises, without reducing the other to myself, but in order to ‘obey’ the other, in the sense of ‘to listen’ to the other. This approach is at the same time marked by attraction and fear. One is addressed by while made curious by the other. Desire is aroused by the appearance of the other, whereby expectations come to the fore as well. One expects that the other will reveal him or herself, and out of that revelation, a new world of possibilities and enrichment shall arise. On the other hand, there yet persists the fear of the strange. Usually, one trusts only what is recognizable or familiar. That is why one encounters the other, and that which is bewildering about the other sex, with a certain hesitation and distrust. After all, this other causes the nurtured certainty of what is one’s own to falter. The other does not only delimit what is my own, he or she calls it into question in the sense that the other ushers in the crisis of the self-complacency of the same. This, however, is a beneficial crisis that challenges me not to yield to withdrawing into the snugness of myself and my own circle. Instead, I am called to consciously take the step towards the other, to be receptive to the strange other as my ‘teacher’ (without giving up my critical sense).17 17 We know how the idea of ‘teacher’ or ‘master’ can be corrupted and promoted to justify an authoritarian oppression, and thus literally have a ‘double-meaning’ (ambiguous meaning).

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3.5. Sexual difference stands as a symbol for fruitfulness Sexual difference does not only appeal to encounter and dialogue, it also stands as a symbol for fertility. Sexual difference is indeed biological. To beget a new person, two people of different sexes are needed to bring their specific contribution, each one irreducible in kind to the other. As a result of this reality, the child cannot physiologically or genetically be reduced to being the exclusive product of either parent isolated from the other. Even when the fertilization takes place ‘in vitro’, as is the case with certain forms of medically assisted reproduction, the different contributions simply remain in force: An uniquely male and an uniquely female ‘donor’, each with their distinct ‘genetic potential’, are indispensable. Moreover, people experience this biological given not merely as empirical. For them it also has a symbolic significance, in the sense that difference forms the basis and the pre-condition to be fertile. Not just in the realm of metaphysics, but also in terms of human biology, nothing is yielded from an equation where the same is added to the same. The joining of two identical realities only produces a quantitative increase or accumulation, but the result is actually sterile and stillborn. It is only on the basis of separation and difference that fertility and creativity are possible. This is made clear in an eminent and very specific way in the child, who can only exist as a radically ‘new’ person because of the fruits of sexual difference. It is also apparent in the first creation narrative, where man and woman – out of their sexual difference – receive the task and blessing to be fruitful (Gen 1,28).18 18

In this, we discover one of the reasons for rejecting in principle the cloning of human beings (which does not yet automatically imply the rejection of cloning for strict scientific and medical use for the curing of diseases). Cloning that is directed towards reproduction, whereby the egg-cell is removed from its core and is injected with a bodycell and thus reproduces a genetic duplicate of one person, is another matter. Examples of this are the cloning of a child either prematurely lost during childbirth or in order to provide a child to a gay, lesbian, or infertile couple, or cloning with the intention to improve persons genetically. Such cloning denies in principle the difference between people as foundational for relationships. Or rather, the practice of cloning denies the difference out of which one comes into existence as actually important for the unfolding and quality of being-human itself, which is roundly contradicted by the first creation narrative. The risk of biologically identical reproduction is the ‘psychical clone’ whereby one projects oneself onto the other, not as an actual other, but as an ‘other-self ’ that repeats ‘me’ and excludes the other whom I need in order to beget a child (see further). A huge department store conceived of the idea of manufacturing a doll for girls, one that would completely resemble the purchaser based on her photograph… (Anatrella, 1998, 11). In other words, we cannot ignore the consequences of the cloning of human beings for

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This ‘meta-physical’ significance of difference as a condition for fertility – ‘meta-physical’ in the sense that the biological given reaches farther than its strictly physical dimension – refers moreover to the fundamental structure of sexual desire, onto which fertility is anchored. Someone can only be fertile when he or she turns oneself to the other. As mentioned above, in and of him or herself, a man or a woman cannot be fertile. That is why one must direct oneself to someone of the other sex in order to become fertile. I require the desire of the other for me so that my desire for a child can come to fruition. It is at this point that we draw closer to what lies enclosed in sexual difference insofar as it pertains to the structure of desire. As a man, I am separate and different, and thus finite, not-total and not-almighty. That is why I must turn to the other, to the ‘other’ sex specifically, in order to stimulate and encourage an arousal in the other for me. Jacques Lacan expresses this fundamental structure by stating that human desire is the desire for the desire of the other (“le désir de l’homme, c’est le désir de l’autre”). At first sight, one can translate this as: “human desire is the desire for the other”, but according to Lacan, we can just as rightly translate it like this: “human desire is the desire of the other (for me)”. The wish to be fertile, in which one wants to authenticate one’s own masculinity or femininity, can only become a human choice for the child as an ‘other’ when this wish for fertility is transformed into a wish for a child in the strict sense of the word. Thanks to the desire of a sexual other who desires me, I am enabled to actually have a child that is then not ‘more of myself ’, much less only ‘more of the other’. The child can be for both sexual partners the ‘other’ whom they have to acknowledge and promote as ‘other’. The honest relationship towards the ‘alterity’ of the child, i.e. its separateness and difference, is consequently a necessary condition for all parenthood. However, this does not imply a sufficient condition. The importance of sexual difference should not be posed uncritically and thus become absolutized. Neither the sexual body nor sexual orientation are mere fatalities that impose themselves onto human beings and enforce their ‘iron law’. This does not mean that no starting points and suggestions are provided in the pre-given somatic (or psycho-affective) condition. These should, though, not be raised to an objective and inexthe self-image and the sense of one’s own worth for those concerned. Can we allow that some people are going to determine for others what qualities they will or must have? Will this not lead to a kind of narcissistic culture where, only that which I want, and that which reflects me, is good?

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orable ‘natural law’ that no longer allows for any transcendence. Rather, a calling is present therein that shapes it in a human, creative way. The human creation of meaning never flows directly and immediately out of ‘pre-givenness’, even when it concerns such a fundamental one like sexual difference or the difference in sexual identity. The human creation of meaning is an ethical and not an ontological event, a calling and not a fate (Lacroix, 1993, 141-142). Thus man and woman in their ‘nature’ itself, i.e., because they can only be fertile together, are not automatically better qualified to be a parent. To be a parent is an ethical and not a natural category, which among women, would rest on an instinct to ‘mother’ and among men, to ‘father’. From the moment that one moves on from the ‘natural’ (pre-given) level to the ethical level, certain ‘possibilities’ and ‘capacities’ of their particular binding to one or the other sexual condition, i.e., sex or orientation, are removed. Then, as ‘human’ possibilities, these can both be lived out and authenticated by everyone, albeit always according to one’s own unique way. Parental love is not a monopoly and much less is it a virtue, simply because one can beget children by means of the heterosexual experience and thereby be called to take responsibility and to care for the child as an eminent ‘other’. On the level of active human creation of meaning, i.e., on an ethical level, it is no longer about ‘inherent talents’ and ‘qualities’, but about ‘virtues’, and these virtues are tasks that each person has to shape in his or her own responsible and meaningful way. With this, other equally important discussions, e.g. from psychology, in connection with the importance of sexual difference for the formation of the child’s sexual identity, have not yet been settled. Qualitatively, nurturing parenthood is not a pre-given and inborn natural fatality, dependent on the actual sex or sexual orientation. On the contrary, it is a human possibility that is at the same time a task, so that only the ethical development of this capacity into a ‘virtue’ contains the necessary guarantees for an educational commitment and quality (Moreau, 1993, 127-130). 4. Sexual difference: neither the alpha nor the omega From the critical considerations above, it is becoming apparent how we should not limit and confine forms of thinking on difference. This would, in fact, very quickly lead to a one-sided overemphasis and even an absolutizing of sexual difference and of the meanings where this difference takes shape, personally and culturally.

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4.1. Sex and gender theory (or gender ideology?) Nevertheless, in its turn this should not lead to an exaggerated great relativizing of sexual difference as a signifier. The current discussion on sex and gender makes it clear that this is no imaginary risk. What embodies this especially is a one-sided gender ideology that relativizes the significance and importance of the sexual body and sexual difference strongly so that it becomes irrelevant for human relationships and for society. For a correct understanding of this ideological one-sidedness, we reflect on the so-called gender theory that both distinguishes and makes a connection between ‘sex’ and ‘gender’. ‘Gender’ is distinguished from ‘sex’ in order to refer to the psychological and socio-cultural, economic, demographic and political forms of interpretation and experience of the biological ‘sexes’. Thus, ‘gender identity’ refers to the ‘feeling’ of belonging to a particular sex, while ‘gender role’ refers to the way in which society considers behaviour as male or female. ‘Gender theory’ attempts to understand the meaning of both sex and gender as well as their mutual relation, including their social and cultural implications. “What is certainly needed is a more thorough examination of human nature and culture which is based not simply on biology and sexual difference” (Francis I, 2015b, n. 8). This in-depth examination is challenged by what can be called an ideological gender theory, or simply ‘gender ideology’, namely a one-sided interpretation of ‘gender’ that strongly or entirely relativizes the contribution of sexual difference to our being-human and to society: “the gender of each individual turns out to be simply the product of social conditioning and needs and, thereby, ceasing, in this way, to have any correspondence to a person’s biological sexuality” (Francis I, 2014, n. 23), Such a reductive gender ideology “envisages a society without sexual differences, thereby eliminating the anthropological basis of the family. This ideology leads to educational programmes and legislative enactments that promote a personal identity and emotional intimacy radically separated from the biological difference between male and female. Consequently, human identity becomes the choice of the individual, one which can also change over time” (Francis I, 2016, n. 56). In “Male and female He created them. Towards a path of dialogue on the question of gender theory” (2019), a document promulgated by the Vatican Congregation for Catholic Education, this “subjective mindset of each person, who can choose a gender not corresponding to his or her biological sex”, is qualified – which is at least striking – as “transgenderism” (n° 11). (Ibid. n° 25).

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We must honestly acknowledge that the concept ‘gender’ acquired a socio-political significance, starting from the experience of women who consider themselves discriminated against in their familial and social (economic, political) lives. Feminism denounced (and continues to denounce) how these roles were institutionalized in the systems of education, economics (labour, career), legislation and politics, as well as in cultural traditions and meaning-giving systems. They discovered how certain stereotypes not only gave shape to the relationships between men and women, but also conditioned and justified their roles within society as much as they determine and limit the access to health, income, education, freedom of choice, etc. In religions as institutions too, there are ‘roles’ for men and women whose function is culturally and historically prescribed, especially in matters concerning the vocation and mission of both men and women within the religious community. Feminists and all promoters of the social emancipation of women point to ‘machismo’ or male chauvinism that is expressed in recalcitrant patriarchal and androcratic forms, with the many direct and subtle forms of domination, abuse of power and violence in their wake. Not only is there rape and direct, machismo-coloured sexual aggression, there are also still forms of inappropriate gestures, sexist language and ‘forms of address’, forms of intimidation disguised as humour… (as the Me Too Movement has exposed). We therefore should not fear ‘gender’. Not every use of this category deserves critique since it is of polysemous significance. We should not qualify gender theory to quickly as gender ideology, just as we should not speak too quickly about ‘transgenderism’ and thus do not justice to the existential experience of ‘transgender’ people who strive to harmonize their somatic sex with their deep personal gender feeling. Therefore we must ask ourselves time and again what significance is being attributed to the concept ‘gender’. Initially, the concept ‘gender’ was used to press charges against discrimination, of which – as indicated – women were and are especially the victims. This problematic reality must be acknowledged honestly as legitimate and important, without immediately qualifying this approach as ‘gender ideology’. In line with the emancipatory significance of ‘gender’ for women, the critique against discrimination towards other groups was consequently broadened to homosexuals, and subsequently, to other sexual minorities (LGBT: lesbians, gays, bisexuals, transsexuals). Even its initials were expanded to ‘LGBT+’ in order to include all sexual minorities. Thus arose the hybrid initial LGBTQIAP: Q for queer, I for intersex, A for

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asexual, P for pansexual. The social, economic and familial discriminations between men and women are one thing, just as the discriminations of which sexual minorities are the victims, and those must be condemned (even from a Christian standpoint). Another matter is when heterosexuality and the distinction between man and women are entirely relativized or ignored. Certain gender studies develop such radical points of view that not only the privilege but also the importance of heterosexuality is questioned, which leads them to argue for ‘gender-neutrality’. Not only do they undo the connection between sex and gender, they also state that sexual orientation is a matter of individual choice.19 And this ‘free choice’ must take shape both in education as well as in society (public space, professional life…) through ‘gender-neutral’ facilities, including the abolition of gender-specific facilities. Once again, forms of extreme reduction of sexual difference should not be an argument to reject as ‘gender ideology’ all insights from gender theory that focusses especially on exposing and abolishing discrimination between people and groups. On the other hand, the affirmation of the bond between sexual difference and family (and marriage) in its turn should not lead to an absolutizing of sexual difference and to a rigid, particularly patriarchal and androcratic interpretation of roles of men and women in marriage and the family, in society and religion or the church: “There can be a certain flexibility of roles and responsibilities, depending on the concrete circumstances of each particular family” (Francis I, 2016, n° 175). Within this we find an appreciation of feminism, but then as balanced: “I certainly value feminism, but one that does not demand uniformity or negate motherhood. For the grandeur of women includes all the rights derived from their inalienable human dignity but also from their feminine genius, which is essential to society” (Francis I, 2016, n 173). This appreciation goes hand in hand with the critique on certain forms of gender theory like ‘ideological colonizing’, that individualizes entirely and liberalizes sexual identity and intimacy (Francis I, Cracow, 27 July 2016). The challenge rightly consists in taking emancipatory, anti-discriminatory revendications seriously, without neglecting the meaning-giving significance of sexual difference: “It needs 19 See also “Male and female He created them” (2019) (cfr. supra), n. 12: “In a growing contraposition between nature and culture, the propositions of gender theory [better: gender ideology; cfr. supra] converge in the concept of ‘queer’, which refers to dimensions of sexuality extremly fluid, flexible, and as it were nomadic. This culminates in the assertion of the complete emancipation of the individual from any a priori given sexual definition”.

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to be emphasized that biological sex and the socio-cultural role of sex (gender) can be distinguished but not separated” (Francis I, 2016, no. 56). In a paradoxical way transgender persons confirm this refusal of total separation by their efforts to harmonize their sex with their deep gender personality. In other words, we are faced with the challenge of avoiding two extremes: relativizing of sexual difference as signifier as well as essentialist absolutizing and reduction that accords sexual difference with immutable features of maleness and femaleness, motherhood and fatherhood. Radical gender ideology disincarnates and desexualizes not only man and woman, but also intimate relationships. But again, this debunking qualification as ‘ideology of neutrality’ should not lead to a biological ‘natural law mode of thought’ regarding being-male and being-female, nor to an ahistorical and a-cultural ‘essence mode of thought’ (cf. the idea of the ‘eternal feminine’) (Berten, 2018, 23-25, 74-79). Taking seriously the feminist and emancipatory critique on the absolutizing of sexual difference, but without lapsing into an ideological relativizing, and inspired by Genesis 1, we would like to situate our thinking on sexual difference into the broader context of being-human. In this way, the sexual is surpassed and can be linked with what men and women share in common with each other. This calls for an exceptional attention to the idea of ‘sameness’, and ‘equality’ understood as ‘equivalence’. There is need not only for (a justifiable!) emancipatory attention for equality between men and women, taking their mutual differences into account, but likewise for their mutual sameness and equivalence as human beings. 4.2. Being-human precedes sexual difference Concretely, this means that our reading of sexual difference needs a corrective. This corrective can be carried out from the first creation narrative itself. So far our reflexive analysis of Genesis 1 happened rather quickly. We have overlooked something of essential importance in our attention to sexual difference as the peak of the differentiation dynamic. Before there is mention of man-woman, we first have the human: ‘adam’. Sexual difference is not the first nor the last, the total and the decisive difference, in the sense that all human meaning would be dependent upon it. We should not forget that, according to Genesis 1, the human being in general, without reference to sexual difference, is the ‘image of God’ in this world (Cairns, 1973). What this means will be made more explicit further down. Even though man and woman together are the image of

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God, or as the Talmud says: “Man without woman weakens the image of God in the world”, they are indeed, as human beings, the image of God. Each and every person is in their being-human the image of God thus finding its totality both in man and in woman. In this regard, again in contrast to the ancient myth of androgyny, man and woman are not only human beings in their complementarities, as if when separate they would only be ‘half human’. Man and woman are in themselves integral human beings, even though marked ‘from head to toe’ by their sexualness in this whole being-human. The meaning of being-man or beingwoman, and also being-man-and-woman together, can only be understood against the background of being-human. To put it in the language of abstract philosophy, the validity of particularity is never exclusive and absolute, except and only out of universality. With this, we stumble once more upon the essential importance of sameness, precisely as the basis for difference and for equality in difference. People can only be equal when they share in being-human unconditionally, i.e., without the differences counting as criteria for their acknowledgement as human beings. Being-human is something that we possess in equal measure by belonging to the human race. If we cannot take this as our point of departure, we regress into exclusivism and racism. Then we begin to posit conditions for belonging to the human community: You are human when you are able to speak, when you are white and male, when you are big or small, when you are strong or weak, powerful or rich, and so on. To be the ‘same’ as human beings is the condition for being able to speak about equality on unconditional grounds, and only afterwards to be able to speak about the meaning and value of the differences.20 4.3. A sexual revolution can never be a total revolution All this implies that we should not reduce the relationships between men and women to man-woman-relationships. The human and interhuman bear and inspire the sexual. The woman is no secondary being, but rather coeval with the man. Both of them incarnate and perform being-human. Inspired by the first creation narrative, we can then also react against positions that reduce the feminine to an appendage or an excretion. We are against the reduction of the feminine to subordination, 20 A more explicit and elaborate approach to the ‘general-human framework’ of sexual difference can be found in the second creation narrative, Genesis 2. See Burggraeve, 1996, 75-100; 1997, 268-272; 2010, 105-118. Cf. also Thévenot, 1983.

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and furthermore, to being subordinate to the man, as if only being-man would realize being-human in a pure way. In other words, the equality between man and woman, which we have discussed thoroughly above, rests on their sameness, their shared and mutual humanity. By means of this humanity, satisfying and meaningful relationships that overcome loneliness are possible, without cancelling one’s being a ‘singular’ individual, one’s uniqueness and being-different. This also implies that the man-woman-relationship can never be the all-encompassing and total relationship, in contrast to the eroticization and sexualisation of beingman and being-woman in their mutual relationships by our present culture. The relationship between man and woman, meaning to say the relationship of the man as man with the woman as woman, and vice versa, does not belong to the primordial level of the human. The tasks that man and woman have to fulfil as human beings take first priority. This connects to what we shall state below about their shared human task to be the image of God and to have dominion over the world (and responsibility for it as well). Man and woman are in the first place ‘for each other’ – an ‘other’, as another person, for each other. Without denying the importance of the ‘sexual revolution’, it still cannot be a total and all-encompassing revolution. We cannot express this in a better way than with the words of Levinas: “Man and woman have other things to do besides cooing, and, moreover, something else to do and more, than to limit themselves to the relations that are established because of the differences in sex. Sexual liberation, by itself, would not be a revolution adequate to the human species. (…) What is challenged here is the revolution which thinks it has achieved the ultimate by destroying the family so as to liberate imprisoned sexuality. What is challenged is the claim of accomplishing on the sexual plane the real liberation of man. Real Evil would be elsewhere. Evil would already be predetermined by a betrayed responsibility (of the one person by and for the other). Libidinous relations in themselves would not contain the mystery of the human psyche. Man and woman, when authentically human, work together as responsible beings. The sexual is only an accessory of the human. The social governs the erotic” (SaS 133-137/168-170 passim). 4.4. ‘Adam’ encompasses all people This affirmation of the priority of general humanity and thus of the sameness that precedes difference cannot, in the Biblical context, be reduced to a philosophical thesis. After all, the sameness of shared

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humanity flows directly from monotheism, which belongs essentially to the first creation narrative and to the entire Biblical tradition on creation (Finkielkraut, 1995, 15-17). This monotheism should not be confused with henotheism. Henotheism is the comportment of a particular community toward the acceptance of one god, but places this god above the deities of other communities as ‘the first, the highest and the strongest’. In the Biblical creation narrative, one God, who at the same time is universal is affirmed. The one God is the creator of heaven and earth, of all that is visible and invisible, and of human beings – in short, of all things and everyone. In contrast to polytheism – which arrives at the affirmation of the plurality and diversity of the divine out of the plurality of the historical tribes, ethnic groups and peoples – the Biblical god of creation is the God of the total universe. And since God is the fully unique and at the same time fully universal God of all and everyone, He is also the creator of the ‘human’, the ‘adam’, in which all human beings without distinction are contained.21 Adam does not stand for Israel, or for a particular group of people, who then appeal to their God to distinguish themselves and to be accordingly separated from other groups. No one can appeal to the creator of the ‘adam’ in order to acquire a monopoly and exclude the others. Monotheism sees each human being individually as ‘adam’, as human, i.e., as fully the same with every other human, however diverse the traditions and forms may be wherein separate peoples and communities express their being-human. In other words, monotheism cannot be reduced to a sort of formal mathematical thesis regarding the number (or non-number) of the divine, of which there could only be one. On the contrary, it is inseparably linked to the unity of the human race or of ‘human nature’. Each human being shares in humanity because they are created as ‘adam’ by one and the same God. The monotheism of the Biblical creation makes it clear from the very beginning that humanity is not, and should not be, divided into two groups – namely, the autochthonous and the allochtonous, one’s own indigenous people and foreigners. As God is the creator of heaven and earth, humanity extends itself from the very beginning – and thus for all times – above all boundaries of tribe and people. Particularities are not the gateway to understanding the temporally or philosophically 21 Inspired by the idea of Adam as ‘inclusive human’, Paul speaks about Christ as the second, or rather the last, Adam in the sense that in Christ all people are likewise included (cf. 1 Cor 15,45): “the firstborn within a large family” (Rom 8,29b). In his liberating existence and acts, Jesus encompasses all people, so that each of them can grow through Him, with Him, and in Him into a ‘new person’.

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antecedent condition of humanity. The particularist considers himself and his own in this sense enclosed, in a tribal circle to be the sole constitutive element of the term ‘human’, and those outside of his circle are dubbed the ‘barbarians’, ‘infra-human beings’ or ‘sub-human beings’, ‘un-human beings’ or ‘non-human beings’. Over and against this conceptualization, we posit that before everything else, there is the human, wherein all human beings – despite all their coincidental, later historical and cultural differences – are already contained. ‘Adam’ is not a proper but a generic name that refers to the human race, to which each and every being that is born of a person simply belongs. With its monotheism, the Biblical creation narrative radically goes against the traditional division between ‘one’s own’ and ‘foreign’ (or the ‘us’ and ‘them’ distinction, in other words), which precedes every general human idea in many cultures and civilizations. In his address Race et histoire that he delivered before UNESCO in 1952, Claude Lévi-Strauss points to how the notion of humanity that includes all forms of the human species without distinction of race or culture, has only appeared rather late in our shared history, and even then, it is still quite limited. For centuries and centuries, entire parts of the human species lacked the notion of humanity altogether. It often stopped at the boundary of one’s own tribe, language group or sometimes even of one’s own village. This even goes to the extent that a huge number of so-called primitive peoples ascribed the label ‘human’ only to themselves, which was then often identified with ‘the good’, ‘the excellent’, and ‘the complete’. From this ensued that other tribes, groups or villages did not share in the virtues of humanity, and neither did they share in humanity itself. Moreover, members of other communities passed for the ‘evil ones’, ‘apes’, ‘worms’, or ‘lice’. To profess that all that is and all that lives is created by one and the same God not only means acknowledging God’s transcendence and divinity, but also implies that tribal particularists lose their justification for setting themselves apart from ‘other beings’, who may indeed look like human beings by way of their physical appearance, but should not be considered so because they do not avail of ‘my’ or ‘our’ human qualities. In this regard, we can state that polytheism leads to racism and to the idea of a ‘Herrenvolk’, while monotheism radically does away with it. It implies an anti-racist dynamism that refuses to make an axiologicalqualifying distinction between people on the basis of their characteristics or ethnic, economic, socio-cultural, and religious differences. This anti-racist dynamism is further reinforced by the very special place accorded to the first creation narrative, and the entire creation cycle

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of Genesis for that matter, in the historical concept that is employed by the Bible (LaCocque & Ricœur, 1998, 31-34). Biblical scholars are in solid agreement about the fact that the history of Israel does not begin with Adam and Eve (the first human couple), nor with Cain and Abel (the narrative over the origin of fratricide), nor with the ark of Noah and the destructive sinfulness of human beings. Rather, the exegetes concur that the history of Israel begins with Abram, the first patriarch, who receives his calling in Genesis 12. Adam is not the patriarch of Israel, but the father of humankind: therein lies the entire difference! Concretely, one can speak about a proto-history, or a pre-history, or even the ‘primordial’ history for which Paul Ricœur opts. The real history of Israel, which from the point of view of faith should be seen as a history of salvation, is preceded, as it were, by a period that far exceeds the existence of Israel, precisely because it concerns humankind and humanity as such. Hence, this first history is also not a real history, although it is about things that really happened with and among human beings. It rather concerns ‘events’ that cause subsequent shockwaves in the real history of Israel. Events that up till today affect the history of the Christian churches and Islamic mosques, the history of every people and community, and of every human being. This pre-history is not about a particular or dated sequence of happenings. but about a universal, general human history. The narratives that tell us about this primeval history not only portray, but also try to penetrate the meaning, the dynamism and the conflicts of humanity itself. There is, therefore, both a discontinuity as well as a continuity between the primordial and dated history. Discontinuity or rupture can be seen in that primordial history is not so much about facts and things transpired during a specific era and in a demonstrable place, but rather about the foundation and the intention of human, inter-human existence and of the entire universe. The dated history of Israel, starting from Abram, is not preceded by another, verifiable history, of which possible archaeological traces could provide proof. The chronology present in the proto-history of Gen 1-11,32 is of a different nature than the historical one starting from Abram. This chronology has a universal significance whereby her course rises above the limitations of factual time. Instead it is involved with what human beings and humanity are all about. Since humanity is not an abstract essence taking place historically, the primordial history is also expressed in the form of a narrative that narrates successive events. Nevertheless, we can state that the primordial human history precedes the factual history of Israel, without this precedence belonging to the order of the strict, factual succession in time. This

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precedence has rather to do with the continuity and the bond between proto-history and factual history. As was already mentioned, the primordial histories about the ‘adam’ and its descendants do not only concern Israel, but also our history and all that happens to every human being and community. This concern extends not only to today, but also to the near and distant future, here and elsewhere, everywhere and always. In this regard, the primordial history of Gen 1-11 is more fundamental than the history of Israel as it not only founds and orientates our Jewish and Christian salvation history, but all of human history and development as well. The pre-history surrounding the ‘adam’ challenges the reader to surmise and to discover the universal significance, import and task of human existence as such within the narratives of the pre-time. The first creation narrative wants to teach likewise about our human existence today. In this regard, it is an ‘original’ narrative, i.e., a ‘narrative of origins’, as we have called it at the start of our philosophical reading of Genesis 1. By explaining how things were ‘in the origins’, from the very beginning, it wants to illuminate at the same time how and why things still happen even today. Primeval history perpetuates itself in factual history: there is an unbroken continuity between the two, since both are inextricably interwoven (promiscuously intermingled, if you will). In this regard, the first creation narrative is not a particularly Jewish or Christian one, but a narrative about and for humanity, that time and again in every age gives rise to the thinking about the ‘adam’, about us as ‘human beings’.22 22 The distinction between primordial and dated, or rather datable history, with their respective qualities, is also the decisive argument for avoiding once and for all a fundamentalist, historicizing approach to Gen 1-11 and to the creation narratives in particular. Up until today, the ostensible purpose for appealing to certain creation narratives in some milieus is to contest and deny the findings of science. As heirs of ‘modern’ science, namely of Galilean and Newtonian empirical science, of the Darwinian theory of evolution and paleontological research on the beginnings of humankind (specifically, about the transition from animal to primate and from primate to human beings), we come in direct confrontation with the creation narratives when we interpret them in the same empirical way that we do when we deal with cosmological, biological, historical and other empirically verifiable or at least falsifiable data. Scientific thinking knows but one sort of time, namely a homogenous time, which on the basis of ‘remnants’ remains retrievable in principle. In such a homogenous time, one continually goes further back in time in order to identify, to demonstrate and to map out a beginning. Whoever interprets primordial history according to the same concept of history and time must unavoidably come in direct confrontation with this scientific approach. It is thus indicative of intellectual wisdom, or should we say of mental hygiene, to employ the distinction between foundational primeval time and historical time. It is perfectly possible to maintain the thinking on the homogenous time of science, and to accept the results of

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5. Called to responsibility as human beings Shared humanity, which – on the basis of God’s creation – belongs to each person and thus to each man and woman in equal measure and value, is presented in the first creation narrative specifically in the affirmation that human beings are created as ‘the image of God’ (Hoekema, 1986). Literally we find in the text: “Then God said, ‘Let us make humankind in our image, according to our likeness” (Gen 1,26). 5.1. The human person as ‘image of God’ Let us now reflect on the double expression ‘according to God’s image’ and ‘according to God’s likeness’. A careful reading of the Genesis text renders the understanding that the human person is only created according to God’s image, and not in God’s likeness (Gen 1,27a.b). Despite the fact that God makes a promise that He will create every human person in to His image and likeness, this promise is only half fulfilled. We know that this is a promise or a pledge on account of the grammatical structure of God’s utterance itself: “Let us make humankind” or “Now we are going to make human beings”. This utterance announces what God intends to do. Even though it refers to an immediate future event, it nonetheless points to that which is not yet, and thus to something that must still come. In contrast, when the time comes for the actual implementation of this promise, which from a linguistic point of view is expressed in the past tense and thus concerns something that has already scientific investigation regarding the origin of the cosmos and human beings – on the basis of strict scientific arguments, and not on the basis of one or the other ideological, anti-religious prejudice – and at the same time read the creation narratives and the whole of Gen 1-11 as texts that still give rise to thought about the nature and the meaning of our humanity even today. How liberating it is to acknowledge that it makes no sense to want to date the creation of Adam with respect to the pithecanthropus erectus, the Neanderthal or another human ancestor that surely will still be discovered! Then we no longer have to choose, as in America recently where fundamentalists demanded the right to replace in ‘Christian’ schools the instruction on the theory of evolution with the biblical teaching on creation, between one of the two, as if one of the two would be the only real truth. It is not only those who promote the biblical view on creation to an empirical and absolute truth who lapse into fundamentalism, but scientists who raise their empirical and historical approach to the one and only auspicious approach as well. The scientific theory of evolution and the biblical view on the ‘human’ are not competitors. both express their own truth, the one on the level of the empirical and historical facticity and the other on the level of foundational meanings of humanity, not only yesterday, but also today and tomorrow. That is why they must both be presented and illuminated upon in a Christian educational institution!

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happened, only the creation of human beings according to God’s image is resumed: “So God created humankind in his image” (Gen 1,27a). This is taken up a second time, immediately following the first instance: “in the image of God he created them” (Gen 1,27b). Many Christians read this text quite often, yet rarely address that the promise with regard to likeness is missing. How is it possible that we never ask ourselves why God announces two things and in fact only carries one out? How remarkable that we could have been so blind to this aspect of the text for so long! Of course it is hardly possible that we are the first to notice this, to run into this peculiarity. Someone in history must have noted that God’s second act of creation with regard to human beings is lacking. Actually we already find clear traces of this critical attentiveness amongst the Church Fathers. Origen of Alexandria (c. 184-c. 253) points to the ‘deficiency’ in God’s creative act (Peri Archon, III,6,1) and Basil of Caesarea (Basil the Great, 329-379) draws our attention to it more explicitly and extensively in his work “On the origin of human beings” (homily 1,15-16, 378 A.D.). In order to explain this asymmetry in the text, Basil poses different questions. We shall now make these our own. Did the author of the text of Genesis suffer a slight lapse of memory and thus made use, in his absent-mindedness, of the same word, ‘image’, twice – instead of using the two appropriately different words ‘image’ and ‘likeness’ – in the announcing verse? Or did the author want to avoid ‘verbosity’ and redundancy, and thus chose not to repeat the obvious? Is this a matter of two synonyms, which we often encounter in the Bible where the same reality is expressed differently a second time? Are image and likeness simply synonyms so that in the carrying out of the announced creation of human beings only the reference to their being-image suffices? Or has God Himself been so distracted that He simply forgot to create human beings also in His likeness after creating them in His image? Or, to put it stronger still, has God been inconsistent in the sense that He changed His mind after taking a decision, and thus has done something else than what He had foreseen? Did He regret His previous intentions? Should we even speak of an incapacity and imperfection of the Creator, who indeed intends two things but is only able to substantiate one? Or is it but pure coincidence that the actual creation of human beings did not happen according to God’s likeness? According to Basil it is blasphemy to claim that there would be even one useless word in Scripture, that the author would have been sloppy or made a mistake. These would indeed be an all too easy and simplistic

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explanation. This would too readily miss the notable fact that at the time of the actual creation of human beings the phrase “in his image” is mentioned twice, while the formula “in his likeness” is conspicuously absent. Since Scripture does not say anything thoughtlessly or without meaning, we must continue to search for the ‘self-willed’ message that lies hidden in this ostensible defect. Hence, Basil inflexibly opts to presuppose that both ‘in God’s image’ and ‘in God’s likeness’ are equally necessary because both have a specific contribution to make. The first, God’s image, we possess through creation, meaning to say as God’s gift; the second, God’s likeness, we acquire of our own initiative. The former is simply given to us by God’s act of creation, the latter we create by our own will. By means of our creative act, we ourselves substantiate our likeness with God. Thanks to our own capabilities, we can grow toward or into God’s image. As ‘image of God’ a certain potentiality is granted to us, which through our active expression we turn into an act. In other words, creation is about a double work: the work of God on the one hand, and the work of human beings on the other. They comprise the creation according to God’s image and likeness together. What is remarkable is that both do not simply stand side by side. The first makes the second possible. Since God creates us in His image, He enables us through that gift of creation to authenticate our likeness with Him through our own means. Furthermore, we are able to unfold ourselves into God’s likeness because God has inhibited Oneself from forming humanity, once He had completed the task of fashioning us in His image further. According to a metaphor in the Jewish tradition, which we have already mentioned, He has, as it were, restrained Himself and withdrawn into Himself in order to create space for our own work of creation. In that manner, we are not portraits or portrayals of God, like those that are produced by the hands of a photographer or a painter, reflections that merely ‘reproduce’ the person ‘represented’. Human beings are not doubles or moulded figures of God. Nor are they inert objects that are a coagulated result of a divine creativity. Every human person as her or himself must vouch for his or her likeness to God. This means that no one else can be crowned with the praise and honour of this work. When you see a portrait – which is but a copy of the model, and thus corresponds completely with it – then you shouldn’t praise the portrait, but admire the painter or the photographer who created it. God has entrusted human beings with the care to grow into His likeness, so that human beings and not another, not even God, would thereby earn respect and appreciation.

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Is this not somewhat remarkable? That God creates and also does not create, that human beings are created and also uncreated? One wonders how God, the Uncreated One, has in heaven’s name ever managed to create uncreated beings, who are like Him. He does this precisely by creating as little as possible and by giving His creature – human beings, man and woman – the opportunity to become human and ‘God-like’ by the power and inspiration of their own will and effort. Stated differently, in the creation of human beings as image and not yet as likeness of God, a double message is present: namely, that humanity has a dimension of createdness as well as uncreatedness. After the creation of human beings a continuation is needed, for God’s work remains an unfinished symphony. God has, as it were, not completely created all that He can create, He has not gone to the utmost – He has not created up to the end. Creation by God is not the only word about the origin of humanity. It is the first but not the final one. In that sense, God, in His boundless love, which at the same time is a modest love, has decided to be only the alpha and not the omega of human existence. God creates human beings by means of entrusting their own creation in their own hands! It remains astounding that this crucial insight lies so hidden, as though it were slumbering. Innocuously placed in the text one hardly ever takes notice of it. Perhaps one may find the descriptions above nit-picking and obsessed with subtleties, but these ‘left-out’ subtleties do have a huge impact on the meaning of ‘being-human’. The nit-picking methodology shows us in particular how our being-human is characterized by the balance between heteronomy and autonomy. On the one hand, we are heteronomous, in spite of ourselves, created by God in His image. On the other, we create autonomously, by means of our own act of creation, our likeness with God, and this in our own creative, unequalled manner. As creatures we create ourselves, as heteronomous autonomy we receive and design our own ‘God-like’ existence – in spite of ourselves, but not without ourselves (Balmary 1993, 99-106). This uniquely personal, creative responsibility to develop oneself ‘into God’s image’, however, not only involves the development of the human person per se but also one’s relationship with the world. And this is precisely related to our vocation and mission to substantiate our being-image-of-God. That the human person is the ‘image’ of God does not mean, as was stated above, that he or she is an idol or a copy of God, but rather God’s ‘deputy’ on earth. God places his world in the hands of human beings in order that they may deal with the world in God’s stead. This dealing with the world can therefore not take place according to whimsy, but must take place in

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a creative way, just as God himself began to create and unfold the world. In other words, as the ‘image of God’, human beings are called to be ‘co-creators’, who not only protect but also develop the order of separateness and difference: obediently and creatively! 5.2. Called to carry on creating creation (Gen 2,3) Our creative responsibility to unfold ourselves ‘according to God’s likeness’ concerns not only that of humankind but also our relationship to the world. This has to do with our vocation and mission to substantiate our being-image-of-God. At the period when the creation narratives originated, rulers in the Ancient East had huge images of themselves erected in the areas they conquered or where their sceptre held sway. This was to make it clear to the inhabitants who was lord. In a similar fashion, God placed an image of himself in His world of creation: human beings. It should be apparent to us that human beings are anything but servants of a capricious and frivolous God. On the contrary, God places his world in the hands of humanity in order that they may deal with the world in God’s stead. That human beings are ‘image’ of God does not mean, as stated above, that we are a depiction or copy of God, but rather that we are God’s ‘representatives’ on earth. This dealing with the world can therefore not take place according to a whimsy, but must take place in a creative way – just as God himself began to create and unfold the world. In other words, as the ‘image of God’, human beings are called to be ‘co-creators’. To present and reinforce this notion of the human person as created co-creator further, certain authors point to the end of the first creation narrative, namely to Gen 2,3. Here we read: “God rested from all the work of creation to do”. The words to do have baffled translators. Some leave them out entirely seeing it as ‘a Hebraic superfluousness’. Most translators, like the RSV, link these words to creating, which then results in the phrasing: ‘God rested from all the work that He had done in creation’. Strictly speaking, however, this does not appear in the original Hebrew. The rabbis state that the verse must be read as it stands, even though its meaning is not immediately clear. Though it may make no sense grammatically, and thus perhaps points back to an error in copying, this oddity must have some meaning, be it a ‘stubborn, self-willed’ one in its own right. Through sustained determination in reading the text in the entire context of the first creation narrative and according to the main trend of the Bible, the rabbis usually seem to arrive at a similar

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‘self-willed’ insight. This insight basically amounts to the following: now that God has finished his work, he passes it on to human beings who must further or ‘complete’ it – as some other translations literally and at the same time eloquently translate. God creatively directed his work so that human beings, as the ones God has appointed as stewards whom are held responsible as co-creators, would in turn further its creation. Human beings receive the world as entrusted to them. Thus, as the rabbinical tradition expresses it paradoxically but astutely, human beings “are also the first to be punished” (SaS 136/170). Therefore, human beings may only deal with the world in a creative way, and are faced with the great – ‘divine’ or rather ‘divine-like’ – task of protecting and dynamically unfolding separation and difference. This is to be done so that all creatures – that have already existed, are existing in the present, and will exist in the future – are allotted their own time and space, intrinsic value, role and calling.23 Only thus can sexual difference be source of fertility, and this not only between man and woman, but also on a broader level: between human beings and the world, between human beings amongst each other in cooperation, fellowship and friendship… 5.3. How to critically (re)interpret ‘to have dominion’ and ‘to subjugate’ The question that must inevitably be posed is whether this interpretation is not perhaps a bit too beautiful to be true. Can it be reconciled with the twice-appearing affirmation in Genesis 1 that human beings are appointed by God, “to subdue the earth and to have dominion over the animals” (Gen 1,26.28) (Friedrich, 1982, 9-16)?

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Traditionally God’s ‘involvement with humanity’ is accentuated. That is why it is important to emphasize that the biblical creation concept, as it is offered among others in Genesis 1, also reveals a God strongly involved with the world. God is indeed also a ‘fatherly and motherly’ Creator, fully sympathetic towards the ups and downs of his creation, and this not out of what we call today a (narrow) ‘anthropocentric standpoint’, i.e., from a strictly functional approach at the service of human unfolding, but out of the quite intrinsic value of the cosmos and the creatures. This irreducible ‘intrinsic value’ of nature, which is original and not derived from its relation to human beings – human beings were after all created only after the entire world had already been created – arose precisely from its ‘divine’ dimension, namely out of its being that is created by God and whereby it can in its own way reveal God (and not only refer to human beings). See Chalier, 1989.

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5.3.1. Against the background of the current ecological critique The ‘ecological turn’, at the second half of the twentieth century, is ever more radical and generalized. It stands for a horizontal, relational, symmetrical and ‘holistic’ affiliation of reciprocity, care and solidarity toward nature and animals. In the light of this, the first creation narrative has been exposed to serious accusations and suspicious treatment, on account of its talk of “dominion” and domination over nature. According to Lynn White (1967; 1973), Peter Singer (1975; 1985), Amery (1974) and many others in their wake, Genesis 1 is ‘the mother of all environmental degradation’, by establishing a dualism of man and nature and insisting “that it is God’s will that man exploits nature for his proper ends” (White, 1967, 1205). In other words, Genesis legitimates a merely utilitarian, functionalistic and instrumentalist comportment with nature. In their view, this mistaken reduction and underestimation of the intrinsic worth of nature was adopted, and expanded upon, by ‘modernity’, based on a polarizing dichotomy between subject (human being) and object (nature, world). ‘Modernity’, in turn, interpreted the Biblical logic as sanctioning a secularized, scientifically supported and technologically orientated plundering of nature and her resources. This narrow anthropocentrism found a philosophical platform in the writings of Descartes. The Cartesian ‘subject-object scheme’, whereby human beings are deemed as the subject and mid-point of everything and all the rest is given over to human beings as object, provided (and still provides) the kind of world-view necessary to strip anything that is not a ‘subject’ of all its meaning. This instrumentalizing anthropocentrism finds points of contact in the first creation narrative, where human beings are allotted the power over the earth and the animals, based on the rationale that they alone represent the peak of God’s creation. However, it should be noted that human beings do not grant themselves this power, but receive it from God. Precisely by means of this religious interpretation, i.e., this divine anchoring of human lordship, the power-hungry and destructive domination of humanity over nature, according to the authors mentioned, is sacralized and thus reinforced and even absolutized and made unassailable. It is clear that such an interpretation isolates the verses ‘to subdue and to have dominion’ from the entire context of Genesis 1, while they actually must be linked to the being-image-of-God, whereby human persons receive the task to deal with the world creatively and responsibly. If the Genesis account, which grants man ‘dominion’ over the earth

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(cf. Gen 1:28), would in the past have encouraged the unbridled exploitation of nature by painting the human being as domineering and destructive by nature, this was surely not a correct interpretation. “Although it is true that Christians have at times incorrectly interpreted the Scriptures, nowadays we must forcefully reject the notion that our being created in God’s image and given dominion over the earth justifies absolute domination over other creatures. The Biblical texts are to be read in their context, with an appropriate hermeneutic” (Francis I, Laudato si’, n° 67). According to Genesis 1, and to the whole Biblical concept of divine creation, human beings do not stand in the centre of the cosmos – God does. Although human persons are allotted a special place, this role must be understood as responsible stewardship, not arbitrary exploitation without concern for a sustainable future. If the Biblical text does in fact tend towards anthropocentrism in one way or another, it is certainly not instrumentalist and functionalistic but an ethically qualified one, insofar as human beings are entrusted an exceptionally serious task – to take care of their fellow human beings as well as the world (nature with all its life forms, environment). This ethically qualified anthropocentrism does not deny that the human person – as it is rightly emphasized by holistic thinking – forms part of nature and the environment, which necessitates going beyond the ‘subject-object thinking’ to a ‘participatory-thinking’. It refuses, however, to reduce the human person to ‘a mere part of the larger whole’ precisely because the responsibility for this whole and for the solidarity with nature and the cosmos originates and emerges from within the human person (Jonas, 1984). 5.3.2. The ambiguity of creation Do the elements of ‘power’ and ‘subjugation’, which are indeed present in the words ‘to subdue’ and ‘to have dominion’, have no meaning then? We cannot simply sweep them under the carpet! All kinds of attempts have been made to weaken the force of both terms, but it is more honest to take them as they are. Nevertheless, for an appropriate and faithful understanding, we must return to the entire context and import of Genesis 1. In the beginning, there is mention of chaos after which creation follows as the progressive conquering of chaos. Even though the narrative sketches chaos and cosmos in chronological succession – which is not untypical for a narrative – we should not understand it as a mere succession. We do well to avoid an interpretation that sees the situation of chaos as coming about only earlier – before actual

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creation – leaving the condition today as one of cosmos and order. Both chaos and cosmos belong in coevalness, in the sense that they not only appear at the same time as each other’s reverse side, but are always and continually possible. Chaos is not finished once and for all, but time and again appears in every violent and destructive reduction in nature, which always challenges us again to do justice to creation. This compels us not to speak of the delightful and harmonious ‘beauty’ of nature, in a kind of naive-romantic, one-sided way, but rather encourages us to recognize nature’s ambiguity, its ‘equivocality’. Nature is at the same time ‘beautiful but relentless’! The ‘in-differ-ence’ and depersonalization of chaos is always lurking around the corner, and it tries to break through in order to disrupt and destroy the ‘gracious harmony’ of the given cosmos. We only have to think, for example, of the story of Elie Wiesel, who, in one of his books, refers to the jasmine tree that stood a number of meters from the central gas chambers in Auschwitz. This tree repeatedly dispersed its buds and blossomed every spring and summer ‘as if nothing was going on’. The tree was lovely, yet outright indifferent. Nature is undoubtedly ‘generous’, in the sense that it knows neither measure nor accounting. It gives of its ‘fruits’ in abundance. However, this is marked by the greatest inadvertence. During an earthquake, cyclone, volcano or flood, nature also gives all that it has to give, in abundance. Throughout such calamities, this disproportion in nature is outright disastrous. Its generosity is transformed into perniciousness. Imperturbably, nature follows its own rhythm without taking into consideration the fate of human beings. Nature causes cold shivers of emotion for humanity because of its sublime magnificence, but at the same time it inspires the cold sweat of uncertainty and fear due to its often hidden and explosively demonic unreliability that catches us by surprise. Furthermore, nature makes no distinction between the ‘good’ and the ‘bad’: It gives its ‘gifts’ equally to criminals as to the just (cf. Eccl 9,2-3).24 By granting its gifts and fruits ‘without respect of persons’, it arouses a semblance of magnanimity. However, this magnanimity resembles 24

It is quite remarkable, almost contradictory, to see how in his preaching Jesus turns inside out the cynical affirmation of the Teacher (Qoheleth) on the unrelenting and immense indifference of nature and its Creator in order to precisely illustrate God’s unsurpassed, even extravagant mercifulness for the ‘enemies’. Jesus does this as an exhortation to his disciples to be merciful to their enemies in the same ‘divine’ way – which implies an unheard of lifting of the boundaries of the commandment of love of neighbour.

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more dissimulation and deception, since it is ‘in any way whatsoever’ and to ‘whoever’ doled out without consideration. This transforms nature’s magnanimity into merciless maliciousness. Its so-called ‘beneficence’ often is, or becomes, ‘unbearable’, since it takes nothing or no one into account. A young mother of three children or a man of 81 may both get cancer, while someone who lives his life as if it had no value at all has – undeservedly – all the ‘luck’ in the world, and is never assailed by deadly and agonizing ailments. Nature lacks any manner of ethical sensitivity. It has no faculty for making distinctions, in the sense that it would punish sinners and reward the righteous. Standing above it or rather making it powerless, nature is totally indifferent towards ethical law precisely because (in its own non- or infra-moral way) it has no consciousness or conscience. In short, nature is the scandal of indigestibly impenetrable magnanimity (Moyaert, 1998, 35-36). Exactly for this reason, ‘to create’ also implies a form of ‘lordship over nature’, namely, as a struggle against current or future chaos. Insofar as nature is marked by dark, ‘an-nihil-lating’ forces ‘without a face’, it forms a threat for the ordering of separateness and individuality (in time, space, value and function). Whoever simply demands respect for nature as such, without pointing at the same time to its dark and chaotic dimension, lapses into ludicrous naivety, or worse yet, into a subterfuge of sadism that delivers human beings to the blind forces of a nature that embraces ‘an-nihil-lation’, sickness and death. A scientist in his laboratory can perhaps stand in awe of the ingenious structure and working of a cancer cell, or of the aids virus, but in no way can he have respect for it. He would only contemplate it in admiration without doing something against it. Human beings are faced with the ever more urgent task of subduing and dominating this, and other anonymous, deadly ‘powers of darkness’. We can label this as the abiding meaning of creation as ‘to have dominion’ and ‘to subdue’. 5.4. De-divinization of nature (and its risk) The first Biblical creation narrative carries out both desacralization and disenchantment of nature. This is done in reaction against the Babylonian cosmological-religious views. The first creation narrative came about during the Babylonian captivity (2 Kings 24,12ff; 25,7f ). In 598 b.c. Nebuchadnezzar, the king of Babylon, invaded Judah, laid waste the land, and transported a huge number of Jews (especially priests, notables and other prominent figures), to Babylon (located in present-day

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Iraq). According to the religious cosmology of the Babylonians, we are surrounded on all fronts by deities. Light and darkness, heaven, sea and land are gods; likewise, the moon, the sun and the stars are all powerful and awe-inspiring deities. Moreover, the Babylonians conceived of these gods as divine powers who ordain our lives, our joys and woes, our comings and our goings. That is why, in fear and trembling, the Babylonians present these gods with all sorts of offerings intended to placate them or to supplicate their favours. With the first creation narrative, which was sung among the Jews in captivity as a subversive song, the priests go radically against this view. The one God is praised as being above all of the Babylonian deities – for both light and darkness, heaven, sea and land, sun, moon and stars are created by Him, as well as the plants, animals and all that exists, moves and lives. As we saw, because the Babylonian deities are creatures and not gods, we do not have to be afraid of them, according to the Jewish view. Genesis 1 even goes so far, as we saw, as to say that human beings are in no way whatsoever subject to the threatening, so-called divine powers of creation, but as the ‘image of God’ they are, on the contrary, called to have dominion over all these powers. Actually, this creation narrative is a satire that exposes the whimsical and arbitrary deities for the hollow creatures that they are. The sun, moon, and stars, whose all-powerful course through the heavens pretends to dominate human fate, are just that – pretenders. That is why, in the first creation narrative, the sun, moon and stars are seen as lanterns, and nothing more – not gods, but reliable servants, lamps, in the service of marking out the days and months, seasons and years of the calendar. It is also why the God who created light and darkness keeps both apart and gives them names, by means of which they stand for structure, order and meaning, against all chaos. The Jewish world view stands against Moloch, the idol of fertility who devours human beings, selling his favours of fertile land, cattle and human beings in exchange for children, burnt alive in his mouth or buried in the foundations or the gates of the city. Against Moloch, the song of creation protests. That is why it says that God created human beings. God wanted humanity and purposively intended it. God pronounces over humanity ‘the blessing of fertility’. This means that fertility is no longer a power of chaos-darkness, to which one is subjugated in blind fate, but a blessing that one may take into one’s own hands in order to go on with life ‘creatively as God Himself does’. In short, this song of creation was written against Babel, against the Babels of the past, the present and for always, against unbridled and terrifying divine, or should we say demonic, powers, that sow chaos and ‘an-nihil-ation’ around them.

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Here, a note of warning is in place. Certain trends in ecological thought, ‘deep ecology’ among others, has made us aware of the possible risk in the de-divinization of nature. The return to the experience of a (mystical) participation in nature, however, not only questions desacralizing nature but often goes hand in hand with a form of resacralizing of ‘Mother Earth’: “the world as God’s body” (McFague, 1993). One thereby intends – post- or even anti-confessional – sometimes (or often) to return as well to an immanent, female divinity that dethrones for good the lordship of a transcendent and external, patriarchal and almighty God that at the same time institutes a ‘male lordship of human beings above nature’. Without joining in a resacralizing that makes nature in itself holy and divine, the idea of divine creation, as is presented in Genesis 1, can bring about a contemplative attitude towards nature. As creature, not only the human person is ‘image’ of God but every creature is ‘vestigium Dei’. This idea is related to a central idea in contemporary Orthodox eco-theology, namely the ‘iconicity of nature’. Both ideas, namely ‘vestigium’ and ‘icon’, introduce a depth-perspective in our approach to nature, which is not seen as sacred in itself but in its being a dynamic reference to the divine Creator: “We are called to recognize that other living beings have a value of their own in God’s eyes: ‘by their mere existence they bless him and give him glory” (Francis I, Laudato si’, n° 69). In this manner, nature can once again connect us to the Transcendent and this religious experience of nature can bring us to wonderment, appreciation and care. In the same way, “the spirit of human solidarity with all life is strengthened when we live with reverence for the mystery of being, gratitude for the gift of life, and humility regarding the human place in nature” (Earth Charter, 2000). 5.5. A meaningful perspective for ’creational responsibility’ of human beings Against the background of the subversive criticism of idolatrous divinization (sacralization) of nature that lies hidden in the first creation narrative, the question automatically arises as to which meaningful perspective orientates the ‘dominion’ of human beings as ‘image of God’ over the world. In other words, what is the ‘meaning’ or intention of creation that is built-in by God, so to speak, to which human beings are called in order to creatively unfold and realize as responsible cocreators? In the rabbinical literature, we find two interesting indications towards the answer to this crucial question. These involve the presence of the Torah in the event of creation.

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Firstly, certain rabbis refer to Gen 1,3-5 where the world light appears five times. Since nothing in Scripture is coincidental (not even the wrong transcriptions by students), this five-fold feature must have significance, or so say the Talmud rabbis. We can deduct from their associative reading of the entirety of the Scriptures that they see therein a reference to the Torah, which consists of the five books of Moses. According to the rabbis, this means that the Torah is God’s first creation. The reason for this is that the Torah is literally an indicator, a beacon for human beings, “a lamp to their feet”, as it says in the Psalms (Ps 119,105). In this way, human beings would come to know the way they must follow, how they need to deal with the world in order to realize God’s dream or will. Secondly, other Talmud rabbis state that the sixth day of creation is also the day on which the Torah was given to Israel as the representative of humanity. This means that the realization of the Torah is the meaning of God’s creation and the task of human beings. The world is created so that Israel, or rather each and every human being and every human community, would be able to do what the Torah commands, so that, in other words, it would be possible for the ethical order of ‘doing of justice’ to take place (QLT 90/41). If we were to formulate this directional meaning of creation from the global perspective of the whole Bible, we can say that the ‘intention’ that God has laid down in his creation is not a ‘natural law’, but rather, a task for humanity. The messianic future of the ‘shalom’, on which rests the new covenant that encompasses the world, was already articulated by the prophets in ever more unequivocal terms. It is apparent in the New Testament how Jesus sees the meaning of creation as the coming and the realization of the Reign of God, which is to say as the promise and the praxis of God’s extravagant, liberating, preferential love for the poor. Jesus interprets creation to serve those who weep, those who are persecuted, and all who are in need or who have been excluded. This messianic future also includes a ‘new heaven and earth’ (Jenkins, 2018).

Conclusion: The mystery of our creaturely ‘created-ness’ From this whole, in-depth, philosophical reading of the first creation narrative, it has become clear that Genesis 1 is all but a children’s story, or one for illiterate and ‘simple’ minds.25 It is actually exceptionally rich 25 It is also a story for children, insofar as they – in their young adventure of discovery through life – still have their receptivity and thus their religious sensitivity. With

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in perspectives and ethical implications for the development of an anthropology and forthcoming worldview (De Lange, 1998b, 399-403). That the world is created by a transcendent God-Creator means that the world itself could never be ascribed a divine character. God and world are so irreducible to each other that they can never be made identical. God has even ‘withdrawn’ himself from creation, precisely in order to grant the creatures their own being, independence and identity. The cosmos just like life itself is not divine or ‘holy’. Humanity’s creaturely created-ness reveals only a trace of its divine origins: its existence is a ‘received existence’, but once it exists, it does so in and of (and for) itself. Only God, who has created all, is the ‘Holy One’. Only God is God. Nature is not God, nor is life. Being created, humanity is indeed God’s gift. As a gift it is ‘tov’ and thus also worthy of respect and care. However, humanity’s value does not rest in its intrinsic divine-ness, but in its being created by God. That is why in the Biblical thinking on creation there is no mention of Nature as Mother Goddess, of Nature itself as a god who must be worshipped. By confessing God as Creator, all creatures are immediately de-divinized and desacralized. No single creature is absolute, total and final. However, this de-divinization may not become an alibi for an instrumentalist reduction of nature according to the so-called ‘modern’ (Cartesian) subject-object scheme. The same holds true for humanity. Human beings, despite their creation in the image of God, remain creatures, who in no way whatsoever should be divinized or absolutized. They are neither the first nor the last, neither the alpha nor omega, neither the one nor only total giver of meaning. The recognition of humanity’s own created-ness requires of humanity an ethical attitude of humility, a disposition that accepts relativity and boundaries. In their independence and self-determination, people always bear a trace of dependence and givenness. Creaturely human beings are aware of their non-omnipotence and will never sublimate themselves as the ‘centre of the world’. Theo-centrism, as expressed religious sensitivity, we mean the ability to be touched by and the receptivity for the other than oneself. The fully autonomous subject is in essence not religious since it takes itself as the principle and measure of meaning and thus is inattentive to that which comes ‘from elsewhere’ and consequently can only ‘be given’. Only a heteronomous subject can be religious and stand open to the wonder of creation and revelation in which being and meaning ‘are radically given’, with emphasis both on the passive ‘given’ as well as on what one fully and gratuitously ‘receives’. In this sense, a child can be aware of and sense, without traversing of course the way of intellectual mediation developed in this chapter, the deep religious meaning of our ‘created-ness’, perhaps even better than adults who all too often see their adulthood one-sidedly as the conquest and the work of autonomy.

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in the profession of God as Creator, then implies inadvertently a critique of all anthropocentrism that proclaims that human beings are the ‘measure of all things’, and that they alone are ‘master and possessor of the world’ (Descartes). This theocentric view on creation likewise implies the possibility to broaden modern Christianity’s one-sided emphasis on the love of neighbour to ‘co-creatureliness’. Human beings belong to creation and are linked, thanks to God’s creation, to all living beings. Stronger still, they are connected to all creatures and to creation as a whole. Any thought that separates and differentiates between human and non-human existence in an absolutist manner is unacceptable. In contrast to Descartes, who fragmentized reality by introducing an essential opposition between res cogitans (thought) and res extensa (matter as extension), faith in God as the universal Creator – meaning to say as the Creator of all that lives and exists – makes us sensitive to the holistic connection between all creatures, namely between human and non-human, living and nonliving beings. A creation faith that is truly and actively lived out thus also leads us towards an ‘ecological awareness’ (Tumushabe, 2004; De Tavernier, 1994). Theo-centrism, however, does not relativize humanity totally. Quite to the contrary, as being created, humanity is indeed ‘sublimated’ into the ‘image of God’, i.e., into co-creators of God on earth. This does not mean that humanity must play God from now on. As the image and representative of God, no person or conglomeration of people can ever become God. People are never a ‘first’ cause or ‘prime mover’, only a ‘second’ cause. They only receive the task to bear responsibility and to care for the world (which is nevertheless a huge and daunting task). God entrusts the entire world, with all of its forms of life, to human beings – both to the man and to the woman separately, as well as to both of them together. Human beings are not subjected to the determinism of nature – be this determinism a brutal disorder or a splendid order. On the contrary, they receive the task to surpass nature and to unfold it into culture, into ‘mind’ and civilization. Respect for nature and for life in no way means ‘letting nature and life be just the way they are’, as if they would be ‘unassailable’. In contrast, human beings must further unfold and ‘cultivate’ these blessed entities, and conquer chaos, incompleteness and the evil by which they are marked. Creation is God’s gift that is gifted to human beings, not in order to be revered and worshipped as an end in and of itself, but in order to be respected, and thus, further created in a responsible manner, connecting the future of generations and the future of the earth, our common home.

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This creative activity, however, cannot proceed in any direction whatsoever. As the image of God, human beings are called to pursue creation further ‘following God’s way’. As the image of God, they are not only God’s representatives in this world, but they have received the task ‘from God’ to bear responsibility for this world. Since God revealed Oneself both in the First as well as in the Second Testament as a loving God, human beings are faced with the task to likewise realize this quite unique and ‘other-wise’ love themselves. What this ‘love otherwise’ can mean, will be further developed in the next chapters, through a philosophical in-depth reading and critical (re-)interpretation of other Biblical narratives and texts.

Chapter III.

Are We Each Other’s Keepers? The story of Cain and Abel provokes us to reflect on violence and the awakening of conscience Introduction Whenever we read a newspaper, we are immediately and inevitably confronted with stories of homicide and cruelty in our society. One day it is about someone who indiscriminately and deliberately shoots down a number of people. Another time we read about a mother who stabs her three children to death before committing suicide. Then we find out how a boy gets killed by two young men because he didn’t want to give them his mp3-player. This is soon followed by the news that some escaped prisoners have taken a number of passers-by as hostage whom they do not hesitate to shoot. Or we are stunned by the horrible reality of an unknown young man who enters a nursery place and kills the little ones… Such forms of disproportionate violence leave us perplexed. We do not comprehend what happened and speak of ‘senseless violence’. Many – believers or not – call out: ‘my God!’ ‘No more war’ we said after the terrible misery of the First and Second World War. From a similar attitude and intuition everyone today exclaims: ‘This should never happen again!’ We then proceed to think of measures that can help to prevent these gruesome events from re-occurring. So we investigate what has gone wrong, where the care of social workers has failed, whether the neighbours haven’t noticed anything, and so forth. Nevertheless, such dramas will be repeated. And every time we shall stand perplexed and devoid of comprehension – for it is all too human. Is it not remarkable that he Bible also holds many stories about people who commit violence of the vilest kind? To top it all, in these horrible acts God is invoked. From the very beginning, there are stories of violence committed in the name of God. The tale of humankind has only just begun when violence appears. Thus unfolds the discourse of Cain and Abel, the two sons born of the first ‘original’ (i.e. the representation of

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every parental couple, cf. the previous chapter) human couple, Adam and Eve. That it is recorded in the book of Genesis, the book of origins, is no coincidence. It thus appears in a fundamental text, a foundational text. One that attempts to penetrate the ‘depths’ of human experience, in this case the familial relationships and the tensions and conflicts that occur within these. The first ten chapters of the book of Genesis do not deal with the people of Israel, but with Adam. Adam who stands as the symbol of the original human being. In fact, these narratives are about humankind in general and thus about ‘every-I’. Thus they speak about you and me. In the story of Cain and Abel, the Bible simultaneously offers a particular and a universal story. It is concerned with a unique history that nevertheless holds a mirror to what happens between people and families. The discourse does not justify violence. It rather evokes how in life, amongst people and within families, a lot of aggressive action is present. Thus, from the very beginning, right when people should actually be bonding with each other as brothers and sisters, the risk of (enormous) violence is present. Hence it is admissible to read the story of Cain and Abel philosophically,1 namely as a general human ‘loophole’ onto the origin and the escalation of violence between children from one family, and from there between people who by fate happen to be involved with each other. Through this Biblical story we look into our own existence. Just like a novel, this is a notional story that attempts to explain reality. Intuitively we are aware of the fact that the story is but one glimpse into our perception of reality and that, therefore, we will not see everything. Since the Biblical story is particular, it can never be used doctrinally about, or be an explanation of, all and every act of violence. For a complete, or rather a more broad image and viewpoint we must read other Biblical stories about violence and homicide. This does not, however, impede that the story can sublimate us beyond the particularity of a singular situation not only in order to increase our understanding of violence but also to address more efficiently the ‘potential’ towards it that lies dormant in every human person.

1 For this philosophical, anthropological reading, inspiration has been taken in particular from the work of Marie Balmary, Abel ou la traversée de l’Éden (1999). We likewise find inspiration in Lytta Basset, René Girard, Emmanuel Levinas, Bernard Sarazin, André Wénin and still others (cf. the references mentioned in the text). See also Burggraeve, 2009, 18-22; Burggraeve & Van Halst, 2010, 13-25.

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1. A demonizing prejudice towards Cain? The story of Cain is primarily known due to the occurrence of fratricide. It has been the most well-known crime in the world for centuries. As the criminal has been identified from the start and it remains uninteresting for detectives like Poirot, Maigret, Morse, Lewis…. This crime does not read like a detective novel where unmasking the perpetrator by sleuths only comes at the end so holding readers in a tense state of guessing or throwing them unexpectedly off the scent…Thus all the more arousing the curiosity. With Cain and Abel it is clear: Cain is the main culprit, the diabolical person. He is revealed as standing in sharp contrast to his brother, who appears as the innocent victim. This at least is what the tradition has made of Cain. It has left us up to today with an utterly negative ‘imaginary prejudice’ (Balmary) about him. Thus the name ‘Cain’ does not appear in any list of baptismal choices. After all, who would give such a negative first name to a child? This ‘diabolizing prejudice’ can also be found in the Second Testament. In the first letter of John, for example, Cain is solely and simply identified as the arch-malefactor: “We must not be like Cain who was from the evil one and murdered his own brother. And why did he murder him? Because his own deeds were evil and his brother’s righteous” (1 Jn 3,12). This demonizing approach to Cain is also expressed in the Targums or the Aramaic translations of Hebrew Biblical texts, interspersed with elucidations and commentaries. In Targum Neofiti, Gen 4,4 we read: “Cain says to his brother Abel: ‘Come, let us go together to the field’. And when they were at the field, Cain said to Abel: ‘I see that the world is not created out of love, and that it is not governed according to the work of people, and that judgment is made about people according to preferences. Why was your sacrifice received favourably and mine not?’ Abel answered Cain: ‘My works were better than yours so much so that my sacrifice was received favourably, while your sacrifice was not received favourably.’ In turn Cain responded: ‘There is no judgment and no judge and no other world! There is no reward for the just nor punishment for the evildoers!’ And again Abel answered Cain: ‘There is indeed a judgment and indeed a judge and indeed another world. And the just are rewarded and a judge shall pronounce judgment righteously in the future world!’ And the two went on disputing on the field. And Cain turned against his brother Abel and killed him”.2 2 With gratitude to Prof. Claude Tassin, Spiritin Father & Biblical Scholar (France), in Lubumbashi RD Congo (Journées Bibliques – 11-14 04 2015).

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These references seem to have forgotten or neglected that the Bible itself summons a ‘different’ Cain for our perspective. Immediately after the story of fratricide, his further life and genealogy is sketched clearly (Gen 4,17-24). He begets a son and also establishes a city, which he names after his son, Enoch. Even Cain’s later descendants are named from one generation to the next. One of those, Jabil, becomes “the ancestor of those who live in tents and have livestock” (Gen 4,20). Another descendant, Jubal the brother of Jabil, “was the ancestor of all those who play the lyre and pipe” (Gen 4,21). Tubal-Cain in his turn, is the one “who made all kinds of bronze and iron tools” (Gen 4,22). Cain is apparently not only a murderer but also a creator of civilization, a builder and the forefather of several highly gifted persons, including artists who developed music or who made objects in bronze and iron (Gen 4,21-22) (Sarazin, 2000, 129). To what extent, though, is it right to reconcile ourselves only with Cain as the incarnation of moral perversion and lies? Is it genuinely or truly black-and-white? Put differently, how should we respond to the shocking juxtaposition and paradox of the death wish (expressed in the fratricide) and the will to live (expressed in civilization)? Is civilization based on murder and violence? (This question will be elaborated on below in relation to René Girard.) If we desire to understand the intrigue of evil and violence within humanity, a more nuanced view of Cain is at least needed. It is an all too human phenomena presented in an atrocious, diabolical form. For that purpose, we must take all levels seriously in the story of Cain and Abel. A swift and broad reading will not suffice. We need a ‘close reading’, meaning a ‘slow and decelerating reading’ that pays attention to the details in the story, to the data and the events as much as to the language in which they are articulated. Only thus does the narrative become a ‘document humain’ that can still reveal to us today the soul of our becoming-human.

2. Evil does not come out of the blue In order to fulfil the matter of close reading and thus revealing, we start with one reality: the murder of Abel by Cain did not appear out of nothing. Cain did not get up one day with the decision to kill his brother. No murderer gets up indiscriminately with the idea: ‘Today I shall massacre the family next door.’ Every crime has a pre-history, often rooted in a family drama. It is that background story that we will

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try to retrieve. Putting it paradoxically, we are not looking for the murderer – for we already know who it is. We are looking for “the murderer behind the murderer” – “le meurtrier du meurtrier” (Balmary, 1999, 111), and that means to that which has happened in the life of the murderer so that he has become a murderer. Even when the story provides no explicit explanation as to the why of the act itself, it is nevertheless worthwhile to search within the text for elements that allow us to ‘understand’ what propelled Cain. A little bit like crime reporters who search for the antecedents and the circumstances within which a family drama or crime takes place, we attempt to gain access to the ‘mystery’ and the ‘intrigue’ that lies behind that which has taken place. As we have already mentioned above, as human persons we have great difficulty in dealing with senseless, brutal violence. Yet we sense that the violence that people inflict on each other is emotionally rooted. It may very well be rational and even lucid in its execution (as will also become apparent with Cain), but it is not so in its origin. Inflicted evil usually arises from an injury – real or alleged – from the past as a result of which people are marked in their bodies and their desires. 2.1. From the asymmetry by birth All of this means that we must pay attention to what is being told about the person of Cain himself. He does not come out of the blue either. Every person has an identity through his or her pre-history. If one would like to know who one is in an African context, one does not much ask for the actual place of living but about one’s genealogy and kinship bonds. Who are your father and mother? Who are your brothers and sisters, uncles and aunts from your father’s and your mother’s side? To whom are you married? What are the names of your children? These are also the kind of questions we pose in respect to Cain. Even though the Biblical story seems frugal with information, upon closer inspection it becomes obvious that there is more to discover than first meets the eye. Cain is the firstborn. In the eyes of his parents, particularly Eve, that makes him very important. Mothers often have a deep bond with their firstborn, precisely because it is their ‘first’. Through this they reveal that they are fertile and also that they are able to bestow an heir to their husbands. Hence Eve is proud of her firstborn who is a boy. This comes unambiguously to the fore in her exclamation, linked to the declaration of his name: “I have produced a man with the help of the Lord

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[Yhwh]” (Gen 4,1). In her eyes, Cain is so important that she accords him, as it were, a ‘divine value’: a ‘man-god’, a ‘half-god’, a human being with an almost divine status! By linking her firstborn directly to God, Eve, among other things, expresses how she discovers in her child a ‘divine gift’. One whereby she herself is ‘exalted’. Thus she effectively becomes the ‘mother of the living’, thanks to the God of life. This results in a ‘functionalizing’ of her son and thus the risk of not forming a ‘we’ (you and me) with him. He becomes the ‘instrument’ by means of which she manifests and affirms herself. In this we should not forget the pre-history of Eve and especially the ‘price’ that she has to pay. A ‘price’ that is the consequence of her transgression and through which, in her wounded desire, she has become dependent on her husband. One of the results of her wrongdoing is indeed that the relationship between man and woman becomes distorted. Through the desire that comes from the woman to the man, he begins to rule over her (Gen 3,16b). It is of significance that at the beginning of the story of Cain and Abel (Gen 4,1), nothing is said about the reciprocity between Adam and Eve. On the one hand, Adam knew his wife Eve, but there is no mention of her consent or answer. There seems to be little evidence of an I-You-relationship. On the other hand, Eve bears a son with the help of God, and not with the help of her husband. This is apparently more about ‘my’ child than about ‘our’ child. It seems as if she intends through her ‘almost-divine’ son to exalt herself precisely from her humiliation and so to reach the level of her husband… It can be suggested that by taking possession of her son, she hopes to acquire what she lacks, namely (powerful, patriarchal) masculinity and a share in divine power (by means of which she was expelled from paradise because of the transgression). The cause for her original offence appears not to have disappeared entirely. Perhaps one would call all of this today an exaggeration or interpret it as something ‘from a bygone era’. This due to a profoundly cherished conviction: ‘Since then we know better!’ In our days we consider equality between people as self-evident: Adam is not of any greater worth than Eve and Cain is not more than his brother Abel! This, however, does not preclude that by means of being anchored in the body – by birth, and thus on the basis of fate or contingency and not free choice – relationships of inequality are established. It is still the case that in certain cultures the eldest son in the family is assigned an important position and the corresponding responsibility – beyond his own will, even if he is neither suitable nor competent for it…

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What is said in the Biblical text about Abel sounds different or is in any case much less pompous. He is the second son merely mentioned by his name ‘Abel’, without further divine qualifications: “Next she bore his brother Abel” (Gen 4,2). In relationship to his name, the second son is the weakest. Abel or ‘hevel’ means ‘air’, light as the wind, thinness: an almost nothing.3 It cannot be denied that the text introduces a hierarchy between both brothers on the basis of ‘birth’. The asymmetry of the body – between that of the eldest and of the youngest – is reinforced by the preference of their mother Eve towards her firstborn whom she claims to have acquired through the might of the Almighty… She strengthens her own position by strengthening Cain’s. Thus his brother Abel ends up in a subordinate place. The relationship between Cain and Abel is, in other words, not a relationship of equals associating with each other from the same starting point. Cain is the superior and Abel the inferior. Consequently, Abel is no heir. In short, what Eve ‘says’ about both sons places the youngest unambiguously in a subordinate asymmetry to the firstborn, who is her ‘god’ thanks to God! This in turn makes the later rivalry and jealousy between the two brothers understandable (Balmary, 1999, 301-307). 2.2. Other reasons for the conflict between the brothers? Not all the elements from the ‘pre-history’ of Cain and Abel have been presented as yet. The Biblical story also refers to their occupations and thus to their social positions. These realities are data that can just as significantly contribute to the origin of violence amongst the two of them. We read literally: “Abel was a keeper of sheep, and Cain a tiller of the ground” (Gen 4,2). The first thing that strikes us in this simple sentence is that the brothers are presented in the reverse order of their birth. Is this mere coincidence, or is there something more behind it? This inversion of birth sequence will come up once again lower down… For now, we will focus on the ‘social’ functioning of the two brothers. Cain was assigned to the land, while Abel was assigned to the animals, more specifically to small livestock. This economic and social difference between farmer and shepherd, which at first sight seems obvious and also ‘sensible’, reinforces, however, the difference between the eldest and the youngest. Both brothers stand in a different relationship towards 3

The Biblical author, Qoheleth, begins his book Ecclesiastes with the same term ‘hevel’: “Vanity of vanities, says the Teacher, vanity of vanities” (Eccl 1,2).

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the world. Naturally, not everyone can exercise the same profession. In society, people are and need to be divided into social groups and they do exercise different occupations. Each one has his or her own task. But according to the rabbinic tradition, a form of jealousy can germinate here (Eisenberg & Abécassis,1980; Wiesel, 1975, 43-62). Where must the shepherd go with his sheep in order to let them graze? Precisely, he needs the land of the farmer. He will thus need to negotiate with him. But the farmer must also eat and drink, so he needs the shepherd. This creates the basis for trade and exchange: milk for the fruits of the land. But if both hold on to their own, problems and conflicts arise that can potentially become insurmountable… From certain explanatory narratives in the rabbinic tradition we learn that Cain does not grant Abel permission to come to his plot. But Abel disregards this ban and lets his sheep graze unnoticed at the border of Cain’s land. The mutual unwillingness becomes so serious according to the Midrash that it ends up escalating into exorbitant regulations and counter-regulations. When Cain states: ‘The land you are now in is my land. Leave!’, Abel’s retort is predictable: ‘You have no clothes without the wool of my sheep. They are thus mine.’ Through this escalation, tradition tries to understand where the tension between both brothers comes from and especially how it increases towards its well-known outcome… (Graves-Pataï, 1992). Another Midrash offers a very different and remarkable explanation for the conflict and the vehement violence between both brothers. Cain and Abel would have had twin sisters. And that would have given rise to a conflict between them as Cain would have been too close to one of them. Abel in his turn would have found this incestuous desire (and behaviour?) impermissible and, as a consequence, reproached Cain intensely. This, in turn, would have aroused Cain’s rage, with the murder of his brother as a result. Thus would he have eliminated the obstacle to his passion in order to be able to ‘pursue’ his sister (Sarazin, 2000, 131). In the Biblical story itself we do not find a single clue for this explanation. With this bizarre and extreme attempt at explanation, the Midrash expresses involuntarily how the evil that people inflict on each other does not arrive from nowhere. On the contrary, it has everything to do with our desires, passions, urges… Thus the evil committed does not originate from an utterly lucid act of reason but rather is rooted in a ‘visceral source’, namely the wounded desire of the human person. In our desire – in the flesh of our spirit – we are most vulnerable and assailable. Not much is needed for our self-control – the regulation of our desires and passions – to be brought out of balance. This makes

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clear that ‘the murderer behind the murderer’ (cf. supra) is not another person outside of us but something inside each one of us, namely an impassioned longing that is – paradoxically – entirely ours and yet still overpowers us like an outsider. As far as Cain is concerned, the question is therefore what has made his longing fanatical and murderous – or, to put it graphically, what has turned the heart of Cain into a killing pit. 2.3. Surpassing the natural order At this point, we will direct our attention to the things we encounter in terms of the behaviour of the two brothers, as well as the way in which this has marked their mutual relationship. Likewise we will reflect how the divine Other – as ‘the-other-before-me’ – has played a decisive role in the whole happening. What immediately occurs is that Cain takes the initiative to offer a sacrifice to God, the Creator. We read literally: “In the course of time Cain brought to the Lord an offering of the fruit of the ground” (Gen 4,3). To grasp the true scope of this gesture, we must – once again – let go of our demonizing prejudice towards Cain. Cain manifests himself after all as a creative person, who is also deeply religious. The idea to bring an offering occurs to him. Some English translations mention: “After a while…”. That means that his initiative did not come about like a lightning bolt in a clear sky, but that it arose gently in him. It matured and was acted upon – due to experience and reflection – and only after some time. But the text reads literally “In the course of time…” whereby the time indication evokes something ‘eschatological’ pointing towards a time in which it matters. A strong idea does not come out of the nowhere. It needs preparation, contemplation, or growth. Out of his experience as a farmer, Cain stepped into a process of pondering that led him to ‘ideas’. Through the mediation of actual contact with the land, he senses not only his ‘natural’, biological-impulsive being that is directed towards his own existence and self-preservation, but he also steps and unfolds outwards. Moreover, through offering God a sacrifice, he reinforces this letting go of himself, in the awareness that he is neither the alpha nor the omega of his own existence and of the world around him. He becomes aware of his creatureliness, and thus of his dependence on the other and not just on himself. Stronger and more significant, he indicates his reliance on someone else or rather on a divine Other who has gifted life and the world to him. Offering a gift from the land he cultivated indicates acknowledgement to the Creator and the Giver.

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To put it simply, this is civilization or, better, religion as civilization. Cain is not only a person of culture because he has founded a city (cf. supra), and because his descendants have created art. He is likewise the one who, stepping out of himself, creates civilization by acknowledging the Creator Other and by doing so in a ritual form. Quite a unique way of creating culture! And what does Abel do? The text immediately makes it clear that he too offers a sacrifice to God. Abel is not the first, nor the one who took the initiative. He is not the original one, but he does what his brother did. To put it in terms of René Girard, we see how Abel’s sacrifice has a mimetic character. By imitating Cain – by plagiarizing him, we could say – Abel identifies himself with Cain, the first and older son, hoping or rather desiring to arrive at the same level as his brother, and thus no longer be the lightweight one. According to Girard, the mimetic character implies a dynamism of rivalry, in the sense that the ‘follower’ not only wants to be equal with the one ‘followed’ but also desires to replace him. This mimetic interpretation of Abel’s acts makes it understandable, and clear, that competition arises between the brothers. And, as we know from experience, rivalry and jealousy lead to tension, discord and hate, and thus to conflict and violence. This turns out to be the case with Cain, who tries to undo the attempt at usurpation by Abel and to diminish the passion of the lesser one to take the place of the greater one. Cain does so by trying ‘to eliminate’ Abel, i.e. to reduce him physically to nothing so that he can no longer be a threat to his own position (Girard, 1978, 168-175; Kaptein & Tijmes, 1986; Duyndam, 2007). At this point, however, not everything of significance has yet been said about both sacrifices, nor about the relationship that arises as a result of these between the brothers. A third-party is still at play and this is none less but God Himself. The One to whom both addressed their sacrifice. God is not only the ‘object’ of acknowledgement but also the ‘subject’ of actions as can be deduced from the way in which the story evokes His reaction to both sacrifices. One notices immediately that He does not even consider Cain’s sacrifice worth a glance but gives all His pleasure to Abel’s sacrifice. Through the centuries, this occurrence has caused more consternation than surprise. The divine preference for Abel, along with the non-acknowledgement of Cain, is seen as the core of the problem that arises next. God seems to be arbitrary and someone who does not have to take anything nor anyone into account… But is that indeed so? Is God truly the crux of the problem?

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A reading from the perspective of liberation theology will point out how God’s choice is an expression of His free sovereignty, which at the same time reverses the ‘established order’. According to the purported and claimed powers and positions, God should have given to the first and the most important, Cain, the priority and the full recognition so that the reigning order would receive ratification and be able to flourish. But the liberating, emancipatory sovereignty of God does not allow itself to be flustered or ruled by the established order that takes its evidence from the order of birth. He is truly transcendent, in the sense that He can choose to give preference to the weak, i.e., the ‘lightweight’ Abel over and above the strong, first-born Cain, who is almost divinized by Eve. God is truly the Lord, the Holy One, and elevated above all natural ‘ordinances’. He is so free that He reverses the natural hierarchy between both brothers, not out of harassment or capriciousness but in order to rupture humiliating subordinations. This makes us think almost automatically of the Magnificat wherein Mary sings the divine reversal and dismantling of the established order: “He has brought down the powerful from their thrones, and lifted up the lowly…” (Lk 1,52). But no matter how strong and beautiful such a liberation theological interpretation of God’s sovereignty may be, it never takes place without causing pain, namely the feeling of rejection in the one who in the ‘reversal of order’ is removed from one’s ‘throne’… just as it seems to be with Cain, which leads him to heavy and even incontrollable irritation (see further) (Gutiérrez, 2013, 172-173).

3. The difference between the two sacrifices To ascertain the full scope of God’s preference for the lightweight Abel above the heavyweight Cain, we must look more attentively to the sacrifices both brothers offered to God (Gen 4,3-4). In the tradition, it was once suggested and taken for granted that God rejected the sacrifice of Cain because he would have offered inferior or even rotten fruit from the land. Not the bounty from the land he cultivated but some fruit that he haphazardly found and quickly collected… The idea that Cain would have given fruit of lesser quality is already mentioned in the Targums, namely in Targum Neofiti, which we mentioned above. In the Biblical text, however, there is no mention at all of inferior or bad fruit. What is striking, though, relates to the sacrifice of Abel in that he offers not one but two kinds of fruit, namely “the firstlings of his flock” and “their fat portions” (Gen 4,4)… and this would be evidence of his enormous generosity.

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But perhaps the difference does not lie in the nature of the sacrifice itself, but rather in the relation of both brothers to what they offer. Here we look at an important suggestion made by Marie Balmary. She proposes that we pay attention to the use or the omission of the possessive pronoun (Balmary, 1999, 112-118). Rereading the text with this in mind, it becomes obvious that no possessive pronouns are used in relationship to the fruits Cain offers. He offers from the land. This indicates precisely that they were not his fruits, just as the land itself did not seem to be his. Apparently, he does not identify himself with what he gives. The formulation implies a curious neutrality that inadvertently suggests that his offering is not about fruits that are truly ‘his’. Therefore they do not express himself. His sacrifice remains ambiguous: he offers, but it is not entirely ‘complete’, not solely ‘wholehearted’, as we would indicate today. By not using a possessive pronoun Cain remains at a distance from the one to whom the offering is made. A true offering, though, presupposes that one gives oneself in one’s gifts.4 This is indeed the case with Abel. In the narration of his offering a possessive pronoun is used twice: he brought of the firstlings of HIS flock, THEIR fat portions – thus signs of quality and the best products of his flock. In contrast to his brother, Abel presents himself in his (double) offering. These two relational attitudes to the offering points us to the difference that lies in how people give gifts. In some gifts the person is not really present. It is just a token where the person does not invest him or herself into what is given. Others are entirely present in their gift. They offer something – in full awareness of the person to whom their gift is destined – that is fitting to both the receiver as well as to the giver. By including the giving of oneself in the gift, the receiver experiences it as a true, unique and valuable gift – even though it may not cost much…5

4 In counselling we find at times that people talk about their child in the third person, namely ‘that child’, and not ‘my’ or ‘our’ child. This can be an indication that one stands at a distance or that one takes distance and does not actually feel involved… A counsellor or a therapist must always be on the alert as to whether or not possessive pronouns are used for they are the ‘informers’ as to how the person in question relates to the things, events, experiences or people mentioned. 5 But perhaps we must show some understanding for the refusal of Cain to give himself in his offering, the ‘fruits of the earth’. In the second creation narrative (Gen 2-3) we know that – as a result of trespassing – the land that was given to human beings to cultivate is cursed (Gen 3,17) and that the relationship to the land, namely labour – which originally formed part of the good life in paradise (Gen 2,15) – has been perverted to ‘toil’ (Gen 3,17). This could explain Cain’s obstinacy and resistance to giving himself in that ‘poisoned gift’…

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Perhaps the difference in how Cain and Abel position themselves to what they give makes it possible to understand God’s reaction more clearly. It is not arbitrary, but rather reasonable and even fair. This, at any rate, is what Balmary suggests in her interpretation.6 Just suppose for a moment that God would have positively appreciated the offering of Cain. Would He not have confirmed and affirmed Cain in his scarcity and negativity reflected in his incapacity to give himself in his offering? God cannot acknowledge the offering of Cain because he is absent from his offering. Cain’s gift is a neutral gift, a non-gift, a ‘gift-with-no-name’. Acknowledging the gift of Cain would mean acknowledging his nonbeing. In and through one’s gift, a person must also give oneself, at least so that there can be the affirmation and recognition of an authentic gift. God refuses to accept Cain’s gift because Cain does not ‘reside’ in his gift. By means of refusing Cain’s gift, He does not refuse Cain in himself but rather will not accept his non-existence: ‘Since you are not in your offering – even though you do not realize it – I cannot accept your offering, and I also make that clear to you.’ “If God, the great and mysterious witness of humans, would accept the object of Cain without that object bearing his name, without the person who worked on it realizing that it is he who worked on it, without the person giving realizing that it is he who gives, then the one – Cain – who denies oneself in his gift does not exist! Then would God’s seal corroborate in his denial, in his destruction by himself ” (Balmary, 1999, 117; my translation). Cain apparently understands the rejection of his offering as a rejection of his person as well, whereas for God the rejection of Cain’s offering implies anything but the rejection of his person. To summarize, by not receiving his ‘giftwith-no-name’, God refuses to accept his ‘non-existence’ and by means of this He hopes to bring him back to his being-person, to his acts and words as an ‘I-before-the-other’ (cf. infra).7 6 Balmary here situates herself in the line with the traditional modes of explanation. Not only the rabbinic interpretations (cf. supra) but also later Christian interpretations have arisen out of a positive a priori towards God. This holds the supposition that as the Holy One, He cannot at all be the cause of the problem. That is why the ‘fault’ is sought within the human person, in this case, in Cain. There must have been something in his offering as such that repels and even repulses God, to the advantage of the offering of Abel, which is better. Balmary searches for the explanation of God’s preference not in the nature nor the size of the offering but in the manner in which the givers relate themselves to their gifts. 7 A false acceptance of a gift, an offering, seems at first sight to be a deed of neighbourly love, or even of compassion. One attempts to comfort others by means of

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4. The wrath of Cain and the murder of Abel No matter how we try to understand and interpret the difference between both sacrifices, the fact remains that the reaction of Cain to God’s action is clear. It cannot lie. From the moment the sacrifice of Abel pleases God more than his (Gen 4,4b-5a), an intense wrath overpowers him and this not only inwardly but also tangibly and visibly in his body: “So Cain was very angry, and his countenance fell” (Gen 4,5b). 4.1. Understanding Cain’s wrath If we put this positive bias towards God, as it appears time and again in traditional interpretations, on hold for a while, we can assess better and appreciate the reaction of Cain. Or we can at least arrive at acknowledging its existential significance. In any case, an argument in defence of Cain (apologia pro Cain) helps us to explore less inhibitedly his anger towards God. There are, one could argue, good reasons for Cain to feel affronted, at least when one looks at it from his perspective. While probably unaware of the deficiency of his sacrifice, as we have sketched above, Cain neither understands why God refuses to accept his sacrifice. And precisely this ‘misunderstanding’ explains his angry reaction. Cain feels that he was treated discourteously and unjustly: the sacrifice of the fruits of his farming was taken to be inferior, which implied a denial of him as a person (cf. supra). In his desire to be acknowledged he feels rejected and excluded. This in itself is an admissible desire. Each of us may rightly strive for acknowledgement and confirmation, respect and honour from the other. Cain therefore finds his unequal and thus unjust treatment simply unacceptable. Added to this remains the fact that he, as the firstborn and thus the more important, deserves to a certain extent the acknowledgement more so than Abel. Especially as he is also the one who takes the first initiative in offering a sacrifice to the Lord. Justified or not, Cain feels assailed in his dignity and honour. And why should he not be allowed to feel angry, affronted as he is in his sense of justice? Human experience teaches us that such an anger, especially when it flows forth from unequal and unjust treatment, not only legitimizes itself but confirming them as well in their ‘non-don’. But such a comfort in the end works destructively. In other words, there is a world of difference between false and authentic love of neighbour, between comfort and compassion.

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also escalates easily into a fanatic rage, which – if one does not control or channel it, but rather cultivates and magnifies it – can no longer be stopped and will leave behind a trail of death and destruction in its tracks. We will now examine wrath, as it is evoked in the text, more closely (Basset, 2007, 21-36). In order to characterize wrath, two expressions are used: “Cain was angry” and “his countenance fell” (Gen 4,5b). At first sight, these two expressions seem to run synonymously. Upon closer inspection, though, other aspects come to light. Primarily, that and how the wrath sinks into Cain’s ‘countenance’ – into his body – and seizes him, is revealed. Wrath is an emotion that always operates viscerally – into one’s flesh. Secondly, this same wrath bursts out ‘externally’, so that it becomes visible in his face. This double movement of ‘impression’ (or ‘imprinting’) and ‘expression’ is important as becomes increasingly clear in the story itself. Suppose that the wrath in Cain would have hit him from within, and would have hurt him deeply in his soul, but that the anger would not be made apparent outwardly. Then no claim by another would have been possible, especially by the Other who is deemed by Cain as the cause or reason for his wrath. By bottling up anger and keeping it completely hidden within, the angry person feels oneself even less acknowledged in his injury and the (alleged) injustice. This becomes a source of embitterment that affects and ‘eats away’ at one’s whole existence like a cancer. But with Cain things were different, fortunately. For the wrath that seizes him into the very marrow of his bones is externalized in his countenance. It becomes livid and dejected. That his wrath turns outwards is important. For when anger does not become visible in one’s glance, one’s body language, in sullen silence or in words, then the other remains unable to help. In family dramas, for instance, that leads to the often heard astonished reactions of neighbours and friends: ‘We hadn’t noticed anything.’ And here lies the implicit apology concealed that one has not been able to do anything because one knew nothing about it. Even when neighbours and friends are quite considerate, if the angry person does not give evidence of his or her displeasure, then no one can come to his or her aid. Then the other – the one who caused the anger or a third party – cannot ask: ‘Is something the matter? What’s wrong? Why are you so angry?’ Exactly this is utterly important in order to channel anger. Through the other’s questions, the anger is taken seriously. And thus can the pain that has led to displeasure be talked about and shared. Talking about one’s anger is the first condition to be healed precisely of that anger.

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Through expressing his anger, Cain can be approached by someone. In the story, this someone is God as an ‘other-before-him’. God, the wholly Other, who also stands as a symbol for every other, notices that something is bothering Cain and speaks to him about it. There is, however, a problem. The way in which the wrath of Cain is revealed on his face makes the attempt to speak to him more difficult if not impossible. His ‘countenance fell’. It seems that Cain hides his face, or that he has lost face, and that he therefore does not want to be a faced. He intends to avoid a ‘face-to-face’ and thus evades being spoken to. But God cannot be fooled. By choosing to speak to Cain, He attempts to let Cain raise up his face and thus again become a ‘face’. It is not unimportant to point out how the word face in Hebrew has a plural form: ‘panim’. That means that a person does not have a face of oneself in itself but only when someone in front looks at and addresses him or her. In other words, we only have a face in the face-to-face. Although Cain wants to avoid being addressed by turning his face downwards or by hiding it, God still does not want it to end at that point, transcendent and stubborn as He is. He still addresses Cain directly, in the hope that he will raise himself up and become a face… Further below it will become clear how even God, no matter how hard He does His best as the Otherbefore-me, does not succeed – and cannot succeed – without the free consent of Cain. In His address, the divine Other, as the spoilsport and alleged culprit, sets the matter as to whether Cain’s wrath is justified or not, entirely aside. He does not defend Himself. He allows Himself to be touched by Cain’s anger and asks him directly: “Why are you angry, and why has your countenance fallen?” (Gen 4,6). There are moments when people notice that something is the matter with someone but they do not dare to ask or explore what that might be. They are afraid that the sensed anger will burst out and turn against them. God is ‘different’: He steps out of Himself and makes Himself vulnerable by addressing Cain and querying into his anger. He thus acknowledges the anger so that Cain no longer needs to flee from it. God does more than giving a simple acknowledgment to Cain in his frustration and irritation. He also questions him. Thus He emerges as the ‘voice of conscience’. He is aware that it is not enough to address Cain in relationship to the cause of his anger in order to restore his face. He also equips him with the words. Hence God continues to address him and in this He makes use of strange, puzzling and even shocking words. He says: “If you do well, will you not be accepted? And if you do not do well, sin is lurking at

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the door; its desire is for you, but you must master it” (Gen 4,7). The Other-before-me does not copy Cain but presents him with the dilemma of a fundamental choice. In the words ‘does well’, lies the implication that if he comes to understand and accept why his sacrifice was refused by God, he can be ‘lifted up’. ‘Lifted up or uplifted’ here means that in the light of his personal choice, the face of Cain will again be raised so that he will again become a ‘speaking face’. But if he entrenches himself stubbornly in his wronged feelings, he chooses for his own demise. Hence the divine Other does not speak gentle but hard words. He warns him about wrath, which is not only a forceful but also a dangerous passion especially when it is cultivated. In the Biblical text it is described as a ‘wild beast’ that lurks at the door of someone in order to lead him to ‘evil and sin’ (hattat).8 That is why it is important to acknowledge one’s anger and to speak about it to someone else, in this story to God whom Cain suspects of injustice. As the Other-before-me, God gives Cain the opportunity to ventilate his anger so that it does not go off the rails. God is prepared to listen and act as mediator and healer. He gives Cain the chance to question, answer Him back and to express his anger against Him. Just like every person, Cain needs an ‘other’ – a face-toface – in order to be able to identify his anger, going beyond the unease of being seized by it. Without this mode of action, it turns inwards and searches for a scapegoat and thus an innocent victim, according to Girard (Girard, 2001, 59-60). Remarkably enough, Cain does not take this opportunity. He remains utterly silent. He could have said: ‘Why have you frowned upon my sacrifice? Why have you preferred the sacrifice of my brother?’ He could have explained to the Other-before-me why he was so angry. That is what the Jewish tradition calls chutzpah (Laytner, 2004, 3-39). Having chutzpah means that you have the courage not to accept everything willy-nilly, but to question God, to be aggressive towards heaven, to refuse to be pushed around. With Cain having chutzpah is out of the question. Even though his wrath has broken out and set itself into his face, Cain apparently censored it. Since Freud and psychoanalysis we know that suppressed anger is highly perilous as it degenerates not only the relationship with the other (fellow human persons and God) but 8 We know all too well how in westernized cultures it has become even more difficult to utter the words ‘sin’, ‘fault’ and ‘guilt’. We rather speak of fragility whereby they are reduced to expressions of our human finitude and imperfection. But in the meantime, people continue to feel guilty…

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also with oneself. By turning down his glance and keeping silent, Cain has withdrawn from the relationship with the divine Other (and also from the relationship with Abel, the human other, as will be seen below). If Cain had raised his face and directed himself face-to-face with God and screamed and shouted at that Other, then his wrath would have found an outlet and be diverted. And then God could have explained why He did not accept his sacrifice… 4.2. “Cain’s sober coldness” (Levinas) The wrath of Cain shifts its ‘object’ and directs itself, after the address by the Other to which he does not comply, towards Abel. Wrath has taken possession of Cain or rather Cain has allowed himself to be so utterly gripped by wrath that he could no longer control it – and it led to the death of his brother. The paradox, however, is that the blind passion of rage and hate remains lucid in its execution. As passion, the affronted desire is irrational. But in its execution, it remains rational: clear reason simply enters in service of blind passion. In order to realize itself, it becomes literally ‘circumspect’. It must plan and organize its execution well, as it does in the Biblical story. Cain does seem to take to heart the invitation of God ‘to speak to each other’, i.e. not to God but to his brother Abel. It literally says: “Cain said to his brother Abel” (Gen 4,8a). But upon closer inspection, this turns out to be a false address. Cain does not hesitate to make up a pretext to get his brother to come with him and so Abel remains unconscious of any evil intent: “Let us go out to the field” (Gen 4,8a). In its terseness this is especially evocative. Cain directs an invitation to Abel, which seems an act of kindness. Besides, the content of this invitation has the ring of familiarity. ‘To take a walk together, to go outside, into the fields, together’, are events whereby people are able to talk to each other in mutual trust. It has, however, been ‘false pretence’. Cain, the farmer, invites his brother, Abel, onto his own familiar domain, i.e. the fields, which means that he does not approach the other in their being-other but draws the other into his own. Thus he remains the one who pulls the strings. But perhaps we should understand ‘the fields’ differently by making a distinction between ‘le jardin’ (garden) and ‘les champs’ (fields) as Balmary suggests. The garden is the place where the ground is cultivated, while the fields refer to ‘the wilderness’. And that is the place ‘without words’: nature over and against culture

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(Balmary, 1999, 325-327). This would imply that Cain invites his brother to go where there is no word. And indeed, once they arrive in the fields, Cain says nothing to his brother. Instead he kills him. In this way ‘the field’ indicates the place of every murder, as in the space where one does not speak to the other but denies him or her and destroys personhood… As long as people speak to each other, they do not kill each other! All of this implies that Cain’s invitation is imbued with lies and trickery. This whole episode is thus an initial form of violence that finds its culmination in murder. From this it immediately becomes clear that a crime never arrives on its own or out of context. Evil in all its purity does not remain limited to one single deed. It forms part of a network of actions arising out of bad intentions. Thus the situation here is not only about murder but also about the abuse of trust. From the passion of an unprocessed and unhealed wrath, whereby one loses one’s face, one chooses to kill the other in a cold-blooded manner. With Levinas we can call murder a ‘total passion’ (TI 209-210/232-233), directed at the destruction of the other. The other is no longer allowed to be. Since one no longer has a face (speaking to me), one wants to take the other’s (physical) face away. By means of killing the other, one deprives the other of their word, and by means of depriving the other of their word one also destroys the other as ‘someone’, as a ‘person’. Murder does not convert the other into an object or a means that can somehow still be used, but it rather implies the absolute denial of the other. One desires neither to dominate nor to understand the other, one wants to liquidate him or her and thus does not long or reach out to the other nor give the other any form of meaning whatsoever. In fact, one wants to impose entire silence on the other. That is an exceedingly radical deed, and precisely for that reason is qualified by Levinas as the passion of total destruction or “unlimited negation” (TI 200/225):9 “The spontaneous intentionality of this passion aims at annihilation. Cain, when he slew Abel, should have possessed 9

Levinas distinguishes the ‘total negation’ of murder from forms of ‘partial negation’: “A partial negation, which is violence. And this partialness can be described by the fact that, without disappearing, beings are in my power. The partial negation which is violence denies the independence of beings: they are mine. Possession is the mode by which a being, while existing, is partially denied. It is not merely the fact that the being is an instrument and a tool – that is to say, a means: it is also an end – consumable, it is food, and, in enjoyment, offers itself, gives itself, is mine. (…) The other is the only being whose negation can be declared only as total: a murder. The other is the only being I can want to kill” (EN 22/8).

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this knowledge of death. The identifying of death with nothingness befits the death of the other in murder” (TI 209/232).10 As an expression, the act of murder by Cain – o, paradox! – is executed in utmost lucidity and indifference. This is illustrated clearly by the laconic, prosaic, informative sentence: “When they were in the field, Cain rose up against his brother Abel and killed him” (Gen 4,8b). Because he does not take out the sting from his wrath, even though he had the chance to do so by means of the address by the Other, his wrath becomes total and cold at the same time. Levinas speaks of “Cain’s sober coldness” (AE 12/10), because the passion of his rage is realized ‘in cold blood’. His passion is both stone-blind and clairvoyant at the same time. Blind because Cain is blinded by his unbridled, cultivated wrath. Clairvoyant because his wrath expresses itself with a surprising lucidity that in a clever but cold way abuses the trust of his brother.

5. Questioning by the Other Now, it is precisely out of the epiphany of the other whom I want to destroy, namely “from the very depths of the eyes I want to extinguish”, that the other looks at me and forbids me to kill him, “as the eye in the tomb that shall look at Cain” (TI 209/233). The accusation shall remain that he has done something that is indeed possible – precisely insofar as the other (Abel) is part of the material world – but something that is not allowed, something that is strictly forbidden: “Thou shall not kill”. This prohibition to kill, which forms the core of conscience as scrupulousness and unease, is expressed in God’s question to Cain: “Where is Abel your brother?” It is not simply a query but a disturbing question. Stronger still, it is a probe that “calls in question”, a question that turns the calm and solid self-consciousness inside into a “bad conscience” (DVI 258/172). 10 Levinas also discovers forms of violence that do not aim at destruction, like torture and hatred, among others. In torture, one tries via the violation of the body as such to reduce freedom to nothing so that the tortured person divulges the secrets or confessions the torturers were looking for. But precisely in order for that divulging to happen, the torture should not lead to death (TI 218/241). Likewise in hatred, we see this ambiguity arise. Hatred seeks to make the other suffer so that throughout that suffering the one hated bears witness to the power of the one who hates: “To inflict suffering is not to reduce the other to the rank of object, but on the contrary is to maintain him superbly in his subjectivity” (TI 216/239). Hatred may perhaps want to destroy the other, but at the same time it longs only to bring the other to the brink of destruction so that the one hated still is able to bear witness to the lordship of the one who hates!

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5.1. “Where is your brother?” The question God poses Cain is very specific and it differs clearly from the question that God puts to Adam in paradise: “Human (Adam), where are you?” (Gen 3,9b), and not: “Human, where is your wife Eve?”. The question “Human, where are you?” still involves the person with oneself, while the question “Cain, where is your brother Abel” points the person away from oneself towards the other. The question that God as the Other poses to Cain after the murder, in other words, seeks to awaken Cain’s conscience and bring him to the realization of his guilt and responsibility. And it is not because Cain evades answering that it becomes less pertinent and far-reaching. The question is not a neutral one that, for instance, merely seeks information. It is a performative utterance that wants to stir and make something happen in the addressee. The Lord poses a very critical question, an enquiry that examines profoundly and thus appeals to the conscience of the addressee. Through this approach ethical ‘meaning’ is established. The Voice of God presents itself in this case as the voice of conscience, a level that Cain, unfortunately, as we saw above, has not yet achieved. The question of the Lord is, as it were, that of a scruple that wants to nestle itself into the consciousness of Cain, the addressee, and wants to ‘de-neutralize’ this consciousness and turn it upside down. All of this precisely by involving him with the other whom he had killed. Clearly, ethical consciousness acquires an unambiguous relational dimension and dynamism. The issue at stake here is whether Cain finds himself at the level of God’s question: “Where is your brother?” In order to clarify this we must examine his response carefully: “Am I the keeper of my brother?” By means of vesting his answer in a counter question Cain makes clear that he does not agree with the implied suggestion in God’s query that the destiny of his brother concerns him. We should not, however, understand Cain’s utterance as the reaction of a stubborn adolescent, who does not tolerate any interference from a higher authority, or of a small child that is not yet aware of the seriousness of things and thus laughingly pushes everything away from itself: “It wasn’t me, it was the other”. This would be an all too superficial and cheap interpretation of Cain’s response. We must consider his reaction as a candid, non-rhetorical response. If we set aside for a while our demonizing prejudice about Cain (Balmary, 1999, 328-332), we must acknowledge that the answer-question of Cain contains a certain legitimacy. His reaction represents, after all, a real objection that must be taken seriously. As an unthoughtful, prejudiced reader, one

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is inclined to condemn Cain: he should have taken the care for his brother Abel upon himself. But in the Bible, the substantive ‘keeper’ (shomer) is not applied to people. Human beings can be ‘holders’ of all sorts of objects, buildings (city gates), animals… One cannot be a ‘holder’ of one’s brother in the way one holds one’s property or keeps a flock of sheep. If you would be the keeper of your brother in that sense, you risk reducing your brother to an asymmetric dependence. We know all too well of situations wherein humanitarian assistance or a form of mercy is covertly marked by striving for power, even for absolute power. But then ‘being the keeper of the other’ can become potentially murderous. You could kill the other in the name of having to guard over an alleged duty towards the other: a false, destructive duty! Perhaps in his critical counter-question to God, Cain refuses the duty that is imposed on him (by his mother?) to guard his younger brother. Here we can think of situations wherein an older, more mature sibling is urged to take care of his younger sibling who might still be a child. Quite understandable and acceptable, but at the same time ambiguous as the lesser one, in this case Abel, is handed over to the greater one, in this case Cain, even though it is a case of being entrusted to. The story tells us how Cain stops this ‘impossible duty’ by killing Abel (who himself kills the animals under his care…). Is it entirely foolish to think that Cain, through his enigmatic counter-question, challenges God: “I am not the one who is supposed to be the keeper of my brother! You are supposed to guard over Abel!” We should not forget that in the Bible, God is called ‘the keeper of Israel’, and thus ‘the keeper of humankind’ (Psalm 121). This guardianship belongs to God – not to humans. Whichever interpretation is feasible, in the counter-question of Cain to God a valid argument is embedded. At the same time, we must acknowledge that Cain uses – or rather misuses – with a certain plausibility, this argument in order to commit a horrible crime. He eliminates his brother who has deprived him of his position as the ‘firstborn’, the ‘half-god’ or ‘man-god’. With his acceptable reasoning, he camouflages his lack of humanness and ethics. Cain still seems situated in a natural, pre-ethical level. This in the sense that he proceeds from the perspective that people have nothing to do with each other. I am I, and the other is the other: everyone to oneself and we have in principle no business with one another. What declares itself clearly evidently, though, in the introduction to Cain’s question: “I don’t know” (Gen 4,9b), is a form of ‘pretending’. He thus hides in bad faith and through a kind of ignorance the reality that he does know. It is an expression and a camouflage of his own indifference. Stronger still, it expresses the complete lack of a sense of responsibility.

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5.2. “What have you done?” It is precisely this indifference, this refusal of responsibility, that God wants to expose not only through His question “Where is your brother”, but also in His reaction to Cain’s response: “Am I my brother’s keeper?” seen when He asks: “What have you done?” (Gen 4,10a). This question is not a neutral, open one looking for information one does not yet possess. It is, once again, a performative question that intends to touch Cain in his flesh and soul and from there to ‘convert’ him. God, the Other-before me, knows the facts and wants to confront Cain with these in order to bring him to the realization of his guilt and responsibility: “Listen; your brother’s blood is crying out to me from the ground” (Gen 4,10b). The Other does not leave Cain undisturbed in his address. On the contrary, God accuses Cain and confronts him with the heaviness of his deed. Precisely because the seriousness of what he did has not yet penetrated him, the Other confronts him explicitly and dramatically with what has happened. Thus the Other-before-me also becomes the ‘consecutive conscience’ that pronounces a judgment once a deed has occurred – to be distinguished from the ‘anticipative conscience’ that weighs out the advantages and disadvantages before taking action. As God is no indifferent God according to the entire Biblical tradition, no neutral principle of explanation, but the most non-indifferent Merciful and Just One, He cannot as the Other-before-Cain remain unconcerned. Instead, He must ‘make a difference’ by pronouncing condemnation on the cold-blooded murder by Cain of his brother. That is an important bit of information. In a number of cultures, murder has not been condemned. A distinguished example is the myth of Romulus and Remus, the foundation story of the Roman civilization – and thus de facto, at least to a large part, of our Western society. The history of Rome begins with the murder by Romulus of his brother Remus. When Romulus has killed his brother, he founds the city of Rome. René Girard points out how at a first reading of both myths, Cain and Abel and Romulus and Remus, the similarities are easy to see in the occurrence of fratricide as the beginning of civilization. But upon closer inspection, a radical difference exists between both myths. Girard points out how through the narrative of Cain and Abel the Bible introduces a moral order. Even if the narrative can still be read as a myth, it draws clear, moral lines that unambiguously surpass every mythical reduction of evil to one or some other cosmological principle. This brings Girard to call the myth of Cain and Abel a ‘dislocated myth’: a narrative that,

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to be sure, preserves mythical traits but at the same time dislocates the mythical logic. The Biblical narrative stands in stark contrast to the narrative of Romulus and Remus that also expresses a struggle between two brothers that ends with the foundation of a civilization. Even though the murder of Remus is a regrettable fact, in the context of the myth regarding the founding of the city of Rome it nevertheless becomes justified. That justification rests on the transgression of the victim. After all, Remus did not respect the boundary drawn by Romulus between the inside and the outside of the city. In order for the city to exist, no one should be allowed to poke fun at the prescribed rules and distinctions. Thus the act of Romulus towards Remus is warranted. He holds the status of ruler and high priest. He embodies Roman power in all its forms and at every moment. The legal, judicial and military forms are not to be distinguished from the religious powers (Williams, 2002, 149). The story of Cain seems to evoke the same powers of violence within which God is equally implicated. But contrary to the act of Romulus, considered as a justified act that has one positive result for the nascent community, the act of Cain in the Bible is clearly considered an abominable act and a veritable crime. Cain is presented as a ‘vulgar murderer’ within whom God enters as the transcendent instance that does not coincide with history but transcends it by means of judging – and condemning – what has happened.11 The fact that the first murder brings about the first cultural development of humanity is in no way whatsoever excused in or through the Biblical text. The foundational character of the murder is at the very least as clearly, if not more explicitly, evoked than in the non-Biblical myths. Or rather, the condemnation of the murder gets the upper hand of all other considerations (Williams, 2002, 149-150). Thus the attempted murder of Abel acquires an indisputable ethical qualification and God as the Other-before-me stands as the guarantor of that moral condemnation and thus of the moral order. In this way, from the very beginning the Bible, in and through the ethical and religious indictment of Cain, includes the defence of the victim – and that is perhaps indeed one of the most original perspectives of Biblical thought! 11 TI 221/243: “The virile judgment of history, the virile judgment of ‘pure reason,’ is cruel. The universal norms of this judgment silence the unicity… The idea of a judgment of God represents the limit idea of a judgment that, on the one hand, takes into account the invisible and essential offense to a singularity that results from judgment (even a judgment that is rational and inspired by universal principles, and consequently is visible and evident) and, on the other hand, is fundamentally discreet, and does not silence by its majesty the voice and the revolt of the apology [by the unique subject]”.

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To the question ‘Does war precede the altar?’,12 which the Greek philosophers have pondered, the Bible answers from its inception, in and through the story of Cain and Abel, that violence and war are not the source of civilization. The condemnation of violence and war has a religious basis, i.e. it is anchored in an ethically qualified God who does not tolerate any violence, and certainly not any principal and global legitimation of violence, as the source of civilization. We shall return to this point later. 5.3. “Whoever kills Cain…” The story has not yet given away all of its secrets. The intervention of God as the Other-before-Cain contains still more than only the accusing, conscience-kicking question. God also threatens with a sanction and a retribution. And not just a little bit. “And now you are cursed from the ground, which has opened its mouth to receive your brother’s blood from your hand. When you till the ground, it will no longer yield to you its strength; you will be a fugitive and a wanderer on earth” (Gen 4,11-12). The extreme violence of Cain provokes an even more extreme punishment. Hopefully Cain comes to the realization of the awful evil to which he has allowed himself be tempted and on which he acted. The words of punishment and curse sound harsh, certainly in today’s context. This even more so since those words come from the mouth of God. There they become unbearable for, surely, if there is a God He must be love and nothing else! But suppose that God would have simply dismissed the murderous act of Cain, would He then not have trivialized or even destroyed the seriousness of the evil that was inflicted? If God – the Other-face-to-face – would have reacted indifferently to 12

AE 151/119: “It is, however, not certain that war was at the beginning, before the altars”. Here Levinas reacts against the thesis of Heraclitus that war is the father of all, the King of all (“polemos pantoon men patèr esti, pantoon de basileus”), a thesis that has also been adapted by Hobbes, namely the concept of the original ‘war of all against all’, which can only be kept in check by a strong Leviathan-state. According to Levinas, the human person is not by nature bad, but good. He talks about “original goodness” (AE 156/121). By this he does not mean a ‘natural necessity’ but rather an ethical condition. From their origins – their creation – human persons are attuned to the good as ‘dés-intéressement’ and thus can be appealed to ethically. That is their human condition: to be called in spite of themselves to responsibility for the other. As a condition for ethical accountability by-and-for-the-other, once again, the choice for the evil of violence and murder is not a ‘natural process’ but a fundamental ethical choice, as the Bible uncovers in Cain.

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the injustice committed or, worse, if He had covered it up with the cloak of charity – ‘let bygones be bygones’ – then not only would He have done injustice to the victim but He would also belie Himself. As the Other who makes a difference between good and evil, love and hate, life and death, God cannot but counter the seriousness of the evil caused by a sharp condemnation and sanction in the awareness that this proportion does not take away the harshness of the judgment and punishment. This relentlessness penetrates through Cain as well, so much so that he arrives at chutzpah, i.e., the courage to speak and to react. That which he unfortunately could not do initially, he is now able to do, on the understanding that he stands up for himself – in ways which can be explained and that are logical. He finds it unacceptable that God identifies him forever with his evil deed. He does not accept that through that one murder he is hardened as the evildoer par excellence and will be looked upon as such for the rest of his life. Furthermore, he reacts against the fact that he shall be pursued with his evil deed and thus always be at risk to lose his life. In this he expresses new self-knowledge. He comes to the awareness that he is not entirely such a divine person as he initially thought and was formed in by his mother who raised him to the status of a ‘quasi-god’. He discovers himself as a ‘human person’, a fragile and mortal creature. Hence, this mortality and fragility is expressed, last but not least, in his complaint that a face-to-face with the divine Other will no longer be granted to him so that he will have to live in desolate loneliness. It is literally mentioned: “Today you have driven me away from the soil, and I shall be hidden from your face; I shall be a fugitive and a wanderer on the earth” (Gen 4,14a). And Cain finds this punishment not only unacceptable because he cannot bear it (Gen 4,13), but he also fears that anyone who will meet him will kill him (Gen 4,14b). To that, God reacts quite remarkably. He also condemns the murder of Cain: “Whoever kills Cain will suffer a sevenfold vengeance” (Gen 4,15a). However serious the deed of Cain is, he may not be punished for it by death. This proposition is enforced by stating that the murder of Cain will be avenged ‘sevenfold’, meaning to say ‘always’ – since seven stands for fullness. And in order to be certain that Cain is worthy of protection, he receives from the Lord a mark on his forehead: “And the Lord put a mark on Cain, so that no one who came upon him would kill him” (Gen 4,15b). God condemns not only the fratricide but also the murder of the offender. Even though one may be

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a murderer, he may not be killed in punishment for his deed. God states this quite clearly and radically. Problems in human society should not be solved by means of homicide. Thus no death penalty! Today one often hears the lament: ‘The offender, the murderer, must be served with the same sauce.’ As if by doing so, justice would truly be met… If this is the case, we will land in an infernal circle of murder and homicide, revenge and counter-revenge. The transcendent Other foresees precisely this because He never coincides with the state of affairs in the world, i.e. with history as we have already mentioned above. Hence His radical and universal prohibition: ‘Thou shalt not kill’. Even when someone has done something horrible, like committed fratricide, nevertheless the murderer may not be lynched – but this does not mean that no judgment or condemnation should be pronounced, nor that there should be no justice or rectification. This remarkably ethical and religious viewpoint at the end of the story is all too often forgotten today (Girard, 1978, 187-189). Only after this radical mercy of God can Cain withdraw from God’s presence with a sufficiently comforted mind and settle in “the land of Nod, east of Eden” (Gen 4,16). With that, the narrative of the myth ends in a paradox. Nod after all means: flight, wandering… Settling in a land is finding stability, whereas Cain settles in a land of instability and of an itinerant existence: a ‘stranger on earth’.

6. Fraternity: human and divine It may now seem that all has been said about the Cain and Abel myth. Yet, with Levinas, we return one last time to the refusal of Cain to be his brother’s keeper. Levinas suggests a reinterpretation of the utterance of Cain, “Am I my brother’s keeper?” He proposes that one approaches the utterance literally and thus as an indication of the condition within which we ‘find ourselves’. We can also label this this ‘primordial condition’ as our “createdness” (AE 140/110, 144-145/113-114). Keeping in mind the critique we formulated above regarding the way in which ‘being keeper of the other’ can lead to perversion – in the sense that being the keeper of your brother can hinder you from being a brother to your brother – we must see fraternity as our human condition. One within which we are held responsible for each other, not in subordination and alienating dependence but in equality and reciprocity.

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6.1. Ethical ‘fraternity’ as a human condition This close reading implies a wholly different image of being human than the current ‘(late-)modern’, so-called enlightened view where the human person is seen as an independent being who, on the basis of one’s consciousness and ‘reasonable will’, determines and orientates his or her own existence. Fraternity is literally ‘an-archic’ or ‘pre-original’; it does not refer back to a self – ‘my-self ’ – as its origin or ‘archè’ (principle). It does not flow forth from the engagement of myself as an autonomous ‘I’. Fraternity precedes my (our) freedom. Therefore Levinas calls fraternity a bond without a preceding choice from my side. I’m linked with the other, or rather, I am bound to the other, even before every possible commitment can be undertaken or contract can be concluded. A contract is concluded by two free and independent persons. They strive for an agreement that benefits both. When the agreement is over, or when one of the two breaks it because of personal benefit, then the contracting parties are no longer obligated to one another. Each goes his or her own way and all is once again possible, for instance to enter into a new contract with each other or with others, i.e. negotiated agreements, without prior obligations.13 In contrast to this is the idea of fraternity as a ‘pre-original’ or ‘an-archic’ condition. This says that I find myself as situated and rooted into a bond, which precedes every chosen connection or (social) contract (AE 109/87). Linguistically, we can represent this in the opposition between a ‘passive’ and an ‘active’ independent noun: fraternity is the being in solidarity (passive) that is laid above or outside of or before any solidarity. In other words, it is about a heteronomous being in solidarity, with which a heteronomous responsibility is just as immediately interwoven: in spite of myself, the being and well-being of the other concerns me. I am involved with the other even before I can involve myself with the other out of one or the other preference or ‘liking’, benevolence or magnanimity. The relationship with the other as primordial condition is thus located at the beginning, or rather before the beginning, of all possible relationships contracted (AR 143). We can also call this one’s ‘lot’ or ‘destiny’, but then as an ethically qualified ‘connectivity’. The fate of the other takes hold of me before any active choice to let myself be taken hold of by the fate of the other. This concerns an ‘interwoven-ness’ or an ‘implication’ – better 13 Levinas even goes so far as to state that “the sober Cain-like coldness consists in reflecting on responsibility from the standpoint of freedom or according to a contract” (DVI 117/71).

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still: a ‘being-implicated’ – in a ‘pre-original’ relation: “being caught up in fraternity” (AE 104/83). Preceding myself as ‘origin’ (archè), meaning to say as source of intentions, deliberation, decisions, actions, whereby I actively ‘entangle’ myself in the destiny of the other, I am already entangled in the being and well-being of the other. Before we ‘engage’ actively to be each other’s brothers and sisters, we discover how we are already ‘connected’ passively as each other’s brothers and sisters. This heteronomy – the fraternity that comes ‘from elsewhere’ and precedes us – displays a remarkable relationship to biological consanguinity, although neither can be reduced to the other. Ethical fraternity is “a relation of kinship, outside all biology” (AE 109/87). As the heteronomous condition of existence it surpasses every sex- and genderspecific particularity of ‘brothers and sisters who are born from the same parents’. Despite this surpassing and alongside the sex- and genderneutral terms ‘bondedness’, ‘connectedness’ and ‘solidarity’, we still use the term ‘fraternity’. Inadvertently, but intentionally, this moves our thoughts towards its biological meaning. This reveals how we, in spite of the radical difference between human and biological fraternity, nevertheless discover an undeniable analogy: the biological announces the ethical fraternity and ‘prefigures’ it. Just as brothers and sisters do not choose each other, but through birth are interwoven in a common destiny, thus are human beings interlaced in an ethical destiny: interconnectedness in spite of themselves, without preceding agreements. Put differently, biology is less contingent and accidental than it seems at first sight. It delivers a prototype of human relationships,14 even though and precisely because these relationships reach further than, and free themselves from, the solely biological (TI 256/279). Even before we are able to choose for each other, we are already entrusted to each other and already belong to each other. Inadvertently, the gender-transcending term ‘covenant’ here comes to mind as it indicates this ‘pre-original condition’ of our beinghuman itself (AE 104/82). We should not eschew this term simply because it concerns a Biblically inspired connotation. After all, it is not true because it is found in the Bible; it is found in the Bible because it is true, if it is true. With that we mean that the specific Biblical term, with its Jewish and later also Christian import, is not limited to a confessional 14 Therefore, to present the Biblical view on human relationships, we shall not replace the term ‘fraternity’ with ‘gender-neutral’ formulations, although we also make use of gender-neutral words. After all, the surpassing of the ‘gender-specific’ meaning of ‘fraternity’ – as is been made apparent throughout this chapter – forms an essential part of the Biblical – and our – view on the human condition.

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meaning that can only be understood by like-minded believers. The word ‘covenant’ has an anthropological, existential, general-human sense and scope, which can philosophically be made intelligible and communicable to everyone (EFP 110/61). In fact, it is used in the Hebrew Scriptures as a term initially borrowed from a political and societal reality whereby a ‘covenant’ was installed to keep peace between various small communities and ethical or religious fractions. The Bible gave it a more lasting and meaningful interpretation. Covenant as ethical fraternity expresses “the very miracle of the human in being” (VA 99/111). Preceding all personal decision from our side, we are thus already ‘situated’ in an ethical fraternity whereby we ‘are’ responsible for each other, in spite of ourselves. And to this pre-original covenant of fraternity, all inter-human and social relationships and even all commitments and contracts refer. The reaction of Cain, in spite of himself, reveals to us that we are created in a pre-original ethical relationship of proximity (AE 12/10, 212/166). We are each other’s brothers and sisters and that is why we must be each other’s keepers. And likewise in reverse: if we fulfil the ethical task to be each other’s keepers, we become that which we already are: brothers and sisters of each other. In this manner, createdness and ethics, ‘being’ and ‘having to be’ are intimately interwoven with each other. In the words of Levinas: “The real fraternity is fraternity by the fact that the other concerns me; inasmuch as he is a stranger, he is my brother. You will not understand fraternity except by declaring it non biological. Cain is not [does not behave as] the [ethical] brother of Abel! True ‘fraternity’ has to be founded after the scandal of the murder, which is the murder of a stranger” (EFP 109/61). This means that “the other is from the first the brother of all the other people” (AE 201/158): universal fraternity as universal responsibility of the one for the other! 6.2. Ethical fraternity as divine ‘affection’ Not everything has yet been said, however, as this pre-original ethical fraternity also puts us on the way towards God: ‘fraternity as unto-God’ or “the humanness of man understood as theology” (EN 248/192). Insofar as the human person, before every active intentionality and choice – in an ‘immemorial past’ – has already been set into motion towards the other, for the sake of the other, the human person is not only characterized by the struggle of one’s own being (Cain’s ‘everyone for one’s own’). The human person is also – in one’s very own being – characterized by the idea of the Good that goes beyond all being-as-persistence-

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in-being. And as, according to Levinas, the idea of the ‘Good above being’ can be the only authentic ‘divine milieu’, i.e.: the only context where God as the idea of the Good ‘comes to mind’, the ‘I’ in its intimacy or, rather, in the depths of its intimacy. Stronger still under the very foundation of its intimacy the ‘I’ is ‘signed’ or ‘branded’ by God. As the idea of the Good, God is ‘the Infinite One’, in French: ‘l’Infini’, in the double literal meaning of (1) the Infinite ‘in’ the finite, and of (2) the Infinite that is ‘not’ finite. Thus, put differently, immanence that remains transcendent (AE 181-183/142-144). This link between fraternity and God is, in the context of the Biblical narrative about Cain and Abel, not peculiar and unexpected, as we explained above. God is assigned a central role as is apparent in his questions to Cain after the murder: “Where is your brother Abel?” (Gen 4:9a) – “Human, where is your brother?”, and “What have you done?” (Gen 4,10a). By means of his questions the Lord reveals how the One is the voice of conscience in the human person who is after the blood of another person. This reveals how God as the Infinite and as the Good in me is the deepest mystery of my subjectivity. Even before I come to myself via the acts of my own self-consciousness I am already awakened by God to myself. God is the intrigue of my soul, or better still, of the soul of my soul. This leads Levinas to describe the subject as a theological being, whereby ‘theological’ has only a strict philosophical meaning. In an almost shocking manner he states: “the psyche is originally theological” (TrID 39/271), whereby he not only puts behind him the current Western definition of the human as ‘rational animal’ (animal rationale) but also brings it into a radical crisis. He speaks about “the religiosity of the self ” (AE 150/117) and “theological affection”: “the affection of the finite by the Infinite” (EN 247/190), in the sense that the subject, insofar as it is driven by that which is different from itself – the other – and thus stands directed towards the other as his brother, is likewise affected and moved by God as the Good. The human is of a divine signature. To put it in Biblical metaphorical language: the human is the image of God, even before the human is a reasonable, conscious and free being. Or as the Common declaration ‘Human fraternity’ by Pope Francis and Grand Imam of Al-Azhar Ahmed Al-Tayyeb in Abu Dhabi (4 February 2019) expresses it: “God has created all human being equal in rights, duties and dignity, and has called them to live together as brothers and sisters, to fill the earth and make known the values of goodness, love and peace” (Francis I & Ahmed Al-Tayyeb, 2019).

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Thinking this through logically, it means that ethical fraternity – being attuned to the other in spite of myself – is rooted and founded in and through the divine. I can only be ethical, called in spite of myself to be my brother’s keeper, if I am inspired by God – as the Good above being (that is concerned with its own being) – up to the intimacy of myself: ‘more intimate than I am intimate with myself ’, to put it in the words of Augustine. Hence my religiosity, my being inspired by the Infinite, the Good, counts as the condition of possibility of my ethically being bonded with the other. God is, in other words, the soul of our ethical fraternity and this in turn is the soul of our human relationships and of our society. This means that in the famous triplet of the French revolution fraternity must come first: ‘fraternity’ as the basis and orientation for equality and freedom. In fraternity a ‘divine affection’ has nestled itself. Or rather, it is thanks to this divine affection, being moved by God as the idea of the Good, that we are linked to each other as each other’s keepers: the one-with-the-other as the one-for-the-other (DVI 13/XV). Christians link God as the idea of the Good in me with the Spirit. While Christ remains external, the Spirit installs the interiority of God. God is not only outside but also inside us, in each of us, albeit that He remains transcendent in this immanence. Concretely speaking, this is an ethically qualified god-idea, namely a God of love. Thus Paul links God’s love directly to the Spirit: the Spirit is God’s love in us. Or as he puts it literally in the letter to the Romans: “God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit that has been given to us” (Rom 5,5b). God as Spirit dwells in us. And because God is love, His love as Spirit has also made His dwelling in us: this is the immanence of God’s transcendence. Then we become so ‘ensouled’ by God’s love that God Himself becomes our soul, or rather the soul of our soul. In and through the Spirit, God inspires us to love, meaning to say He moves us and appeals to us to ‘be-for-the-other’ (cf. Chapter VII). As the Spirit of love in us, God is, in other words, the intrigue itself of our inter-human and social bondedness, not as a biological fact, not as a ‘natural’ happening but rather as an ethical fraternity. Through the Spirit of love in us, we ‘are’ already linked to each other as brothers and sisters, and this fraternity is at the same time assigned to us as a mission. In our depths – in the ‘de profundis’ of our soul – we are thus attuned by God to each other so that we owe it to each other to authenticate this destiny as a vocation. We are thereby inspired and called at the same time, far beyond ourselves, to become witness and prophet of the Infinite One who is love and in that way to contribute to the revelation and the ‘life of God’ in this world.

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Conclusion: “Everyone for all, in the name of God who is for all” The confrontation between Cain and the ‘Other-before-me’ has made us discover that the traditional expression: ‘Everyone for oneself and God for us all’ can no longer be held. Ethically and religiously speaking, it is a terrible expression precisely because in a superficial and cheap attitude, one gets rid of the care for others and one abandons them to God: “the limited and egoist fate of him who is only for-himself, and washes his hands of the faults and the misfortunes that do not begin in its own freedom” (AE 148116). We are created ‘not for ourselves, but for all’: we are made responsible for everything and everyone, we have to support the universe. To be oneself, to be unique in the exceptional sense of the word, means: “to bear the wretchedness and bankruptcy of the other, and even the responsibility that the other can have for me. To be oneself is always to have one degree of responsibility more – the responsibility for the responsibility of the other” (AE 150/117). Our being is beyond our self-consciousness and before every free decision-making: we are created universal, open and dedicated to all others’ destiny, not because we like or prefer this nor because we have some capacities originating from our character or personality, but because we are – prior to any freedom and commitment – already connected with and committed to the other, to everyone else, to the whole world. Universal fraternity is ‘inscribed’ in us before any and every wish or perception, before any and every act of will, even before any and every active and generous act of good will. Nothing is a game, based on the freedom and spontaneity of play; everything is serious, because it is written – imprinted or scored – in our being, in our soul – that we ‘are’ each other’s keepers. Therefore, we want to transform the cited popular expression into: “Everyone for all, in the name of God”, or stronger still: “Everyone for all, in the name of God who is for all” (for only thus is the human person truly human and God truly God). This ethical and religious universality is expressed remarkably by Levinas in an interview with Emmanuel Hirsch about racism: “The moment in which fraternity attains its full sense is when, in the brother himself, the stranger is recognized: the beyond-the-tribal. It is not that the tribal is proscribed; it comprises many virtues. But in principle, the human is the consciousness that there is still one more step to take: to appease the tribal, scandalous exigency! (…) In effect, the children of Israel are introduced as the descendants of the patriarchs. Consequently,

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the virtues of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, the glory of their relations to other men, are presented as very elevated. But truly, in the Bible, the essential moment in the development of ethical conscience and of the dignity of man consists in recognizing oneself as a son of God: the filiality of transcendence. This is the superior form of piety, above any tribal link: to address oneself to God as a Father. There is a significant meditation of John Paul II relative to Christianity, teaching us that God would be incarnated not solely in Christ, but through Christ in all men. This divine filiality of humanity is nothing new for Jews: the divine paternity experienced by Jewish piety, as it has been formulated since Isaiah, should be taken literally. In Isaiah, the Israelites are called the sons of God, and in the liturgy the words ‘Our Father’ constantly return. The Bible is also the book of a people, whose unity as a people does not suffice. (…) It does not suffice for this people merely to be a descendant of Abraham, Isaac, Jacob…” (VA 96-97/109). In our particularity we are provoked to become ‘kat’ holon’, created into and appealed unto universality: ‘by and for everyone’! Starting from the story of Cain and Abel, the Bible sets us on the tracks towards the universal prohibition ‘Thou shalt not kill’ as the foundation and condition for every responsibility of people for people: “The disinterestedness is when in the other to whom I respond I love not the same blood but the human alterity which is beyond all parentage. (…) That is the first, foremost, truly human. It is to recognize human dignity, not according to my weight as a being, but according to my presence to the other” (VA 100-101/112).

Chapter IV.

The Long Path from Evil to Forgiveness and Reconciliation The story of Naboth and his vineyard provokes to thoughtful reflection on inflicted injustice, judgment and beyond Introduction A jailbreak, a hijacking, a disaster movie, a police TV series, a thriller… Any of these keep people fixed on their screens. Yet a growing number of people complain about the incredible amount of bad broadcasts every single day. They crave good news. Or so they say for they aren’t really interested in them. Why? Because good news seems boring news. Evil is much more fascinating. Not only inordinate evil but also the more banal kind intrigues and captures attention. It bears something mysterious within it that challenges us. Something extreme simultaneously exceeds and calls for understanding. Occasionally it may perhaps carry something heroic we secretly admire. Think of the prisoner who succeeds in escaping a fool-proof and heavily guarded prison and then disappears without a trace for days on end. ‘Unbelievable that he could escape’, we say with a touch of reverence while the hunt for him holds us spellbound. This does not preclude that we are at the same time outraged because in his escape to freedom he stabbed guards, threatened passersby and even took someone hostage. Clearly, we are both captivated and angered by evil. It pulls at us while we resist and disapprove of it. What is fascinating about children being raped, about houses being robbed and people being ravaged? Whenever we have to deal with evil, a dual feeling appears. Just as it does when contemplating the divine and the absolute, we are fascinated by it while it strikes fear in us. This dichotomy challenges us to reflect on actual evil, on what people inflict on each other day after day and, more profoundly, on the mystery of evil. We shall do this on the basis of the story of Naboth and his vineyard, a Biblical narrative. The Bible is from its onset filled with stories about

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manslaughter and criminality, as we have already discovered in the story of Cain and Abel. In this sense, it is the most dreadful book that exists. Yet, it reflects human reality. That is why it is quite informative. Through confrontation with concrete events, we discover how things should actually be and are summoned to rise above that dreadful reality. The story of Naboth, however, does more than describe the reality of inflicted evil. It also sketches how evil is experienced and how people deal with it. It is only in relationship to evil that it shows its true face, one that rests on the injury that evil causes. This in turn leads to indignation, judgment and retribution. The question is whether space can be created beyond judgment and retribution towards forgiveness and reconciliation and if so, how. Forgiveness is a complex reality composed of many facets. It forms a kind of ‘endpoint’ that is in itself incomprehensible, unless one brings to the fore that which precedes it. One cannot speak about forgiveness while excluding the mistakes and guilt that accompany it. Nor can it be explored without considering the problems of evil, injustice and violence. The narrative of Naboth and his vineyard is constructed in the form of a triptych. The first panel sketches the context within which evil unfolds as an intrigue. This intrigue forms the background for the second panel, within which the anger and judgment of God, announced by the prophet as a threat, is of central importance. The third panel sketches the impact of judgment on the perpetrator, King Ahab, whereby the perspective on forgiveness is revealed without being taken up in the story itself. That is why we conclude with a philosophical reflection on, and from within, the story by reflecting beyond its confines on forgiveness and reconciliation.

1. First panel: The story behind the evil inflicted The first panel of the story (vv. 1-16) amply and thoroughly sketches evil as an existential and contextual human event. It intends to address evil not in terms of accidents, suffering and death, but as acts human beings inflict on each other. It focuses on injustice as decidedly a form of moral evil.1 For this reason any mention of evil will (in this chapter) 1 Paul Ricœur draws attention to the importance of creating a well-defined distinction between moral evil and ontic evil, in order to avoid confusion and misunderstanding. Nonetheless, we cannot fully separate them from each other since they are indeed

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connote experiences that are the result of moral evil, in terms of the perspective of the one(s) who commit such acts and of those whom suffer it. Only an honest description of evil, or rather of evil doing, can unlock the inflexibility of judgment and the wonder of forgiveness. 1.1. Evil doing on a human scale In this narrative moral evil is not described as an independent given in itself nor as a kind of ontological variable or a metaphysical principle. It rather reveals itself as something that is intertwined within the existence of concrete human beings. Looking at evil as something that is committed, an ‘objective’ or ‘given’ fact arises. The story prevents us, however, from turning evil automatically into an independent reality. It connects itself to the ‘subject’ of malevolence – namely the perpetrator who, in well-defined circumstances devises and executes it. Thus the story is not about evil in itself, but about ‘evil-doing’ and that which is associated with: the desire towards it and its actual execution. In this way evil, through the story of Naboth and his vineyard, becomes recognizable as particularly human. It puts us in front of a mirror that reflects the extent of our ordinary inclinations and possibilities. Through the connection between the subject and his deed evil is related to something that has an ‘ordinary’ and ‘quasi-natural’ character. It is not described as inordinately perverse or deviously nefarious, but as quite ordinary and even commonplace. Paraphrasing Hannah Arendt (1963), we can call it the banality of evil-doing. In this re-phrasing Arendt’s original terminology – the ‘banality of evil’ – is done intentionally to point towards the conviction, which will be returned to further on, that evil itself cannot be trivialized. The narrative shows unambiguously how evil is not committed for its own sake, or for the sadistic pleasure of evil doing, but because it is in a certain sense pedestrian. Evil doing finds its origin in the dynamism of existence of the person and in a number of concrete circumstances within which this dynamism seeks to realize itself. We can likewise call this the ‘naturalization’ of evil deeds. interwoven with each other in the concrete experience of people. The evil that one commits means for the victim an experienced evil: bodily, psychological, social or spiritual suffering as a consequence of the immorality (denial, exclusion, harassment, violence or other) of the perpetrator. (Ricœur, 1986, 15-16).

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1.2. The rootedness of evil doing in hurt desire The human person is not a static but a dynamic being: desiring and striving. This dynamism of existence can be indicated as an ‘attempt at meaning’ or as ‘a longing and effort to be’. Our ‘being’ declares itself as an ‘urge’ to be. This passion is one of self-interest and ego-centric self-involvement. One on which the ‘healthy’ unfolding of the human person as an ‘I’ itself depends. It is, then, no coincidence that the attempt-at-being is characterized by the longing to possess, to rule and to be valued (‘avoir, pouvoir, valoir’ – ‘having, power, worth’) (Ricœur, 1988a, 132). By drawing what is other than oneself to oneself, to incorporate and possess it, the ‘I’ is able to establish and develop itself. Within this movement, the difference between what is ‘mine’ and ‘not mine’ arises. Then envy ensues, followed by the urge to possess can escalate to ‘avarice’ resulting in all kinds of form and shapes of violence and evil. The attempt-at-being not only strives for power over the world but also over other people. In order to maintain oneself and to develop, one wants to be greater and more important than the other. That is why one seeks within the ‘treasure’ of one’s own possessions and abilities for all possible means to be able to dominate the other. In this striving for power the real possibility of absolutizing, i.e., towards deterioration in the perverted enjoyment and lust for power, can creep in as well. Finally, there is the drive or the striving for honour and recognition. This passion is connected to the two preceding ones: to have and to rule. It is not enough to be a capable person in one’s eyes; one also needs the esteem of others in order to value oneself. I can try to earn this regard by ‘proving’ myself through my possessions and power. And, here again, the drive can, on the basis of its inherent structure of desire, degenerate into ‘wild ambition’. That striving to possess, to rule, and to be valued creates the context within which evil begins to brew and develop is eloquently apparent in the narrative of Naboth. Starting with Ahab, we are told about his economic affluence of which his palace is a symbol. But also that this is not simply a possession; it is inevitably linked to his position as king, whereby he exercises power and can exact recognition. Possession, power and recognition form a triad within which all three need and reinforce one another. From this incestuous threesome of desire, violence and evil are begotten. The drive to possess leads Ahab to the desire to expand his property in order to fulfil his wish to fortify his ‘self ’ while gaining more prestige (Greisch, 2001, 78).

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By emphasizing greed, linked to ‘ambition’ and ‘lust for power’, the narrative imagines how evil-doing is not a decision of the will in isolation, but a choice preceded by stimulating ‘provocation’ for the human being in him or herself. A reflection on evil-doing that would only emphasize the voluntary and the choice of free will, without linking this to desire, does not understand the way in which evil-doing finds a breeding ground in the heart of the human person. It is precisely through the honest and realistic connection between will and desire that evil-desiring-and-doing in the narrative of Naboth acquires its ‘justhuman’ and recognizable character, without abolishing the seriousness of evil itself (see further). 1.3. From the confluence of circumstances and causes According to the narrative of Naboth, the everyday character of evildesiring-and-doing is shown not only internally through the desires of the subject itself, but also externally through and in concrete circumstances. Evil-desiring does not drop from the sky. It is always interwoven in a context, in provocations and coincidences. Thanks to a ‘confluence of circumstances’, it can nestle in the desiring of people as a ‘temptation’ that ensues from, or is triggered by, the situation and context. In the narrative, we are told how the vineyard of Naboth is coincidentally situated next to the palace of King Ahab. Neither can do anything about this. It is purely and simply an unplanned factual occurrence. Yet, it is precisely through this reality that Ahab’s desire is roused. An obviously involuntary fact – a ‘factum’ that likewise implies a certain ‘fatum’ – puts ideas into Ahab’s head: ‘it would be nice to add Naboth’s vineyard to my palace and thereby add more value to my palace and I can obtain more power and prestige’. At this point in the narrative there is no mention yet of any intention to kill Naboth. Ahab simply approaches Naboth with a proposal to purchase his vineyard; and to make this more enticing, he suggests and intends to grant Naboth a better vineyard in its place (v. 2). All this seems like commonplace economic transaction based on mutually well-understood self-interest and without any mention of injustice or violence. Things are still proceeding in a rather ‘civilized’ way. However, Naboth’s refusal allows for a certain lividness to creep into Ahab’s desire. As a result, slipping into evil takes place. Although the vineyard as property incarnates Naboth’s attempt-at-being in a tangible, economic way, it is for him more than just property. As the inheritance of his family (v. 3,4) which Naboth not only possesses but likewise preserves out of ‘ancestral piety’, it has a deeper identity-forming sig-

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nificance.2 In this way, Naboth is not only rooted inter-generationally, so that his self takes on a familial and historical form. Through acquiring it, he also attains power and prestige in the community. It is thus understandable that Naboth cannot give up his vineyard, nor entertain Ahab’s proposal. From these observations, it becomes clear how Naboth’s refusal is anything but a pure intentional refusal stemming from his will. His ‘no’ is co-determined by the fact that his vineyard is not just some piece of property he bought on pure economic grounds as an investment or in order to engage in further business. The way that leads to evil-desiring and evil-doing is, in other words, characterized by the capriciousness of a certain fatality or destiny. Thus it arrives not exclusively by means of a determining causality that would exclude all free choice, but also through a suggestive provocation. Evil doing always has a pre-history. It can therefore never nor completely be understood as situated in the here and now. Something always precedes it. Some kind of ‘field’ is present within which evil-desiring can sprout and thrive. Evil-doing does not stem from an absolute, literally detached or abstract ‘bad will’, which opts for evil due to a purely ‘mental’ fundamental option. It is more the will that is lured to evil through an assembly of eventualities and opportunities. It embarks step by step – at times almost noiselessly – upon evil-doing, yet it is not inescapably handed over to it. In the narrative of Naboth, the injury of the avaricious desire acts as the ‘releaser’, which ‘releases’ the risked lapse to evil-contriving and sets it into action. Ahab desires the vineyard of Naboth, but is thwarted in this attempt. This creates in him a frustrated desire because “Ahab went home resentful and sullen because of what Naboth the Jezreelite had said to him; for he had said, “I will not give you my ancestral inheritance” (v. 4). It is this mortified attempt-at-being that will develop into ‘bloodlust’. Once again this suggests a certain, but not necessary, continuity between desire and crime. 2 Biblical scholars point out that ‘inheritance’ can also be understood in a specifically religious sense. The statement “The Lord forbid that I should give you my ancestral inheritance” points out that Naboth is not a servant of Ahab but a servant of the Lord and that he therefore lives according to the ‘traditions’ of his ancestors, namely the Torah of the Lord. Naboth is not only attached to the material inheritance, but also to the religion of his ancestors, the worship of the Lord alone! So from the very outset, the narrative juxtaposes the Jewish religion against the heathen traditions (namely that of Baal), which is especially personified by the figure of Jezebel who is of heathen origin. These traditions, in contrast to those of Israel, maintain a merely economic logic of possession: they are only interested in expanding their possessions and power, by any means whatsoever. See: Kevers, 1997.

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1.4. Evil doing and complicity The commonplace occurrence of evil doing is strengthened by yet another contextual element: the inter-human interwoven pattern within which it occurs. Evil happens in a relational and social context, wherein all forms of seduction, guile, lies, bribery, implication and complicity play a ‘convincing’ role. When Ahab first returns frustrated from not being able to obtain the land, there is still no mention of him plotting evil against Naboth. This idea only develops when his wife Jezebel visits him and wants to know why he is in such a sombre mood and refuses to eat (v. 5). When Ahab explains the reasons for his discontent, she plays on his desire and links the idea ‘to possess’ with the notions ‘to rule’ and ‘to prevail’. Concretely, she manoeuvres into his frustration by contrasting the practically limitless possibilities of his position of power with his reluctance to exercise that power for his own ends: “Do you now govern Israel?” (v. 7). Her words resound with challenge: “How dare Naboth refuse? Should he not simply comply with every desire of the highest ruler?” Deftly Jezebel injects into Ahab’s frustration the poison of humiliation due to the lack of respect for his social position: “Why don’t you let yourself prevail? It is your right, for you do have power on your side!” In this way, Jezebel succeeds in turning the tables on Naboth. While it is actually Naboth’s perfectly legitimate right not to comply with the offer of Ahab, Jezebel suggests that Ahab may justifiably feel aggrieved on the basis of his ‘being-more-in-dignity’. Jezebel does not only plant the seed of evil to Ahab, she also becomes an accomplice. As Ahab’s wife, she is not an outsider or disinterested party. She feels personally offended, as though Naboth’s refusal is an insult directed as much towards her as to the king. She identifies herself to such a degree with Ahab’s frustrated drive to possess and his will to power, that she takes the lead in contriving and executing the evil that is to be exacted upon Naboth. This can be gleaned in her invitation to Ahab: “Get up, eat some food, and be cheerful; I will give you the vineyard of Naboth the Jezreelite” (v. 7). From this point on, Jezebel becomes the primary figure in the narrative. She is the ‘evil genius’ who possesses precious little respect for her husband. She is clearly more bold than Ahab and prepared to resort to corruption and murder in order to achieve Ahab’s desire passionately made her own. She does not hesitate to invest all her creativity and resourcefulness into making a plan to take control of Naboth’s vineyard. Getting the land by whatever means necessary is the only thing that counts as far as she is concerned. She is

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uninterested in Naboth’s reasons for not wanting to sell or exchange it for another even better one. Ahab is aware of Jezebel’s lack of care for mitigating circumstances in terms of her lust for land. He clearly panders to her when he tells her of Naboth’s rejection of his offer, he claims that Naboth said only the following: “I will not give you my vineyard” (v. 6), conveniently choosing to omit Naboth’s reason: “my ancestral inheritance”. In order to realize her plan effectively, Jezebel requires the services of others. Consequently a chain of accomplices is created. To find these, she makes use of Ahab’s royal authority which she associated to herself. A social, economic, financial or political position of power make it easy to secure abettors. Many ‘inferiors’ are dependent on this superior power for their own existence and income as well as their own positions of power and social prestige. That is why Jezebel turns to the elders and the nobles of Naboth’s city and pressures them to ‘collaborate’ with her. The complicity, however, does not stop with the bribed nobles and elders. To execute what she has set out for them to do on the basis of legal royal authority, still others need to be enlisted. In particular, there is the need to hire ‘two scoundrels’ (v. 10) and have them bring false charges against Naboth. Complicity becomes an expanding network. Although one tries to involve as few people as possible because of the considerable risks of leaks, turncoats and traitors, a pre-conceived or engineered crime (as opposed to a crime of passion), is almost always committed by a group of people, rather than merely one individual alone. Just as in the narrative of Naboth, ‘collaborators’, or rather ‘accomplices’ are needed with whom one enters into a kind of ‘pact’, based on an oath of secrecy and solidarity all serving the evil scheme. Jezebel needs ‘trustworthy’ collaborators who, blindly and in attachment to the powerholders, execute her villainous plans. 1.5. The justification of evil-doing Something more than an expertly constructed network of complicity though is at play in the narrative. The evil that people concoct is framed in a legal and juridical way, i.e., in the form of a town assembly: “Proclaim a fast, and seat Naboth at the head of the assembly” (v. 9). With the subordinate power holders privy to her plan, Jezebel stages a cold-blooded murder just to get at the vineyard of Naboth: “Then take him out, and stone him to death” (v. 10). It is necessary that the felonious crime should not appear as such. This is precisely the reason why a trial is set up, including witnesses and all the usual suspects.

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Through the manipulation of this public, legal forum, Jezebel may succeed not only in suggesting but also in subtly convincing that Naboth is in the wrong. The city assembly is deceived. By means of a “sham pretence”, evil-doing is not only disguised but even ethicized as something good, or at least as something that can be justified and is therefore ‘no-evil’. Generally, people are not capable of doing moral evil unless they have a good or at least an acceptable reason for doing so. The vast majority of people are not so diabolic, perverse, or sadistic that they would do evil purely for evil’s sake. As ‘normal’ people, they find it – killing someone, for instance – horribly ‘dreadful’. Abhorrence and moral indignation are never far off. That is why evil is not simply devised and executed as such, but is embellished and perfected: it must take on an air of fairness and decency. It is therefore no coincidence that the narrative of Naboth employs false accusations. Naboth is made to appear guilty of wrongdoing so that Jezebel and her cohorts will be able to condemn and eliminate him. The victim is donned with the ‘guise of the enemy’, which then could be ‘justifiably apprehended’. If the adversary were to embody the good, it would become very difficult to do away with him or her. That is why the ‘other’ must be presented as the incarnation of ‘evil’ so that the people – who stand on the side of the good – can turn against the ‘other’ with a clear conscience. The ‘other’ must be diabolized in order that the ‘I’ can be divinized and mollified. Crime requires clear lines of demarcation between ‘good’ and ‘bad’. Moreover, the legitimation of crime often grabs hold of and uses religious motives. The link between premeditated evil and religion comprises one of the strongest forms of justification. If one can link the object of one’s own will to the divine will one sacralizes one’s human actions. If one can do evil in the Name of God, it is not only permitted and literally ‘made-good’ it also becomes exalted and elevated above the realm of humanity. Thus evil is ethicized and divinized, enabling it to exercise a strong claim on those who as accomplices (must) execute it. In our narrative, two people are not merely bribed in order to bear false witness against Naboth and accuse him of a crime in common law. They are also given a very precise task: they are to accuse him of ‘blasphemy and treason’ (v. 10). This is not only stated in the preparation, i.e., in Jezebel’s letter, but also repeated during its execution by the two so-called witnesses: “Naboth cursed God and the king” (v. 13). Naboth must be condemned because he has defied the authority of the king. To exacerbate this civil crime, it is linked to the accusation of blasphemy – and,

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as we well know, whoever defies the highest political power rejects God Himself. A specific bond between political power and religion is thus suggested. By implicating blasphemy with treason, the highest political authority of the king is sacralized whereby it reinforces its authority and divinizes it as well. Furthermore, this bond implies a well-determined God-image. By linking divine and kingly power, God Himself is seen in terms of majesty and power, elevated above all people just as the king is above all. In this understanding God is the One to whom everyone owes obedience. The narrative of Naboth presents royal power – and the affront thereto – as following naturally from the attempt-at-being and its tendencies to possess, to rule, and to prevail. The God who is projected onto the scene by Jezebel is at the service of this attempt-at-being. It is a God created according to ‘our image and likeness’ and in line with our self-involved endeavours and desires. Consequently, He is conceived as a super-natural or ‘super-power’ that surpasses all intra-mundane powers. It is this divine power that Ahab and Jezebel, driven by their desire, attempt to put on their side, supplementing their own finite authority and legitimizing their usurpation of Naboth. 1.6. The lethal gravity of evil The first part of the narrative ends with the execution of the devised evil. After the mock trial, Naboth was taken “outside the city, and stoned … to death” (v. 13) is repeated at least five times: “Naboth has been stoned; he is dead” (vv. 14, 15, 16). Now the gravity of the premeditated evil enters into view. There is no evading the ugliness of the reality that so far has existed only in the form of plans in the minds of the conspirators. Despite the everydayness of evil doing, and notwithstanding the false pretence of legitimization through which evil doing was obscured, evil remains in its objectivity utterly inexorable. This ‘outcome’ of the first fold of the narrative is not an incidental appendix. It belongs in an essential way to the delineation of evil. Notwithstanding all possible considerations that make evil doing explainable from the perspective of the subject, evil itself maintains an objective obstinacy. One against which all possible explanation is deflected. As long as evil exists only ‘in (bad) thoughts’, it has not yet happened; but from the moment that it ‘has been done’, it is implanted in a real factuality that can no longer be undone. Evil doing has its roots in an immoral disposition of the heart, i.e., in wanting to do evil, but it is only through actions that

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evil becomes ‘real evil’. Once ‘done’, it acquires an ineradicable character, just as unrelenting as death (of Naboth or of other victims). In this respect, it makes sense to speak of the ‘diabolic’ character of evil. Inflicted injustice in itself cannot be whitewashed or turned into good. It is evil, now and for all time, regardless of any legitimizations one may attempt to attach to it. With regard to the subject of evil, i.e., of evil-desiring-and-doing, one should preferably not speak in terms of diabolization, but rather of naturalization and contextualization. Nevertheless, it is still justifiable on the level of evil as object to speak of its diabolic character. This diabolical character does not depend primarily on its quantity. Though a crushing immensity certainly plays a part in the experience of evil as diabolical. By means of its magnitude it cannot but portray this unambiguously. It is especially the internal character of evil itself that constitutes its diabolical nature. This is exactly due to its unrelenting, destructive and disintegrating process. The evil that is done is always ‘dead serious’ and consistently displays in its objective reality an abominable character. Evil itself can never be trivialized – it is and it remains, no matter how small or relatively benign, ‘outrageous’ and demonic. Hence, ethics is never concerned only with the subject as the bearer of good and evil intentions, dreams, desires, but also with the weight of the good or the evil that is committed.

2. Second panel: Judgment takes evil seriously In daily life, narratives end with evil being committed as the definitive and ‘negative ending’ (the opposite of a ‘happy ending’) to which one resigns oneself out of a sense of realism. In the Bible, however, they are never allowed to stop there. Evil is not left as it is, it is always portrayed as outrageous. In the narrative of Naboth this begins with the appearance of the prophet Elijah (vv. 17-26). 2.1. The act of the prophet Elijah First, a reflection on the act of the prophet Elijah. His appearance does not immediately correspond to our spontaneous image of a prophet as someone who predicts the future. Elijah does not arrive in the story as a sort of soothsayer who can predict the future due to a special (divine) knowledge. Nor does he seem to know appreciably more than ‘ordinary mortals’. He certainly does not belong to the guild of prophets who are

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at the service of the king and who advise him for a fee or other kinds of privileges and seek to curry favour with him (‘he who pays the piper calls the tune’). On the contrary, he is rather the king’s adversary and, stronger still, the king’s archenemy. When Elijah seeks out Ahab after the crime has been committed, the bitter reaction of Ahab is clear: “Have you found me, o my enemy?” to which Elijah replies frankly: “I have found you.” (v. 20). Clearly, the prophet comes from ‘another world’ than the king. Their interests and views are diametrically opposed. A deep ‘disparity’ yawns between both that goes beyond the formal, towards an ethically qualified disparity. It is a ‘disturbance’ that intrudes into the world of the king against his wishes. This ‘disparity’ is connected to two other important aspects of the prophet, as they operate in the narrative. He is the one who pronounces his judgment in relation to what has taking place and he does this in the name of God. To understand the ‘judging’ action of the prophet in its full scope, we must confront it with the ‘judgment by history’ – a concept introduced by Hegel. According to Hegel, the (divine) Spirit realizes itself in and through history: “Die Weltgeschichte ist … die Auslegung und Verwirklichung des allgemeinen Geistes” (Hegel, 1986, par. 550). The course of world history is not the result of blind fate, nor a contingent and accidental collision of insouciant forces. Throughout all that happens a universal rational order develops dialectically and progressively according to an inherent finality, in which, at the end, the Spirit has transcended its initial ‘emptiness’ and comes to fullness. This implies that an adequate judgment of historical realities can only be pronounced when history is completed: “die Weltgeschichte ist das Weltgericht”, as Friedrich Schiller mentions in his famous poem “Resignation” (1786). Only at the end of history can the proper significance of all that occurs, in my life as well, become clear. Something that is done here and now only receives its value by that which follows it, or by a larger, hidden coherence. From this perspective one does not judge what ‘happens’ oneself, but leaves this to history. That this is not an otherworldly, metaphysical idea is apparent in the fact that we, in our spontaneous speech, often proceed from this idea. Do we not commonly say: “Time will tell!” We leave the meaning of what happens now to later. ‘Later’ will have to prove whether we have acted rightly or not! In complete contrast to this understanding of judgment and history, the prophet is someone who not waits for ‘later’ or for the ‘verdict of time’. He is someone who pronounces judgment himself, here and now,

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on what happens and what people do. To derive the significance of what people do to each other, he does not wait for the future but passes judgment today. In this view, he exchanges the ‘judgment by history’ for the ‘judgment about history’. Criminal murder does not allow for a postponement of judgment. It rather demands to be evaluated here and now as completely unacceptable. The prophet makes it clear that we do not have to look forward to the further course of history in order to legitimate the elimination of people as a contribution to, for instance, the reason of the State, the established order or the regime. Even though the prophet, as a human being, is part of history, he indeed does not concur with it. A world is only truly human when history is not the Highest Judge or the ‘last judgment’, but when it can be subject to critique at every moment. Inhumanity consists in being adjudged without anyone administering justice! The action of the prophet makes it clear that we should never leave justice to the ‘course of things’; otherwise, we will no longer be able to unmask certain events as unacceptable. To obtain a better grasp of the critical relationship of the prophet to history, we can compare him to the concept of ‘yogi’ and that of the ‘commissioner’ (Ricœur, 1949). The yogi is a symbol for the transformation of the human person by means of interiorization. For that purpose, all impurities and compromises are to be shunned. This can easily lead to a withdrawal or ‘disengagement’ from the world. In contrast, the ‘local commissioner’, as he functioned in the communist regime of the former Soviet Union, was fully ‘engaged’ in society. He had no interest in bringing about a kind of metanoia or change in people by means of contemplation and inner motivation, but through action and ‘new’ socioeconomic and political structures. The commissioner knew that new societies do not arise without dirtying one’s hands. The prophet exceeds and transcends the opposition between the yogi and the commissioner. On the one hand, he does not withdraw from the world so that he may bask in the light of pure interiority, like the yogi. He is, in contrast, involved from head to toe with what takes place among and between people. This is apparent in the action of Elijah. Grounded with both feet in the transpiring of historical realities, he observes all injustices and wrongdoings therein acutely. Hence, the prophet is marked by his sense of moral indignation, which he not only expresses politely, but also in vehement bursts of anger. In this utterly visceral historical engagement, the prophet displays similarities with the commissioner. And yet the prophet is clearly distinct from the commissioner, insofar as his involvement also incarnates something of the yogi.

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He does not conform to history and to his engagement within it. He also takes the necessary distance to maintain a critical sense and thus to be able ‘to see and judge’. The prophet stands symbol for the ‘difficult freedom’ of ‘the disengagement in engagement’. No matter how strongly involved, the prophet also withdraws precisely in order to avoid being inundated by his involvement in the events. This is not about some parataxis, but about the simultaneity of involvement and distancing: disengagement ‘in’, not alongside or after, engagement. To further illustrate this point, we can refer to another passage about Elijah. This one precedes the narrative we are concerned with presently. In 1 Kings 17,4-6. Scripture pushes the idea of disengagement to the extent that it presents Elijah as someone who is fed by ravens. This story has fascinated Biblical exegetes due to the fact that Elijah enters into solitude and what may seem like withdrawal. Impractically in the eyes of most contemporary people, he has not stored any provision for his ‘retreat’. Instead he trusts and receives the food that is delivered by ravens at the right time. Thus he does not become ‘ravenous’ (notice the link with ‘ravens’) nor is he impassive. Rather it becomes clear that his disengagement is incarnated and filled with active patience even in the economic and concrete aspects of his existence. ‘Free as a bird’, he is dependent on no one in this world so that he can pronounce his judgment ‘without the esteem of persons’ or reliance on his own strength and authority. He does not live this incarnated disengagement for the cynical pleasure of critical suspicion, but, against all resignation (‘that’s just the way things are’), he works in order to keep open the perspective of a ‘different’ future. Put differently, Elijah never leaves the last word to the terror of history. 2.2. A God who becomes enraged over inflicted evil In the light of this, the question ‘where does the prophetic judgment about history come from?’ rises. Our narrative shows how the prophet can only act freely towards what happens because he speaks with the words of, and through divine inspiration that flows from, the wholly Other. The One who transcends history as the Transcendent (Baudler, 1992). 2.2.1. The prophet speaks on account of an ethically qualified God Elijah does not speak for the established social and political order, symbolized in the royal power of Ahab. Neither does he reveal his personal opinions on the basis of his insights, ideals, wisdom and ability.

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Instead Elijah voices an ‘external’ standpoint. One ‘from elsewhere’, from God ‘the most Foreign of all’. This means that the prophet is one who is called and thus stands under the Word of God that comes to him ‘ex abrupto’: “then the word of the Lord came to Elijah the Tishbite” (v. 17). This alien heteronomy, however, is not an alienating one since the Word of God is personally directed to the prophet. As one who is called, he is also chosen and set apart. This confers on him an ‘outstanding’ uniqueness that is not determined by subjective coordinates, qualities and characterizations, social situation and status, nor by capabilities or achievements. Rather, it is a uniqueness established only by the act of being called in itself. When the prophet is called personally, he must also answer personally. He cannot let himself be replaced by ‘whomever’. He cannot shift his calling to anyone else but must conduct himself as the only one who can and must answer. In other words, this calling is not only personal, but also works in a personalizing way. It separates Elijah from the grey egalitarian mass and ‘singularizes’ him as a prophet who pronounces God’s judgment in and about this world. In terms of its content, the God who calls and sends the prophet typifies this heteronomy and coeval personalizing election. The divine origin of the prophetic act implies a well-defined idea of God. It becomes immediately clear that the idea of God in this second panel of the narrative is quite different from that in the first. The God out of whom the prophet acts is not a functional God who can be monopolized into the service of one’s own self-unfolding or in the legitimation of the evil that ensues from an absolutized self-unfolding. Yet, the prophet does not intervene either on behalf of an indifferent, neutral God. The God of the prophet, like the God of the entire Bible, is not a neutral highest Being who only transcends all other created beings without any further involvement. The transcendence of the Biblical God is an ethically qualified transcendence (Baudler, 1999, 27-31). The God who calls is not an ‘unmoved mover’, as Aristotle presents him. Even less is he a deistic God who observes as an unconcerned outsider as to how the clock he himself made keeps on running. The Biblical God, who also calls and sends the prophet Elijah, reveals himself as an ‘associated God’ and thus as essentially involved in what happens to people and to the world. He is a ‘moved mover’, the non-indifferent One who is stirred ‘par excellence’ by what people do in their history and to each other. What happens and what is done makes a difference to this God. In the second part of our narrative, God reveals himself as a tangible and vulnerable God who is into the very depths of his being ‘moved’ by what happens in his world

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and among His people. This ‘involvement’ of God is to be understood emotionally. This we express in what follows be it in all too human and thus carefully employed terms. God becomes sad. He suffers. His guts are wrenched, if you will, by the suffering that afflicts people. He is affected by what happens in the world He has created. In this sense, the Biblical God is not a static but a dynamic God, who is literally ‘moved’. God is, as Pascal said, “not the God of philosophers and scholars, but the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob” (De Boer, 1989, 81-88) (cf. also Chapter VII). We can call this the ethical ‘sensitivity’ of God insofar as He is not an abstract-philosophical principle, nor, as the case may be, a necessary principle of explanation. God is a living ‘Thou’, a ‘person’, Someone who in His ‘heart’ and down to the ‘marrow of his bones’, is moved by what people experience in their history. 2.2.2. A God who is good also becomes angry at evil This associated or connected God appears in the second frame of the narrative also as a God who is angered by evil. If God is not neutral but One moved by what is ‘good’, then He cannot remain indifferent towards evil. He becomes agitated about the existence and perpetuation of evil. That God judges and condemns does not contradict His ethically qualified transcendence, but is, on the contrary, an expression of it. It is not accurate to present God only as kind and loving. Someone who empathizes with the suffering person and does not harbour severe indignation for the evil that people inflict on each other. The image of a God ‘cut across the grain’ who is angered by inflicted evil is an essential part of the Biblical revelation of the ever-loving God. The One who takes the side of the ‘small’, the hurt, the crushed, the outcast, or the murdered is also incensed by evil. A good God who commits Himself to the victims of evil is also a God who becomes ‘irate’ towards those who have made the victims what they are. With Dorothy Sölle, we can call this ‘God’s fire in the belly’ (1971). This is precisely what we find represented eloquently in the appearance of the prophet Elijah. Since God is not a neutral, ontological principle that is only formally transcendent, but the Holy One who is at the same time near and involved – or rather who is transcendent because He is unsurpassably associated with what happens to people – He cannot possibly condone the horrific murder of Naboth committed in his Name. Hence, the prophet speaks out of the ‘fire in God’s belly’, out of

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God’s intolerance toward evil. The prophet ‘in and for God’ is gripped by divine ‘wrath’. Because of his inspiration or ‘arousal’ that is rooted in God’s involvement in history the prophet can do nothing other than become enraged by the evil that one person inflicts on an other. If through the prophet God would limit his engagement to merely showing compassion and ‘commiseration’ for Naboth as victim, His ‘moved-ness’ would fall short of ‘perfection’. His compassion would then be cheap and sentimental as our commiseration is when we passively hear news about victims of crime (rape, incest, sexual abuse, murder, genocide, etc.). Involvement is only authentic when it bears within itself the outrage over committed evil. The prophet interprets God’s ‘sympathy’ and ‘compassion’ for Naboth as a requirement. Thus as God’s instrument, he accuses the perpetrators and demands that they take account of their wrongdoing. 2.2.3. Injustice as idolatry An exceptional aspect of this prophetic accusation lies in its religious dimension. Where the first panel of the narrative describes the horrible murder as committed in the name of God, now the prophet accuses Ahab beyond an inter-human crime of ‘atrocious’ and blasphemous behaviour towards God. Ahab has taken the name of God in vain. Or, as is mentioned literally in the text: “You have sold yourself to do what is evil in the sight of the Lord” (v. 20b), and stronger still: “Indeed, there was no one like Ahab, who sold himself to do what was evil in the sight of the Lord, urged on by his wife Jezebel. He acted most abominably in going after idols, as the Amorites had done, whom the Lord drove out before the Israelites” (vv. 25-26). This going after idols can and must be understood literally in the sense that Ahab has strayed from the true faith by following his foreign, heathen wife, Jezebel. Through the broader context of the narrative, we apprehend that she provided for 450 prophets of Baal and 400 prophets of Asherah (1 Kings 18,19) and, moreover, she wanted to exterminate the prophets of the Lord (1 Kings 18,4). The story shows how Ahab forgot his original faith in the God of Israel and went after the heathen idols of Jezebel. Even in this aspect Jezebel is the strong one and Ahab the weakling. The prophet Elijah attacks their idolatry head-on thereby defending the exclusive worship of God alone. Now this theme of the struggle between idolatry and the true religion cannot be separated from the full setting of the narrative. The choice

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between Baal and the Lord is not merely a religious issue, namely between two ‘godheads’, but a human and socio-economic issue as well. Or rather, the religious option is directly interwoven with a specific earthly, socio-economic choice. Whoever chooses for Baal chooses for a logic of greed, the violation of law and murder. Whoever chooses for the Lord chooses precisely for the questioning of the greed and murder that flows forth from this logic. Thus it stands up for those who fall victim to it. The prophet Elijah discovers how going after ‘idols’ means fostering a wrong idea of God, and how this wrong God-idea leads directly to immoral deeds. This became unequivocally apparent in the first panel where God is invoked in order to legitimize a hideous murder by sacralizing it. If God is conceived in terms of the attempt-at-being, He is not only disrobed of his ethically qualified transcendence but also reduced to an idol according to the level of human desire. Then He is abused in order to bestow a divine aureole to this drive for possession and assertiveness: an economic and social system where the rich become richer and the strongest possess and increase their power. That is why the fiery judgment also concerns the abuse of God’s Name, as it was brought to the fore in the first fold of the narrative. 2.3. Expressing anger can be healing What is also remarkable is that the prophet’s accusation is anything but neutral, distant and impartial. He gives voice to this accusation in highly evocative, emotional language that leaves little to the imagination. Nonetheless, he does not speak in his own name, but rather in the name of the victim, and expresses in a verbally violent way the anger of Naboth who as a victim himself will never be able to speak on his own behalf. 2.3.1. Not repressing feelings of anger Throughout his reproachful and accusatory remarks, the prophet not only gives a voice to the voiceless, he also inadvertently contributes to the liberating and healing value of this expression of anger. According to the narrative, this manifestation of rage even has ‘divine’ significance, since the prophet speaks up on account of the passion of God. That such outbursts of outrage are ‘allowed’ or are ‘obliged’ according to the Bible, even in the name of God, can have a therapeutic effect on people. People have a ‘right’ to anger. Feelings of anger are not against-nature or wrong. On the contrary, they are quite human and legitimate. Many people have difficulties when the emotion of anger is explored. The

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word in itself evokes for some the image of extreme violence. Some are simply fearful of permitting this emotion to come to any expression whatsoever. In the name of a wrong or mutilated conception on love, they attempt to eschew all aggressive emotions. Nonetheless, anger as an emotion is a healthy psychological reality. It manifests our sensitivity and tangible nature as much as our non-indifference towards forms of evil, insult, injustice, humiliation, impolite treatment, abuse of trust, and so forth. Some people mistakenly think that, in order to be able to forgive, one must first repress what appears to be a ‘negative’ feeling. Yet, precisely the opposite counts. Just as it is impossible to grant forgiveness when one is not first made aware of one’s shame and its acceptance, it is equally impossible to grant forgiveness when one does not permit and recognize one’s anger and feelings of revenge (this will be discussed further below). To blur and confuse these feelings is actually a form of self-deceit. One reduces possible forgiveness to a mere external ‘social grimace’. Only when forgiveness flows forth from the heart that has wrestled with its own injury and the ensuing anger, can it be authentic and felt intensely (Monbourquette, 1994, 30-32; 2000, 113-117). In all honesty, we know the pernicious consequences of repressed anger. It can ‘shift’, so that it is directed at innocent people or even animals and objects. Furthermore, small forms of bottled up anger can accumulate – below the surface and thus unconsciously – so that they explode uncontrollably at unexpected times. The trigger may seem to be a mere pinprick but the effect can be an atomic or volcanic eruption beyond all reasonable proportions. The subterranean shift of anger can equally take the guise of other feelings and remarks like, pitiless blame, spiteful criticism, cold cynicism, bitter mockery and vicious hostility. Furthermore, these expressions are repetitive in nature precisely because the subject who is experiencing them has not identified their origin. Another related phenomenon is that repressed anger can lead to a transference of one’s feelings of irritation towards others. Whoever is unaware of his or her anger tends to be inclined toward transferring this to others. One feels threatened by the forms of his or her own anger. Suppressed anger can also turn against oneself. One who does not allow even the slightest feeling of anger will become inadvertently self-accusing when it does arise, even if only for a moment. This self-depreciation can escalate into a form of self-punishment. It may end in depression where all feelings of self-destruction and suicide are in the extreme. Finally, therapists point to how the un-admitted, stubbornly spreading of anger – spreading because it is not recognized – can become a catalyst in all sorts of psychosomatic diseases.

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2.3.2. The positive possibilities of anger Under the influence of a kind of one-sided, sugary-sweet image of a ‘loving God’, many believers still think that the expression of anger against those who have done injustice to themselves, to their neighbour or to their fellow human beings is utterly wrong. The prophet Elijah, however, shows ‘in actu exercitu’ that the contrary is true. Anger is not always a vice and it does not automatically lead to hatred or rancour. Elijah shows that anger can even be a virtue. Too easily does one confuse the spontaneous emotion of anger with that of resentment. Yes, anger does manifest itself as a violent movement of the emotions. However, notwithstanding its appearance, it also possesses some positive features. It is a normal reaction against inflicted injustice that does not only recognize injustice but also incites one to call halt to this injustice. Rancour, on the contrary, nestles itself in the heart where it acts like a cancer that spreads its destruction slowly but surely. Resentment camouflages a blind and stubborn anger that assumes it and will find satisfaction when the ‘perpetrator’ is punished and especially humiliated. It can disguise itself in different ways: through sarcastic remarks, attitudes of contempt and hatred, or through systematically vented hostility. Quite a number of people who have been deeply hurt or injured by others can be helped to come clean with their deep seeded aggressive feelings by these prophetic and other Biblical expressions of anger as we find them in the so-called curse psalms for instance. These feelings should be allowed to come to the fore as they are. They witness to the inflicted insufferable injustice. By articulating gnawing feelings of anger, or by expressing them in rituals, one can prevent verbal violence from culminating in real violence (Burggraeve & Ruytjens, 1998). If anger is correctly channelled, it contributes to the healthy functioning of human relations. It is therefore important to defend our own boundaries and values, and this at times with force and indignation. At the conclusion of the journey of the personal experience of exploring emotions like anger, we discover the values we hold most dearly. A steady rise in the level of anger works like an alarm bell or an indicator of warning. It informs us that areas sensitive to us have been transgressed or are under threaten. A healthy sense of anger can alert me to situations in which it might be the case that I am being exploited, taken advantage of or abused. In contrast to those who abide by suppressing anger and attempt to hide it behind indifference or resignation, those who justifiably and correctly express it make it known that they desire to restore

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contact and healthy forms of relating. Anger is a sign of involvement, which indeed reaches farther than the emotion itself. Thus it takes away any obstacles to communication that may arise. In short, anger rouses the moral energy to tackle evil and injustice. It is precisely for that reason that it is important to acknowledge anger and orientate it correctly, without simply surrendering oneself to it.3 2.4. Anger as the source for feelings of revenge Not everything has yet been said about the outburst of anger on the part of the prophet. Coupled to the foreboding declaration of punishment one instinctively thinks of the idea of revenge. Revenge that in the context of the First Testament invariably tends to be associated with the well-known statement in Leviticus “an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth”.4 The question, however, is whether both Leviticus and the narrative on Naboth are about revenge. 2.4.1. From a collective right to revenge to personal feelings of revenge The much-reviled First Testament jus talionis – “an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth” – received frequently bad press within Christianity. Here it often became frequently associated (and sometimes still is) with an image of God, thought to be angry, violent, and war-mongering. In short, a God who stands over people as a powerful judge seeing all the way into our hearts and souls. It is but a small step from this (totally incorrect yet stubbornly spread) conception of the ‘Jewish God of revenge’ to the ‘cruel retaliation morality of the Jews’. Not only an ecumenicallyfriendly disposition towards the Jews, but truth itself as well compels us to pose the question as to the correct meaning and scope of the Biblical “an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth”.

3 The story of Cain (cf. chapter III) demonstrates how pernicious it can be when one does not succeed in giving expression to the anger that is ignited when one is not acknowledged by the other, even when that non-acknowledgement is justified. 4 The complete text reads: “Anyone who kills a human being shall be put to death. Anyone who kills an animal shall make restitution for it, life for life. Anyone who maims another shall suffer the same injury, eye for eye, tooth for tooth; the injury inflicted is the injury to be suffered. One who kills an animal shall make restitution for it; but one who kills a human being shall be put to death. You shall have one law for the alien and for the citizen: for I am the Lord your God.” (Lev 24,17-22). (Cf. also Ex 21,24; Deut 19,21).

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This expression “an eye for an eye” is a paradox. It propagates anything but personal revenge in spite of the ambiguous restitution and passion that it implies. In the Jewish Bible, this is explicitly forbidden: “You shall not take vengeance or bear a grudge against any of your people, but you shall love your neighbour as yourself ” (Lev 19,18). And this prohibition on revenge is made more clear and strengthened by the well-known word of God: “Thus says the Lord: Vengeance is mine (of which is understood: and no one else!)” (Deut 32,35) (Van Tongeren, 2008). The question that arises almost automatically is this: how and what does the term revenge mean or imply? In our contemporary usage, it has a personal sense. In the past, however, this has not always been the case. One place where this becomes apparent is in the use of the Germanic right to revenge in the High Middle Ages.5 We now tend to see revenge as individual and quite personal behaviour. A feeling that primarily presses and reinforces the anger aroused in the victim by the evil inflicted further. We no longer link revenge to an objective social duty that has to be accomplished out of loyalty. It has instead become a passionate emotion that forms part of our intimacy or rather characterizes this acutely. 5

The collective right to revenge appears in a society where heroism and honour belong to the ideology or the ‘ethos of values’. This is certainly true for the Germanic right to revenge as it has dominated these parts of Europe during the High Middle Ages. Not coincidentally do we speak of the ‘right to revenge’, since it is about a rule of behaviour that is socially organized and thus is part of a coherent system of society. We can distinguish three characteristics of this social right to revenge. First of all, the taking of revenge counts as a social imperative. It is a duty that not only surpasses separate individuals but also structures social relationships hierarchically. The individual exists insofar as he or she belongs to a group: family, clan, occupational group, ethnic community. Without the support of the group, the individual actually does not exist anymore. On the other hand, the group is also directly involved with what happens to its members. Within this reciprocity between group and individual, the unwritten agreement of loyalty and protection of honour applies against those who threaten the group or its ‘bearing’ and ‘bound’ persons in their existence. Harming the group is precisely set right by means of revenge. As a second characteristic, revenge traverses the different boundaries and demarcations in the society. Revenge does not remain horizontal, that means limited to people of the same status, but cuts vertically through the classes, so that for instance a servant takes revenge on his lord. Revenge also cuts across time: a number of years can go by before revenge can be taken. It can be handed down from one generation to the other. It likewise surpasses geography in the sense that it does not remain local, as is apparent for instance from the fact that those who are banished do not (or are not allowed to) forget their duty of revenge. A third characteristic is that revenge develops a hellish spiral. It ‘infects’ all those who are connected to the injured, highlyplaced person or ‘hero’, for instance not only the count but also his companions, his serfs, his servants. From this a spiral of violence arises that ends with the death of all – unless one manages to escape the bloodbath in order to bear witness to the incident. Cf. Crépin, 1987, 85-88.

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Whenever we are undeservedly insulted or injured, abandoned or betrayed, suffer one or the other injustice, this stirs in us ‘instinctively’, as it were – in spite of ourselves – not only anger but also aggression. Or, more accurately, from spontaneous anger in reaction to the inflicted evil, the feeling of revenge directly ensues. This in turn consists in a double movement of the emotion of aggression and the urge to self-defence. We are not able to bear the evil or injustice that is inflicted upon us and thus we seek to rectify this by striving to give the perpetrator ‘a taste of his own medicine’. Feelings of revenge therefore go a step further than those of anger. One does not only become angry, but one also desires to rectify the situation and to restore the balance. An injury cannot simply let an injury pass. It must be compensated, as it were, so that the harm can be dealt with and we can face ourselves once again. One desires to do justice to oneself and literally to avenge oneself. This feeling of revenge is linked to a sense of original justice (Basset, 2007, 21-36). 2.4.2. Neither denying nor cultivating feelings of revenge For the reasons presented above, revenge, insofar as we consider it in the form of a ‘feeling’, should not be denied nor repressed. In this sense it needs to be acknowledged. All too often it is pushed away as an impermissible perversion. Nonetheless, the spontaneous longing to avenge oneself after an inflicted humiliation or violation should be approached as a healthy psychological reality. It is better that it surfaces and is expressed if one does not want to end up in ‘postponed’ and unhealthy outbursts of vengeful anger.6 At the same time, it is important not to cultivate and harbour the spontaneous, at times passionate, eruptions of feelings of revenge to the point that these turn into actual actions.7 Though we should not be blind to the fact that feelings of revenge can easily escalate and flow into plotting retaliating deeds, it is nevertheless important to distinguish between the feeling and the acting. If the feeling is harboured and developed, it all too quickly grows into a strong, even wild passion, which then becomes more and more difficult to hold in check. In addition it makes the injured person shut in on him or herself in such a forceful 6 See the discussion above (and in Chapter III) on ‘repressed anger’ and its pernicious consequences. 7 In this regard Paul says: “Be angry but do not sin; do not let the sun go down on your anger” (Eph 4,26) (cf. also Col 3,8). This means: Do not foster and cultivate your anger, for the evil of hatred and revenge flow forth precisely out of this harbouring.

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way that one automatically sees oneself as the individual who shall and must take revenge. Indeed, what is typical of taking revenge is that the victim him or herself takes it to heart and directs it towards the perpetrator, purely on the basis and according to the measure of the injustice suffered. In revenge, there is no distance between crime and punishment. As Ricœur formulates it sharply: “the elementary, emotional, savage vengeance, the kind that wants to inscribe the punishment in the wake of the crime” (2000, 134). This ‘measure’ is very ambiguous, since the ‘measure’ of the inflicted injustice is estimated by the emotion of anger. It is here that the risk, one that continuously escalates, of disproportion lies. Harbouring revenge turns into hatred and rancour, with the intention of doing evil to the other and to make the other suffer. The proportionality of the experienced suffering which one wants to inflict on the perpetrator is soon broken. Revenge is bent on finding the shortest path between the experienced suffering of the victim and the suffering imposed as punishment on the perpetrator. But this leads directly to a short-circuit. In this regard, revenge is not only swift, but too swift; not only emotional, but too emotional; not only direct, but too direct! As an emotion, revenge is not only original but also primitive and unbridled. The eruptive passion of vengeful anger increases exponentially in acts of revenge that no longer contain any reasonableness, but explode in total disproportion8. Furthermore, this then evokes an unforeseen just as extravagant counter-revenge the result of which is the descent into an infernal spiral. Moreover, the harboured feeling of revenge fixes our attention and energy onto the past, so that interesting projects for the future are no longer developed. By nestling oneself in the feeling of revenge, one suffocates all creativity, impeding or even blocking one’s own personal growth. The person who is keen on retaliation actually makes the experienced injury even more severe. By constantly calling it to mind, it is prevented from healing. In addition, whoever effectively takes revenge inadvertently imitates the one who has inflicted the injury. By entering into combat with the other using the same weapons of insult and violation, one degrades oneself to the ‘malevolent’ person one actually detests at heart. Besides this it also becomes clear that, whoever takes pleasure in taking revenge, creates within oneself the breeding ground for a gnawing 8 In the Bible we can reference the following remark, literally the ‘cry for revenge’ of Lamech, a descendant of Cain who committed fratricide: “Lamech said to his wives: ‘Adah and Zillah, hear my voice; you wives of Lamech, listen to what I say: I have killed a man for wounding me, a young man for striking me. If Cain is avenged sevenfold, truly Lamech seventy-sevenfold’” (Gen 4,23-24).

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feeling of guilt. One feels guilty because one has used the suffering of another in order to ease one’s own humiliation. Taking revenge also arouses in us the fear for a ‘retro-active force’. We should be afraid that our expression of revenge towards the other can backfire against us and that the other shall give us a taste of our own medicine. We can be gripped by the fear of a possible counter-attack, which shall one day befall us. Finally, the revenge we harbour fosters in us the feelings of rancour, anger, hate and animosity. In their turn, these feelings are real sources of stress that not only affects our psychological but also our spiritual and bodily health, like our immune system for instance, with a number of neuro-vegetative diseases as consequences (Monbourquette; 2000, 84-89). 2.5. From revenge to retribution For all these reasons, it is important to make the decision not to cultivate and much less execute feelings of revenge even though these are in themselves healthy. This is a conscious choice which acknowledges and assesses in all humility the passion of the feeling of revenge, and decides not to let oneself be delivered unto it. The ‘wise’ person discovers that one must try to go ‘beyond revenge’, precisely in order not to end up in an inhuman state – or to put it bluntly, to avoid going berserk. This wisdom has much in common with the negative formulation of the well-known ‘golden rule’: “and what you hate, do not do to anyone.” (Tob 4,15)9 From our practical, daily experience we know that it is best to avoid doing evil to others, because they in turn will count this evil against us and pay us back. We can avoid this misfortune by curbing our feelings of revenge (Crépin, 1987, 84). Naturally, the question for us is how to go ‘beyond revenge’. Here we are faced with a double challenge. On the one hand, there is the positive side of the feeling of revenge, namely, the need for rectification, settlement and justice. On the other hand, one should not leave the expression and realization of the longing for revenge to the throes of the emotions. How might it be possible to tackle this dual challenge head-on? How can one 9

In the gospels, a further step is taken in the understanding of love by providing the positive formulation of the golden rule: “In everything do to others as you would have them do to you; for this is the law and the prophets” (Mt 7:12) (see also: Lk 6:31). Naturally, Jesus himself goes even further with his appeal for unconditional love, which is not based on any reciprocity or mutuality – a love whose impossibility to measure of which he has shown on the cross where he has given his life for us “while we still were sinners” (cf. Rom 5:8).

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realize the positive side of feelings of revenge without substantiating taking revenge itself? Is this not a contradiction, an impossible task? According to Ricœur, it is about finding the right distance between what the anger and the feeling of revenge evoke and the punishment. That is to say, it is a matter of refusing to give free rein to anger while taking great pains not to trivialize the evil caused by punishing it in an honest and correct manner (Ricœur, 2000, 134). We may observe that Ricœur’s idea is actually realized by the jus talionis – when viewed or taken as a first attempt toward the humanization of revenge. The ‘eye for an eye’ formula intends to transcend revenge, without, however, trivializing evil itself. The law of retribution does not intend to run amok in an extravagant or over-zealous rectification of evil, but neither does it end up at the opposite side of the spectrum by minimalizing the experienced evil nor by reducing the punishment too much. Of course, the question as to how one manages all this now comes to the fore… 2.5.1. Retribution as rule of law First and foremost, retribution must be understood as a rule of law that should only function on the social level within a legal system. This is made apparent in the linguistic indication of the “eye for an eye” itself. It literally concerns a rule of law that strives for justice via restitution. Whoever has harmed another must be brought before a judge in order to give restitution – as the representative of society in general and of the victim in particular. In this regard, the law of retribution is not situated at the level of inter-individual relationships, but at the social level as the foundation for legal decisions. The law of retribution is part of the social order in which no sanction, regardless how light, can be pronounced outside of a legal verdict (DL 194-196/146-148). The personal retribution for inflicted evil is in no way permitted no matter how reasonable it may seem. Only a ‘third person’, namely the judge, may pronounce the sentence regarding guilt and retribution. Furthermore, the judge must pronounce this decision on the basis of reasonableness and not on grounds of some passionate emotions that characterize the feelings of revenge. The judgment by a judge is more important than the noble anger aroused by the crime. Since violence in turn begets violence, this chain-reaction must be stopped. This is precisely the goal of the administration of justice instituted within society, which is able to reduce that breach, infringement or transgression between people to a dispute within

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the social order. A juridically founded retribution, in other words, takes the place of the emotional outburst of revenge, however justified the feelings of anger may be that swell up in the heart of the victim (and his or her neighbours) for the inflicted evil (Ricœur, 2000, 134-136). 2.5.2. Proportionality between evil and punishment The objectivity and detachedness of the judgment by a ‘third person’ (meaning to say an outsider who is brought in by the law of retribution) does not mean in any way whatsoever that the inflicted evil is disregarded and trivialized. The judge is faced with the task of taking the committed injustice seriously. This is apparent from the law of retribution (‘an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth’) that demands a proportional punishment for any committed crime. The judge must employ the proportionality between evil and punishment as the rule for his judgment. Due to this, frivolous talk about human actions becomes impossible. With the task of pronouncing proportional punishment comes the responsibility for the judge to ‘weigh the pros and cons’ in response to the ‘gravity’ of what people do to each other. Put differently, the judge must estimate affairs ‘according to the truth’. Often it is only when we ‘get a taste of our own medicine’, and thus feel it in our own flesh, that we truly begin to realize what we do to others. Whoever kills a human being must die, and whoever knocks out a tooth or gouges out an eye must undergo the same fate. This reciprocity embedded in the law of retribution takes evil between humans with utmost seriousness. Nothing is obscured, minimalized or covered-up. The law of retribution does not mean that one should willingly or unwillingly just let inflicted evil or harm happen to oneself. It is right to become angry about evil and its manifold expressions in a form that unambiguously shows the encroaching meaning of the ‘damage’ and injury that is caused by the inflicted evil. This is what we see with the prophet Elijah in the Naboth narrative. He ignites into fiery rage and out of this anger he pronounces a judgment on the utterly unheard of crime of Ahab and Jezebel.10 The moral indignation that grips him – on account of God – allows him to truly estimate the intolerable and irrevocable seriousness of the inflicted injustice. To take someone’s life, to assault another in his or her physical or 10 Although Elijah’s notification sounds somewhat different in the narrative, Jezebel is threatened with a separate punishment (v. 23) and must actually undergo this punishment, as is seen in 2 Kings 9:36-37.

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psycho-social integrity cannot be taken seriously enough. In a society where only tenderness, love and forgiveness would dominate, the risk of too much resignation towards evil becomes present. If one is too mild and pardons too easily, one actually does not take the crime and the ‘desire’ (cf. above) that is at its source earnestly enough. If one erases from one’s mind the consequences of serious forms of evil, one denies the responsibility of each human being, as well as the fundamental evil of murder and every form of denial, exclusion, robbery or violation of human beings. That is why a certain proportionality is present in the explosion of anger of the prophet with regard to the inflicted evil. Out of his vivid awareness of the inexorable evil that Jezebel, Ahab and their collaborators have inflicted on Naboth, Elijah pronounces an equally inexorable judgment on them. The gravity of this judgment stands in proportion to the gravity of the committed crime. Neither the passion with which he speaks and the linked punishment with which he threatens should be surpassed by the passion of the crime that took place in the first part of the narrative: Jezebel, Ahab and their accomplices must be put to death just as they have taken Naboth’s life! What now is the meaning of this proportion? If the anger and the judgment of the prophet would have been expressed in a reserved and business-like manner, then perhaps the irreversible weightiness of the evil would not have become clear. By threatening with a similar punishment – a life for a life – Ahab and Jezebel are able to account for what they have done to Naboth. The confrontation of the criminal with his crime is important for the awareness of one’s own guilt. Thus, the guilty one can no longer hide behind all sorts of ethicizing or legitimizing of his actions. 2.5.3. From retribution to compensation (payment) The proportionality of evil and sanction is not without problems either. Equal retribution, the death penalty for murder for instance, introduces a new form of violence. This is why society is faced with the urgent task of humanizing the administration of justice and, in particular, criminal law. Proportional retribution, however fair and justified, cannot be a definitive judicial regime. The humanization of punishment is an ethical necessity, which implies, for instance, the abolition of the death penalty. One concrete way of carrying out this humanization is the ‘calculation’ of the inflicted evil so that ‘retribution’ can be transformed into ‘compensation’. Not only do we need justice without passion, meaning to say an

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objective and impartial administration of justice, but we also require a judicial system without an executioner that endeavours to repair the damage by transforming it into an ‘economic value’. The damage incurred by the crime can be ‘measured’, as for instance in the loss of income, of health, and even of dignity and beauty. Even though Marx has called the calculation of the economic value of the human being inadmissible in principle, this economic calculability of the human being does offer the positive possibility of humanizing the relentless inflexibility of retribution and punishment. It is remarkable how in this humanizing calculation, which must lead to a non-violent or rather ‘less violent’ form of reparation and ‘redemption’, money comes to the fore as the eminent means of ‘damage compensation’. Nonetheless, one must continue to guard against misunderstanding and not lose sight of the fundamental ambiguity of money. Indeed Karl Marx is right when he states that, notwithstanding the fact that wages for labour are a remuneration and therefore a recognition of the labourer, the calculation of the economic value of the human being is an objectification and therefore implies an essential non-recognition of the value of the human being. It is, therefore, a scandal. The human being is not reducible to his or her economic value! This also applies to inflicted evil. A murder is and continues to be a murder, and cannot be put right or undone by all the money in the world. It is and remains a scandal that forms of evil between people are transformed into economic quantity and measurability. Compensating criminality with money is not only a form of humanization of the administration of justice, but also of ‘in-attention’, understood in its literal sense, towards inflicted injustice. Even when something is compensated with money, nothing is cancelled out. In other words, in order not to trivialize evil, the principle of proportionality in the administration of justice must be maintained, even though its application in jurisprudence must be mitigated. 2.5.4. The law of retribution still remains in force One reason as to why damage compensation via monetary transaction cannot be the ultimate founding principle of the administration of justice still needs to be explored. If money were to replace the principle of reciprocity this would directly lead to an economic perversion of justice itself. This is something we often see de facto happening in ‘modern’ (Westernized) societies. Those who have plenty of financial means can easily pay the imposed damage compensation. The implication of

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this is that a rich person can engage in crime and criminality more easily and with impunity in comparison to a poor or less propertied person. Punishment thus loses any element of deterrence for the economically well-to-do – it evades its ethical meaning. Put briefly, if money were to replace retribution and damage compensation, class justice, which not only brings in an unjust distinction between the poor and the rich, but also accords the rich an unperturbed conscience, would be introduced. This is apparent in the way in which the formulation of the jus talionis, notwithstanding the jurisprudence surrounding it so that it has always been mitigated in its application, has been maintained in the Jewish tradition. The question that needs to be faced is why the jus talionis has not been applied, and why compensation and monetary fines have taken the place of retribution: ‘an eye for X amount of euros [dollars…]’. Why do we continue to say ‘an eye for an eye’ and not rather ‘an eye for money’ (with the necessary index-adjustments over time…), since retribution is about money anyway? The reply of the Jewish tradition is that, even when one has made up for the injustice committed with money nothing is cancelled out through it. Otherwise, those with plenty of money could pluck out all the eyes in the world. The king of Israel could do so to all his subjects as he is rich and ‘possesses much power and horses’. This gives him the possibility to pay any damage and thereafter blithely proceed to abuse or exploit his subjects’ lives all over again. The Rothschilds would have been able to take every eye in the world with impunity, and so forth. For the rich and therefore the strong – for they are strong because they are rich – the world would remain comfortable. All they need are steady nerves. Through his judgment and pronouncement of punishment over the house of Ahab, the prophet Elijah has avoided this laxity and trivialization of evil. He has let himself be touched by the fate Naboth had to undergo; he has allowed himself to feel its utter injustice and inhumanity. This emotional sharing in the fate of Naboth, the just one, has likewise moved him fiercely to cry out his judgment on Ahab, Jezebel and his entire house ‘straight from his mouth’ and ‘harshly’. In no way would he be dissuaded by ‘awe’ for the ‘position’ (power and wealth) of King Ahab, as was the case, for the nobles of the city of Naboth through whom Jezebel was able to organize a mock judicial process. Beyond any prestige of persons, Elijah has pronounced his judgment and punishment, without doing away with ‘one iota or stroke’ of the law or without explaining it away – because it was committed by the ‘well-to-do’, rich and powerful Ahab.

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2.6. Evil as the reverse side of the good Inevitably we now need to address whether the idea of an ‘angry and judging God’ does not inadvertently lead to fanaticism in the struggle either against evil or for the good. Does not moral indignation easily feed the inclination to be extremely radical in acting against the malevolent and to dwell on definitive solutions that would exterminate it, roots and all? This in a violent or at least aggressive and brutal manner? 2.6.1. When ethics absolutizes itself The ‘total’ or the absolute in evil inadvertently evokes ‘total’ and unrelenting reactions as well that are not limited to undoing evil but that also seek to prevent it from happening for good. Here the desire to change everything is strong and only satisfied when everything has turned out for the good. If one poses over and against moral evil a total ethical good then ethics becomes megalomaniacal and totalitarian. The arrogance of ethical ‘infinity’ (an ethical effort that never goes far enough) ends up in moral zealousness. This implies a ‘hypertrophy of morals’, which exaggerates the importance and the significance of ethics for the meaning of life. We can also call this the ‘terror of ethics’. Ethics is sublimated to the ‘Ein und Alles’, by means of which it is not only absolutized but also sacralized. A salvific significance is ascribed to it so that any hope for salvation is expected from it. Ethical values are in this case so strongly emphasized that they acquire a final, divine significance: “General and generous principles can be inverted in their application. Every generous thought is threatened by its Stalinism (cf. infra) (…). It is the precise moment at which the general principle runs the danger of becoming its own contrary (…). Ideology is the generosity and clarity of the principle which has not taken into account the inversion which keeps a watch on this general principle when it is applied” (AV 99/79). This ethical storming of heaven, however, changes the world into a hell of terror, persecution and violence. Ethics that are employed fanatically no longer stand over and against evil but are (ironically) transformed into their opposite. Thus they promote the malevolent. Absolutized ethics become cruel and merciless. As Pascal puts it laconically and eloquently: “Whoever pretends to be an angel becomes a beast” (“L’homme n’est ni ange, ni bête, et le malheur veut que qui veut faire l’ange fait la bête”) (Pascal, Pensées, fragment 572). To summarize, if one wants to substantiate the ethical good at any cost whatsoever then the ethical effort itself is perverted into immorality (Duquoc, 1990).

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2.6.2. A historical form of the terror of ethics: to never forget According to Levinas, inspired by “the remarkable novel by Vasily Grossman” (1905-1964), Life and Fate (HN 101-105/88-91),11 we find this drama of ethics, namely the ethical good that is transformed into its own opposite of terror in an eminently, utterly scandalous way, in Stalinism. He clarifies this point of view on the basis of the paradoxical statement that Stalinism is, in a certain sense, worse than Hitlerism. Even though both are comparable insofar as they have developed the horrible terror of an oppressive totalitarian regime, they still differ fundamentally. This difference does not so much consist of their totalitarian character. It rather lies in the foundation and inspiration for their system. Hitlerism rests simply on an immoral foundation. Put more strongly, it incarnates “the diabolical criminality of the absolute evil” of racist persecution and extermination, cynically presented as the Endlösung (final solution) of the Jewish problem. The essence of racism consists in accepting only ‘the same’ (one’s ‘own’) and excluding all the ‘others’ (the irreducibly ‘different’ or ‘foreign’). One finds the ‘other’ embarrassing and thus one desires the other’s elimination. The other can only be accepted insofar he or she belongs to one’s own ‘genre’ or one’s own ‘kind’, one’s own blood, to the same family, tribe, nation or people, club or church, practicing the same profession, having the same birthplace and date, belonging to the same religion or to the same culture or tradition…. It is this racist foundation that radically distinguishes Hitlerism from Stalinism. The latter finds its original inspiration in Marxism and its struggle for the ‘rights’ of the other, namely the proletarian other. One cannot deny that Marxism thrived on ‘the fierce anger in one’s guts’ 11 “The great book that impressed me a lot, I have to say, is the book by Vassily Grossman, Life and Fate, translated from the Russian, which I read in Russian” (EFP 133/80). “Grossman, who died in 1964, was an assimilated Russian Jew (…). The Soviet writer certainly believed, in October of 1917, that he had entered into the time of eschatological events, so to speak. (…) In Life and Fate, which is about the defence and victory of Stalingrad, Grossman expressed ample homage to the glory of the Red Army and the Russian people, and recognized the truth of that glory in its abnegation and sacrifice. But Life and Fate did not appear in Russia. The manuscript was seized and all its copies, including the typewriter carbons, were confiscated. By some miracle the text found its way to the West and was published” (HN 101-103/88). A microfilm of a copy, saved by Grossman’s friend Lipkin, via Andrei Sacharov, the dissident nuclear physicist, was smuggled abroad and published in Russian and in French: Vie et destin (translated from the Russian by Alexis Beredowitch, with the collaboration of Anne Coldefy-Faucard, with a preface by Efim Ekind), Lausanne, Éditions de l’Age d’Homme, 1980. English edition: Life and Fate (translated and with an introduction by Robert Chandler), London, Vintage, 2006, 864 p.

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about the injustice and oppression of which the workers in the capitalist system are its victims. This seems to run parallel to the ‘divine sensitivity’ for the ‘other’, namely the victim of inflicted evil – which implies that Marxism intends to be a form of the ethical good. Its intention is holy and noble, insofar as it refers to the ethical preferential option for the vulnerable and the injured, ‘proletarian’ person (EN 262/201). Still, one cannot ignore the ‘Stalinist madness’ which, along with the discovery of the third world, has been one of the most shocking experiences of the post-war person in the twentieth century. Humanity was able to see how the originally generous (but also power-hungry) Marxism under the impulse of Stalin was perverted into an administrative and bureaucratic state socialism, that from within – in the name of the priority of the oppressed proletariat, i.e. in the name of the appeal to the ethical good that proceeds from the face of the injured and exploited other – was mercilessly totalitarian and, from without, an usurper. In Marxism we do find the love for the other, but Stalinism, relying on Marxism itself, has radically perverted this love by raising one specific socio-economic and political system into a final system – that is into an Absolute Good – by means of, among others, a totalitarian plannedeconomy and a tightly closed one-party-system (AT 116/106-107). But this is precisely the horrible, inner contradiction of Stalinism: in the name of justice that one gains for the proletariat, one sets a regime to work where justice is regulated in such a constrictive and definitive way that it is transformed into its own opposite. It thus became the greatest and most intolerable injustice towards the proletariat, i.e. the ‘widow and orphan’ or the ‘miserable other’ whom it so radically pretended to uphold. In his book ‘Life and Fate’ Grossman “attests a world that is no longer a place. An uninhabitable world in the abyss of its dehumanization. The breakdown of the very basis of civilization. An uninhabitable world of people who have been degraded, stricken in their dignity, delivered to humiliation, suffering, death. A dehumanized humanity, surrounding institutions that were nevertheless the outgrowth of an initial revolutionary generosity and concern for the rights of man – a humanity transformed into camps or, everywhere where that was not the case, menaced by camps in which the ‘I’ is no longer sure of its identity” (HN 102/66-89). Stalinism has been the terror of the inherent perversion of one’s own ethical motion. It is so convinced of its own ‘great rightness’, i.e. by its ‘calling’ to have to establish the utter Goodness and Purity of its own socio-political order, that it rejects and also tries to exterminate, through coercion, dogmatism and persecution, all dissidence

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as disorder and an undermining of justice and the truth of history. Put differently, Stalinism inadvertently goes against its own original ‘good will’, precisely because it absolutizes its option for the good (of the other) into an all-encompassing and final system. The worst that can happen to ethics is that, in the name of the face of the stranger or the proletariat, one creates a socio-economic and political system and proclaims it as the absolute good. Thus it becomes literally the evil of good and cannot but destroy ethics in the name of ethics (Grossman, 2006, 10-13, 388-391). 2.6.3. Current forms of ethical terror This does not only apply to the political Stalinism of history but to all forms of socio-political order. However indispensable they may be for the realization of a humane society, economic, social, legal, political organizations are tempted by the inclination to sacralize themselves. In the Bible this is called the temptation of idolatry. (AV 216/184). Every social system, for instance somatic and psychological health care, the environmental sector, education or development (with its smaller or bigger non-governmental organizations) is by nature conservative in the sense that it can turn into its own contrary by raising itself up as a definitive regime, a quasi-messianic “system of salvation” (EFP 135/81). Such systems promise to fulfil the needs of its ‘subjects’ or ‘clients’, making use of all available means: all sorts of ‘bread and games’, financial or other ‘advantages’ or concessions, direct or indirect forms of ‘enlightened tyranny”… (NLT 70/101). In our welfare states an immense social regulatory system has been developed that not only becomes more and more complex, but like octopuses grasp beyond themselves with their tentacles. One only has to think of all sorts of administration and bureaucracy. The same can be said for economic associations, structures and institutions. The economic reality of producing and exchanging goods and services, which are concretely realized by means of money and finance, can be directed by the financial network of banks and stock exchanges and others, in such a way that it becomes an anonymous, almost divine (or should we say demonic) omnipotence. And notice that this is not simply accidental to but inherent in the system itself, as we already mentioned above. Its structural and objective externality accounts for the fact that it presents itself inadvertently as a fixed and definitively valid economic regime. The integral conservatism implies the temptation of an economic ‘totalitarianism’. It is therefore not surprising that Emmanuel Levinas, in his attention for the social-ethical significance of money, is at the same time alert to its perversion as a

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‘system of mediation’ into a monetary ‘institutionalism’ with totalitarian characteristics: “the multiple conjunctures of the economic order – which sells so well on television – accumulations in power – or in ‘omnipotence’ – at the cost of human beings” (SA 79-80/116). And it is not because financial, economic, social regulatory systems arise out of an ethical responsibility that they are ensured against the ‘systemic aberration’ and ‘perversion from the inside-out’ into institutionalism. Notwithstanding their original goodwill, they can develop in such a manner that they undermine their noble goals and thus bring about evil as the reverse-side of the good.

3. Third panel: Confession and an ‘ambiguous’ perspective on mercy Let us return to our narrative where a third panel is now opened, one in which the confession of Ahab and God’s mercy comes to the fore (vv. 27-29). We will discover how this third panel is seriously limited as the reaction of God to Ahab’s confession can hardly be called a real and full form of forgiveness, as will become apparent. 3.1. Confession thanks to judgment Let us begin this next philosophical exploration with Ahab’s confession. A first issue of importance is the fact that this confession does not simply drop from the sky. It can only be fully understood against the background of the judgment in the second panel of the story. Without the words of judgment, it would not have taken place: “When Ahab heard those words…” (1Kings 21,27). As the prophetic ‘fiery judgment’ and the threat of punishment is not directed towards the destruction of Ahab and Jezebel, it cannot be interpreted as heartless and implacable revenge. It is actually aimed at their self-examination through which both healing and forgiveness become possible. The wrath of God, proclaimed by the prophet, is not intended in an exhibitionist setting. It is not for its own sake or as a legitimation of counter-violence. Neither is it an expression of smug sadism desiring to torment and destroy the other as a ‘repayment’ for the inflicted injustice.12 Instead it aims at 12 In this view, the prophetic threat of punishment in our narrative, as elsewhere in the Bible, cannot be abused in order to legitimate actual violence as an answer to injustice and evil. Even though one should not remain indifferent towards inflicted injustice,

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opening those shackles that bind the sinner to his evil-desiring-anddoing. Divine anger is ultimately not directed towards the execution of the punishment and from this towards the destruction of the evildoers. The passion of anger wants to strike a chord in the heart of Ahab so that he becomes aware of the terrible evil he has done to Naboth. By means of this growing awareness, confession becomes possible, that in its turn creates space for forgiveness. The hard, almost excessive, judgment of God does not stand independently. It never desires to be an endpoint but rather aims at bringing about the conditions towards divine mercy. The God whom we have come to know as ‘the God who is loving mercy’ wants to forgive absolutely and through this liberate the perpetrator from his guilt. To get there the perpetrator has to come to insight and this is the intention of God’s judgment and indictment. The wrath of God thus stems directly from his love for all: not only for the victim, but also for the perpetrator of the evil. The final Word of God is the grace of his forgiveness. Forgiveness cannot be received without confession of guilt and conversion as these are the means through which it flows. To help the perpetrator to come to self-examination, the merciful One allows himself to be angry over each and every instance of inflicted evil. If people subsequently confess their wrongdoings earnestly, God can then show them actual mercy and heal them from the deeply biting poison of evil-desiring-and-doing. 3.2. Escaping the weight of judgment and ethics That judgment must elicit confession in order to make forgiveness effective requires further reflection. Confession is neither easy nor simple. This is due to the weight of the guilt and responsibility that tends to bring people to all kinds of attempts to escape ethical reality and feelings of blame. This happens, for example, when we try to forget by relegating our action or our (to be taken literally) ‘mis-deed’ entirely to the past: ‘What is done is done’. This kind of forgetfulness takes concrete form in what Pascal has called the diversion of amusement. We immerse ourselves in all sorts of externalities in order to be able to forget the internal gnawing of our deeds and the guilt that clings to us. In this regard, we can also refer to the knee-jerk (incorrect) interpretation often implied in the common one must indeed try to avoid violence as much as possible, in order to shatter the infernal circle of violence and counter-violence.

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‘forgive and forget’ saying. Both terms are unthinkingly linked together giving the impression that forgiveness bows down to, or is absorbed by, forgetting. Or, stronger still, forgetting seems to come before forgiving. Forgetting though cannot be a real ‘solution’ for our liberation from guilt. If one desires to forget the weight of one’s own responsibilities and failure, to ‘sweep them under the carpet’ so to speak, it is suppression and not liberation takes place. Psychoanalysis explicitly refers to this ‘lack’, ‘deficiency’ or, rather, this ‘refusal’ by the memory. This ‘perverse forgetting’ consists in an obsessive attempt to escape from our memory into all sorts of direct or indirect evasive strategies and subtle forms of bad faith out of fear that it might affect our psychological identity (Ricœur, 2000, 140-145). Sooner or later, however, the seriousness of the deed and the guilt return. One cannot escape from oneself. Forgetting only brings about delay or deferment. It never truly rids one of one’s guilt. Another typical form of escapism is passing our guilt to someone else indicating through this: I am not responsible, it is not my fault. ‘Master, he was the one.’ Here we can look at the Biblical narrative of transgression (Gen 3) where a man shamelessly passes the blame onto a woman: “The woman whom you gave to be with me, she gave me the fruit from the tree, and I ate” (v. 12). Likewise, the woman blames the serpent for the fact that she gave in to temptation: “The serpent tricked me, and I ate” (v. 13b). However, evil that one has committed always returns because one cannot escape from the fact that one has committed it. It cannot remain limited to ‘what has happened has happened’. It is also ‘what I have done, I have done” and thus: I am responsible for it, no one else! One more method of passing the blame, is the one called scapegoatmechanism, a deep seated part of religious sacrificial rituals. At a specified time, one’s own unbearable guilt is transferred to a ‘scapegoat’ that is driven far away – into the desert. According to René Girard, all religions probably stem from this scapegoat mechanism. The scapegoat, upon which all guilt is transferred, is then sacralized as a ‘replacement atonement’ for ‘our sins’ so that the original violence is brought to a halt (Girard, 1972; 1978; 1982). Today, a much-used escape-mechanism is deculpabilisation or exculpation on the basis of the human sciences, especially psychology, psychoanalysis, sociology, and all kinds of therapies – not to forget the empirical sciences, in particular genetics and the neuro-sciences. Even though the scapegoat mechanism has value in itself and can even be necessary

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in order to unburden people psychologically, still it often ends in a general tendency of de-ethicizing, of eliminating the free and responsible ethical giving of meaning itself. Self-deception is also a way of evading responsibility in relationship to the interpretation of perpetrated evil (Pollefeyt, 2018, 200). One justifies oneself by convincing oneself that what one is doing is, upon closer inspection, not evil but good or at least something that one does (or must do) ‘in the name of the good’. People cannot do evil in the name of evil. Human persons look for and find all sorts of ‘good reasons’ to justify the immoral character of those acts. We are not neutral beings that can choose equally between good or for evil. On the contrary, we are marked by a deep longing for the good. Hence the need for selfdeception, whereby one can continue to see oneself as a good person even when one does the most cruel thing. Not being able to face oneself as ‘malicious’ and ‘diabolic’ is fertile ground for the deception that one is at least doing a necessarily smaller evil because of a greater good! In all these escape attempts, however, the freedom and responsibility of the person is not taken sufficiently seriously. They all point to the same thing: in our self-image, we feel so injured and frustrated that we no longer dare to face our failures. All forms of deculpabilisation are prompted by the fear of ourselves and of losing ourselves. However, our freedom and responsibility are the source of our human dignity. It is precisely the fact that we can ‘sin’, and thus be held responsible for what we do, that confirms our human greatness. The reductions of our actions to one or the other form of ‘un-freedom’ lays bare our human misery and vulnerability. The expression “felix culpa” (happy fault) is in this regard relevant. The possibility to be found guilty does not affect freedom negatively. On the contrary, it rather confirms and strengthens it. On the other hand, deculpabilisation or ‘exculpation’ evokes pity, since it reduces our actions to one or another anonymous, unconscious force, a covertly active determination or psychosocial condition (TI 213-214/236-237). Self-deception contributes significantly to reveal our ethical ‘soul’, i.e. our bond with the good and our ethical responsibility, intensely. It can be disclosed, upon closer inspection, as a form of bad faith. One can only deceive oneself if one knows the truth and at the same time hides it from oneself. We realize that we do evil, but at the same time we relegate this awareness to the background so that we can act as if we were doing good, or at least only perpetrating the unavoidable or necessary evil. Self-deception is a way of manipulating one’s conversation with oneself so that evil can be done with a clean conscience. One is aware

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that the ‘good reasons’ one gives oneself are actually ‘false reasons’, but that awareness is pushed to the background. In other words, bad faith creates a double form of consciousness – foreground and background – and at the same time a split – fragmentation or compartmentalization. In order for a person to continue to be good in one’s own eyes, a split occurs between one’s foreground-self from a hidden (darker) self. At the same time, the awareness of that darker self remains, even though one acts as much as possible as if it were not there. In this split ‘one actually does not want to know’, but that attempt not to know remains a knowing… Hence, one can never entirely destroy one’s own responsibility for the evil that one does, even though one tries as much as possible to cover it up. Covering up remains an awareness, a knowing in the not-knowing, meaning to say a specific form of ‘forgetting’: a forgetting without forgetting, a forgetting without being able to forget, even though one tries stubbornly to forget. The more one attempts to forget, the more one keeps on knowing. Self-deception is and remains an awareness of responsibility in the attempt to rid oneself of the awareness of responsibility (Pollefeyt, 2018, 203-207). 3.3. Confession as a condition for forgiveness To ‘save’ responsibility as a bond with the ethical good, surpassing ethics as an inexorable judgment on inflicted evil, as we have encountered in the second panel of the story, is needed. Only by means of a trans-ethical dynamism can ethics be upheld without trivialization. The one who ascribes the final judgment on human meaning to ethics unconsciously promotes the destruction of ethical life. In order to be able to survive, people rid themselves of ethics, including the responsibility and the guilt unavoidably brought along by the ethical. In order to protect the significance of ethics, one must go beyond it towards something that does not deny it but implies and thus ‘elevates’ it. This happens concretely by means of forgiveness, which presupposes confession. Only when there is forgiveness do we no longer have to flee from the demands and the judgments of ethics. We are enabled to ‘bear’ ethics and joyfully persevere, with all our guilt. This understanding requires a further analysis of what forgiveness presupposes and effectuates. We begin with confession as the fundamental condition for forgiveness. Although the third panel remains limited or rather ambiguous with regards to compassion and forgiveness, as will be made clear, prophetic judgment succeeds in effectuating the primary

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condition for forgiveness. We can conceive Ahab’s reaction on the stern judgment and threat of punishment by Elijah the Tishbite as confession: “When Ahab heard those words, he tore his clothes and put sackcloth over his bare flesh, he fasted, lay in the sackcloth, and went about dejectedly” (1 Kings 21,27). 3.3.1. Forgiveness as a special form of memory First of all, forgiveness is anything but a form of memory loss or the shoving of evil and guilt to one or the other non-ethical grey zone. Forgiveness presupposes confession. We see this in the story of Naboth, where Ahab came to self-examination and confession in response to the unequivocal and acute accusation by the prophet, to which God can then offer his mercy as healing grace. Even though the disposition to forgive on the side of the one who forgives is unconditional and gratuitous insofar as it flows forth from an ‘inexhaustible compassion’, it nevertheless poses on the side of the ‘sinner’ the essential condition of confession. Forgiveness does not work automatically. It only works when the evil or injustice committed is likewise subjectively arrogated. Evil that is not acknowledged as such and for which one does not take responsibility cannot be forgiven because, strictly speaking, there is nothing that should be forgiven: the perpetrator supposes that there was actually no evil and that one has done no evil, but something good. Such callousness ridicules every intention to forgive. All this implies that forgiveness is never concerned with evil in itself, as an objective reality, but only with the perpetrator or the subject of the evil. Evil in itself is, in other words, ‘unforgivable’. Only perpetrators can be forgiven. Forgiveness is always a relational event, one that proceeds from the one to the other, on the condition that the guilty party confesses (Abécassis, 1991). Confession presupposes an entirely different image of being human than that of narcissistic autonomism (‘Me, Myself, and I’). The narcissistic paradigm can at best admit to being a failure or to not living up to expectations with regard to one’s dreams or capacities, but it is not capable of confessing any guilt or wrongdoing. Forgiveness can only work when the evil done is not only taken seriously, but arrogated explicitly in confession: ‘I did this’. Confession is involved in the past by holding on to it, or better retrieving it, in the present. It is a very characteristic form of ‘re-membering’ insofar that it regards irrevocable evil at the present time as ‘non-excusably’ present. While forgetting evaporates the reality of the passing moment, confession acts on the past by

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repeating it in a certain sense ‘here and now’. It does not leave it undisturbed. Shoving aside and forgetting destroys the relationship of the subject with its past, while confessing precisely ‘re-presents’ it straightforwardly and emphatically. The one who confesses and asks for forgiveness is not an innocent person that dismisses him or herself by pretending to begin in the here and now as if for the first time. Those who open themselves up to forgiveness by confessing acknowledge their own continuity and historicity (Ricœur, 2004, 412-455). In the narrative of Naboth, moreover, confession leads to bodily, expressive, symbolic and ritual forms of self-abasement, fasting and penance (v. 27). It is apparent from this how people not only need verbal but also non-verbal, tangible and visible ways of expressing the admission of guilt. In the guidance and counselling of people who wrestle with evil and guilt, the therapeutic, literally healing forces of such forms of expression are rarely tapped. However important and necessary, ‘exculpation’ is often too one-sidedly emphasized, whereas ‘confession’ receives too little emphasis. A pronounced emphasis on confession is needed in order to create the necessary space for counteractions and rituals. Even in the community of faith, symbolic expression-forms of confession (and others) – excluding the sacrament of confession – receive too little attention. Out of her idea of ‘sacramentality’, the Catholic tradition has developed a rich and suggestive treasure of possibilities that we must dare to draw on creatively today, without being blind to its risks and perversions (Moyaert, 1998, 158-170). 3.3.2. Unhealthy remembrance and healing remembrance The ‘remembrance’ of evil ‘done once and for all’ that makes up the core of the confession must be distinguished from what psychoanalysis calls neurotic, ‘obsessive remembrance’. There can also be an ‘excess of memory’. According to Freud, this ‘extravagant memory’ is characterized by compulsive repetition: the patient merely repeats instead of remembering. One falls under the spell of the past such that one becomes obsessed by it and is even compelled to rake it all up and re-live it time and again. This urge towards repetition can though also lead to a compulsive escaping from one’s own past, as discussed above, precisely because one fears this past and the losing of oneself. Over and against this ‘repetitive compulsion’ stands what Freud calls the ‘Durcharbeitung’. Concretely put: the ‘work of the remembrance’. This is a dynamic-critical association with the memory that stands

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midway between a repression of and a fixation with the past. This work of remembrance can only have an effect in and through the narrative of language. The ‘re-membrance’ can only take place when one attempts to articulate what has happened and what has been done, not in one’s interiority, but before someone else. What has happened only becomes conscious and acknowledged when it is spoken before someone who listens to it.13 By means of telling what has happened, a critical association with the memory comes into existence as well. In expressing what has occurred, one not only helps oneself to realize and understand the evil that was done but one is also permitted to understand it from the perspective of the other, from the victim’s point of view. It is important not simply to evoke what has happened as if it were an isolated, solid, empirical fact, but likewise to consciously narrate it from the viewpoint of the other involved, and not only from one’s own. In this way, remembrance becomes a dynamic event – the past not allowed to simply remain the past; it is forced to acquire new meanings in the present. The intractable misunderstanding that only the future may remain open and undetermined, while the past is and should be closed and determined exists. In other words: the past is what it is because it has already been. Certainly past deeds have already happened and are thus ineradicable. We cannot ‘un-do’ what has already been done and cannot act as if that which has happened has not happened. Nevertheless, the meaning of what has happened, whether we committed or endured it, is never settled once and for all. Events from the past remain open to new interpretations. From our current projects, our past and our remembrance of this are reflected in new light like a kind of retroactive force. Thanks to humble confession and recognition, the moral weight of the past can concretely become ‘different’. The past does not disappear, but it loses its paralyzing and tormenting significance. By an active and liberating remembering of the confession, the path towards a new future whereby that same past can acquire – from the future – new meanings is made possible. By ‘working out’ and ‘re-working’ the past, a certain type of liberating ‘forgetting’ also becomes possible. This is a paradoxical form of forgetting since it is remembering that is a forgetting and vice-versa due to the 13 It is then no coincidence that in the sacrament of penance, sins must be spoken to someone else (the priest). In turn, the priest is all ears and issues a ‘response’, by means of the word of forgiveness, the ‘absolution’ – literally the word that ‘dis-charges’, ‘ab-solves’.

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fact that one is no longer obsessed with the past. It should be noted that this is not about the aforementioned neurotic forgetting. Here we focus on an approach to forgetting that is not a compulsive escape from the past because one cannot bear it and thus tries to break away from it through suppression. Instead, we look at the active, re-working of remembering through a process of mourning and thus disengaging the subject from fostering a relationship with her own imprisoning past. In and through the open and critical-dynamic action of re-working, one can internalize and remember the past as such that one is no longer gripped by it. It is then that one can find internal reconciliation and reconciliation with one’s past. If this happens, one is no longer haunted by it nor haunting others with it. From this clarified perspective we arrive at the correct meaning of the folk expression ‘to forgive and forget’. To forget does not come first. It follows the memory of forgiveness. Confession is clearly an essential condition for, or rather an essential part of, the event of forgiveness itself. The popular expression thus respects the correct sequence: ‘to (first) forgive and (only then) forget’. One remembers without being imprisoned and held captive by this knowing, without a future and renewal. Through the mourning process of confession, the remembrance of what happened – that which has been committed – is taken up, literally ‘sublimated’, to the new future proffered by forgiveness (Ricœur, 2004, 493-496). 3.3.3. Authentic confession? Through the confession of Ahab, the story of Naboth shows that the perpetrator does not cover up the evil nor his part therein. This raises the legitimate question, pertaining to all confessions, whether it is authentic. Due to the brevity of the story, it is difficult to determine this. But this does not alter the question’s validity. Confession is in and of itself not authentic. It can be prompted by strategic considerations. Ahab might be seeking to avoid the punishment that accompanies the prophetic judgment and thus save his own skin. As a motive, it is understandable. As an authentic confession, it is insufficient. Confession not only takes one’s responsibility seriously for the inflicted evil but is also concerned about the impact of the inflicted evil on the victim (and the next of kin). Thus it also strives for reparation and atonement. With Ahab we can clearly ask whether his confession is not prompted by fear of the negative consequences of judgment and punishment. As the text mentions that Ahab “has humbled himself ” before God (1 Kings 21,29),

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we can moreover wonder whether his confession was an authentic form of humility. Did he humble himself in the awareness of his own guilt and the injustice he has inflicted on the other, or was his fasting, his naked body clothed with a hair shirt, not a form of self-abasement? In their book Demander pardon sans s’humilier?, Jean Monbourquette and Isabelle d’Aspremont ask themselves pertinently how one must one ask for forgiveness without humiliating oneself (2004, 7-9). The story of Naboth gives no decisive answer to this. Nonetheless, it is clear that his confession is taken seriously by God. Indeed, it gives cause to a form of ‘mercy’. God forgoes the pronounced punishment. 3.3.4. Shocking ‘promise’: punishment transferred to the next generation This form of mercy, however, raises questions and arouses resistance and even the feeling of indignation… God after all ‘promises’ that the punishment mentioned will not come down upon himself during his lifetime, “but in his son’s days” (v. 28).14 How are we supposed to understand this shocking, apparently unacceptable statement in which lies the suggestion that the ‘balancing’ of the evil done happens by means of letting the punishment fall on the following generations? A first point that can be made is that it expresses the seriousness of the evil committed: it is not simply erased. God never acts as if evil has never happened. The evil brought about cannot be made undone; it has unavoidable consequences. This does not circumspect that the transfer of the guilt of Ahab to the next generation goes against our sense of justice. For a better understanding of the punishment meted out there is an important First Testament idea, namely that of ‘corporative personality’. This is presupposed in the concluding verse of our narrative. In contrast to (late-)modern thinking with its emphasis on the autonomous individual, the Bible thinks from within inter-human connectedness and solidarity in which people are born and live. People are interwoven in the good but also in the bad. What one does has consequences for the others, not only here and now, but also for those who are absent in space and time. Evil always has ‘embranchments’. It works through to the broader community and to the future generations (Boszormenyi Nagy, 1986, 130-131).

14

According to 1 Kings 22,35b-38, the sons of Ahab do indeed undergo the punishment, while according to 1 Kings 22,40 Ahab dies a natural death.

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Even though Scripture acknowledges this reality, it does not want to give this the final word. That is why it developed the idea of the disproportion between the negative consequences for the descendants and the overflowing gift of mercy. The Lord “does not let the guilty go unpunished and punishes the misdeeds of the fathers in their children and grandchildren, up to the third and fourth generation.” But on top of all that, He is “a merciful and compassionate God, slow to anger, magnanimous in love and faithfulness, who shows goodness up to the thousandth generation, who forgives misdeeds, transgressions and sins” (Ex 34,7; cf. also Ex 20,6; Deut. 5,10). What is remarkable is that mercy keeps on working unlimitedly, while the descendants are only confronted with the consequences of ‘the injustice of the ancestors’ up to the third and fourth generations. It cannot be denied: one must atone for the blame one incurs. As an atonement, the effects of the evil committed are a just state of affairs, but it is clearly limited in time. Upon closer inspection, the limit causes more of a stir than the effects. Realistically speaking, these effects are unavoidable and they usually go farther than the third or fourth generations. There is a certain stubbornness to evil and its consequences. The Bible, however, employs a different criterion. Yes, one must atone for the evil committed, which is concretized in the effects of the consequences of the evil to the succeeding generations, but at a given moment it is enough and an end must come to it. In Jewish thinking that divine mercy is more certain than divine severity, is an important theme. Thus the Rabbis point out that “up to the thousandth generation” means at least two thousand. God grants His favour for the merit gained at least throughout two thousand generations, while crime cries out for justice only throughout four generations. This means that God’s mercy is thus five hundred times stronger than the severity of His judgment. Behind this calculation of grace hides a strong ethical optimism: the good knows but one thing: nothing is ever lost of the victory gained over evil! Scripture, in its later writings, goes much further and surpasses entirely the idea of postponed punishment. Thus Ezekiel does away with the legitimacy of the proverb, which says that the ‘accounts’ of the former generation must or can be settled by the latter: “The parents have eaten sour grapes, and the children’s teeth are set on edge?” (Ez 18,2) (cf. also Jer 31,29). The prophet rejects the actual systematicity of the effects of evil, whereby a succeeding generation is the ‘child of the account’ of the former. He refuses to make this repayment self-evident or even

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justifiable: “As I live, says the Lord God, this proverb shall no more be used by you in Israel” (Ez 18,3). The deeds of the former or succeeding generations can neither be used as alibis nor as merits for the present generation. Each person is fully accountable for oneself, one’s life and one’s deeds: “Know that all lives are mine [Lord]; the life of the parent as well as the life of the child is mine: it is only the person who sins that shall die” (Ez 18,4). In Jeremiah, we read: “But all shall die for their own sins; the teeth of everyone who eats sour grapes shall be set on edge” (Jer 31,30) (AV 129-130/105; Van Rhijn & Meulink-Korf, 1998, 15-16). This going beyond the intergenerational ‘settlement’ is connected directly to the Biblical idea that divine mercy never stands in proportion to the condemnation and to the inflicted evil. It is not only gratuitous but also offered beyond all reasonable and fair proportions. This disproportion of God’s mercy implies the appeal to those who profess faith in this God that they themselves be merciful.

4. Beyond the narrative: forgiveness and reconciliation This challenges us to return to our reflection on forgiveness and develop it further entirely beyond the story of Naboth. 4.1. Forgiveness brings about liberation In forgiveness there is more than mere acknowledgement of the past, more than the acknowledgement of the freedom and responsibility that people take upon themselves in the course of history. Forgiveness acknowledges the irreversible, definitive character of our deeds, but at the same time, it surpasses this definitiveness. Its paradox lies in that it says that the person is what he or she does, and yet, still someone ‘different’ or something ‘more’. It surpasses the irreversibility of human actions, not by obfuscating or shoving it aside, but by refusing to fixate the perpetrator within the past and locking him up in it. The passing moment within which the subject has engaged himself is not simply what has been: the subject did not engage himself irrevocably. 4.1.1. Breaking through the irrevocable This concretely happens by means of purification, which is profoundly linked to forgiveness. Forgiveness does not only work on the past by

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‘re-presenting’ it, but also by transforming it, by purifying it. Without trivializing what has happened, forgiveness preserves the past in the present in such a way that we are no longer crushed or paralyzed by it. The paradox of purification is that it purposively preserves and disentangles the past. The past is ‘sublimated’ in the double sense of the word: it is sublimated by being elevated. The purifying nature of confession and forgiveness does not signify a return to innocence, a repressive wiping away of what was done. It leads to the experience of a surplus of happiness in the received forgiveness itself: the rare happiness of reconciliation, of the happy fault (‘felix culpa’) which, sadly no longer amazes us. Forgiveness is the amazement of the non-definitiveness of the definitive. What was committed and thus apparently accomplished is broken through. To begin again becomes possible. In objective and solid reality, in that which we had become by means of our ‘mis-deed’, the ‘other’, who is also us, is brought in. In that way, what is accomplished is opened up and a future promisingly arrives. This beginning again, however, evades two temptations. On the one hand, it does not deny the past. It does not act as if there can be a return to a state of tabula rasa state, a start entirely from scratch. On the other hand, it does not reduce (i.e. confine) the guilty person to his or her past. In a reconciliatory remembering, the person is ‘a-roused’ to ‘re-gain’ oneself, to ‘take up’ his or her past by giving it new meaning in the direction of a newly ‘received’ future. In short, forgiveness for the person means a deep experience of redemption from the shackles that fetter him to his deeds. It creates a distance between my evil doing and myself. There is space to breathe again – I am able to ‘en-trust’ myself to new meaning (Ricœur, 2000, 637-642). An important aspect of forgiveness as a relational event is indeed that the redemption offered by forgiveness is revealed as ‘liberating grace’ (Boff, 1981). I myself am not the principle, the beginning or the axiom, the ‘archè’ or the initiative of forgiveness. Forgiveness must be ‘gifted’ to me by someone else. I cannot forgive myself. I cannot rid myself of my past and my ‘mis-deeds’. I pine and long for this forgiveness, to be liberated from my ‘reduction to my deeds’, but as soon as I try to actualize that by myself, I fall back into the confines of myself. Because I cannot heal myself of my guilt, I become a longing to be redeemed. In order to be forgiven, I should not only confess my guilt, but also ask for forgiveness. In other words, confession takes place as an entreaty, as a prayer of petition, expressed at times in ritual and symbolic forms as Ahab expressed it. Thus, the deep awareness arises that I have no ‘power’ over forgiveness, but that it is

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gifted to me as gratuitous grace. Indeed, I beg and cry for forgiveness, but I have no right to it. It is proffered to me for free. It is an amazing event of the ingression of the ‘other’ in my existence as an infringement on the fatality of my guilty deeds. In that sense, it effects within me a miraculous fertility. I remain the same, the one who is identified mercilessly with myself by means of the objectively measurable and thus fatal evil of my deeds. At the same time, however, I can begin again as ‘the other than myself ’ (Ricœur, 2004, 459-465, 476-477). 4.1.2. Not a compensation but a hope for redemption The redemption effected by forgiveness does display a paradoxical character. As something that redeems me, and thus a redemption ‘for me’, it is literally a liberation from my-self, ‘from me’. It frees me from myself, releases me from myself, so that I am no longer weighed down but receive space for life once again. Through committed evil freedom loses its light-footedness. It becomes a fatality which turns against me by chaining me to my own ‘work’. Thus my ‘I-ness’ is not only a ‘being for me’, but also a ‘being with and against me’. Our deeds make our existence tragic. They make us prisoners of ourselves. Unavoidably they lead us to the suffocating feeling of despair and to begging for ‘re-lease’ from the fatality of our ethical (and guilty) self. In that sense, hope exists not alongside, but in despair, namely as the movement of ‘and yet’. And yet there is perhaps, or there should be, a different, liberating ‘intervention’, so that I can be separated from myself without being denied being a free and responsible subject. Despair reveals the feeling that one does not possess the power to lift oneself above oneself and ‘materiality’, or from the weight of the guilt that one has lain upon oneself by means of one’s ethical responsibility. But precisely through this despair flows together with hope or the longing for liberation from the shackles of one’s own deed and guilt. Because this longing is not capable of bringing about the subject of one’s own striving – longing as longing is always powerless – and thus the despair of oneself, it hopes at the same time for a ‘miracle’ that is a redemption ‘from elsewhere’. And since this healing comes from elsewhere it can only be proffered as a gift of grace (Ricœur, 2004, 466-469). For a good understanding of this intimate relationship between hope and despair, or rather of this appearance of hope as despair we excavate the precarious character of hope. We hope for forgiveness. We look forward to the breaking of the chains that bind us to ourselves, caused by

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the materiality of our responsibility, but this is only a longing. Hope is an expectation and not a certainty, an idea of liberation and not liberation itself. It actually cannot guarantee anything, however much it would like to do so. Hence, it always has two dimensions that are closely linked to each other and always appear together: trust and doubt. Without trust and faith, hope would not be hope, but without doubt it would be certainty and not hope anymore. It would be mastery and no longer surrender. To think of, and even to wish intensely for, a possible liberation does not exact the break dreamt of and hoped for from the responsible and guilty subject. There is no magic spell in the hope that conceives a true liberation from the weight of judgment and guilt. It does not suffice to design hope in order ‘to break the lock’ and bring about a real redemption from being chained to one’s own guilt. To experience the conception of hope as expectation and longing only exposes the despair of the responsible and guilty ‘I’ being chained to itself. The idea of redemption exists only by the grace of a fleeting wish, which lifts itself up like a dream free from chains without really breaking them. In this sense hope is utterly powerless, even though it gives shape to the idea of, and the longing for, liberation. An idea remains an idea, longing remains longing. And hope is only an idea and longing, not the power over idea and longing that would ‘force’ it to become reality. Even though hope affirms with strong conviction that there must be liberation – in our case, forgiveness – and even though it indicates with strong self-assurance what this liberation would have to consist of, it still cannot enforce or authenticate this. Indeed, a certain pathos unconsciously accompanies the conviction of hope. It exaggerates precisely because it knows that it has no control over the forgiveness as proffered redemption. By overstating its expectation it tries to make it appear as if there is no reason to doubt the liberation. But in so doing it inadvertently engages in selfdeceit since it knows well that it cannot guarantee or promise anything. Upon closer inspection, hope is only an ‘I would love to have’, an ‘I would really love to have’. It has no power over forgiveness as future, to be literally understood as ‘that which comes to us’. ‘that which befalls us’. Even though one cultivates expectation by means of profound thinking and the greatest concentration or passion, one cannot make the object of that expectation come into being. What it does bring about is a premonition, literally a ‘pre-sentiment’ about the proffered forgiveness as a possible mode of being. One where the ‘other than the same’ enters into the same and breaks it open. This enables being liberated from one self and from the weight of being saddled with one’s own responsibility

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into a different and new life that restores itself constantly, rising out of itself as the ‘other than oneself ’. Naturally, one can escape from the fatality of responsibility and its irrevocable deeds by seeking one’s consolation and refuge in ‘compensations’. But then one leaves the fatality itself undisturbed by creating a counter-balance around it – and not within – whereby it merely becomes a little bit more bearable. The suffering caused by one’s own guilty actions is left for what it is by posing something over and against it. With this, we come across an ‘economic’ thinking about time. We demand or claim a reward for the suffering that we go through so that the mishap would be compensated. This ‘reward-thinking’, however, does not bring along true liberation since it leaves the person in his or her being chained to him or herself. It only provides a brief moment of solace and respite, after which one inevitably and more painfully than before falls back into the doom of the responsibility fixated on oneself and objectified. We do indeed constantly try ‘to bargain’, even with God, in order to escape from ourselves. But this economic thinking is futile since it does not tackle with the fatality itself. It remains ‘reward-thinking’ and not a real redemption, not a real ‘change-of-the-same-into-an-other’, not a transformation of the guilty subject in his guilt. True redemption only happens then when the definitiveness of the subject itself from within is broken and ‘called-forth’ to a new future. This true, non-reward and non-compensational liberation is effected in a miraculous and literally ‘poignant’ way through forgiveness. This directly works on the definitiveness of the deed, by ridding it of its irreversibility without escaping from it. In this sense it is literally the ‘un-chaining’ of the chained subject to itself. It repairs the irreparable and revokes the irrevocable. It redeems despair itself. At the moment when all is lost it makes everything possible once again. From the part of the subject it is the ‘imploring demand’ for non-definitiveness. And from the side of forgiveness, it is a positive and thus literally the ‘redemptive response’ to this plea (EE 153-157/89-92). 4.2. From forgiveness to reconciliation With these reflections the final word about forgiveness has, however, not been said. Forgiveness and reconciliation are often linked together in one breath. This is due to the misunderstanding that they are synonyms. We would like to rectify this misconception by reflecting on their mutual relationship, i.e. on both their connection as well as on their difference (Monbourquette, 2000, 179-192).

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4.2.1. The confusion between forgiveness and reconciliation The misunderstanding that forgiveness and reconciliation are synonymous causes a serious problem that is often insufficiently unacknowledged as much in day to day experience as in clinical counselling. When we spontaneously start from the presupposition that forgiveness and reconciliation are identical, this can block our good will and inclination to forgive someone who has hurt, disappointed or unjustly treated us. When one thinks that one will have to reconcile with the other whom one has forgiven for an inflicted evil, a rather insurmountable resistance can arise in one’s emotions, in one’s own body. One is afraid that, after forgiving, one will suffer all over again the same injuries caused by the other. Let us suppose that someone has abused your trust and has told something very private that should have remained ‘between the two of you’. When you think that by means of forgiving you will have to reconcile with the other and give the other your trust once again, it could well be that you hesitate. For by having to trust the other once more, the fear that you are yet again going to be hurt by his or her indiscretion rises. In the conviction that forgiveness is incomplete without reconciliation, so-called spiritual or religious literature connects and portrays this as self-evident. Both are seen as two sides of the same coin, inseparably linked. But precisely when reconciliation is posed as the value and norm for authentic forgiveness, it is unsurprising that people refuse to forgive. That is why it is important to distinguish clearly between the two, certainly on a human level, in order to break through this impasse. One can probably state that reconciliation is the ultimate goal of forgiveness, but one has to be careful and point out that reconciliation should not necessarily, and therefore inexorably, follow after forgiveness so that this would become effective. Hence it is better to state that forgiveness is the necessary condition for reconciliation, but for that reason not yet sufficient. Put succinctly, there can be reconciliation without forgiveness, but reconciliation should not per se follow forgiveness. For that to happen, more is needed. 4.2.2. Reconciliation as restoring a broken relationship To make this thesis more convincing, we should first clarify what is a good or better way to understand reconciliation before distinguishing it from forgiveness. Reconciliation is about finding and encountering each other again. This presupposes a preceding bond, a solidarity, an intimacy, a cooperation, which was lessened, broken or even distorted

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into mistrust, opposition, enmity due to guilt, violence, rejection, misunderstanding or indifference. Reconciliation desires to restore former unity, whatever it may have been, after separation. It is therefore not only about remembering the original mutuality (the retrospective element), but also about the shared calling that binds to the future (the prospective element). Moreover, the conscious will is needed in both to overcome the past aggression, bitterness, mistrust and to return once again to their ‘covenant’. In that, forgiveness can and must play an important role but also other elements without which it would remain merely formal or ineffective. In order to bring about reconciliation, one must be prepared to examine the causes and the escalating process of the breach, and openly talk about it to each other – possibly in the presence of a third party, an objective witness. Both must be prepared to learn from the past, meaning to say not to obfuscate or ‘explain it away’ but to acknowledge it. Reconciliation based on forgetting the past is fake. Sooner or later it arrives in mistrust, enmity and aggression. One is faced with the difficult task of taking seriously the deep injuries to the other’s body and soul caused by the separation or violation, as well as one’s own injuries. And this causes pain, from which one is easily inclined to escape by minimizing or repressing the hurt. But there can be no lucidity without pain. At the same time, it is necessary to learn to understand each other better. And this understanding can only grow when one clears up misunderstandings which have been mutually set up as a shield against each other. Concretely, this means an attempt on both sides to break down the personal or collective judgments, or rather the prejudices and animosities, which sometimes keep spreading underneath. Besides, one must not proceed naively and readily act as if no grain of truth can be found in those prejudices and animosities, which should be acknowledged honestly, both regarding oneself as well as the other. Prejudices and animosities are after all often partial truths about the other that have been pulled out of proportion and absolutized. And to break through impasses that encumber a rapprochement, it is necessary that one relativizes and gives up one’s ‘being in the right’, in order to realize that the other can also be in the right. All this requires great courage and dedication, for the path to reconciliation is no easy path. But no future together is possible, even though this future will never be the same as before, without this process of reworking and encounter (Schwarz-Liebermann, 1987, 301-302, 308-309).

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4.2.3. Reconciliation: limits and opportunities Reconciliation remains the normal and desired consequence of forgiveness, but it should not follow by necessity. There are indeed a number of situations where, especially with the one who has ended the relationship or has pushed through with the separation, it remains impossible in practice. If one is the victim of an affront or injustice by an unknown, or by someone who cannot be traced or who has died, how can reconciliation still take place then? It can also be that the wounds that were caused are so deep that the affective possibilities of entering into the relationship anew have been shattered for good. Or perhaps in the meantime, as in the case of a divorce for instance, one has already entered into a new relationship, with new commitments and possibly children. Responsibilities that cannot simply be taken back. The new situation, in other words, can be so irreversible that restoring the former relationship and thus reconciliation is not possible, and would even be unjust. One cannot deny that there are situations where it would be unconscionable to talk of reconciliation. In the case of violent persons who relapse time and again, for example, or in relationship to perpetual manipulators without any scruples. Reconciliation is equally out of the question when the other does not want to admit his or her guilt, or more seriously when the other seems to be incorrigible and irresponsible and thus relapses into the same wrongdoing. In this situation, as well as in the former one, forgiveness is not impossible, however, as this is foremost a disposition of heart and mind. Being prepared to forgive involves not bearing a grudge against the other for the inflicted evil and thus also finding in oneself inner peace and freedom. It can even include that one – if possible – expresses this disposition to forgive in real terms. But for that one has not to choose to reconcile. And even if from one’s heart one would be prepared to do so, it can be that one in fact ‘holds back’ because in reconciliation one could do more harm than good, not only to oneself but also to others who have been ‘implicated’ in one way or another in the relationship. It can be a sign of modesty and honest self-knowledge when one accepts the limits posed by a relationship broken for good. If forgiveness would be put under the pressure of reconciliation, people would be exhorted to take on a perverse form of heroism, whereby they would not only force themselves but destroy themselves, precisely by exposing themselves – by means of the eventual reconciliation – to new insults, torments, violence or injustices.

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But even if forgiveness does not always end or ‘has to’ end in reconciliation, it is no less beneficial for those who offer it. The disadvantaged party will thus first reconcile with oneself. One will no longer be dominated or even be obsessed by feelings of revenge and retaliation, which can embitter one’s whole inner life and one’s functioning relationally and socially, as we saw above. Furthermore, one no longer has to judge the one who has committed the evil or the injury, nor pin the other to this judgment, but be able to see the other as someone who is more and larger than what he or she has done. By doing so, one can approach the other once more as a person. Through this a restored relationship becomes possible. One discovers that in reconciliation, it is not only the insulter who has a responsibility for the possible reparation, but the one insulted as well. This one is faced with the task to thus reconsider the new relationship or mutuality so that no one is made a victim again. Thus reconciliation can create a new opportunity, a new future, without having to repeat the relationship as it was before the breach. Reconciliation binds people once again to each other, so that together they can proceed along the path of life, or rather the path of their lives. In this regard, reconciliation is the completion of forgiveness, without forgiveness losing its meaning if no reconciliation were to follow it. Now we are ready to pose the question whether reconciliation is impossible without forgiveness. In a number of historical and existential circumstances, human beings and people groups are thrown into each other’s company so that they must indeed live together. Reconciliation must try to make this possible. This does not yet imply that one comes to forgive as this may, for instance, no longer possible due to the death of victims or perpetrators, or because one is incapable from within – from the heart – to offer it. Reconciliation without forgiveness is especially possible and necessary between groups of people and states. Nations and communities must offer each other new opportunities in order to regain trust and enter into renewed relationships that, although they will never be free from the memory of a negative past, must be given a chance from all sides. If, even though the process of forgiveness has not taken place and will probably remain quite partial or fragmented, this is not given every opportunity then the future is mortgaged. Without reconciliation, nations and people groups are doomed to have to live together with unsolved retaliations and enmity against each other perpetually. Such living is comparable to walking on a minefield within. Peaceful societies can explode at any unexpected moment. This impasse with far-reaching consequences can seemingly be surpassed

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when forgiveness and reconciliation are separated from each other on the level of inter-collective relationships. Despite the unforgivable nature of previous deeds, or rather despite the impossibility to forgive previous deeds – for evil in itself is always unforgivable – it is important that communities learn to approach each other so that they do not remain forever chained to their callousness and irreconcilableness (Pollefeyt, 1999, 45). 4.3. Forgiveness: from conditional to unconditional There is still an important point with regard to forgiveness that deserves our full attention. In our attempt to approach the mysterious reality of forgiveness, we discovered how its authenticity must comply with certain conditions. At the same time, its unconditional character that it precedes those conditions as a ‘gift’ must be maintained (Ricœur, 2004, 79-481). Forgiveness exhibits a paradoxical character: it is both conditional and unconditional. It can only work when the perpetrator confesses and shows regret and is bound to the condition of the confession. Concurrently it belongs entirely to the order of gratuitousness. It cannot be imposed or required by confession, as we explained above. But neither does it wait for this in order to offer its gift. It falls back on the attitude of the disposition to forgive that expresses a noble readiness of heart and mind. It is the peak of love that desires simply to offer itself freely and unreservedly to everyone (Venema, 2011; Duffy, 2011). 4.3.1. Forgiveness is also unconditional Only when it is unconditional, it is truly and in its fullest sense forgiveness, Derrida claims.15 It cannot be the result of negotiation and 15 In a remarkable interview the well-known French philosopher, Jacques Derrida, has argued for and defended this unconditional character of forgiveness in an extreme, even provocative way: Jacques Derrida, Le siècle et le pardon (1999). For Derrida, forgiveness must remain exceptional and extravagant, stronger than the impossible. Forgiveness belongs to the order of the irrational: forgiveness is insane and must therefore venture fully lucid into the night of the incomprehensible. To this elevation of forgiveness to the sublime, Edgar Morin, another well-known French philosopher, responded sharply: Edgar Morin, Pardonner, c’est résister à la cruauté du monde (2000). According to him, the extravagant gratuitousness of forgiveness can only be effective among people when we do not isolate it from its psychological, cultural, historical and ethical context (which precisely is the intent of our reflection). That is why he compares and links forgiveness with magnanimity, amnesty and the attempt at understanding the perpetrator, as well as with intolerance with regard to the evil, with retribution, punishment and

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consultation, of give and take, of a strict, calculable and controllable reciprocity. From the side of the victim, it can only be given freely and gratuitously. On the side of the guilty one, it can only be requested and not enforced. Ricœur saliently calls it a “logic of abundance that distinguishes love from the logic of reciprocity in justice” (Ricœur, 2004, 481-485). Naturally, this implies that forgiveness can be given as well as not given. The victim avails of the possibility of not yet granting or simply refusing the requested forgiveness. Not the guilty one but the victim can determine when the moment to forgive has come. This can even lead to the non-hypothetical, painful situation where the victim cannot, or stronger still, does not want to comply with the confession of the perpetrator. And this is even more painful when it turns out that the perpetrator has arrived at a sincere insight and remorse and has even expressed his regret.16 In other words, the gratuitousness of forgiveness also implies an unavoidable boundary. In the light of all this, it is clear that forgiveness is and remains a precarious undertaking. It is never a priori certain that it will succeed. It has something of the unreliable and the uncertain. Neither the perpetrator nor the victim ever has it in one’s control. The gratuitousness of forgiveness is at the same time its vulnerability, out of which its surprising character becomes apparent. The perpetrator can only but truly hope for forgiveness, without having any right to it at all. This reveals exactly how precious and great forgiveness indeed is. restoration, and last but not least with the boundaries of forgiveness, namely the unforgivable as an absolute boundary. This contextualization of forgiveness and thus the emphasis on its conditional character does not do away, in our opinion, with its concomitant unconditional and all-surpassing, unselfish and asymmetrical character, whereby it rises in principle above all calculation and utilitarian reciprocity. Morin, for that matter, refers at the end of his article to a statement by the French-Jewish thinker, Jankélévitch, who nonetheless stubbornly supports the idea of the unforgivable evil: “mais il y a aussi l’infini du pardon”. Cf. also Gouhier (1987), Chabert & Philibert (1996), Borradori (2011), Banki (2011), Warmke (2016). 16 Marcel Poorthuis refers to how the Jewish tradition, through the Talmud, has reflected on this problem and sees therein a specific task for the community. The perpetrator is advised to approach the victim with three known companions in order to thus morally persuade the one who does not want to forgive to have a change of heart. If this does not succeed, three new companions are found for a second attempt. If still this remains unsuccessful, then a third attempt is ventured, again with a different group of companions. The rabbis took inspiration for this idea of three attempts from the brothers of Joseph who thrice begged him for forgiveness (Gen 50,17). If now all three attempts fail, then the perpetrator is allowed to continue once again with his life for he has fulfilled his obligations and has done what is humanly possible. See Poorthuis, 1999, 21-23. See also Jesus in the Gospel of Mathew: 18,15-17.

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As a gratuitous gift, forgiveness also makes confession possible, or at least easier – without however being able to demand it, for then forgiveness would not be liberating but an exercise of power. Only those who know and may expect that he or she will be forgiven is capable of confessing, and to do so not only verbally and formally but sincerely and authentically. If the perpetrator knows beforehand that no chance of mercy and forgiveness from the victim exists, he will do everything to obscure the evil caused, to explain it away or to justify it – all this in self-deception. It is not at all abnormal that the perpetrator is unwilling or does not dare to ask for forgiveness, because he is, among others things, afraid to end up in a dependent position with regard to the victim (which in reality is a possibility). This especially because he is afraid to take the risk that forgiveness may be refused. Only the unconditional and at the same time cautious, modest and honestly offered gift of forgiveness by the victim opens up perspectives for the perpetrator in terms of a renewed or restored relationship. At the same time, it can be acknowledged that the perpetrator who does not receive forgiveness from his or her victim can thus begin to suffer. Yet, this form of pain is not that of a victim. It is somehow ‘self-inflicted’ and as such can be received as a stepping stone towards growing in true sorrow, repentance and a greater communion with human beings who are being treated unjustly. The longing for forgiveness should in this case be deferred from the temptation of the self-centred desire for relief that comes through being offered forgiveness. Instead, freedom can grow through service to others and a greater commitment to avoid all trappings of evil, while continuing to be patiently and humbly open towards the victim (Wyschogrod, 2006). 4.3.2. Forgiveness as promise In this regard, forgiveness is related to promise, or rather it offers itself as a very unique form of promise. It establishes a second, different relationship to time than the one we have already discussed above. As we have indicated, forgiveness untangles the definitive and irreversible character of action by redeeming the person from being bound to his past. In this way, forgiveness establishes a breach, a discontinuity in time. On the other hand, though, as pledge and promise it establishes permanency and reliability, and this in spite of the unpredictability of time and future. As an offer from the victim, the guilty one knows that there still is a future, that everything about his life has not yet been said and done, and at the same time that he may nurture a trust in what is to come.

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Every promise is an attempt at finding an answer to the uncertainty of human existence. And from the inconstancy of the human heart, with its dark sides, whereby I am not absolutely certain I can guarantee who I will be tomorrow, this uncertainty is apparent. The time in which I live, though, not only ensues from the ‘unfathomable darkness’ of my subjectivity, but also from the unpredictability of others. After all, it is impossible to foresee how people shall act tomorrow, and this not only because they are finite and vulnerable, but also because they are free beings who can make different choices, just like me. In other words, we can never fully rely on ourselves nor on others. There is so much that constantly eludes us. It makes our future seem like a lottery game. In this fact, the significance of a promise consists precisely in counterattacking this double darkness – of myself and of others – and establishing an island of stability within a sea of possibilities that can go take us in all directions. In this way, the future is already brought into the present, so that a bond exists between today and tomorrow (Arendt, 1958, 233-247). This also has to do with the difference between hope and promise. While hope arises from the longing of people and can thus never be fully trusted (hope is always characterized by uncertainty and despair), the promise is made and addressed by someone else. And by means of the articulation of this promise, the other stands as a guarantee for the truth and reality of his or her pledge. The promise is an external speech-act, that literally comes-toward-me and thus frees me from the disquiet and doubt of the present towards the future so much so that I dare to entrust myself to it. In this way, my existence acquires continuity and permanence whereby I can also venture to break out of myself and commit myself forward into the future. When applied to forgiveness, this means that the guilty one may and can venture to raise above the guilt. Likewise, he or she can bring this – through confession and expression of remorse – before the face of the other. In his or her promise of forgiveness, the other in return not only stands open before the guilty one but also stands with his or her whole being – one’s ‘soul’ – as a guarantee for the promise (Ricœur, 2004, 486-588). Whoever reasons about the unconditionally reliable and gratuitous character of forgiveness only from a human perspective will find this difficult to understand and confirm. Upon closer inspection, this unconditional character is a religious category. In the Biblical tradition, both in the First as well as in the Second Testament, God is revealed as the Merciful One par excellence. God again and again regrets the announced punishment and manifests a boundless mercy, not only in terms of sin

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and crimes that are committed, but also as a promise ‘that will make all things new’ – a promise that is as constant as the North Star, as solid as a rock, for God Himself is “my rock, in whom I take refuge” (Ps 18,3), “a rock of refuge for me and a strong fortress to save me” (Ps 31,3.4), in short a safe haven, but also an unshakeable foundation, “The Rock, … A God of faithfulness” (Deut 32,4). It is clear in the life of Jesus as well that the call to be disposed to forgive unconditionally and gratuitously is directly rooted in God’s disposition to forgive: ‘Be merciful as your heavenly Father is merciful’ (Lk 6,36), ‘who makes his sun rise on the evil and on the good’ (Mt 5,45). We are called to imitate God’s love, as we pray in the Our Farther: ‘forgive us our debts, as we also have forgiven our debtors’ (Mt 6,12). But this imitation of the divine example is only possible if God enables us by means of the grace of His love to do so, even though as finite and sinful human beings we will always remain wanting in this imitation – without us being crushed by our guilt.

Conclusion: No mercy without judgment and no judgment without mercy The understanding of judgment and mercy we have developed from the narrative of Naboth and Ahab leads us to the important conclusion that an oppositional approach to the First and Second Testaments is wrong. All too often a false antagonism is made between the two, as if the First Testament proclaims a condemning and punishing God and the Second Testament emphasizes a loving and merciful God. One who conquers the revengeful God and thus reduces the First Testament to a superfluous document. In the First Testament God is both the Just as well as the Merciful One. His justice and mercy are inextricably linked: no mercy without justice and vice versa. God’s mercy implies and transcends judgment. It presupposes judgment insofar that it takes the deeds and the responsibility of the human person before his or her co-creatures (fellow humans and the world) seriously. A life of faith wherein lenience would dominate and reign, i.e. wherein God’s forgiveness is applied immediately and easily without any form of judgment and ‘atonement’, is threatened to become an inhuman faith. What one does then not matters anymore: one would receive from God pardon from guilt and punishment anyway ‘without difficulty’ (Morrison, 2011).

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Divine mercy, however, also transcends judgment, though without denying it or reducing it to a futility. This is apparent from the fact that mercy presupposes confession, as was already made clear above on the inter-human level. The guilty one must dare to acknowledge his responsibility and bad will. God can only be merciful when He judges justly. Mercy without judging the deed is cheap, and thus all too soft and noncommittal. It requires nothing more from, and thus eventually rids the person of his or her human dignity as a free and responsible being. Judgment without mercy, however, is just as inhuman since it chains the person to but one moment of his existence. In that sense, we can say that ethics, which in it itself is necessarily hard and demanding, even ‘over-demanding’, is in need of grace. In the Bible, we see that judgment is never final: God repents and offers new opportunities by means of the promise of a new future, of a new covenant. He is often indignant about the injustice and infidelity that humans commit. And this rightly so in the light of how human beings often carry out nothing else but deadly violence (cf. Cain and Abel). But God never fixates on the threat of punishment and rejection. Time and again He creates a new beginning and makes conversion possible. Put more strongly: His mercy is never in proportion to the condemnation and the inflicted evil. It surpasses in abundance the scope of His wrath and judgment. Towards this extravagant divine love only a silent thankfulness is fitting. One which substantiates its acknowledgement and gratitude by trying to be merciful as God Himself, in the quiet awareness that one would never be able to meet such a standard (Desmond, 2008; Moyaert, 2016). In the Catholic tradition, this divine mercy has taken shape in many forms and various sacramental expressions, as in baptism, the Eucharist and the anointing of the sick. But it has taken shape eminently in confession, or the sacrament of reconciliation, as it is preferably called today. For ‘confession’ rather emphasizes the work of the human confession of sins, while ‘reconciliation’ brings to the fore the grace of God’s offer of mercy. We may entrust ourselves to God because He is the promise and blessing of mercy that knows no bounds, so overgenerous is His unconditional love. Divine forgiveness, however, is not cheap for it requires the acknowledgement of one’s own evildoing, guilt and sin. This is done through an articulated and addressed confession that trivializes nothing, but rests in the humble awareness of ‘pray for us, sinners’, as expressed in the Hail Mary. Furthermore, we must atone and make amends to the victims for those wrongdoings for which one can ‘make restitution’. Conversion must be expressed in deeds called the ‘act of contrition’

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(Borobio, 1986). What is particular to sacramental forgiveness, however, is that it is mediated by the priest. On the basis of his ordination – thus as the representative and sign of God Himself in this world – the priest brings about God’s forgiveness by means of the gesture of forgiving, the absolution, onto the sinner at that very moment itself. The sign – gesture and word – of the priest is an ‘efficacious sign’. In and through its very signification, it refers not only to a specific meaning, namely God’s forgiveness, but it also realizes this in and through the sign itself. And it does so in the power of the church as the body of Christ in this world through which God – according to the Infinite’s sovereign salvific will – mediates in a most unique way its mercy (Chauvet & De Clerck, 1989).

Chapter V.

Called to an ‘Impossible’ Mission The annunciation narrative provokes thinking about the paradoxical relationship between vocation and freedom Introduction In this chapter we will attempt a reflective, philosophical reading of one of the most tenacious texts of the Second Testament, namely the account of the evangelist Luke on the annunciation by the angel to Mary (Lk 1,26-38). As this is not a down-to-earth narrative, to do so will be a challenge. Many contemporary women (though not only they) experience some resistance to the narrative because of the way it has historically become intertwined with an anti-emancipatory presentation of Mary. She became portrayed as the ‘humble, obedient, obliging woman’ and thus an image that is used to summon people to the ‘virtue’ of (patriarchal) obedience. This ‘imaginary prejudice’ (Balmary) challenges us to read the story with an alert and critical attitude. In exercising this, the view that arises from the interpretation neither affirms nor reinforces the patriarchal humiliation of women. There are other reasons that contributed towards mistrusting the narrative. For ‘modern’ scientifically trained minds, the story simply looks impossible and therefore unacceptable. The so-called ‘virgin birth of Jesus’ seems empirically and scientifically absurd. All the more as it suggests a link between virginity and fertility without mediation of sexual intercourse – and this comes across as a depreciative approach to sexuality. Immersing ourselves as open-mindedly as possible in the text, we intend to trace its very own metaphysical, anthropological and ethical significance, without, however, becoming too flippant towards the shocking aspect of its ‘message.’ In so doing, we shall discover how the narrative guides us towards the paradoxical relationship between heteronomy and autonomy, ideal and vocation. It is not only about the ‘strange’ vocation of Mary, but of every vocation and, stronger still, about being human as a ‘strange’, even ‘queer’ vocation and mission.

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While doing so, we shall also delineate the significance of the ‘becoming human’ of God in Jesus the Son of Man and of every person from the perspective of a unique responsibility. Our philosophical in-depth reading will thus offer not an exclusive but an inclusive interpretation of Mary. An exclusive reading puts the emphasis on the factual and historical, particular uniqueness of Mary (and of Jesus). However plausible this may be, an inclusive reading searches more deeply for the universal significance of Mary (and of Jesus). Mary then transcends herself and the historical defining she received. She becomes a metaphor, a bearer of meaning for all persons. Through her uniqueness she thus also reveals a ‘farther-reaching’ universality. Thus we have Mary as a ‘figure of humanity’, or better still as a ‘figure of our humaneness’ – which is more inclusive than Mary as a ‘figure of womanhood’ (‘mother’) to which she has been reduced more than once.

1. ‘Extra-ordinary’ vocation The first thing one notices in this text, is that Mary is ‘called’ in the literal sense of the word. Her calling does not begin with herself, but with a radical Other, God. He is the One who calls her ‘ex abrupto’ – from elsewhere – to something that does not entirely fit in her life or plans. This is comparable to the narratives of prophetic callings in the First Testament where we repeatedly read: “The Word of the Lord came to the prophet…”: Hosea (Hos 1,1), Joel (Joel 1,1), Micah (Mic 1,1), Zephaniah (Zeph 1,1), Zechariah (Zech 1,1). In every instance we see that the calling does not simmer up from the innermost self of the one that is called. Thus it has its starting point in radical heteronomy and not in human autonomy. The Word of God addresses first; it precedes all planning, all likely projects or all possible dreams of the called ones. It turns their existence upside down, as we read in the story of prophet Amos, who as a herdsman and a dresser of sycomore was taken by the Lord “from following his flock” (Am 7,14-15). 1.1. Being called by a strange Other We see this also happening to Mary. The presupposed starting point here consists of the very own life of Mary, who nurtured her plans and dreams, her personal life project. As a young woman – and therein she is an image of every human – she has built up her life perspectives and

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options and would like to realize them. She was engaged to Joseph (Lk 1,27), and thus had marriage plans, with the accompanying dream of a home and children. This is inalienable life, born of a most personal commitment (although we shall still see below how a ‘deeper’ dream still slumbers within her). With this she expresses, like every person, a healthy concern for herself, characterized by responsibility for oneself and the meaning of one’s particular life. We can also call it responsibility in the first person, whereby both the starting point as well as the object is the ‘I-self.’ It is a sign of a natural and healthy striving that every person should live happily and meaningfully. Aims for which everyone as a free being must for him- or herself vouch and be accountable (see also our interpretation of the Good Samaritan narrative in the last chapter). But without taking into account this healthy self-unfolding that provides meaning, the ‘other’ breaks into our existence unannounced and unforeseen, with all its consequences. In the narrative, it is the angel Gabriel who as the ‘other’ enters the existence of Mary. In line with the First Testament tradition, the angel is the one who acts on God’s behalf ‘towards humans.’ It is the apparition directed towards us, the face of the invisible and utterly transcendent God ‘towards humans.’ In this manner God becomes present in the midst of humanity, without needlessly exposing his transcendence and surrendering his holiness. Yet, the angel is also a messenger as the Greek and Latin ‘aggelos’ or ‘angelus’ indicates: bearer of news. This means that he is defined by the word, or rather by the word addressed, not in his own name but in the name the one who sends him. The angel is a messenger because he has something ‘from God’ to say to humans as in the narrative of Mary: the angel Gabriel entered to greet her and addressed to her the Word (Lk 1,28). This Word refers, as with the prophets of the First Testament, to the heteronomous passivity of the one called in spite of oneself. The Word of the angel, namely the Word of God – the radical Other – to Mary, precedes her personal project of existence (Ricœur, 1988b, 84-89). 1.2. Beyond the personal ideal In this regard, the Biblical idea of vocation in general and of Mary’s calling in particular, is fundamentally distinct from what we usually call an ideal. In the current Western culture, as modelled since the Enlightenment and (almost like a second nature) grown into a cultural body, the term ‘ideal’ is understood, thus, as a lofty expression and eminent realization of the ‘self.’ As a conscious and free being I design, on the basis

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of my dreams and longings, my abilities and inabilities. The basis of my possibilities and limitations, a specific task or life choice, therefore only has meaning when it substantiates the best of myself in view of the concepts ‘concern for the self ’ and ‘responsibility in the first person.’ In this context, the Greek philosopher, Pindarus, is regularly quoted: “That which a man can be, that must he be,” and, likewise, Nietzsche: “Be that which you are”. The human person is called to be faithful to one’s own ‘self ’, not so much one’s superficial or splintered self but one’s deeper, true self. One may do this only by unfolding one’s most individual possibilities and gifts or ‘talents’ and thus becoming that person to which, on the basis of one’s own internal forces of growth, one is capable of becoming. And since no person ever coincides with oneself, namely, is never what one would like to be, one experiences one’s own being as an ‘attempt at being,’ as a ‘struggle in order to exist.’ The concern for oneself is thus characterized by fear and trembling, by worry and unrest, anxious for one’s own happiness and wholeness. This fear does not paralyze us but, on the contrary, makes us creative. Due to this, we make use of all possible means, according to the many dimensions and levels of our existence, in order to substantiate our existence. Our independent existence is dynamic precisely because time and again we must substantiate and unfold our independence. The ‘I’ lives in absence of the ‘I,’ and thereby is the ‘I’ not only ‘it-self ’ but the self as that which becomes its own ideal to be striven for. Or to put it with Freud: “My ‘ideal I’ (Ideal-Ich) becomes my ‘I-ideal’ (Ich-Ideal).” The Biblical idea of vocation exceeds this absolutized concept of autonomy and auto-realization. In a unilateral approach the word ‘autos’ stands central, in the sense that the human poses its own ‘self ’ (‘autos’) as law (‘nomos’), albeit that this auto-realization is fulfilled via the relation with the world, others, the community and even with what surpasses us, and God. Let it be clear – and this is certainly no comforting thought to soothe our ‘(late-)modern’ ears – that the idea of intentional and endeavoured self-fulfilment, subjective happiness, unfolding of the personal ‘destination’ and ‘actualization’ actually falls outside of the Biblical perspective, thus, also outside of the perspective of the annunciation to Mary. Stronger still, out of its own perspective the Bible lays emphasis, without hesitation, on the heteronomous character of the vocation, both with regard to its origins as well as to its goal. Vocation – and thus the meaning of my existence – arises not out of myself, nor out of one or the other predilection or aptitude from my own being, but from the ‘other’ than myself that makes a claim on me in spite of myself. Concretely from the

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wholly Other who places me under its appealing, literally ‘calling’ Word. The present of my commitment has a past, an “antecedence to the presence” (AE 18/15), namely my being called despite of myself. This reveals an “extreme passivity” (AE 61/47) or “absolute passivity” (AE 133/104), “a passivity more passive than any [active, intentional] passivity [receptivity]” (AE 62/48). The passivity of Mary’s being called, as an image of every human person, occurs as an exposure or better as an ‘exposedness’ (since ‘exposure’ is still too active): exposedness to and wounding by the word of an ‘other’ that precedes me. This implies “a responsibility prior to freedom” (AE 159 113), “a responsibility prior to any free commitment” (AE 139/109). The one called, like Mary, is no alpha and omega, nor ‘archè’ or ‘origin’ of meaning and orientation anymore, but someone who stands under a claim, someone who stands literally in the ‘accusative’ and not in the ‘nominative’ (AE 143/112). In short, the calling of Mary begins not as a ‘virtue’ but as ‘destiny’: it is principally a destination before it can become a virtue (cf. infra as well). In spite of this clarity, the question whether the discrepancy between ideal and vocation in the annunciation narrative is indeed this radical arises. Shouldn’t we assume, as commentators suggest, that Mary – just like every young girl in Israel – secretly dreamt of becoming the mother of the Messiah? However, it is not because one dreams of something that it also actually becomes reality. Dreams belong to the order of longing and of hope. They simmer up from the interiority or the soul of a person. But that is no guarantee that they become true. Not even the intensity of hope’s longing can ‘pry open the closed door’. Hope is and remains in the realm of a ‘thought’ that cannot bring forth its own realization even if a certain idea of the future is sharply developed “The hope does not of itself have the force to effect what it hopes for. It is not enough to conceive of hope to unleash a future” (EE 153/89). Longing and hope are not capable of creating the ‘object’ of their aspirations. They only express an expectation that possesses no magical power ‘to pull a rabbit out of a hat’ so to speak and produce the object that is hoped for. It must be given for it belongs to the order of the promise, And as object of a pledge, that which is promised can only ‘come upon’ me as the longing subject who has no right or power to claim it. Even though it is a promised object of longing, it remains a heteronomous gift, something that is gifted ‘from elsewhere’ and ‘by an-other’ (Marion, 1997). The longing of Mary reveals and confirms unequivocally the heteronomy of her vocation. And even though she encounters her slumbering longing she surpasses it. This will be explained further on.

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1.3. From elsewhere, yet intimate An honest reading of the story as it now stands cannot ignore that a ‘hard’, i.e. heteronomous, view on vocation is evoked whereby the critical question arises whether that heteronomy implies an alienation and even a denial of human freedom. A first element towards answering this lies in the provenance (source) of the vocation. The heteronomy of being called in spite of oneself, is no blind fatum. It goes back to being addressed by Someone, a divine Thou, or rather a divine Third Party – a He/She, a ‘Someone Out There’ – who has spoken. At the heart of rests not an anonymous principle but a person who directs the word to a person. The whole emphasis lies on the passivity of ‘being called’ – a passivity that precedes every activity. Actively experienced calling always concurs with but ‘secondary’ in relationship to the One Calling. This implies that human existence as calling has an essentially responsorial structure indicating that it can only fulfil itself as a response (also a word) to a word already spoken from someone else. Vocation – and therefore human existence itself – is a linguistic event, whereby the spoken word stands central. Moreover, the passivity of the being addressed by the other forms the foundation of all that follows as an active response. What is unique to the addressed word – in Hebrew ‘dabar’ – is that it does not simmer up from the innermost self of the one addressed, as if it would have already been slumbering in there beforehand like a pre-given ‘idea’ that only needed to be awakened. The word of calling is utterly ‘exterior,’ it comes ‘from elsewhere.’ It initiates from the ‘spokes-person’ who is radically distinct from the one addressed and preserves and strengthens its irreducibility precisely in its being spoken, without thereby excluding a deep and even intimate relationship. The word of calling fulfils itself as the ‘ob-jective’ par excellence. Coming from elsewhere it addresses out of that distinctness. As the most ‘foreign,’ it nestles itself in myself, whereby it begins to form part of my intimacy. It can be portrayed as the paradox of a ‘foreign intimacy’ that never loses its foreignness and thereby does not annul its intimacy or profound nearness with the one addressed.

2. Vocation as mission The question whether this vocation as being addressed by Someone else does not eliminate the freedom of the one called, can now be turned

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to. Does not the passivity of being called by a foreign Other lead ultimately to a denial of the one called as a unique person, who has control over one’s own existence? 2.1. Chosen for uniqueness The paradox mentioned above is one whereby the heteronomous calling does not annul freedom but precisely engages and summons it. The calling is directed towards Mary personally as an ‘I’ in the most particular sense of the word. Or, expressed differently, the heteronomous calling institutes her uniqueness and this in a rather singular fashion – different from what ‘enlightened autonomy’ suggests. With Kierkegaard we could call it a ‘singularizing’ thanks to her vocation. On the basis of its heteronomous origin, vocation has to be approached as a choice, even though it befalls me without my being asked. I am personally addressed and chosen without choosing for this election. That is the paradoxical nature of Mary’s calling and of all human vocation: it does not let go of me, but aims at me personally. The Word of the Other is addressed to Mary by name: “In the sixth month the angel Gabriel was sent by God to a town in Galilee called Nazareth, to a virgin engaged to a man whose name was Joseph, of the house of David. The name of the virgin was Mary” (Lk 1,26-27). In order to determine the true scope of this personal address, let us reflect on its peculiarity. What is remarkable in the address is that though Mary is called by name, little else is said about her. Only that she is linked to Joseph as her fiancé; This minimalist description stands clearly in contrast to the address of Zacharias by an angel, an annunciation story that precedes that of Mary’s (Lk 1,5-25). The mode of this first annunciation story reveals a different world than that of Mary. We could call this the ‘traditional’ or ‘old world’. Zacharias is a priest and advanced in age. He fulfils the Torah, the Jewish law, diligently together with his wife, Elizabeth (who is barren). The angel of God who directs itself to him acknowledges and respects that order. This is reflected in the fact that he was addressed during his service at the temple. After drawing lots, he was designated to enter into the Holy of Holies and present the prescribed incense offering (Lk 1,8-9). The angel appears beside the sacrificial altar, at its right side. With this, he acknowledges not only the most sacred place of Israel, namely the temple, but likewise the most holy place in the temple, the right side of the altar. Moreover, he speaks to an eminent person in Israel, a priest. By means of his appearance he honours the ‘sacredness’ of the instituted order, with

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its hierarchies. Zacharias is presented by Luke with all honours: in the priestly order he belongs to the section Abia. Elisabeth too comes from an illustrious genealogy: she is a descendant of Aaron (Lk 1,5). For his message, God’s angel relies on the common form of divine ‘glory’, as it is reflected in sacred earthly forms. With the annunciation to Mary, a different turn is taken. God sends the angel Gabriel to a town in Galilee, Nazareth, to a young maiden, Mary, who is engaged to a man, Joseph (cf. Lk 1,26-27). Only of Joseph is given some form of qualification, namely that he is “of the house of David” (indicating that Joseph belongs to the traditional order). Of Mary we come to know her name, nothing else. And this goes against the ways of the old, sturdy tradition of mentioning of whom she is the daughter. In the culture of Israel at that time, a woman is not determined in and of herself but out of her ‘intergenerational anchoring’, concretely: her ‘begetter and father’. She was always and for all ‘the daughter of …’. Luke is completely silent about her origins. What deserves our attention here is not the manner in which later devotion has filled in this lacuna with stories, but rather the silence about Mary’s genealogy. By mentioning Mary in herself, she is extricated – elevated – from the traditional and patriarchal order. Thanks to the angel – thanks to Luke – we come to know nothing of the antecedents of Mary. In contrast to the appreciative indications of Zacharias and Elisabeth, the gospel maintains utter discretion about Mary. With this, the institution of a new order is suggested. God chooses but ‘a’ woman, who comes not from an ‘illustrious’ family. The classic status of greatness is left behind and Mary is presented as an ordinary woman, in all humility and modesty. This is a ‘revolutionary turn’, a reversal of the known order that through its historical and religious heft has perhaps become to ‘weighty’. In the narrative about Mary, Luke shows how the Divine and Infinite One seeks indwelling in the unsightly human, and in so doing introduces a radical Umwertung aller Werte. Through this new order, Mary is elevated to her highest uniqueness. By detaching her from her genealogical determination, she is made separate from all the rest and is chosen. Thus in her simplicity she becomes a special someone. And therein she is the image of all human beings who are addressed and called to respond in person: I cannot let myself be replaced. I cannot transfer the demand to someone else. I must act as if I am the only one who is to respond. I must give a response in the first person: I-myself am ‘referred to’ and no one else. Consequently, I acquire, notwithstanding the heteronomous origin of the appeal, an ‘extra-ordinary place’ that makes me into a ‘distinctly instituted’ self.

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My ‘self-esteem’ flows forth from my election, from my being put ‘apart’ as an ‘ex-ception’. Literally being raised out of my genealogical, historical, social and cultural context, I am therefore also irreducible to my qualities and achievements which are seen by myself or by others as reasons for regarding myself highly. By means of the vocation I become irreplaceable, not as self-determination and autocracy, but as claimed with a finger pointed towards me personally. Indeed, I am not the origin of this election: I have been set apart, I have been chosen. Thus I do become a ‘unique’ human being but I cannot lay any claim on this since it does not arise from my situation and character, and even less from my specific expertise that I may have developed by using my ‘talents’. I cannot let myself be replaced by another nor shift the summons onto someone else. I must behave as if I am the only one to respond and must give this in the first person: I-myself am ‘set aside’ and no one else. I thereby acquire, through the heteronomous origin of the appeal, a ‘place outside every place’, that means an ‘utopian’ – literally ‘ou-topic’ – sense,’ just as Israel was assigned a special ‘place’ by the Holy One ‘alongside all other peoples.’ This does not mean that I may not put my possibilities, talents and skills at my disposal in order to embody my election, as will be explained in the last part of this chapter. 2.2. No privilege but mission as motherhood Election, as we saw, should not be understood as a privilege, to which one can lay claim or through which one thinks one can secure one’s ‘salvation.’ If vocation gives rise to pride and pretentiousness, as if I were better than another, I forget the true nature and origin of my election: it is not my prerogative but a mission towards people. The ‘alterity’ (heteronomy) of the vocation has as its content – its mission – directedness towards the ‘other.’ Stronger still, this task is, in the literal sense of the word, an ‘impossible’ mission since it does not ensue from the autonomy and capability of the one called. The mission befalls the person initially as a ‘Fremdkörper’ or as a ‘strange-thing’, i.e. a ‘dis-order’ in the literal sense of the word: as a ‘disturbance of order’. This is in its origin not concerned with the question whether or not the one called is fully in the right position, or mood and possesses all the necessary qualities and talents nor whether or not the ‘impossible’ mission – the mission beyond the possibilities of the one called – will produce satisfaction or success and happiness for the chosen one. The antithetical idea of a ‘mission impossible’ brings to mind the calling and mission of the prophets from the First Testament. Think for instance of Moses, who is sent by

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God to liberate his people from Egypt and for that purpose must address the Pharaoh. Moses, however, turns out to be a stutterer and is thus not suitable for the task to which he is called by the Other. There is thus no ‘conclusive reciprocity’ between vocation and mission, on the one hand, and aptitude and suitability, on the other. “Since I am a poor speaker, why would Pharaoh listen to me?” (Ex 6,30), Moses wonders. After his complaint, the Other who calls Moses and sends him, provides him a companion, namely his brother Aaron (Ex 7,1), who in his stead, ‘with the authority of the Other’, shall address the Pharaoh to convince him to let the Israelites go. But Moses remains, despite his shortcoming and incapacity, the one called and sent. How the heteronomous vocation immediately implies a heteronomous mission, is made apparent unambiguously in the narrative about Mary. The mission that is entrusted to Mary consists in becoming the mother of Jesus. The ‘strange’ Word that comes to her from the divine Other through the angel Gabriel says: “You will conceive in your womb and bear a son, and you will name him Jesus” (Lk 1,31). In this regard, Jesus is not the result of a conscious or ‘responsible parenthood,’ that plans and controls a pregnancy (think of the term ‘birth control’) in a ‘foreseen’ manner, based on all sorts of motives and taking into account all kinds of factors (like, e.g., medical, eugenic, psychological, social, economic or demographic indications). On the contrary, Mary is entrusted with a pregnancy, without having deliberately planned it (although it most likely was not absent from her desire, as we suggested above). Motherhood is literally ‘done unto her’; she is called to it ‘in spite of herself.’ In contrast to the responsibility in the first person, which starts from the ‘I-self ’ in order to return back to the ‘I-self,’ and to develop this, we can now speak of a responsibility in the second person with regard to the starting point as well as the goal. Earlier, we referred to the heteronomous starting point: the responsibility comes to me ‘from elsewhere;’ it is done by the ‘other.’ I am made responsible by the other, or better by the epiphany of the other. Moreover, the ‘object’ or goal of this responsibility is also the ‘other than myself.’ The care that I have to take upon my shoulders is no longer that for myself but for the other, whether in the singular or in the plural. In modern Western thought, it is almost self-evidently assumed that responsibility is the extension of freedom – which we have called above the responsibility in the first person. It seems a fixed and indisputable conviction that there can be no responsibility if it is not preceded by freedom, meaning to say free initiative. Freedom,

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in other words, is seen as the absolute condition of possibility for every responsibility, in the sense that it precedes it. In the narrative about Mary a form of responsibility is revealed that does not first refer to free initiative, namely a responsibility that precedes freedom. In her vocations she is confronted by the wholly Other – via the Word of the angel, God’s messenger or Word – with a mission which she had previously not opted or claimed for herself. That she is called is a signal that she is marked by the radical other – the divine Holy Other – and directed by this Other One towards the other rather than towards herself. Formulated laconically: ‘by and for the other.’ Mary is made responsible for another, namely Jesus and is her ‘exceptional’ motherhood for the salvation of the world. As Mary also stands for every human being, this leads to the insight that every person is called and sent to bear the ‘son of man,’ the other person, and bring them forth into the world. We can also call this the idea of ‘ethical motherhood’: bearing the other in oneself until the other is born. In connection with Mary, this ethical motherhood acquires yet another, stronger meaning. The son whom she must bring forth into the world is actually the Son, the Anointed One (the Christ) of the Most High. It is her mission to give the divine Son of Man to all people, to the world. In the tradition, this outward mission has invariably led to Mary being presented in her relationship to the child Jesus by means of an ‘out-going’ movement. She holds on to the child not facing her as in the usual mother-child relationship. She turns the child away from her, outwardly, with it facing the world, usually with its arms open. Mary offers Jesus as God’s Son to the world. This expresses how the truly human stands not facing itself, but facing the other than itself. 2.3. Dedicated to the Good in spite of oneself This intimate interwovenness between vocation and mission implies that the heteronomy of God’s calling, or Word of the Other, is a qualified heteronomy. The divine Other is not the highest principle of being (archè), which only has a formal or intellectual significance as an explanation of what we do not understand here in this world. God is no ‘unmoved Mover’ (Aristotle), but on the contrary, the Infinite One is the ‘Moved One,’ the non-indifferent One par excellence, who associates oneself with humans and with the world and is affected by what happens in this world. God is not a ‘bit’. God is creator and not creature. Moreover, God as Person – as ‘Some-One’ – is God as love, not as substance

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but as verb: loving. True freedom is therefore nothing but being given the opportunity to respond wholly to God the utmost Good. That is why in the Biblical tradition God is time and again characterized in ethical terms. Above all, with positively so: the Just, the Faithful, the Merciful, the Patient, the Loving One, and so on. When Jesus speaks about the Kingdom of God, or rather about God’s Reign, he turns this category inside out, as it were, by linking ‘reign’ to a serving and liberating manner of dealing with humans, in particular with the poor, the weeping, the hungry, the oppressed (cf. the Beatitudes). God is not distant and inaccessible, but is touchable and touched. In short God is an associated God, or rather a God who constantly associates Oneself, who concerns and binds Oneself with small and vulnerable people in their history, in this world. This does not take away that the Bible, especially the First Testament, also speaks about God in negative ethical terms. God not only leans in full mercy towards the victim of repudiation and abuse but at the same time becomes angry about the violation of trust, justice and love. Upon closer inspection, though, the outbursts of God’s indignation and judgment, often accompanied by strong verbal violence, equally express the utmost positive ethical quality of God. Here the paradox of the ethical qualification of God appears as grace for humans: What I, as a human, experience from the ‘other’ as grace is the ethical dedication and commitment of that other. When the other – God, but also my fellow human beings – turns toward me out of their ethical movement and solidarity, I experience this as great grace and blessing whereby – in spite of myself – I find love. Because and through this love, I gain my selfesteem and self-worth, or stronger still, I receive my utterly positive uniqueness. From this inextricable interwovenness of election and mission, signed by the ethically qualified and thus grace-filled God, it is apparent that Mary – and in her, all those who are called, every person – is dedicated in spite of herself to ‘the Good.’ This ‘attachment’ to the Good precedes free choice. The one who is called ‘finds’ oneself in a bond with the good, even before there is any awareness of it. In the annunciation narrative, Mary becomes involved in the other from herself by the radical Other, God. It is in this heteronomous dedication to the good for others – not for oneself – that the ‘strange’ fundamental structure of mission, and of human existence itself, is laid. The one called is set on the track of the others, and that is precisely their election in which a ‘bond’ that in no way refers back to their free choice as origin is fulfilled. As one is

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called, the human person stands in ‘solidarity’ with the other, even before they can enter into any liaison contracted: an extraordinary, ‘pre-original’ responsibility (SaS 80-81/135). This confirms what we already discovered in our reflective in-depth reading of Cain and Abel (chapter III). This heteronomous being dedicated to the other instead of oneself – to the Good – is also apparent in the initial calling of Jesus himself as was indicated in the narrative of the annunciation to Mary. The starting point of Jesus’ vocation does not lie in the desire or the dream of Mary for the future of her child, but in the act of an angel who speaks from God about a destiny of one who is not yet even conceived. After the greeting by the angel Gabriel, God ‘announces’ to Mary that she will become pregnant and will bring forth a son into the world, whom she must name Jesus (cf. Lk 1,31). But it does not stop there. Jesus also has a destiny, i.e. a vocation. One that is immediately mentioned. His deepest being and significance is already indicated not only before he is born, but actually before he is ‘conceived’: “He will be great and will be called the Son of the Most High” (Lk 1,32a). Moreover, his mission is also assigned to Him: “The Lord God will give him the throne of his ancestor David. He will reign over the house of Jacob forever, and of his kingdom there will be no end” (Lk 1,32b-33). What is here at stake is a very special and paradoxical kingship that most closely adheres to the message that He brings about God’s reign as a liberating and serving God, near humans. In other words, Jesus is called and sent to embody and to proclaim God’s radical kenosis or self-emptying. Put differently, Jesus is the Anointed One, the Christ, who is moved and inspired by God in order to demonstrate in deed and word – living out the word with the deed – how God’s royal majesty precisely consists in doing away with the current majesty and how Jesus humbly aligns himself with the humiliated, the outcast, the injured, the shackled and all those who are delivered to suffering and death.

3. Called to the impossible Since vocation, including mission, does not arise from the free ‘I’ and its ‘design for existence’, but ‘from elsewhere’ – from the divine OneOther – and touches human beings and appeals to them and thus makes them responsible ‘in spite of themselves,’ it is not surprising that the person who is called becomes perplexed, does not understand it, begins to pose questions and is even recalcitrant. Moreover, the demanding

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mission that is entrusted to a person is not by nature able to annul or to temper the resistant, negative reaction. The heteronomous calling and mission clearly bring about a crisis in the one called. 3.1. No vocation without crisis Considering that vocation and mission do not arise from existence’s free design, but touch the human person ‘from elsewhere’ and thus make him or her responsible in spite of oneself, it is understandable that the one called stands perplexed. At the same time, the assigned, demanding mission does not by nature assuage the withdrawing, negative reaction. The heteronomous mission unavoidably causes a crisis in the one called. We see this in different narratives of the calling of prophets in the First Testament, which prompted protests or ‘withdrawing hesitations’ from those who were called. When Jeremiah is called, he feels uneasy and he reacts irritably: “Truly I do not know how to speak, for I am only a boy” (Jer 1,6). Even Ezekiel reacts confused and reluctant: “I went in bitterness in the heat of my spirit, the hand of the Lord being strong upon me” (Ezek 3,14). These and other direct or hidden forms of doubt expose the crisis that the ‘mission impossible’ produces in them. We see this crisis likewise in Moses, as was already made clear earlier. He becomes rather reluctant that he, “slow of speech and slow of tongue” (Ex 4,10b), is being sent to plead the liberation of the Israelites before the Egyptian Pharaoh (Ex 3,11). Moreover, the crisis, becomes more severe due to the fact that the Egyptians see him as a traitor. He had to flee from the Pharaoh, his former ‘lord and master’, after he killed an Egyptian overseer who had struck down a fellow Hebrew during hard labour (Ex 2,11-12). We see this crisis also appearing in Mary, though we easily gloss over it. With a slow, careful, attentive reading we come across a remarkable paradox. Notwithstanding the greeting of the angel who addresses Mary as “full of grace” and calls her blessed because the Holy One is with her (Lk 1,28b), Mary seems – against all expectations – not at all happy with the invocation: “She was much perplexed by this words” (Lk 1,29a). The greeting of the angel has shaken her; she is in utter confusion. She reacts with hesitation and in awe. That which is happening here is too unexpected, too great, too bewildering. The Word addressed makes her shudder. This reaction is depicted in art by a statue in the garden of the Basilica of the Annunciation in Nazareth (Israel). To the angel who brings to her the message with a raised left arm, Mary reacts not with

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wonder and enthusiastic surprise, but with an attitude of self-contracting recession. Her shudder can be gleaned both in her half-closed eyes and half-opened mouth, as well as in her arms which she hesitantly folds over her bosom to protect herself. Mary wonders what the greeting of the angel could mean (Lk 2,29b). The force of her secure confidence has disappeared. Nothing is self-evident anymore. She feels how her existence has been thrown upside down, turned inside out, put into question, by the intrusive Word of the angel. She is caught in fear and trembling as becomes apparent in the reaction of the angel, who says to her: “Do not be afraid…”. (Lk 1,30a). Her unease has not escaped him, and precisely for that reason he tries to reassure her: “You have found favour with God” (Lk 1,30b). Mary is not an inaccessible creature, just as no one of us can manage a heteronomous word that encroaches upon us. We are not ‘impassive’ but rather vulnerable and ‘affect-able’: never entirely at ease, never totally in balance, never unshakably upright, never almighty. We are exposed to the harsh strangeness of the word from elsewhere that brings into our lives a literal ‘dis-order, i.e. something that ‘disturbs’ the order of our hitherto designed and guarded existence, even if we long for what happens. We can try and make ourselves invulnerable, just like the Greek hero Achilles, but then we shall always remain marked by one or the other vulnerable spot. Achilles, who as a child had his entire body dipped by his mother in the river Styx so as to make him invulnerable, was fully immersed in the water except for his heel, which his mother held while dipping him. And it was this undipped heel which became the utmost spot of vulnerability. Hence the term ‘Achilles heel.’ It is a mark of our earthly, bodily and psychological condition that we are not ‘impassive’ (impassibilis) but, on the contrary, very vulnerable: not entirely assured, never in total balance, never fully autonomous, never completely masters of ourselves and the situation, never almighty, never always prepared even though we try to protect ourselves constantly against all too encroaching events and experiences. We are in the literal sense of the word ‘affective’: or better ‘affectable’: we can be affected, we are touchable, sensitive, not only factually wounded but remaining vulnerable. Fragile touchability is our human condition (Ricœur, 2001b). 3.2. “How can this be?” However, not everything has as yet been said about the crisis the intervention of the angel brought. The crisis of Mary, of the one called, actually has a concrete cause. It is not an expression of a personal character

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trait, for instance of timidity, shyness or faint-heartedness. On the contrary, it is caused by the message of the angel. It is not only the fact – the ‘that’ – of the word of the angel, but also and especially the content – the ‘what’ – of his word that causes the needed restlessness in Mary. The nature of his message brings commotion. After all, the angel pronounces a promise, namely that she will conceive and bear a son (cf. Lk 1,31a). It is precisely the way in which Mary understands this promise that causes her disquiet. In her eyes the angel promises something impossible indeed. She expresses this by means of a question: “How can this be, since I am a virgin?”(Lk 1,34). In other words, the angel, or the divine Other-One, entrusts something to her that does not follow naturally from the possibilities at hand (cf. supra). Here we must understand the term ‘impossible’ literally. The motherhood of Mary is, according to the ordinary and the actual course of things, not possible: ‘How can I be pregnant since I know no man?’ – ‘to know no man’ actually means ‘not having had sexual intercourse with a man’. Either we shall be inclined to gloss over this impossibility, or we shall try to solve this impossibility by explaining it in a plausible manner. That Jesus would be born out of a virgin sounds to our Western, modern – enlightened – ears utterly unacceptable. A ‘virgin birth’ provokes a spontaneous frown or a pitying smile, for nowadays no sensible person in their right mind accepts this. Thanks to science we are now better informed, and we no longer let ourselves be taken in by fantastic stories from a far flung, ‘pre-modern’, obscure age. A virgin birth, as proclaimed by the Lucan narrative, is simply impossible according to the laws of nature and thus it could not have been so. That is why one tries to go round the issue and begins to search for another, more natural explanation that would make everything plausible and ‘normal’. However, by so doing, would not the strength of the narrative itself be undone? Is it not precisely the impossible that provokes us to think about the radically new that can take place? Does it not point to the other that comes from elsewhere, unannounced and against all regularity that as ‘alterity’ introduces something really new? It is not the possible, the predictable, and the deducible that are new, but that which cannot happen, but precisely happens and thereby brings about a ‘new’ reality. Only the impossible is the exceptional or the literally ‘extra-ordinary’, whereby the course of history and of the world is irrevocably opened up towards a radically new future – literally a future that ‘comes to us’ as a surprising gift. If we were to refer the impossible back to the measure of the (ultimately, of course) explainable and acceptable we might be opting for a world and a history of ‘the same’. One

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where there is no place for the ‘other’ who throws everything upside down. A world wherein only the possible is allowed is one without transcendence; not only does it turn into a world without mystery but in the end also one without God – the most other and foreign of all! In this regard, the one who radically rejects the annunciation narrative with the promise of a virgin birth stands closer to the discourse than the one who claims to be able to explain it in a natural, scientifically acceptable manner. By means of rejecting the impossible, one acknowledges it, albeit inadvertently, without wanting to twist it around one’s finger by means of certain strategies or explanation. 3.3. A child of promise We can clarify this confrontation with the recalcitrant and difficult to comprehend impossibility of Mary’s motherhood by referring to other Biblical narratives where a child is promised but where the natural manner for this to come into being, is not at all evident. By referring to these, we can clarify how the narrative of the annunciation to Mary, precisely as a story of the impossible, is no exception. It belongs to a long tradition found within the Bible. The unusual, ‘out-of-the-ordinary,’ comes more than once to the forefront as a sign of radical otherness and divine transcendence. Concretely, there is the promise of a son to Abraham and Sarah, both of whom are advanced in age (Abécassis, 1996). First, Abraham is spoken to: “As for Sarai your wife, you shall not call her Sarai, but Sarah shall be her name (cf. infra for the meaning of this change of name). I will bless her, and moreover I will give you a son by her” (Gen 17,15). Abraham replies by throwing himself upon the ground and laughing, while he says to himself: “Can a child be born to a man who is a hundred years old?” (Gen 17,17). His laugh betrays, to say the least, his surprise, amazement and joy, namely that this favour should still fall upon him, but betrays perhaps also his doubt and distrust. After all, the pledge implies something impossible, considering the known sterility of Sarai from birth. We read in Gen 11,30: “Now Sarai was barren; she had no child.” This was known prior to the promise of a great number of descendants was made to Abraham (Gen 12,2). There is thus a double reason for the impossibility of a son for Abraham: the advanced age of both himself and Sarah, and the sterility of Sarah. The latter was, moreover, considered a serious tragedy, and even a curse among the Hebrew people at that time. Because Sarai finds her

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infertility unbearable, and in order not to thwart the promise made to Abram that he would be ‘the father of a great people,’ she lays Hagar, her Egyptian slave girl, in Abram’s arms. Via Hagar, she would at least be able to grant him a son. But this ‘derived’ pregnancy does not take away her curse and suffering, for when Hagar became pregnant with Ishmael, she began to treat her mistress, Sarai, with disdain and to mock her. Sarai feels so deeply offended that she makes life even more difficult for Hagar. Ultimately, Hagar has no other way out than to flee into the desert (Gen 16,1-6b). Sarai had wished and hoped that Hagar would have given her the legal authority over Ishmael, but from her pregnancy onwards, Hagar’s attitude changed and she did not concede in giving up her child. Thus, the shame that came upon Sarai became too bitter that she had no other choice but to send Hagar away. She did not do so directly but instead, she began to abuse Hagar so that, when Hagar left, it looked as though she had done so on her own accord. Even Abraham concurred with this repudiation: “Your slave-girl is in your power; do to her as you please” – Gen 16,6a). To understand the drama of Sarai, we must realize how in her patriarchal life context it was believed that whoever was not able to grant the gift of life through children was considered inferior, or a ‘living dead,’ comparable to the blind, the lepers and the poor. Children were understood as a blessing from God, whereby childlessness was taken as a curse. The pain of infertility was experienced by women as a wrongful fate. It meant denial of their own bodies and feelings of bodily betrayal considering the reality that one’s body was not ‘properly functioning’. It meant rejection by a society that desired children from every woman. Without bearing children, one simply did not count as a woman. In such a society, one cannot remain childless and go unpunished. On a religious level, unintentional childlessness was perceived as a rejection by God, who apparently does not listen to the complaint of the sterile woman. This is only countered later on in the history of the Hebrew people. So we read in Psalm 113, for example: God makes the sterile woman into a laughing mother with children. On top of this, the sterility of Sarah makes the divine promise to Abraham, namely that he shall be the father of a great people and that in him and his descendants all generations of the earth will be blessed, extremely precarious and unreliable. It is in this context of original sterility and advanced age that we are confronted with an ‘anti-teleology’ through the promise to Abraham of a descendant through Sarah. What is announced cannot be predicted from a certain ‘pre-givenness’ that develops according to a certain ‘telos’ or finality, with its accompanying

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dynamism and regularity. Catherine Chalier rightly calls it: “the dawn of an ‘otherwise than the natural laws” – “l’aube d’un autrement que les lois naturelles” (Chalier, 1985, 44) This promise of the naturally impossible, appears a second time, namely, in the well-known story of the visit of the Lord by the oak trees of Mamre (Gen 18,1-15). This visit takes place as a result of the hospitality that Abraham offers in the heat of the midday sun to three travelling Bedouins in the desert. Because of his hospitality and ethical commitment, Abraham’s eyes were opened to God’s revelation. At the end of the rejuvenating meal, in the shadow of Abraham’s tent, the three passers-by ask for Sarah and they, or rather God, repeats once again, the promise: “I will surely return to you in due season, and your wife Sarah shall have a son” (Gen 18,9). Once again laughter ensues, this time from Sarah to whom this was new. Abraham already knows of the promise, but has probably not yet mentioned it to Sarah, who was not present the first time this was revealed to him. This lack of discussion with Sarah might have been because Abraham did not want to look like a fool, if nothing were to come of it. We may not forget that the first time the promise was made to Abraham there was a descendant via Sarai (Sarah – cf. infra). He was unsure and thus, refers to his son Ishmael, born of his wife’s slave Hagar (Gen 17,18). He almost does not dare to believe that via Sarah a son will be gifted to him and does not want to challenge nature. Thus he chooses the certain before the uncertain: Ishmael is already there. Presenting Ishmael as the promised descendant (“O that Ishmael might live in your sight!” – Gen 17,18), questions the blessing of God, while a child via Sarah – notwithstanding the clear promise – remains highly uncertain. It is better to have one bird in the hand than ten in the bush, Abraham must have thought. God, however, does not allow Himself to be distracted. He rejects the proposal of Abraham and repeats His promise: “No, but your wife Sarah shall bear you a son, and you shall name him Isaac. I will establish my covenant with him as an everlasting covenant for his offspring after him” (Gen 17,19). God’s promise cannot be anymore unambiguous and clear! Sarah, who as the wife “stood behind her husband” invisibly (Gen 18,10), and who from the ‘second row’ at the entrance of the tent was listening, indeed begins to laugh for she thinks: “After I have grown old, and my husband is old, shall I have pleasure?” (Gen 18,12). She knows all too well that what was being promised was in fact impossible for “it had ceased to be with Sarah after the manner of women” (Gen 18,11). That is why her laughter is also considered by the rabbinic

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tradition as scepticism and cynical doubt. Not only is Sarah’s reaction a sign of her surprise and amazement, but likewise and especially of, her unbelief. Indeed, something befalls her which she had longed for so intensely, but which she had, in the meantime, given up all hope for. She knows for sure that it can never happen to her because the law of the female physical reproductive system is just as unrelenting as other laws of nature. The narrative leaves no room for doubt that the promise to Abraham and Sarah has nothing to do with the current laws of nature. After all, Sarah is not someone who has just started menopause, so that a late pregnancy could still somehow be explained. She is ninety and thus menopause has long since passed. A child is simply out of the question. And it is this insurmountable impossibility that comprises the core of the narrative. As long as a natural explanation is still available, the temptation is great to make use of this. Through a natural explanation of the events, the exceptional element about the story is lost. And is it not exactly that which is, according to nature, exceptional, literally ‘ab-normal’ and ‘out-of-the-ordinary’ which makes us think? By means of the impossible, the perspective towards the other and the new and the renewing is introduced. Indeed, according to the current laws of nature there is ‘nothing new under the sun,’ but by means of the impossible, even the sun itself may surprise us – it even stood still according to the Bible. Did Abraham and Sarah laugh out of amazement because of the new that is still bound to happen? Or from out of unbelief and scepticism because of the impossibility of the promise? In any case, whatever the reaction may be, amazement or doubt, this is about the promise of a radically different, renewing reality. The son that is promised to Abraham via his infertile wife, Sarah, is literally the ‘son of the promise’ and not a ‘son of nature.’ That is likewise why Abraham gives this child the name ‘Isaac’ (Gen 21,3), which literally means: ‘he shall laugh’ or ‘he has laughed.’ There is indeed reason to laugh, just as Sarah says after the birth of Isaac with an allusion to his name: “God has brought laughter for me; everyone who hears will laugh with me” (Gen 21,6). The laugh externalizes here, without any form of sheer doubt, the joy in the miracle of the impossible, whereby a future is opened up for Abraham – and through him, for all humanity. After all, Sarah herself articulates it thus: “Who would ever have said to Abraham that Sarah would nurse children? Yet I have borne him a son in his old age” (Gen 21,7). So far, not everything has yet been said about the infertility of Sarah and the promise of a child to Abraham. We must therefore return to the change of names from Sarai to Sarah, and from Abram to Abraham.

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As in so many other passages in the Bible, this name change is of crucial importance. It is a necessary event in order to make the promise of a child – the child of the promise – possible. The new names, Abraham and Sarah, which were given by the Infinite One, “bring about a removal from nature, signifying an otherwise than being” (Chalier, 1985, 44). Abram’s and Sarai’s change of names into Abraham and Sarah expresses that these ‘new named ones’ are no longer entirely subjected to the boundaries that ensue from the necessity of nature. They remain persons of flesh and blood, thus natural beings, but by means of their change of names they become, at the same time, ‘supra-natural’ beings in the literal sense of the word: beings marked by the Infinite Other One. In this way, they transcend their ‘natural nature’, not on the basis of their own capabilities and performance but because of the Other’s promise. From the perspective of psychoanalysis, Marie Bleary points out how their change of names means that they are made capable of abandoning their fate, not in the sense that they end up in an equally unrelenting different fate, but in the sense that they can be liberated from their original fate – the fate that stands written in their origins, their ‘blood and land.’ With the changing of names from Abram to Abraham and from Sarai to Sarah the letter ‘he’ is added. According to the Midrash the ‘he’ is the letter of creation. For Abraham the addition of the letter ‘he’ stands as symbol for his fatherhood of a great people. As a person re-created he becomes a creating person, through whom the promise of a great progeny can be fulfilled effectively. With regard to the change of name from Sarai to Sarah, Balmary points out that she is healed of the fate of her original, nature-given infertility. As long as she was called Sarai, she was imprisoned in her fate, which lay enclosed in her name. She became the prisoner of her own name. Sarai means ‘my princess.’ She was the daughter of Haran, and as long as she existed as such, she existed, thanks to her father, as his princess. But she was also infertile, incapable of the radically new, precisely because she was stuck to her father – to the same. As long as she was ‘his’ princess who belonged to him, and thus who existed as his extension, she could neither receive nor give new life. Only when she becomes ‘Sarah,’ meaning to say ‘princess’ without the possessive pronoun, can she become free from her father and become the true spouse of Abraham and offer him a son. Balmary quotes the Talmudic commentary of Rachi: “Depart from your fate as it has been written in the stars. In the stars you have read that you would be childless. Indeed, Abram could not have a child. Abraham shall have a son. Sarai could not bear a child. Sarah could. I give you another name and your destiny (fate) shall be different!” (Balmary, 1986, 188).

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3.4. Jesus as the child of promise The idea of a ‘child of promise’ applies to the annunciation narrative as well. The child, to which Mary is called to be the mother, is not a result of the natural course of affairs, but indeed the ‘child of a divine promise” It is a child that has been promised by the Other One and that does not merely originate from the way in which things in life are and work. It is literally about an ‘extra-ordinary’ or ‘out-of-the-usual,’ ‘ab-normal’ child. In the narrative of the annunciation we are actually confronted with an ‘anti-teleology’: what is proclaimed and promised by the angel cannot be predicted from a certain ‘pre-givenness’ that develops itself according to a certain natural ‘telos’ or ‘finality,’ with an accompanying inherent dynamism and regularity. Precisely this ‘natural impossibility,’ with its own ineradicable relentlessness, belongs to the core of the Gospel narrative of the annunciation to Mary. That Jesus would be born out of a virgin provokes, as was said above, a spontaneous frown or a pitying smile. Thanks to science we are in the meantime better informed, and we no longer let ourselves be taken in by fantastic stories from a far flung, ‘pre-modern,’ obscure age. For ‘enlightened minds’ it has become evident to approach all phenomena on the basis of empirical investigation. Without disputing the value of such an approach, it still runs the risk of elevating itself to the only truth. Researchers seek an explanation for everything. They look for a gene that explains why someone has diabetes or gets cancer. In medicine one speaks more and more about ‘evidence based practices’, treatments that are based on clearly observable and tested facts upon which one can base reliable decisions. In psychiatry, for instance, the tendency grew to reduce certain mental and psycho-social pathologies to their genetic or biological or neurological base. Today some seek or even find a neurological basis for religion in the ‘God spot’ (Newberg, d’Aquili, Rause, 2001). From the understandable desire to be able to control everything, we constantly endeavour to search for empirical elements, which we not only consider as the basis for knowledge and ‘treatment’ but also for significance and meaning. Facts become normative; they acquire the form of ‘law’. They become the decisive criterion to determine whether something is true or fake. In this obsession for the measurable and makeable, there is no place anymore for the trans-empirical. There is no room for what philosophers call the ‘symbolic order’ of the creation of meaning and ‘sense’.

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A virgin birth, as proclaimed by the Lucan narrative, is simply impossible according to the laws of nature and thus it also could not have been so. That is why one tries to get around the issue and begins to search for another, more natural, scientifically acceptable explanation that would make everything plausible and ‘normal.’ However, by so doing, would not the strength of the narrative itself be undone? Is it not precisely the impossible that provokes us to think about the radically new that can take place? Does not the impossible point to the other that comes from elsewhere, unannounced and against all regularity, and as ‘alterity’ introduces something really new? It is not the possible, the predictable, the deducible that is new, but the impossible: that which cannot happen, but happens and thereby brings about a ‘new’ reality. A world wherein only the possible is allowed is a world without transcendence, a world without the promise of a new future, without the promise ‘to make all things new’ (Rev 21,5; cf. Isa 43,19). The temptation is great to search for some natural or scientific mode of explanation, but then the exceptional – and ‘order disturbing’ – aspect of the narrative gets lost, and it is precisely this ‘inconveniencing’ aspect that spurs us to thought. The Gospel narrative challenges us towards something that is neither obvious nor easy, namely to enter into the space of the trans-empirical, literally the ‘meta-physical’ creation of meaning. By means of the impossible, the perspective onto the other and the new and the renewing is introduced. Jesus is the ‘son of the promise’ and not the ‘son of nature.’ Even the apostle and evangelist John has understood this when he says that Jesus is not born “of blood or of the will of the flesh or of the will of man, but of God” (Jn 1,13). He even goes so far as to ascribe this ‘childhood of the promise’ not only to Jesus, but also to all those who believe in Jesus. The ‘childhood of the promise’ does not have an exclusive, but an inclusive significance, one that strives towards universality. Precisely on the basis of his alterity, meaning to say his coming ‘from elsewhere’ through the Word of the transcendent Other-One, Jesus as the ‘child of the promise’ opens the horizon of a new world. In this regard, Jesus is a true revelation: a revelation of the new that renews everything, of the other that makes everything otherwise, i.e. changing it. Due to the transcendence that is kept open by the impossible, we argue to leave the impossible with which Mary, in the narrative of the annunciation is confronted intact by not explaining it away. It is the difficulty of the narrative, namely the impossibility of integrating the

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virgin birth of Jesus within our current frameworks of thought and interpretation, that keeps us alert and incites us to pay attention to the revelation that is evoked by the impossible. The impossible aspect is also why the angel does not react to the question of Mary (‘How can this be…’). He does not make that which he proclaims, namely Mary’s motherhood of the Son of the Most High, somewhat accessible and acceptable by referring back to one or the other – albeit unknown as yet at that time – law of nature. Instead, the angel plainly states: “For God nothing is impossible!” The impossible becomes possible thanks to God, the Transcendent One, who introduces the radically other into our present reality and thus reveals the new and makes it operational. We can literally call the impossible that God fulfils in Mary the ‘meta-physical,’ in the sense that it does not flow forth from the physical but radically transcends this physical. The statement ‘With God nothing is impossible’ by Luke is actually preceded by a reference to the infertility of Elizabeth, Mary’s relative. “Who was said to be barren” (Lk 1,36), has in her old age conceived a son and, at the moment of the annunciation to Mary, she is in her sixth month. This child of Elizabeth and Zacharias is, like the son of Sarah and Abraham, a ‘child of the promise,’ a ‘divine gift,’ that comes from an ‘other’ world, the world of God, and bears witness to this divine world. Therefore there is an unmistakable link between the narrative of Abraham and Sarah and the narrative of Mary. Her son Jesus is literally a ‘divine’ child, meaning to say a child that comes ‘from elsewhere,’ a son coming from God. That is also why we read in the annunciation narrative of Luke that it is the Spirit of God who shall come over Mary and that the power of the Most High shall overshadow her, so that the child that she shall bring forth into the world will be called “holy and Son of God” (Lk 1,35). Last but not least, just as Mary in her uniqueness stands for ‘every person’, thus the uniqueness of Jesus as ‘the child of the divine promise’ stands for ‘every child’ that is born of people. Should not every child, desired or undesired, be chosen and presented as the other par excellence, and thus as a child of the promise? No single child can be reduced to the wish of its progenitors. Or to cite and paraphrase Levinas: ‘Lovers wish for children, but never get the children they wish for.’ A child leads to wonder and trauma. On the one hand, it leads to wonder because it is the most characteristic and intimate that people can ‘bring about’. On the other hand, it leads to trauma for a child is also the other, the stranger: “The child conceived in voluptuousness is not given to action,

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remains unequal to powers. No anticipation represents it nor, as is said today, projects it. (…) The future of the child comes to pass from beyond the possible, beyond projects. This relationship resembles the idea of infinity” (TI 245/267). Hence Levinas formulates the paradox about every child: “My child is a stranger (Isaiah 49), but a stranger who is not only mine, for it is me. My child is me a stranger to myself ” (Ibid.). Perhaps a couple in love brings forth a bouncing baby boy into the world, whereas they were dreaming of a girl. Possibly their child has a handicap, while they longed for a healthy one. Moreover, a child grows up and often evolves differently from the optimistic expectations of its parents. Maybe it turns out to be ‘different’ than what they normally had hoped for. Even then it still appeals to them not to surrender it to its fate, but to acknowledge and accept it, to confirm and to love it in its alterity. For every child, even when it is desired and comes forth from the mutual love of two partners, is always the other, stronger still, a radical other, that in its infinite alterity eludes time and again all predictions and expectations. In that regard, every child is also by nature a child of the promise. As long as a child is approached as an expression of the possible, i.e. of the love between partners as a project, the risk remains real that “the possible immediately is inverted into Power and Domination. In the new-born child partners are tempted to recognize themselves in it. They find themselves in it, and master it…” (TI 252/275). Every child is so new that it leads every attempt to power and domination to crisis: “Fecundity is the very transcendence of the I [and the ‘us’]” (TI 254/277).

4. No vocation without answer Still, our philosophical, anthropological and ‘meta-physical’ reading of the annunciation narrative is not finished. We must now reflect on the manner in which Mary reacts to the announcement of her motherhood. 4.1. A mature counter-word Above, we reflected on the content of the message, namely the impossibility of what it proclaimed. Now, we would like to enter into the fact that Mary points out this impossibility. In other words, this is not about a factual impossibility that presents itself unnoticed, but one that is explicitly brought forward for discussion by Mary herself. To the

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announcement of her future motherhood, she replies not so much in blind obedience with a thoughtless or even servile ‘yes’. She has the audacity to pose a question. This is in stark contrast with the ‘imaginary preconception’ (Balmary) that is often attributed to the obliging Mary in traditional representations. The pious folk image of the obedient Mary, who easily and with full resignation, without any resistance, nods ‘yes’ evokes in us some opposition, whereby we risk throwing away the entire narrative – the classic ‘throwing away the child along with the bathwater.’ Well then, in order to penetrate into the true force of the annunciation narrative, we must first expose and critique this ‘imaginary preconception’ and its subdued, dormant working. If we do not unmask and clear up our distorted readings of the text, we make it impossible for ourselves to discover the surprisingly self-willed newness of the text. Everyone reads a Biblical text with one’s own ‘imaginary preconception.’ Each of us has their own reading, their unconsciously working pre-understanding of a text, certainly when it concerns such a difficult text like the annunciation narrative. Hence, a spontaneous reading of the text, namely a reading that starts from that which the text immediately evokes in us, is insufficient. First of all, an ‘un-reading’ (‘dé-lecture’) is needed so that we are able to peel away the various layers of our preconceptions that we project onto the text and that precisely prevent us from gaining access into the text in its original sense. Only by means of such an ‘un-reading’ is a ‘re-reading’ (‘re-lecture’) possible, which opens up our minds to what the text truly has to reveal to us (Philippo, 2001). That is why one rightly questions the image of the ‘obedient’ Mary, for it is only beyond this imaginary, distorted reading of the text that one can become sensitive to what the text is really saying about Mary. Even though Mary is astonished by the address of the angel, although she probably begins to shudder when he calls her ‘full of grace,’ and though she draws back from the impossible task, a veritable ‘mission impossible,’ which he entrusts to her, she does not let herself be intimidated and paralyzed. The fear that the angel and the message instilled in her does not degenerate into a pathological fear that makes her collapse in panic or immobility. She experiences rather a creative fear that makes her resilient. The divine shudder that goes through her entire being does not defeat her, but makes her upright and arouses in her an audacious maturity. From her critical reaction of questioning the message of the angel it becomes apparent how Mary is no docile yes-person, who with eyes shut and with a bowed posture already

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agrees beforehand with all that is asked of her. She is a young adult woman, who is aware of what is ‘happening’ to her and thus with eyes wide open and from her irreducible independence dares to ask for clarification. In this manner, her critical question once again brings to the fore the heteronomous character of the vocation entrusted to her. Her mission does not simmer up from who Mary is or what she is capable of doing, but radically enters into her existence ‘from elsewhere’ without making the vocation dependent on certain conditions that should have to be fulfilled first. There is no pre-investigation or pre-selection for the most suitable candidate. In spite of herself, she is called and sent, but this heteronomy deprives her neither of breath nor of word. In order to make the true scope of Mary’s maturity clear, we must return to her question to the angel and investigate it more closely: “How can this be since I am a virgin” (Lk 1, 34). In her commentary, France Queré points out how Mary does not answer with the expected ‘yes’, but poses a question instead (Queré, 1996, 31-34, 38-40, 53). This question is often understood as an objection, and that is also what it is. But it is an objection that Mary herself, not the angel, formulates and thereby actually introducing the ‘improbable’ and thus the ‘scandal’. This all has to do with the way in which Mary formulates the question. In the question, we find two constituent parts of a sentence, of which the first is formulated in the future tense (‘how can this be?’), while the second in the present tense (‘since I am a virgin’). In this transition from the future to the present tense we can surmise something of the haste and impatience of Mary. She would very much like to agree with her vocation and mission, and hence she would like that it comes into effect as quickly as possible. The angel has pronounced the divine promise in the future tense: “You will conceive in your womb and bear a son…” (Lk 1,31). Its fulfilment in the future is entirely not impossible, if we take time into account and thereby presume that this will take place once Mary, who is now engaged, in due time – but thus still in the future – will marry Joseph. The angel speaks about the future, with a concatenation of future tenses: ‘you will conceive’, ‘you will bear a son’, ‘you will call him’…, without mentioning a date: ‘later’, ‘once…’. And all that is clearly possible. In that way, the promise of the angel can acquire its completion and fulfilment according to ‘nature’ – the due course of things. But it is precisely the impatience and the haste of Mary (‘une belle impatience sauvage’) that establishes the impossibility of the promise. At the moment itself, she has not yet

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known any man, according to her own uninhibited words, whereby the promise cannot be fulfilled here and now, and thus belongs to the order of the impossible. It is, in other words, through the insistence of Mary that the promise promises something impossible. It is, once again, not the angel but Mary herself who evokes – stronger still, establishes – the impossibility of the promise. With her ‘feverish’ insistence that endures no postponement, she makes the realization of the promise that was pronounced for the future into a problem in the present. That which is foreseen by the angel for tomorrow, or the day after tomorrow, whereby the promise can be fulfilled according to customary and thus unproblematic ways, becomes problematic due to the question of Mary. Without the question of Mary, the ‘natural impossibility’ of the promise would never have come to light, it would not even have been mentioned. When all is said and done, one could state that the angel has hitched into the dream and the hope of Mary, present in every or many young women in Israel at that time, namely to be chosen to be the mother of the Messiah, on the understanding that this would then become a reality in its right time – after her marriage with Joseph (as it should be). But the promise has made such a deep impression on Mary that she would have its realization speeded up, or rather she would have it hastened as such that it takes place in her here and now: it cannot go fast enough for her! This reveals quite acutely the impossibility of the promise, since Mary is a virgin. This analysis casts a different light onto the maturity of Mary. This is no mere negative-critical questioning maturity, but rather a one that flows forth from her enthusiastic and strong willingness to take up her divine mission and the promise it entails. This positive instigation and ‘bold perseverance’ in Mary is strongly appealing to the extent that she even leads the angel to abandon the future tense and speak, for once, in the present tense. In the English translation his reaction to Mary’s question goes: “Therefore the child to be born will be holy; he will be called Son of God” (Lk 1,35). In this sentence, ‘dio kai to gnoumenon agion’, the Greek word for ‘to be born’ is: ‘gnoumenon’. And that word is in the present tense, and it literally means: ‘that which is germinating’. The incarnation of Jesus, the Messiah, has already commenced: the promise of the angel is now being fulfilled in her body. Mary’s mature intervention has so strongly and convincingly made a deep impression this time on the angel – on God himself – that he speeds up his promise for the future and sets its fulfilment already in motion by means of the overshadowing of the Spirit.

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4.2. A free and incarnated ‘yes’ The positive-critical questioning by Mary also means that her freedom has been everything but checkmated. On the contrary, it is completely involved. That she asks for clarification means that she is not forced but able to react to the calling out of ‘her-self.’ In this sense, her mission is no coercion, which denies or destroys her freedom. On the contrary, it is an appeal that claims her freedom by addressing it and, at the same time, sets it free, not so much for whichever reason, but in order to freely assent to her mission. At this, we touch the core of ethical freedom: I must say yes, but I can say no. I must choose, but I also can choose. I am called to a fundamental option, which is utterly not non-committal, but which at the same time appeals to my freedom to give a fundamental ‘yes’ that engages and orientates my existence. My freedom is thus an inspired, literally ‘perked up’ freedom; not an original but a responsorial freedom, which is indeed no less real: “despite oneself, not without oneself ” (AE 93/74). And, after her critical question, in full freedom, Mary says ‘yes’ to the mission that is entrusted to her ‘from elsewhere’ – from the Infinite Other-One. Moreover, she does not simply say ‘yes’; her yes is no formal or merely verbal yes, but an incarnated obedience. That is why she says yes with all her being, with all her body, to the divine calling. Only by making herself completely available, up to her body, can she truly substantiate the mission to become the mother of Jesus: “Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word” (Lk 1,38). And this applies for every vocation: a mission that is taken up can only be true when it is fulfilled in a concrete, incarnated and earthly manner as a service for the salvation of people. In the response of Mary resounds the known response of Abraham (Gen 22,1.7.11), Moses (Ex 3,4), Samuel (1 Sam 3,4.5.6.8) and others (Isa 6,8) to their calling: ‘Hineni’ (cf. the last chapter as well) (EI 104/97; DVI 123/75; DMT 224/196, 227/198). The French translation ‘me voici’ expresses better the meaning of ‘Hineni’ than the English ‘Here I am’, since ‘me voici’ stands in the accusative just like in the Hebrew. Thus the heteronomy and passivity of the vocation is evoked, without thereby denying the activity and autonomy of the response. ‘Hineni’ expresses the original passivity of being called, to which an active response follows. What is remarkable is that both are evoked in the one expression ‘Hineni’ – ‘me voici’. Indeed it is the one called who pronounces entirely by oneself the yes-word, but expresses therein at the same time one’s

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being called despite oneself. The human person is a response-being, literally a being made ‘response-able’, whereby even one’s personal response is elicited and longed for. We see this clearly as well in the response of Mary to her vocation and mission: ‘Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word” (Lk 1,38). In her word she expresses her vocation and mission despite herself and at the same time how she assents to that vocation and mission. In her yes-word she actively bears witness to the passivity of her being called. Moreover, Mary takes entirely upon herself her being-made-responsible-despiteherself, not only spiritually by means of a ‘yes’ but with her entire being. She gives herself bodily in order to bear in her womb and to give birth to – or rather to allow to be born – the other than herself, Jesus as the child of the divine promise. We can see here how the ‘obligatory’ but ‘un-coerced’ choice for the Good – salvation from God for others (humanity and world) – implies freedom as response, not only as a fundamental option but also as the creative realization of this option. In spite of oneself, one is ‘from elsewhere’ – by the wholly Other and at the same time intimately Near – dedicated to God’s salvation for people. The fulfilment of the impossible task requires the application of all the strengths, possibilities and capabilities that one avails of and which one has accumulated and developed in one’s spontaneous, ‘natural’ care for oneself. Freedom takes second place but this does not mean that it would be unimportant. On the contrary, it is the utterly indispensable condition necessary in order to give concrete form and shape to the entrusted mission, attuned to the circumstances of time and space. In the context of vocation and mission, autonomy has become an ‘inspired’ autonomy, and it thus can no longer proclaim itself as the ‘Ein und Alles’ of meaning and action. But with it, autonomy is anything but trivialized or minimized. It is a summoned freedom, which just as equally belongs to the mission as the heteronomous origin and finality of the vocation. Dedicated in spite of oneself to the other but therein also promoted to the exceptional possibility of making the heteronomous attachment to the Good visible and tangible in a unique, ‘splendid’ manner. Thus inspired freedom should and can bear witness to the Good, to God, in this world.

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Conclusion: Despite oneself but not without oneself, for the other Our self-willed, philosophical in-depth reading of the Scripture, which has endeavoured to explore the metaphysical, anthropological and ethical implications of the narrative of the annunciation of the angel to Mary, has exposed how every authentic vocation surpasses our human ideals and possibilities, precisely because it is marked and inspired by a strange Word, coming from elsewhere. Moreover – and this is essential – a vocation should never fold back upon itself in order to realize itself, as a form of complacency. But should provoke oneself into action for the other. It should never be introverted, meaning to say, turned inwards. On the contrary, it must always become extroverted or literally ‘out-going,’ turned entirely outwards. Every vocation is always also a mission, an involvement with the other, a sacred service, literally a diakonia. Not one to brag about, but a diakonia performed with humility and modesty. A diakonia that is no less a receptive and effective yes-word, but also one, that like Mary, allows oneself to be in the service of the divinely healing and liberating salvation in and through Jesus the Christ. Mary responds, after her ‘exchange of words’ with the angel, in surrender: “Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word” (Lk 1,38). Thus she expresses her own vocation and the vocation of every person: a vocation despite oneself but not without oneself; a vocation that is incarnated in a mission for the sake of the other than oneself: the incarnation of the infinite Good in this world, by and for people.

Chapter VI.

“If You Wish to Enter into Life” The narrative of the rich young man gives to thought on the paradoxical relationship between ethical prohibitions and love Introduction: Diversity, a new social and ethical mantra Within contemporary Western and affluent societies lies a paradox. On the one hand, there is ‘much law and little emotion’ and, on the other, ‘much emotion and little law’. Confronted by increasing roughness and brutality, aggressiveness and violence, the call for ‘law and order’ and a zero-tolerance attitude gets ever louder in society at general, at schools and in education. Emotion such as empathy and understanding thus retreats to the background and we strand in ‘too much law and too little emotion’. While this happens, and connected to its appearance, welfare societies put strong emphasis also on the individual and one’s preferences. In contrast to ‘universal reason’, one’s own emotions and desires, sometimes called ‘expressive individualism’, receive full attention and focus. What one does is not so much determined by what is right or wrong but by what is fun and pleasant. This culture of personal preference in terms of what one likes and longs for, as the best self-expression, manifests itself not in the least on the level of relationships and intimate life forms. Multiple possibilities and choices are on offer that have become equivalent. Do you want to experiment? Do you want partner swapping? Or do you opt for a stable relationship? Do you want to cohabit before getting married? Or do you only want to cohabit and start a family? Why are only heterosexual relationships okay and thus relationships between gays and lesbians inferior? Why is ‘living together apart’ out of the question? Why must marriage remain indissoluble? Should there not be room after divorce for new relationships, with or without marriage? Anything goes! It seems that in our secularized, pluralistic societies diversity and difference become not only a social fact but also an ethical norm, an ‘ideal’ to be cherished: the new social and political mantra. Everyone follows her or his ‘heart’ and

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personal choice and cannot force the other to make the same choice. It is clear that in this trend of individualization and sentimentalizing the ‘law’ recedes to the background, where it dwells in ‘too much emotion and too little law’. These observations are also echoed in the work of the German sociologist Hartmut Rosa (2019). He speaks of the ‘acceleration’ of society and how this exhausts people. Not only do emotions and desires get prime attention, they are linked to competition and the high speed development of digital and scientific knowledge. Political and social institutions cannot keep up with the speed of change. Increasingly individuals struggle to make choices – no longer knowing which ones are the most rewarding as too much is on offer and too many emotions claim first place. The challenge, in our opinion, is in not pitting both positions against each other but in reconciling them with each other: no subjectivity without objectivity; no emotion and desire without law, and vice-versa. This is a challenge that we will tackle via a philosophical in-depth reading of the gospel narrative of the so-called rich young man, at least of the first part (Beauchamp, 1999). It is a story that invites us strongly to reflect on the paradoxical and creative interaction between boundary lines and freedom, prohibition and taste, ethics and aesthetics. It will enable us in the first part to pay special attention to the educational implications, among which the importance of the educative community as a one ‘of participation’. This will, in the second part, lead towards developing an inspiring framework, a consistent relational and sexual ethics ‘beyond diversity’ that is applicable not only to marriage but also to other forms of intimacy: premarital sexuality; pre-, non- and post-marital cohabitation, homosexual and lesbian relationships, remarriage or cohabitation after divorce, without this having to lead to an ‘axiological equalization’ of all these intimate life forms.

1. A paradoxical relationship between prohibition and freedom We will now investigate the first part of the gospel narrative known as the parable of the rich young man, as it is found in the synoptic gospels: Matthew (19,16-19), Mark (10,17-19); Luke (18,18-20). These have small but not unimportant variations and unique accents from the very beginning. In fact, from the question of the rich man himself (Thévenot, 1990, 61-89).

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1.1. “Good Teacher, what good deed must I do?” As in many Gospel narratives, Jesus is approached by someone who asks him something. A man, not a Pharisee or specialist in the Torah nor young, but just ‘someone’, who is wealthy, and – for Luke – as a ruler powerful and honoured, meets Jesus with a question. The classical one is usually something akin to the following: “Master [or Teacher, rabbi], what must I do to have eternal life?”1 The rich man poses this question as well, but he adds something: “Master, what good deed must I do to have eternal life?” (Mt 19,16), or: “Good Master, what must I do to inherit eternal life?” (Lk 18,18 and Mk 10,17). This addition immediately situates the question of the wealthy and socially appreciated man. Jesus understands this question in a specific way as becomes apparent in his reply: “Why do you ask me about what is good? There is only one who is good” (Mt 19,17), or: “Why do you call me good? No one is good but God alone” (Lk 18,19 and Mk 10,18). What the rich man is searching for, is actually someone who can infallibly tell him what he must do to gain eternal life. Eternal life does not in the first place mean life after death, but full and successful living in this world that naturally opens up a perspective to future, eternal life. The rich man, who is in search of a ‘master’ or reliable guide, represents the longing of every person to know exactly what he or she must do. People search for an ‘expert’ who has access to the mysteries of the fullness of life and who is able to furnish the ‘ordinary lay person’ the exact code of behaviour to reach it. In a lot of the popular (Western and non-Western) literature and magazines, this morality of the ‘guru’ takes the guise of advice from psychologists, sexologists, therapists, or one or the other specialist (usually in the human/social sciences), or a ‘life coach’ or a spiritual guru who grants ‘mindful’ counsel: “How to Become Happy in Seven Simple Steps” (‘seven’ is a number of perfection). Partly due to the influence of consumerism, and its play with human desire, we appear to be creating individuals and a whole society that seems increasingly bizarre, unfocused and fragmented. Moreover, thrown almost entirely unto ourselves as individuals, we carry the burden of being solely responsible for the choices and decisions we make and, as we have come to believe, we owe it to ourselves that these have to be the best. This contributes to a general attitude towards life that is profoundly 1 In the next chapter on the Good Samaritan, this question appears again, namely in the introductory conversation between Jesus and a lawyer, specialist in the interpretation of the Torah. We will focus there on the specificity of this question.

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self-conscious and remarkably un-free. We are so to speak compelled to be more pre-occupied with the task of cutting and pasting our choices into what we hope to be an increasingly successful story rather than actively living life itself. The difficulty of contemporary life lies in the inability to step into experience itself. Humanity, stuck in affluent society, seems to suffer (the word is not used lightly) because of a breakdown in trust in life in se as source of wisdom and guide. We have come to rely on consumer driven theories, models and specialists (whether alternative or traditional) as sources of knowledge and as possible foundations for the choices we are continually pushed to make (Servaas, 2010). Here we can cite the French psychoanalyst Jacques Lacan. He points out that human desire is quite vulnerable since it is characterized by a shortcoming, a negativity, that precisely ‘drives’ the human person to go search for “an authority who is assumed to be knowing and able” (une autorité supposée savoir et pouvoir). In search of answers to their existential questions, humans often carry out ‘in full faith and surrender’ what their ‘masters’ advise or ‘prescribe’. It is actually at this point that the question of the rich and respected man returns: ‘To which good master or perfect guru, who can tell me exactly what good must I do to become happy, can I entrust myself?’ Hence the addition of the adjective ‘good’ in the title ‘Master’ in the gospel text, with which the rich man tries to seduce Jesus to become his ‘private-guide’, the one who would solve his life problem. What is remarkable, however, is that Jesus sees through this seductive manoeuvre and thus simply refuses to be such a ‘guru’. He resolutely refuses to be a ‘pre-given model’ that people simply have to copy. That is why in his answer ‘There is only one, who is good’ he refers to God whom we do not see, who is transcendent. Because only God is good, no one in this world may ever be called totally or fully good. We should never raise someone to the level of master thereby allowing him or her to prescribe everything and determine, in a normative sense, our personal code of behaviour or life programme. Jesus declines to step into the place of the rich respectable man who symbolizes every human person: one who has acquired possessions and power and who, even though one receives, acknowledgement still recognizes a deeper need within oneself. In not obliging the inquirer, Jesus does not want to destroy human freedom or desire. He states in word and action that one should not blindly obey another person. Through this it becomes sharply clear that Jesus protects human freedom and desire. Here we touch upon a neuralgic point in Christian religion, and

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perhaps in all religions. All too often the emphasis has been (and might continue to be) given to the dependence of human beings on their Creator and Redeemer. Faith, however, should not be reduced to what Friedrich Schleiermacher (1768-1834) famously called a “schlechthinniges Abhängigkeitsgefühl” (feeling of absolute dependence). On the contrary, in the Jewish-Christian religion of the covenant, the human person is called to become the image and co-creator of God (Elohim) and the partner of the Lord of liberation (YHWH ) whereby the covenant also becomes effective. In this way, the human person is elevated in and by the ‘before-the-wholly-Other’ to an independent, free and responsible ‘ally’ who shares in the full joy of the Lord. In a very concrete manner, Jesus confirms this view on the human person: he does not push him in the direction of meekness but rather in that of freedom and boldness. In other words, Jesus challenges the rich man to go out of his own accord – free and responsible – the path of life, or rather the path to full life (Burggraeve, et al., 2003, 261-271). 1.2. “If you wish to enter into life, keep the commandments” Jesus, however, does not abandon the rich man to his own fate. He seeks to safeguard human freedom and desire but not in the absolute sense because he wants to ‘protect’ people from unbridled liberty and wild desire but without discharging them from the risks that are coupled with freedom and responsibility. Hence, after opening the path to freedom, he follows the question with the paradoxical assertion: “If you desire to enter into life, keep the commandments” (Mt 19,17). At first sight, one could interpret this as a prescription. However, Jesus does not refer to a special, personal code of behaviour for one particular individual. On the contrary, he unmasks the longing for an absolute, personal and exclusive guru by referring to the ‘known’ commandments. As we read in Matthew’s version: “[The rich man] said to him, ‘Which ones?’ Jesus said to him, ‘You shall not murder; You shall not commit adultery; You shall not steal; You shall not bear false witness” (Mt 19,18a), or as in the versions of Mark and Luke: “You know the commandments” (Mk 10,19a; Lk 18,20a). In this, he refers to the Ten Commandments, as we know them from the First Testament where they appear in the book of Exodus (20,1-17) and in Deuteronomy (5,6-21). Jesus does not present something new, much less something special, to the rich man of which he could afterwards boast. The path to life that Jesus gives has no exceptional direction nor some unique code that would rest on a form

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of foreknowledge or initiation. Thus he rejects any form of gnosis that is built on having access to the ‘secret’ for true life linked to a singular election and initiation by a ‘special’ or ‘total’ master. Someone who in private reciprocity gives me the feeling that there exists a ‘wisdom for me alone’ that I can jealously nurture. I am free to identify with this ‘wisdom’ towards megalomania and attach myself to an uncritical delusion of power. Yet, in doing so, I unconsciously and unknowingly meet my own doom. Aside from this, the commandments that Jesus actually cites are not commandments, but prohibitions. More specifically, they are prohibitions from the second tablet of the Ten Commandments. The first tablet concerns one’s relationship to God, the second concerns this-worldly social life (cf. Mt 19,18-19): “You shall not murder”; “You shall not commit adultery”; “You shall not steal”; “You shall not bear false witness” (“you shall not lie”); with one exception, “Honour your father and mother”. This exception, however, is not a real exception, since the positive norm is not a concrete behavioural rule, but a ‘dispositional norm’ (cf. infra). It is an indication for children in their attitude towards parents, without defining what they must concretely ‘do’ in order to substantiate this attitude of respect and gratitude towards the generation(s) that preceded them. Finally, Jesus rounds up the series by adding the general commandment of love of neighbour as a synthesis: “You shall love your neighbour as yourself ” (Mt 19,19b). As a commandment, this once again doesn’t indicate any concrete manner of operating, but expresses a global orientation for the ‘animating core’ of the preceding norms (Schreiner, 1988). 1.3. How prohibitions can reveal the path to full life The question, however, is how prohibition can reveal the path to full life. Are not prohibition, negativity, and life, positivity, radical opposites? The answer to this question will immediately offer us an insight into the relationship – tension and cohesion – between desire and law (NLT 22-25/59-62). As negative formulations, prohibitions first come across as hard, inflexible and inexorable. They go directly against the megalomaniacal dynamism of our desires that want ‘everything at once’. Such desires are not only unreasonable in their endeavours, but their internal structure cannot accept any form of hindrance or questioning. That is why it is perfectly ‘normal’ that we human beings time and again have difficulty

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with ethics, since through its ‘prohibitions’ it poses demands before us to which this ‘natural’ desire, i.e. in its spontaneous dynamism, is not disposed. A prohibition does not appeal to us precisely because it goes against the ‘natural’ wishes and longings of our heart. In this, we have lost sight of the way our desires became misguided and have deafened our ears for what is truly life-giving. The longing for more ‘desire’ in and of itself descended into the avoidance of fulfilment. Given these observations, to explore that a prohibition works more positively than a commandment (or prescriptive behavioural norm) becomes more fruitful. Precisely here lies the paradox: the prohibition displays itself as utterly negative yet, upon closer inspection, it actually reveals that it works positively. In its negativity it creates more space for freedom and creativity than the commandment (as the prescription of a particular behaviour). A forbidding, negatively formulated behavioural norm unlocks the field of human possibilities because it alone delineates the bottom line of the humane. In addition to this it does not establish and express normatively the humane or meaningful, thus leading that which makes sense to the acquirement of a dynamic, unending, transnormative character. The unique characteristic of the prohibition lies in its appeal to human creativity by closing off impasses. A simple example from the sphere of education can make this clear. Imagine a family going for a walk through a forest. When they come across a path that splits into five directions, the ‘problem’ arises as to which one the children will have to take. Parents can tackle this in two ways. They can allow them to determine which one is the best, or they impose one in a normative manner. In case the latter is chosen, they can act directly through an imperative and authoritative way. Most of the time, however, this option incarnates itself more indirectly. Parents tend to act obliquely by means of enticement and ‘aestheticizing’ the ‘best way’. This allows parents to try to ‘rouse their children’s interest’ (rather than brutally imposing it). They want their children to take on the most ‘beautiful’ and enticing manner they can conceive. For example parents may tell their children that at the end of the path the largest circus ever awaits them as a reward and that on the way they will encounter the most colourful and delightful clowns, artists, acrobats and magicians. Thus they not only present the ‘end-goal’ as pleasant, but the path itself as well.2 They hope to bring their children, 2

We can call this an often occurring but not necessary perversion of aesthetics, of which we shall sketch below its positive significance.

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‘without force’ to choose on their own for what they have determined and described as, the ‘best’ path. However, this educational didactic is still based on ideological manipulation. That is why the indirect form does not actually constitute another option. It remains a permutation on the basic formula of parochial imposition and camouflages its moralizing and authoritarian-imposing character behind the façade of an aestheticized or embellished positive value-attraction. In this way, the freedom of the growing person is strongly limited, if not radically harmed and destroyed. In the authentic second option parents only intervene educatively when their children are in danger of following one of the five paths known to be a dead-end road: “Don’t you see that the sign says: ‘no entry: dead-end road’?” Here the creativity of the children is not tampered with. On the contrary, it is, in the light of the four other paths, encouraged towards further development. The children are free to explore the relatively fecund and safe ones that lead to somewhere or something unknown. The prohibition does not say what the children must do or what is best for them. It only states what they are not allowed to do so that they do not become needlessly disappointed, harmed or stranded. In other words, the prohibition refers to the other paths as possibilities by refusing, or rather forbidding, entrance to the dead-end road. Thus it possesses ‘the virtue of the negative’: it prevents us from being a mercenary of the law, a slavish follower and executor of the prescription. At the final analysis, abstaining from a non-value, i.e. not committing an offence, is in itself no merit. Even though this restraint can entail much accomplishment and effort, everything else remains to be done. One who has committed no offence still has done nothing – even though he has done nothing wrong. 1.4. Prohibitions reveal dead-end roads Moreover, prohibition should not be confused with various forms of coercion. It appeals to the freedom of choice and it does not hinder the person involved from opting for the dead-end road. People can try it out themselves if they wish to do so. The prohibition limits itself to pointing to the risks ‘verbally’. Thus it is a linguistic event that is dialogical: it is directed by one person – someone who represents the tradition with all of its experiential knowledge – to another person who does not yet, or insufficiently, dispose of the passed-on wisdom through life. As the prohibition is spoken as a word-event between people, the hearer can listen

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and respond positively as well as turn a deaf ear to it. A prohibition is the exact opposite of physical, psychological, social or mental coercion. It does not only presuppose freedom, but also founds and promotes freedom. Those, however, who disregard the prohibition and still take the dead-end road will find out that their choice led to being stranded and that they are obliged to trace back their steps (if that is still possible, for the ‘dead-end possibility’ can also be quite lethal, so that no return is possible or that one can no longer ‘land on one’s feet’). This implies that the prohibition (‘you may not take this road for it is a dead-end’) should not be a lie, but on the contrary, rest on reliable experiential wisdom. Applying this to the prohibitions of the second table of the Ten Commandments, the following can be asserted. These prohibitions form the ‘basic-conditions’ for loving and this literally: they are the indispensable ‘conditions’ for a meaningful relational and social life, but they do not qualitatively describe or constitute humane relationships and society itself. If they would do so, then they would lay down the surplus, while as a dynamic event they must maintain precisely an open (unending) growth perspective. Prohibitions only open the perspective to the integral excellence of love when they do not normatively portray this love according to concrete models and actions. In this sense they are only the first necessary stage on the path to freedom and love (John Paul II, 1993, no. 13). The prohibitions of the second table of the Ten Commandments are like the banks of a canal that receives water from the river and lets them flow abundantly. If the river would overflow its banks great damage and destruction would ensue or degeneration into a swamp in which one would sink would occur. If, however, the water remains within the banks then the river curves along the landscape with its hills and valleys, berths and views. As they entrench the river, they drive along the course of it without themselves being its source and force. Desire and its emotion, not the law, is the source of life and love. In order for that desire not to turn into wild and destructive passion, it needs the entrenchment of the law to become a river that finds its way to the open sea. 1.5. Prohibitions create space for ethical growth By means of opening the path to freedom, prohibitions also unlock personal creativity. Such creativity may itself give shape, according to one’s own insight and ability, to the value protected and profiled by the

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prohibition. Where the prohibition points to a ‘path to death’ it leaves the individual with every opportunity, along with the full responsibility, for discovering and exploring the ‘path to life’ (Janssens, 1977). By observing people attentively, it is not difficult to spot indications of this principle. Imagine, for example, two brothers of 7 and 10 years of age. They are on a train platform skipping on one leg, trying not to deviate from a certain (agreed upon) line on the tiled ground. As they do so, the younger one tries to use the wall of the station waiting room in order not to lose his balance and miss the line. Seeing this, the older boy introduces a new rule: ‘Strict rule, you may not hold on to anything!’ This negative rule sets a boundary and thus hurts, but creates space for growth and self-transcendence. The boy who is not yet adept at skipping on one leg without surreptitiously holding on to something now and then, is thus challenged to discover a new creative possibility. To use an image from football: prohibitions draw out the lines on the football field within which a qualitative game can be played. They make the football game possible though they are not the game itself. Similarly, the referee does not offer any certainty for high-class football. He is there to lead the game in the right direction and is only ‘visible’ when an offence is committed. Then he intervenes to prevent the game being affected without influencing the actual quality of the play itself. He does not blow the whistle, for instance, to point out to the public the ‘magnificent’ game of one of the players or of the entire team. For a qualitative football game good players are needed. Ones, who under the leadership of a skilled trainer, develop their abilities but also form together a team with ‘spirit’. Analogically, prohibitions are like boundary rules that draw the lines within which human dignity can be developed, without themselves determining this qualitatively. 1.6. How the good and the beautiful converge For a positive approach to meaningful life children and youngsters do not so much require behavioural norms that prescribe how they must live and act humanely. They rather need suggestive examples, inspiring models, testimonies and qualitative experiences of others. Ones that are ‘appealing and attractive’ without being moralizing in a paternalistic and patronizing manner. “Examples speak louder than words”, as the saying rightly has it. Or to paraphrase Max Scheler (1965/1973): ‘There is nothing in this world that at the same time originally, immediately and necessarily brings a person herself or himself to become good as the clear

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and adequate contemplate of a good person in her or his goodness’. When the ethical good comes to them in ‘beauty’, they are more easily attracted to it, so much so that they become more inclined to substantiate it. Beauty is something to which human beings can only reply. It creates relational room for right action and stimulates a particular kind of longing that crosses negative boundaries towards the other. When moved by beauty, the emotion of desire is literally affected and provoked. They strive to integrate and to substantiate in their own way – thus creatively – the values that take shape in the examples and ways of life. With this, we arrive at the aesthetic dimension of ethics, which does not so much concern itself with the bottom-line boundaries of the minimum, but rather with the optimum as the perspective of ‘meaningfullness’, to be understood – according to the Christian tradition – as the fullness of love (agape). In this manner, ‘wild desire’ can be transformed into ‘civilized desire’ (cf. infra). This realizes a synthesis between emotion and desire and the objectivity of the law, without being reduced to or put up against each other. The ethical communication process presupposes not only the participation in the ethically lived-out life of individual persons, but likewise and especially of ‘moral communities’ (McIntyre, 1985; Hauerwas, 1974). It is by means of tradition, by that which has been handed down and thus precedes us, that we can, with taste and conviction, make certain attitudes, modes of behaviour and lifestyles our own. Ethics and education can never be a ‘one-man-show’, a solipsistic affair. We are dependent on our ‘predecessors’ in order to be able to grow towards moral sensitivity, truth and praxis. No one becomes ethically sensitive and proficient without parents and grandparents, family, relatives, educators and the wider community, from which new people time and again receive the chance to discover and walk their path of life. It is precisely through this community life anchored in space and time that ethical aesthetics, which is indispensable in achieving a ‘loved-filled’ living and acting, takes shape. In other words, it is not just ‘important’ that people are able to participate in moral communities – it is as necessary as the air we breathe. In such moral communities, ethical quality is not underestimated. It carries with it a stimulus by means of its ‘beauty’, in order to grow towards that which is meaningful: loving each one according to one’s own possibilities and fragilities or limitations. Because of this participative character, we call these ‘communities of participation’. In such communities of life people share – throughout the generations – each other’s ethical inspiration and thus give solidity to their own commitment and

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make it ‘bearable’ (Verstraeten, 1994). Only by participating in concrete ethical projects, wherein the commitment of the whole person is involved – not only one’s intellect, but also one’s desire, emotion, fantasy, body and will – can one acquire the chance to develop from within a delicate taste for a love-filled life and the according actions. Whoever cannot ‘share’ in values, modes of behaviour and life in the double sense of ‘co-experiencing’ and ‘co-constructing’, can never acquire a sensitivity and taste for the joy nor burden of a loving and meaningful life. Without a community of participation, children and youngsters can never discover that virtue takes effort and sacrifices and that ‘it does one good’ (De Lange, 1994). One concrete illustration of this can be found in the importance of ‘eating together’ and the ‘family table’. The starting point for this illustration is anecdotic. When I returned from Minster (Kent, UK) after a three-day formation at the Fraternities of Charles de Foucauld (26-28 April 2012), I read, while waiting at Heathrow Airport, an article in the Daily Telegraph (30-04-2012). It described the results of a research on “the decline of family meals” and its impact on the ‘social skills’ of children. One sociological study came to the conclusion that (especially in cities) 1 out of 10 adults no longer eat with their children and that another 10 per cent do so only once a week. The increase of TV-meals on the sofa deprives children, according to another research, of ‘vital skills’. Children grow up and miss the opportunity to talk with adults, to exchange ideas, and to learn ‘good manners’, says Richard Harman, chairman of the Boarding Schools’ Association. He adds that the decline of family meals is moreover linked to a ‘health risk’, namely an increased intake of high fat content food. This ‘decline of family meals’ runs parallel to a strong emphasis in schools, families and popular culture (among others in teen magazines, weeklies, on TV and social media…) on personal ambition (‘getting somewhere’) and material success whereby the ‘self-esteem’ of children is changing severely. We are receiving a generation of children and youngsters who are ‘out of balance’. Some have a self-esteem that is too low (because they cannot reach the norms of ‘ambition’) and for others it is too high because they (are able to) go along with the ‘ambition’-ideology wherein attention is rather given to creating a ‘circle of influence’ rather than striving for a ‘circle of concern’. The emphasis on material success and ‘achieving something in life’ comes at the expense of ‘establishing a sense of belonging’. This in turn leads to an ‘inversion’ of fundamental values and its consequences. Our school and education systems, and our public culture and mentality, says Harman, turn values on their heads whereby the

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essential ones are affected. Children are told that they ‘will belong’ when they achieve material success, while they actually first have to belong somewhere – emotionally and spiritually – in order to draw out confidence and to concretize their personal development and ambition. Apparently, we are gradually paying a hefty price for dissolving the connectedness that serves as the first and essential source of value-development. He concludes: “As a society, we have lost the beneficial effects of sharing a meal around the table. Eating together has, since the earliest times, been the most formative way of building a sense of togetherness and facilitating conversation across the generations. But in the United States and increasingly in the UK, an increasing number of families don’t even have a dining table. A sense of sharing, reaching out to other people and the ability to form and sustain relationships is just not valued as much as it was”.

2. Landmarks for a consistent relational and sexual ethic We will now illustrate the paradoxical relationship between prohibition, creative freedom and desire on the basis of the four already cited prohibitions from the second tablet of the Ten Commandments. The ones that are also presented by Jesus in the narrative of the rich man in relationship to finding a path to life. Our attention will focus especially on interpersonal and intimate relationships. It will thus become clear how the four prohibitions create the conditions for every qualitative life of love whatever concrete forms this might take. Without denying diversity, we are looking for an ethic ‘beyond diversity’. In this our project of a ‘consistent relational ethic’ will be given concrete elucidation. Before we explore concrete prohibitions as conditions for a qualitative intimate love, we need to point to the positive, hidden inner side of the prohibition. If we try to formulate a prohibition intuitively a shift of level always occurs. The prohibition forbids a concrete, negative deed or act, for instance ‘to kill’, ‘to lie’, ‘to steal’, ‘to commit adultery’. Yet, where it also implies a double denial, namely not doing something negative, the corresponding commandment acts on the level of the ‘disposition’ or attitude. This is best understood as the ‘virtue’ or quality of the moral personality. What is here remarkable is that this dispositional or attitudinal norm does not prescribe what must be done concretely according to content – like the corresponding norm of action, the commandment – nor does it normatively determine the behaviour (as mentioned above) (Spohn, 1992).

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2.1. “You shall not kill” and a culture of respect and caring proximity The prohibition ‘you shall not kill’ does not coincidentally take first place. It forms the condition for the other prohibitions. In the negative formulation, this commandment is about an action that one may not do. In its fullest sense, this means that no violence, no form of coercion, blackmail or manipulation may be exercised over a person. It is thus applicable to every form of violence whether physical, emotional, psychological, sexual, relational or social. Hence, forms of sexual abuse like rape, incest, paedophilia, violation of intimacy, or sexual contact without the consent of one of the parties involved, are totally unacceptable. This also applies to sexually deviant behaviour whereby – verbally or non-verbally, consciously or unconsciously – certain forms of sexually oriented behaviour are experienced as negative, undesirable or enforced via one or other form of emotional dominance or the abuse of power (Dillen, 2009). When we attempt to express this prohibition positively, we arrive at the commandment ‘you shall have respect for life’ and therefore at the task of respect for the other, quality of presence, tenderness, and so forth. This positive formulation simply indicates the fundamental attitude that the execution of the prohibition ‘you shall not kill’ supports. Consequently this is expressed in an imperative that is no longer a behavioural rule, but has become a dispositional norm that indicates a manner of being, a value orientation, and a kind of sensitivity. Such a dispositional norm says nothing about concrete acting or behaviour. Just as modest as the prohibition, it only indicates which moral personality one must have, how one must be, but without saying what one must do in concrete practice. The dispositional norm concerns the soul or the heart of action that must substantiate respect for life. For this to be shaped the corresponding prohibition only indicates a minimal condition, namely the inadmissibility of any form of violence (Auer, 1976). Let us apply this to the ethics of relationships. No qualitative relationship is possible when the norm ‘you shall not kill’ is disrespected. If one coerces, blackmails or puts another under pressure in order to enter into a relationship, or commits a form of violence in the bond itself, a loving connection is out of the question. On the level of the relationship between man and woman, for instance, this implies an unambiguous critique and even radical condemnation of sexism and patriarchal domination, whereby inequality is operative or maintained. However, when one does not force nor take advantage of the feelings of another person, nothing tangible and constructive has been done. By not ‘killing’ or not

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using any form of pressure or violence whatsoever, there is still no experienced tenderness as a quality of proximity. However, the condition for tenderness, and more broadly, for every form of qualitative relationship, is present. Space has been created like that contained in a glass that is not yet completely filled. Nevertheless, the space left at the top is necessary to prevent everything from being spilled. It is up to the couple to together discover within the space created which are the positive signals and forms of respectful tenderness that benefit them. However, for this concrete action to come to fruition one cannot rely on the prohibition. One must appeal entirely to the capabilities and achievements of one’s own freedom and design forms of non-violent proximity creatively and substantially to achieve this. It implies the challenge of dynamically interpreting and filling in the ‘quality of presence’ and this applies to all intimate relationships, whether they are temporary or steady, are heterosexual or homosexual in nature, marital or non-marital (Dominian, 1991, 59-88, 196-198). 2.2. “You shall not lie” and a culture of genuine communication The second prohibition, ‘you shall not lie’, speaks against telling untruths and deceiving people. As it relates to a negative action that is forbidden this prohibition contains, like the others, a double negation or a negative attitude towards the negative. It is a rejection and a denial of an untruth, of every form of falsehood, untrustworthiness and suspicion (Rovers, 2005). Formulated positively, the prohibition articulates the fundamental attitude of ‘being-honest’ as an appeal to genuineness and truthfulness. From this it is once more apparent that the corresponding commandment is not a behavioural rule, but a dispositional norm. The attitudinal norm intended, ‘you shall be honest and true’, is not spelt out. It does not say what honesty concretely implies in community, relational and social life. If one observes the prohibition, one has not yet done anything to cultivate trust. Everything still has to begin. Without normative requirements that prescribe concrete behaviours, the space is kept open for a culture of mutual trust, reliability and authenticity. The prohibition ‘you shall not lie’ thus states only the minimal condition for truthfulness. In this way it rests on the level of the confrontation, so that freedom is not curbed, but stimulated. Consequently, creative ethical freedom is challenged to search for concrete measures and signs that inspire trust and enable genuine inter-human and social intercourse (Deissler, 1976).

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We can clarify this in another way on the basis of the so-called ‘rule of inverted universality’. According to Kant’s rule of universality, a type of behaviour is ethically justified when one can demand that under similar conditions everyone makes the same choice or does the same action that one permits oneself or that poses as a ‘law’. In other words, a rule of behaviour only has the force of validity when it is universally applicable. If we now take and invert a negatively formulated rule of behaviour, by hypothetically making the transgression of this norm universally applicable, then we can learn much about the positive value the prohibition tries to protect in a delimiting way. Thus, if we reverse the general validity of the prohibition against speaking untruths and say: ‘you should [or can] always and everywhere tell untruths to everyone in all circumstances’, then the consequence is that on a social and relational level, both in the short term and certainly in the mid to long run, the trust between people is violated and even made impossible. The tightly and restrictedly formulated prohibition against lies therefore protects the full-fledged positive relational and social value of trust and reliability upon which we must be able to count mutually. At least in order to be able to deal with each other and live with each other in a humane way. Put differently, the idea of a generalized annulment of the prohibition helps us to ascertain the consequences of our actions on a social level and in the long run. This does not only apply to the prohibition on untruth, but also to the others that are discussed. On the level of the experience of relationships, the prohibition of insincerity requires a special attention for the truth of expressions, the genuineness of what one says, communicates and does. This implies, first of all, the summons to learn to express feelings, and not to repress them. It likewise gives the invitation to express these as honestly as possible, in agreement with one’s own thinking and being as much as possible. Commitment to a ‘culture of righteousness and authenticity’ must be developed by the persons involved in mutual relationships creatively and with ‘Fingerspitzengefühl’ (careful sensitivity). This appeal to authenticity does not mean, however, that one must always say directly and brutally what is on one’s mind. Trueness and transparency are forms of art. The art of estimating the right moment and the right circumstances, the right tone and rendition for speaking. It is a continual challenge to find a dynamic balance between directness and carefulness (taking into account each other’s uniqueness and vulnerability). Brutality and roughness can make it impossible for the other to listen, with the risk that a dialogue of the deaf ensues with mutual recriminations or in sulky silence. In this

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regard, the prohibition against lying is not only about speaking the truth or an untruth but also about the way in which truth is communicated. This must be reliable but also considerate. And this concerns all forms and styles of intimate relationships. 2.3. “You shall not steal” and a culture of shared difference The prohibition ‘you shall not steal’ formulates the condition for a fundamental attitude of respect for the property of the other, for the ‘mine and thine’ and for each person’s unique characteristics in relational and social intercourse. One may not absorb everything of the other, but must have respect for the contribution and the uniqueness of the other. Relationship rests on the reciprocity and equality of persons whereby each one may contribute from one’s own resources. As was made apparent in the two previous prohibitions, the ‘inner side’ for the experience of the prohibition is of immeasurable value. Without this fundamental attitude of attention for each person’s uniqueness and contribution, the observance of the prohibition degenerates into an obedience without content and essence. A stance that only aspires not to get into trouble and thus avoiding punishment or ‘hell’. Only when the ‘heart’ is present can obedience to the prohibition become a personal and fervently lived ethical action. No matter how one should respect someone else’s property, nor in terms of what a culture of the contribution of oneself and of the other might mean relationally, one must discover and create friendship and community. Ethics opens the perspective for a dynamic and cordial development of a culture of difference (Hüber, 1986). In the area of relationships between intimate partners, the prohibition of ‘theft’ creates the conditions for the respect of ‘mine and thine’. ‘You shall not steal’ protects as a ‘condition’ the culture of difference, of the recognition and establishment of not being the same, and yet being equal. What is mine is not yours; the other is irreducible to the one. A loving, non-violent, real and righteous intimate partnership should avoid all subordination without recognition of diversity. What partners contribute to a relationship is then, despite their being-different, fully equal whereby their mutual contribution obviously cannot be so fundamentally different that communication and exchange would no longer be possible. When difference is foundational for the relationship, all forms of absorption or of enslavement wherein one becomes dependent or the image of the other to the extent that one no longer thinks, judges, acts and lives by and for oneself, but through the other should

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be banned. Out of one’s own sensitivity, this non-fusional relationship that relies on equality in difference and difference in equality can take shape dynamically. At this point the need for a culture of difference that goes against the amalgamating dream of unity in a perception of romantic love that is popular especially (but not exclusively) among young lovers (Vansteenwegen, 1992; 1995) has to be addressed. Driven by being in love, lovers aspire a reciprocity whereby they feel for each other in such a way that they become completely one. The longing for oneness can be so strong that they are willing to lose themselves completely to ‘fit’ with the other and become ‘the same’. This sameness is accompanied by a huge encompassing feeling wherein the magical oneness would only be broken by words. Both want to feel together, in and through each other, without barriers, level differences, aggressive outbursts or contradictions. They are so touched by each other that pure, mere emotion gives them the impression that they are meant for each other and will thus love each other ‘for eternity’, while it is actually only their desire that the other will always cherish them that is indestructible. But they do not (yet) get to this insight. Their wrinkle-free, harmonious oneness is as yet an illusion that will be shattered by the reality of unavoidable difference in all areas of their personality and relationship. When this occurs, partners are called to grieve over their ‘boundless-adhesive oneness’ and can begin to discover difference as a source of their two-oneness. A non-reducing relationship is only possible when one gives up adjusting to the other in order to be and to show oneself, and thus allow the other the opportunity to exist, to feel, to speak and to act out of the other’s self. A ‘nonstealing’ relationship then begins with the acknowledgement of the difference between ‘mine and thine’. That respect is positive and dynamic. It surpasses every form of fatalism that accepts reality because it cannot be otherwise. In the two-oneness partners choose for difference. In their efforts at preparedness to listen, they bridge the difference without cancelling it and bring the acceptable and discussable to light. By means of the conscious choice for communication, partners speak healing words to each other. Out of this communicative dynamism, which finds its bedding in difference, creativity arises. Out of the clash of two worlds arises a new world, a new space of being together and living together, despite of and thanks to difference. Attentive communication makes a coming to a mutually shared feeling, relying on the acknowledgement of each other’s equality as well as on the experience of each other’s difference, possible (Sagne, 1995, 30-43, 74-75).

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This acknowledgement and culture of difference, however, also faces the challenge to make each other’s alterity a source of mutual enrichment. The risk that one places too much emphasis on individuality whereby both partners strive separately for each one’s own autonomy and self-development, is not inconceivable. What arises then is a ‘being together apart’ or a ‘living together apart’, which is doomed to failure. That is precisely why the relationship therapist, Jürg Willi, points out the need for ‘co-evolution’, namely growing together in and through the development of a commonality. By experiencing and doing things ‘together’, whereby the difference in experiencing does not remain beside each other but is shared with each other, one creates through time a common life world. This ‘evolving together’ is necessary in order to arrive at a stable, lasting relationship effectively. If partners do not evolve together sufficiently, they unavoidably grow apart so much so that they even threaten to become strangers to each other. It is nevertheless an exciting adventure to stimulate each other’s development mutually, for in that manner an existentially unbreakable ‘we’ arises (Willi, 2002). 2.4. “You shall not commit adultery” and a culture of creative fidelity The prohibition ‘You shall not commit adultery’ formulates in a negative way what is not permitted in a sexual relationship. It is the most specific of the four prohibitions discussed, precisely because – in contrast to the other three – it deals with the area of sex. The term ‘adultery’ evokes two aspects: on the one hand, a sexual significance that puts emphasis on sexual deception; on the other, a legal-institutional significance that lays emphasis on the breaking of the exclusive bond of marriage. In our reflection we pay attention especially to the experiential aspect of sexual infidelity or ‘cheating’. Thus space can be kept open to apply the prohibition not only to heterosexual but also to homosexual relationships. It would be a notable form of discrimination to develop a different and thus ‘inferior’ or inconsistent ethics with regard to gays and lesbians than for heterosexuals (Fuchs, 1983, 177-181, 192-206). Behind the negative formulation of the prohibition of ‘cheating’ and adultery, resides the positive fundamental attitude of ‘you must be faithful’. Only the essence, the bottom-line, the minimum condition is implied by the prohibition and posed as obligatory. Trust is out of the question when one commits adultery due to sexual relations with another other than one’s partner. However, this infidelity should not only be understood sexually. The letter of the prohibition against adultery is

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dead without the spirit of fidelity. As a disposition or virtue, fidelity is in the first place relational, which means that aside from sexual infidelity, there are other numerous forms of infidelity possible. One can neglect, no longer give priority to the other or treat the other with indifference, and so forth. We include these and other forms of relational infidelity in the prohibition against infidelity, just as relational fidelity is implied in the commandment to be faithful. With this, we touch the core of a loving sexual-relational partnership, without, however, fleshing this out normatively. In terms of content, this is perhaps the most demanding prohibition as it critically evaluates those intimate forms of relationships and modes of cohabitation that do not pose exclusivity and stability as conditions. The prohibition against adultery – as a commandment of fidelity – explicitly states that sexual cohabitation will face a very difficult future and quality if it is not based on a promise of sexual exclusivity and fidelity. On the basis of experiential wisdom, tradition puts such a strong emphasis on this because it is convinced that fidelity is of invaluable worth not only for the happiness and success of a couple’s sexual cohabitation but also for the wellbeing of possible children and of society. Just like the other previous ones, this prohibition protects the ‘condition’ for fidelity, which precedes the experience of faithfulness itself. What the concrete shape of a good sexual and relational life as a culture of fidelity consists in is not – fortunately – normatively stipulated. That one should not commit the ‘act’ of adultery is mentioned but not which erotic and sexual ‘act’ one must perform. It is the task of the couple to discover this for themselves. In other words, both partners are appealed to in order to discover a culture of sexual and relational trust and to unfold it with pleasure. After all, the challenge is not only to find but to invent, explore and grow. Here, persons may and must be creative in order to give dynamic and meaningful shape to a faithful and expressive sexual relationship (Troisfontaines, 1968, I: 360-388, II: 9-39). Naturally, this does not mean that the meaningfulness of fidelity can be developed in any direction. It is not insignificant that the prohibition against adultery comes last. However, it is not an endpoint. It forms a synthesis insofar as it not only presupposes the previous prohibitions but also binds them to itself. Thus it takes upon itself the preceding prohibitions as essential for one’s own realization. Those prohibitions also count as conditions for an exclusive, faithful sexual partner relationship, without itself unfolding this exclusivity and stability in terms of its content. When partners do not kill or do not exercise any violence or force against

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each other, when they do not lie to one another, when they do not steal the other’s uniqueness or reduce the other to oneself, and when they do not commit adultery, then it is up to them to develop resourcefully – literally ‘mit Lust und Liebe’ – a culture of faithful sexual relationship. All the rest then still remains to be done, and this accrues to them and no one else: it is given to them ‘freely and generously’ as a task and an opportunity (Dominian, 2002). Even when the prohibition against adultery needs to be understood ‘inclusively’ with regard to the preceding ones, the insight that throughout all these prohibitions together nothing yet is said about the concrete filling in of the experience of sexual and relational faithfulness in an exclusive and stable life relationship, remains intact. In this sense, the prohibition against adultery, just like every preceding prohibition in fact, does not put a damper on self-determination. Instead, it challenges one to authenticate oneself ‘love-filled’ in a faithful partnership of life. Once again, this applies not only to the marital relationship but also to pre-, post- and non-marital relationships, not only for heterosexual but also for homosexual relationships (Farley, 2007, 223-226). 2.5. “You shall not covet anything that is your neighbour’s”: to love with a pure heart The narrative of the rich young man lacks the literal reference to the last prohibition of the Ten Commandments as it is worded in Exodus and Deuteronomy: “You shall not covet … anything that belongs to your neighbour” (Ex 20,17; Deut 5,21). And yet the prohibition is not entirely absent. Like elsewhere in the Gospels it is not missing in Jesus (cf. Mt 15,18-20; Lk 6,45). Mention of the desire of the rich young man for a full life is already made at the beginning of the narrative. We shall thus focus our attention on the last prohibition of the second tablet precisely for the reason that it is encompassing (Ouaknin, 1999, 245-275). A first element that draws our attention is how this prohibition is no longer about a behavioural norm but about that which precedes action, namely the mainspring and the inspiration of action. There are no four violations or sins (cf. also Am 2:6-8), there is but one form of evil: derailed desire. In this regard we can call the last prohibition the ‘soul’ of the entire second tablet and thus the inner-side and the capstone of all preceding prohibitions. After all, it is no longer about a particular behaviour, but about the heart and the guts or viscera of the person, namely about the relationship to one’s desires, one’s dedication and

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passion. And this can be found on the level of one’s aspiration, emotion and will, before it comes to be expressed in tangible practices. Furthermore, this is not about desire in and of itself. This is important because otherwise the prohibition could lead to a rejection of desire per se. But in reality, desire is the root of human dreams, ideals, wishes, expectations, endeavours and goals, as the conversation between Jesus and the rich young man demonstrates. No human creativity and activity is possible without drive and desire. Life is desire. Existentially speaking, a person without desire is dead, even though one still lives. Plato expressed one of the characteristics of human desire as such: not only is it a child of ‘plenitude and wealth’, and thus of strength and energy, which can be taken as a sign of fullness; it is also a child of ‘need and poverty’. Desire is indeed also necessity, and as such it strives for that which it does not have. This deficiency makes one step out of oneself towards the other-than-oneself in order to find there that which can complement one’s own deficiency. In other words, one seeks to find a solution for one’s own mortality, and at the same time to acquire satisfaction and sufficiency – whereby the suffering that ensues from one’s own deficiency is annulled (TI 87/114). It is apparent from all this that and how the negativity that characterizes desire has a healthy and wholesome dimension. At the same time, it turns out that it is ambiguous as it is characterized by risk. This is apparent from the way in which the last prohibition of the second tablet is formulated. Indeed, it forbids us from appropriating that which does not belong to us: the house, the field, the cattle, the slave, and the wife … of our neighbour. That which we lack or need, we would like to draw to ourselves. In other words, desire as necessity becomes a form of “reduction of the other to the same” (TI 16/46). In this way, it becomes a drive to possess. And of itself, this knows no boundaries. In its spontaneous absoluteness, it wants the other entirely for itself. The other must be everything for me, entirely directed towards me, part and parcel of myself, and this both on the material and economic level as well as on the psychological, relational, social and spiritual level. On the basis of my self-interested indigence, I see in the other a means and a possibility to develop my existence. Therefore, I would like to get to know and understand the other, which in extension of the dynamism of necessity leads to direct or subtle forms of ‘grasping for the other’. Think of how the idea ‘to understand’ is synonymous with the word ‘grasp’: to catch, to contain, to assimilate… Hence the expression: ‘I like you so much I can just eat you up!’ Indeed, the formulation of the last prohibition of

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the Decalogue has to do with desire for the other in order to eat the other (to absorb, to possess, and to dominate). ‘To eat’ means to annul the difference between me and the other. That which one eats becomes oneself, so that the other disappears in me and becomes a part of me. Then the other stops being an ‘other-in front of-me’. To eat the other is to destroy the other as other. And thereby the other is deprived of the ‘word’, deprived of speech as self-expression, as the articulation of their otherness. The prohibition against covetousness not only sets boundaries on desire – desire that is left to itself, that wants everything altogether and thus also wants the other ‘for oneself ’ – it also questions that covetousness. This crisis of possessive desire makes that the other is acknowledged as other possible. In so doing, the correct relationship to the other is founded, or, rather, the relationship as an ethical task and choice is established. Here, shudder as the dynamism of restraint is introduced into desire. Humane desire is striving to touch the other, and at the same time the shuddering of this touch, an already drawing back to oneself in the act of touching: just narrowly coming into contact without collusion or fusion. The humanism of the Ten Commandments is, in other words, the humanism of the other person that should never be gobbled up nor assimilated. Desiring that which belongs to the other – possessive desire – leads to destroying, denying, disdaining the other (murder); it induces cheating the other, both by untruthfulness as well as by unfaithfulness; it guides towards stealing from the other, whereby the uniqueness of the other (and of myself!) is annulled. Possessive desire is jealous and attempts to assimilate the other so that the other not only becomes ‘mine’ but also becomes ‘me’. I desire not only that which the other has, but also what the other is. Possessive desire destroys the irreducible otherness of the other, and thus the authentic ‘face-to-face’. It is precisely in order to make this relationship of acknowledgement, respect and affirmation of the other possible that all prohibitions of the second tablet count as ‘fundamental conditions for love’ – this love being animated by the culture of a ‘civilized desire’ (Mosès, 1999). 2.6. A consistent ethic for a diversity of intimate relationships In numerous Christian churches all the non-marital intimate relationships are qualified as forms of ‘sin’, ‘deviant behaviour’ or ‘irregular lifestyles’. Those behaviours were qualified by the Catechism of the Catholic Church (John Paul II, 1992/1994, nrs. 2351-2356) as ethically illicit, namely as grave sins of impurity, lewdness and concubinage. We cannot

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deny however the widespread phenomenon, even among Christians, of these different forms of intimate relationship and cohabitation, whether civilly recognized and institutionalized or not, as is acknowledged by the double Synod of the Family (2014-2015).3 But there is more going on than the fact that Christians are actually deviating from the Church’s marital norm. More and more Christians – certainly in the West, but also elsewhere – no longer consider those pre-post- and non-marital intimate life forms immoral but, on the contrary, they have become acceptable and at times even desirable. Most couples, for instance, who in their relationships move to sexual intimacy find that abstaining from it would be ‘against nature’, or in contradiction to an integral-incarnated love. Or pre-marital couples that live together are convinced that their cohabitation is desirable as a realistic and adequate preparation for the high demands of marital commitment, certainly in a complex society like ours.4 Ditto for gays and lesbians who begin a love relationship. They find ‘living in abstinence’, as the church asks of them, not only impossible but also in contradiction to who they are and to the love to which they deem they are called as equally dignified human beings. In the same frame of thought, most remarried divorcees find it not only factually impossible to live together ‘like brother and sister’, they do not want it either (they find it absurd, contradictory, even ridiculous to even dare pose this). In other words, in all these situations, it is not about deviant ‘facts’ but about ‘facts’ that express ‘lived convictions’ (Korff, 1968). That is why it is more correct not only to label the abovementioned behaviours as ‘deviant’ but also as ‘heterodox’, precisely because they contrast with the ‘orthodox’ view of the Catholic Church. In heterodox intimate relational behaviour, the acceptance in principle of the ‘church norm’ is out of the question; one is after all dedicated to a very different 3 “The Pastoral Challenges of the Family in the context of Evangelisation” (Instrumentum Laboris, 26 June 2014); “Relatio ad disceptationem” (6 October 2014); “The Vocation and Mission of the Family in the Church and Contemporary World” (Lineamenta 2014 – Relatio Synodi, 5-19 October 2014); The Vocation and Mission of the Family in the Church and Contemporary World” (Instrumentum Laboris, 23 June 2015); “Relazione Finale del Sinodo dei Vescovi al Santo Padre Francesco” (24-10-2015). This resulted in ‘Amoris Laetitia’ (19-03-2016), the post-synodal apostolic exhortation of Pope Francis I on “Love in the Family” (abbreviated: AL). 4 In this regard, we can perhaps speak, analogous to the ‘baptism of desire’, of a ‘marriage of desire’: young adults who cohabit desire for marriage as a goal and experience their cohabitation as an important, even indispensable, learning process not only to reach that goal but also to be able to substantiate it as qualitatively as possible. Pre-marital cohabitation can thus be seen as a ‘marriage in the making’ (matrimonium in fieri), where an old term from church tradition is enriched and broadened.

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conviction. Precisely these shifted, ‘lived convictions’ that manifest themselves in and through the so-called deviant behaviours challenge current moral theology, pastoral and Christian education. If Church and moral theology, but also projects of pastoral work and Christian education, hope that their view on love and sexuality will still be heard by believers at the base, another paradigm is needed that takes the new lived convictions seriously and that acknowledges the quality of the corresponding behaviours. With that, yet another aspect of the new lived convictions is important. They presuppose a different concept of human behaviour than the act-orientated and static model of the catholic moral doctrine, that one-sidedly focuses on judgment of individual acts ‘in themselves’, detached from any integration within a broader meaningful whole. Partners, for example, experience certain relational choices and sexual behaviour not as acts in themselves, but as part of a comprehensive way of life that furthermore unfolds itself as a process of growth. Hence the plea for the concept of ‘life form’ wherein the distinct options, acts, behaviours and styles of interaction are not only integrated but derive from that their meaning and value as well. This thereby concerns a qualitative life form that realizes and approaches meaningfulness. Here a direct link with the Christian striving for perfection can be made: the progressive appropriation, knowledge and experience of love in its fullness in the distinct domains of life. This opens also the perspective on a Christian ethics of growth (a model that we developed elsewhere) (Burggraeve, 2011, 2016a & 2016b). On the intimate-relational level, the Christian tradition gives preference to the life form of marriage as the basis for the family. The Second Vatican Council, and especially the chapter on marriage of Gaudium et Spes (1965), remains inspiring us to describe and to further reflect on it as a qualitative life form, namely as a covenant of “intimate partnership of life and love” (nr. 48). By putting love central, the Council wanted to respond to the sensitivities of contemporary men and women who are convinced that the full meaning of life can be found in incarnated intimate love, qualified by Vatican II as ‘conjugal friendship’ (conjugalis amicitia) (nr. 49). Pope Francis’ post-synodal apostolic exhortation on love in the family ‘Amoris Laetitia’ (2016) (AL) confirms and reinforces this unequivocally by qualifying, following Thomas Aquinas and John Paul II, the “conjugal charity” (AL 120) as “unique friendship” (AL 125) or “the greatest form of friendship” (AL 123) (cf. also AL 127, 133). At the same time, the Council and ‘Amoris Laetitia’ avoid a sentimentalist reduction of this “love of friendship” (AL 127, 133) by emphasizing the different

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dimensions of intimate covenant love: “This love is an eminently human one since it is directed from one person to another through an affection of the will; it involves the good of the whole person, and therefore can enrich the expressions of body and mind with a unique dignity, ennobling these expressions as special ingredients and signs of the friendship distinctive of marriage. This love God has judged worthy of special gifts, healing, perfecting and exalting gifts of grace and of charity. Such love, merging the human with the divine, leads the spouses to a free and mutual gift of themselves, a gift providing itself by gentle affection and by deed, such love pervades the whole of their lives: indeed by its generous practice it grows better and grows greater” (nr. 49). The conjugal covenant of love and life reveals itself as an ‘integral love’, based on free and informed consent (a qualified yes-word), exclusivity and reciprocity, equality-in-difference, expressive sexual intimacy (AL, 142-152), creative fidelity as a way to ‘indissolubility from within’ (AL, 123). It is this adult and robust, intimate covenantal love of friendship that realizes a noble openness for children and responsible parenthood (AL 167, 122) and anchors itself societally as an institute (AL 131, 294). This ‘adequately and integrally understood love’ is discovered and presented as a dynamic ‘goal-commandment’ (Zielgebot), namely as a calling to be striven for that realizes and ‘perfects’ itself gradually in a progressive process of growth, without it ever being completed (AL 136-137, 217-221, 223-230). To do justice to the heterodox behaviours mentioned above, and to the possible qualities they bear within themselves, we suggest an ‘enduring relationship of love’ or ‘sustainable love of friendship’ as a life form. One which is mirrored, on the one hand, on conjugal ‘covenantal’ love understood integrally and which broadens, on the other hand, this love into an intimate life relationship that is based on free and informed consent, exclusiveness and reciprocity, equality in difference, nonviolence and authentic intimacy, creative fidelity. These manifold, distinct and at the same time intertwined dimensions can never be reduced to one single act or choice. In other words, it is about a life form wherein all sorts of relational and intimate decisions, practices and styles of interaction with each other are linked and integrated, in order through time – as a narrative and as history – to substantiate itself. On the basis of this concept of ‘sustainable love’ (as enduring relationship of love) it is possible to develop a consistent relational and sexual ethics that is applicable not only to marriage but also to the deviant and heterodox intimate relationships of all kinds: heterosexual and homosexual relationship; pre-, non- en post-marital forms of intimate

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love and cohabitation. For this consistent ethics we find inspiration in that great heritage from our Judeo-Christian tradition, namely the second tablet of the Ten Commandments, as above we tried to elaborate. All Christians are faced with the appeal to develop their life relationships, however deviant and heterodox they may be with regard to the doctrinal Church norm of heterosexual conjugal love, as humanely as possible. For that purpose, the four behavioural norms of the second tablet of the Ten Commands, as they were introduced by Jesus in the narrative of the rich, respectable man, offer us an inspiring framework. Synthesized it is this ‘You shall not kill’ that states that no dignified intimate relationship is possible when partners inflict violence and abuse of power – in whatever form – on each other. ‘You shall not lie’ makes it clear that a loving intimate relationship cannot be based on dishonesty, untruthfulness and inauthentic communication. ‘You shall not steal’ means that partners should not reduce the other to oneself nor should they dissolve their mutual differences in types of fusion, which likewise is a form of violence. ‘You shall not commit adultery’ forbids sexual – and also other forms of – infidelity. Last but not least, ‘You shall not covet anything that belongs to the other”, forbids in a synthetic and inclusive way every form of possessive and abusive desire. Since these are not about commandments but prohibitions, that only indicate the bottom line or the conditions for love without establishing further the qualitative content of that love, the creative freedom of the partners is challenged to develop for themselves, moved by a ‘pure heart’ (Mt 5,18; Ps 24,4), the fullness of love and find inspiration in the experiences and examples of others, individually and in the context of communities of participation. Before we conclude, we would like to emphasize that a consistent sexual and relational ethics should in no way lead to the axiological equalization or levelling of all intimate relational and cohabitation life forms with conjugal covenant. But, without denying the essential differences, the qualitative similarities have likewise to be acknowledged. In this sense the difference or diversity of relational life forms does not become the new and final social and ethical norm, but the norm ‘beyond diversity’ is the humane quality of an intimate relationship. That is why a Christian ethics, that also wants to be educational and pastoral, is faced with the challenge not only to develop orientations and rules for those who experience marriage according to the ‘Catholic Book’ – or the ‘Christian Book’ – but likewise for those who enter into a different form of intimate, enduring relationship. Because the ethics of the Gospel ethics proclaims one of love, no other relational ethics is

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valid for heterosexuals and homosexuals, just as no distinct relational ethics exists for those who live in pre-marital, marital, non- or postmarital cohabitation. And surprisingly, it is the ancient text of the Ten Commandments that inspires us to draw out the new from the old (cf. Mt 13,52).11

Conclusion: The challenge of ‘dispossession’ Our philosophical reading of the first part of the narrative of the rich young man has inspired us to sketch the fundamental lines of a consistent relational ethics. Nonetheless, we cannot end our reading without referring to the second part of the narrative, which cannot be underestimated in its importance for a correct interpretation of the first part (Thévenot, 1990, 84-89). To Jesus’ declaration that the second table of the ten commandments is the ‘way to life’ as summarized in the commandment to love one’s neighbour (Mt 19,19b), the wealthy and respected ruler reacts with the bold affirmation: “I have kept all these” (Mt 19,20; Mk10,20; Lk 18,21). This affirmation seems more than daring, especially with the addition in Mark and Luke: “since my youth”. The fragility and capriciousness of one’s young years entail that many people arrive at ethical maturity via all sorts of imbalances of ‘trial and error’. Moreover, this maturity is never acquired entirely since people are usually neither ‘bastions of morality’ nor ‘saints’. But the rich young man dares to state frankly and without hesitation that he has kept all the commandments summed up by Jesus. The alert reader cannot rid oneself of the impression that in this claim, not only pride and self-confidence resound but also arrogance and an overestimation of oneself. Although, in Matthew the rich young man adds to his bold claim the following question: “What do I still lack?” (Mt 19,20). Here we see an honest awareness that notwithstanding his ethical perfection he still lacks something. Or, is it perhaps indeed an ironic form of arrogance and selfcomplacency: ‘What would I still be lacking, if I have done all that has been commanded?’ Jesus does not appear to entertain this suspicion. He looks at the rich young man with love (Mk 10,21a), and tells him in equal honesty what he lacks: “You lack one thing; go sell what you own, and give the money to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; then come, follow me” (Mk 10,21; cf. Lk 18,22). To this the ruler reacts disconcerted and shocked: “When he heard this, he became sad; for he was very rich” (Lk 19,23; Mk 10,22; Mt 19,22). At first sight, it seems

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that what is at stake is only material wealth, i.e. his many possessions. But upon closer inspection, another form of ‘wealth’ appears, namely the so-called ethical perfection he nurtured. He possesses not only much comfort, he is also ethically not ‘without means’… Precisely by summoning him to sell his possessions and to give the money to the poor, Jesus pierces through his ethical self-complacency. Not only does he possess much wealth, he is likewise so attached to his possessions that he is possessed by them. What is lacking in him is precisely lack. He behaves like a ‘collector’ not only of material things but also of ethical achievements. He strives to be an ethically perfect person whereby he thinks, consciously or unconsciously, himself to be superior. For this reason and through his radical suggestion, Jesus wants to heal the young ruler of his material and ethical obsession; in other words, he wants to move him towards ‘dispossession’: ‘Sell all your possessions’ (it doesn’t say ‘a part of your possessions’!), and stronger still: ‘Rid yourself of that by which you become possessed’. Only by kenosis, likewise in his striving for ethical perfection whereby he aims to be certain he has acquired eternal life, can he become free to follow Jesus (Mt 19,21; Mk 10,21b). Whoever does not rid oneself of one’s ethical self-complacency becomes suffocated in oneself, or rather suffocates oneself, so that there is no more access to the Kingdom of God. There is nothing more inhuman than a pathological striving for perfection! True perfection consists in ridding oneself of what one possesses and of that by which one is possessed, so that in that emptiness, room is created for the other – whereas the fanatical attachment to material wealth and ethical excellence hinders one from directing oneself to the other for the sake of the other.

Chapter VII.

“Gestation of the Other in the Same” The narrative of the Good Samaritan leads to thoughtful reflection on the soul and the embodiment of our multidimensional responsibility Introduction In this final chapter a reflective, philosophical reading of the Gospel narrative of the Good Samaritan (Lk 10,25-37) will be presented. Through such a ‘narrative philosophy’ we will not only discover the reality but also the meaning and different dimensions of our existence as ‘being responsible’. Emmanuel Levinas’ (1905-1995) radical idea of the face-of-the-other and our responsibility for one another will be a major inspiration. The ethical relationship to the other without excluding the aspect of the self nor the dimension of social responsibility lies at the centre of this chapter. Last but not least, we shall discover how the narrative is not a ‘total narrative’ and thus how it challenges us, starting with the narrative, to think beyond the narrative. The behaviour of the Samaritan will put us on the track of small goodness and a new vision of the future of society in particular. At the same time, we shall discover the responsibility-by-and-for-the-other as ‘unto-God’ (à-Dieu).

1. Questions and answers ‘embracing’ the narrative According to Luke, Jesus tells the parable of the Good Samaritan in reply to the question of a lawyer. The latter wanted to test Jesus by means of an ‘argument’ (Lk 10,25-29), in which a rabbinic discussion resounds. 1.1. “What must I ‘do’?” The story, preceded by an introduction, can only be found in one place in the Second Testament, namely in the gospel of Luke (Lk 10,25-37).

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A legal scholar, a rabbinic wise man who is a specialist in the Torah, comes to Jesus to polemically challenge him (Lk 10,25). Because of this, the dialogue that culminates in a better insight into what ‘the Word of God’ intends to reveal to us, is scholarly. The lawyer addresses Jesus as rabbi, ‘teacher’, followed by the same question that was posed by the rich young man (as seen in the previous chapter): ‘What must I do to inherit eternal life?’. People always want to find an answer to the question: what must I do? Not intellectually or abstractly, but in actuality. They are looking for practical wisdom. It is also a typical Jewish question, disclosing that Jesus is situated within the Jewish tradition and speaks from that tradition. At times, he approaches that tradition critically, but he never parts with it. ‘Not one letter, not one stroke of a letter, will pass from the law (Torah)” (Mt 5,18). In this tradition, the emphasis lies on doing. Knowledge about the world and about God is important in Judaism, like it is in other religions, but it is not the main concern. In contrast to the Greeks who prioritized the insight into and the logic about ‘end-cause-consequence’, Jewish believers were not primarily concerned with the question of knowing – not even when it was about God. Neither were they preoccupied with hope from the perspective of ‘is there still life after death?’(although the Sadducees and the Pharisees debated this topic). Eternal life is about the fullness of life. From this perspective they paid attention to the afterlife, but ultimately considered this as a matter for God and not humanity. The calling for Israel is to do what must be done now. Central to the Torah is the fulfilment of the Law, in order to accomplish the covenant that God has entered into with Israel. Without concrete commitments and practices, there is no religion, no bond between humans and God, and such piety is empty, false and meaningless. 1.2. Commandments and prohibitions For the Jews, there are 613 prescriptions (mitzvoth) (248 commandments and 365 prohibitions). A large number is mentioned in the Bible and these have been developed, made more precise and reinterpreted in the Judaic tradition. They touch upon all facets of life: buying, selling, intimacy, marriage and family, social life, economics, jurisprudence, and even the religious and ritual acts at home and in the temple… In orthodox Judaism, one sees how those rules take hold of people. Liberal Jews may have a different stance towards them, but even for them doing is important. Likewise, agnostic and even atheist Jews initiate their children

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in the Bar Mitzvah: at thirteen years of age they become the bearers of the commandments. Every Jew is obliged to fulfil the Law. Abiding by the Torah is equated with allowing the continuing existence of the chosen people and the salvation of the universe. Fulfilling the Torah is the single and true way of both substantiating the election and of assuring the future of creation. Since the Second World War, the Jewish way of life has been supplemented with a 614th commandment: after Auschwitz, Jews must see to it that Hitler does not gain a posthumous victory and that there will still be Jews tomorrow. This implies the defence of the Jewish people, but also the duty to bear children and to initiate them in the doing of the Torah. Doing is also explicitly present in the psalms: God’s actions stand central, with which He makes clear that He draws to himself the fate of injured and vulnerable people. Of course, faith has also something to do with a relationship to God, but doing remains the criterion for authenticity. We recognize this also in Jesus: you cannot love God if you idolize mammon, if you hate your brother… Thus very strong Jewish dimension is present in Christianity. 1.3. The ‘soul’ of the Law To the question ‘What must I do …?’ Jesus replies with another question: ‘What is written in the law?’ The lawyer could have answered: ‘613 commandments and prohibitions’, but before this happens Jesus adds: ‘What do you read there?’ (Lk 10,26) In other words: ‘How do you understand it? How do you interpret it?’ Apparently, what is important is not only consulting the source but also exercising hermeneutics. The answer of the lawyer accepts this demand for interpretation. He summarizes the 613 mitzvoth in the double commandment of love: ‘You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your strength, and with all your mind; and your neighbour as yourself.’ (Lk 10,27) On these two depend the entire law and all the prophets, as can be read elsewhere in the synoptic gospels (Mt 22:40). ‘There is no other commandment greater than these’ (Mk 12,31b). It is an old discussion amongst the Jews that with their 613 commandments and prohibitions they may no longer see the wood for the trees. Hence the need to arrive at the essence, the ‘soul’, of the Torah. What is most important? ‘Which commandment in the law is the greatest?’ (Mt 23:36) For some schools of interpretation, the ‘Shema Israel’ (Deut 6,4-5), i.e. the love of God (Rabbi Simlai), counts as the first and

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most important commandment (cf. also Mt 22,37; Mk 12,29). For others, it is the love of the neighbour (Rabbi Akiba, who aligns himself with Rabbi Hillel, puts the negatively formulated golden rule as central: ‘Do not do unto others that which you do not want others to do unto you’). In the Second Testament, both mitzvoth are linked to each other as the core of the Law. Moreover, the love of neighbour is considered of equal value as the love of God. Neither can be separated from the other. Or as the apostle Paul interprets and broadens it in one of his letters: “Love is the fulfilment of the law” (Rom 13,10). In Christianity, the double commandment has become the core of evangelical action. The sign of the cross offers a folk translation of it: the vertical beam (God) and the horizontal beam (the neighbour). Both summarize the law in their inseparable nature. That the answer – the law is summarized in the double commandment of love – does not come from Jesus but from the lawyer himself, makes clear that the double commandment is primarily Jewish. Jesus’ affirmation of this hermeneutical interpretation makes the double commandment the soul of later Christianity. 1.4. “Who is my neighbour?” After Jesus appreciates the interpretation of the lawyer: ‘You have given the right answer …’, he returns to the question that started the conversation and gives an answer: ‘…do this and you will live’ (Lk 10,28). The fullness of life is found in doing. Knowing, understanding and interpreting correctly are not enough. Insight must be brought into practice. The lawyer, however, in an attempt to justify himself now poses the most difficult question: ‘Who is my neighbour?’ (Lk 10,29). For us, that is everyone, every fellow human along our way. In a secularized society, the Biblical word ‘neighbour’ has been replaced with the neutral and general term ‘fellow human’. At the time when Jesus narrates the story of the Samaritan, ‘neighbour’ really means those near to me, my child, husband or wife, family… people who are related to each other by birth. And by extension even fellow townsfolk, fellow-Jews, fellow-Israelites…: all those to whom we are most closely affiliated by means of natural bonds, by the same culture or the same faith. Levinas speaks in this regard of ‘the tribal” (VA 96/109). And he adds that we do not have to behave in a denigrating manner: ‘There is nothing wrong to belonging to a certain tribe or group.’ In the word ‘nationality’ we find the word nasci, to be born.

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In Israel, this refers to the arch-ancestors, the Twelve Sons, the Twelve Tribes. And by extension, to the proselytes who have converted to Judaism and who are going to belong to the Jewish community. It is the natural preferential love of people who are linked to each other. This is what today is called identity: the warm solidarity of a community of people, of ‘we know each other’, ‘we take care of each other’, of ‘brotherhoods’ of all kinds… It is the first club, the natural preferential community. “It is not that the tribal is proscribed; it comprises many virtues”, says Levinas (VA 96/109). 1.5. The neighbour and the stranger In Judaism, a leverage-principle has grown before ‘the neighbour’, namely the commandment: ‘You shall love the stranger as yourself ’ (Lv 19,33-34). In the words of Levinas: “’Thou shalt love the stranger,’ is found in the Bible thirty-six times, exclusively in the Pentateuch – thirty-six times, according to a Talmudic text which adds, ‘and maybe even forty-six.’ When it says ‘thirty-six and maybe forty-six,’ this is to say, maybe fifty-six, maybe sixty-six. This is a manner of saying that it is important to feel it, outside of any statistical interest in the tradition” (EFP 112/63). The commandment actually forms part of the Biblical message and thus of the learning process in Judaism, says Levinas. The Biblical text always links the commandment of love for the stranger with a short story: ‘Never forget that you were once a stranger in Egypt.’ Not to be allowed to speak your language, to follow your own temporal seasons and customs… etc. The Jews have experienced being strangers themselves. It is part of the history of their own origin. Precisely this ‘work of remembering’ brings them to expand love of neighbour to love for the stranger. The Jewish community is a learning community. To emerge from twelve tribes to one people has been a long road travelled. Love of neighbour in this is important but it can also be a principle of exclusion: only one’s own people counts. Via the Mitzvah – the commandment – ‘love the stranger’, introduced by reference to the period of exile and of being strangers in Egypt, the Jews bring the principle of love of neighbour in balance with the principle of foreignness. Thus, the commemoration of one’s own history turns out to be a leverage-principle of civilization. We can also call this a ‘dangerous memory’: the intense and significant experience of having been foreigners brings a fundamental critical criterion within the love of neighbour. Through this natural

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constrictions and ‘boundaries’ are broken in favour of everyone, but in particular of foreigners. “One ends up understanding this formula, ‘Thou shalt love the stranger,’ (…) as the audacious and true affirmation that love itself, affectivity itself, and feeling itself have their initial place in the relation with the other, with the stranger which every man is for every other man. After all, everyone is a stranger. ‘I am a stranger on earth,’ says a verse of the Psalms (Ps 119,29)” (EFP 112/63). The love of the stranger thus becomes the litmus test for the authenticity of the love of neighbour. Yet a third element is added to the commandment to love the stranger: the ‘fear of the Lord’. By loving the stranger one expresses awe towards the Eternal One: “I am the Lord your God” (Lev 19,34). This is not a negative angst ‘in fear and trembling’ for a crushing Almighty One, but a positive acknowledgement of the transcendent God who rids Himself of His transcendence to come close to the stranger. Thus, love for strangers becomes a way to give shape to awe before the Holy One. It is therefore not only an ethical responsibility, but also a religious relationship that expresses itself in and through the ethical relationship to the stranger (and the neighbour). This reminds us of what we said above about the insoluble bond between the love for God and the love for the neighbour (Kevers, 1992). 1.6. Who is a stranger? Israel has always built a community that had to live alongside other peoples. Gradually, the Jews thus learned that their ‘tribal’ approach to their neighbours needed to be opened up to ‘beyond-the-tribal’. This we already discovered in the reflections at the end of Chapter III: “the human is the consciousness that there is still one more step to take: to appease the tribal, scandalous exigency! The moment in which [the socalled ‘natural’, biological, ethnic, cultural, religious…] fraternity attains its full sense is when, in the brother himself, the stranger is acknowledged” (VA 98/109). In answer to the questions “who is that stranger? How should we understand the stranger?” the Jewish distinction between the nokri, the gerim and the zarim is helpful. The nokri are foreigners who stay in the country temporarily. Merchants or travellers passing through, for example. Even though there is no further bond beyond the temporary connection, these people still deserve a warm welcome, hospitality and also fair-trade arrangements.

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The term zarim usually carries a negative connotation: they belong to an aggressor, groups like the Ninevites, the Assyrians, the Egyptians, the Babylonians… These are threatening enemies whom should not be loved. The Jewish tradition does not mention that you must hate your enemy (like Jesus suggests in Mt 5,43), but neither does it mention that you must love them. After all, how can you love those who endanger your very existence, or even dispute your right to exist…? Even the Samaritans were considered along this line or at least as ‘inappropriate’ or ‘religiously incorrect’ foreigners. They were not taken as full-fledged Israelites because, among others facts, they did not practice the Jewish religion in a ‘pure’ way. Last but not least are the gerim, the foreigners in the most inherent and qualitative sense of the word. The commandment cited above on the love of the stranger is about them. Gerim is related to the word gur, which means living in the country as a foreigner. It refers to people who come from elsewhere and who seek their refuge in Israel, fleeing from famine and inhumane living conditions, violence or war. Here the emphasis shifts from being strangers to being foreigners in distressing conditions. They are mentioned in the same breath as the poor, the widows and orphans. Those who live in equally perilous circumstances. Hence the commandment to care and offer hospitality to the gerim, expressed in the commandment to love the stranger. They are granted asylum even in the temple. As a ger, you remain the other. You are integrated but not assimilated. You receive your place in the community and can participate socially and economically. Here you have rights but also duties, expressed in a variety of laws and prescriptions (like those found in part in the Bible, namely in Deuteronomy and Leviticus). These behavioural rules are determined by the manner in which the Talmud calls for the treatment of the stranger as ‘Noachide’, i.e. as a descendant of Noah and not as a descendant of Abraham and thus as a Jew. The stranger does not at all have to convert to Judaism – he does not have to be a proselyte – in order to gain hospitality. It suffices that he is a descendant of Noah, and thus of Adam, that he is a human being, in order to be able to enjoy hospitality. The only thing he must do is observe the second table of the Ten Commandments, and not surrender to idolatry (no creature should be divinized). Now, since the second table of the Ten Commandments reflects the fundamental rules – the boundary rules – of human relationships, the only thing asked of the stranger (ger) is that he behaves as a human being, i.e. in a humane way. By calling the stranger a ‘Noachide’, and requiring of him humane behaviour,

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the Jews have established human rights ‘avant la lettre’. Treating the stranger in this manner, namely as humans who must also be humane, they broke through every ideological confinement of one’s own religion (or philosophy of life) in the rightness of one’s own ‘encompassing and ultimate truth’ – and this long before multiple discussions on pluralistic states and societies. The ethics of the relationship with the other as stranger, which along with Levinas we have called above as a ‘fraternitybeyond-the-tribal’, that – in the community itself – creates the condition for a tolerant and connective society (IH 186-188/119-120). This makes it clear that the word ‘fellow-human’ as a contemporary synonym for the foreigner is much too abstract and too generalizing. Thus it cannot contribute to a correct understanding of the question that the lawyer posed to Jesus: ‘Who is my neighbour?’ For the Jews, the ‘neighbour’ is a clearly delineated category. Besides, there are the ‘others’, the strangers, but then in different categories: those passing-through, the ‘strangers-in-need’ (like the poor, widows and orphans), the enemies and all those of other peoples with whom one cannot form any alliance precisely because they threaten the existence and survival of the people of Israel (Schmidt, 1993). Consequently, the question ‘Who is my neighbour?’ is neither indifferent, nor rhetorical, nor innocent. It is a real discussion- and testquestion cunning and tricky. The lawyer wants to trap Jesus with what seems to be an innocent question. If, entirely in accord with the Jewish tradition, Jesus were to mention a category, then he would inadvertently fall into the ‘we-they’ mechanism and thereby accord preference to a certain group and exclude other categories… 1.7. “Which of these three?” Jesus, however, does not fall into the trap and answers the question of the lawyer on preferential love with a parable, that of the Good Samaritan. At the end of the story, Jesus seems to return to the question of the lawyer, in order to arrive at his conclusion: “Which of these three, do you think, was a neighbour to the man who fell into the hands of the robbers?” (Lk 10,36). Actually, it now becomes clear that Jesus does not at all repeat the question of the lawyer. Instead, he formulates it differently. He steers it in a completely different direction. This is a narrative ingenuity. Through reformulating the question he shifts the attention from the ‘object’ to the ‘subject’ of love for the neighbour. The lawyer thinks in terms of categories of human beings and thus wants to know the object of the love of neighbour. He is preoccupied with the question

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under which category the ‘neighbour’ falls. Jesus, however, resolutely abandons forms of classification in order to focus entirely on the love of neighbour itself – on the ethical treatment of the one who has fallen into the hands of the robbers: ‘Who was a neighbour for the suffering man?’ (Lk 10,36b) The paradoxical point, whereby the narrative is decisively turned on its head, is not the formulation of a definition of ‘the neighbour’ but an unexpected, ‘out-of-the-ordinary’ questioning of ethical attitude. This comes to the fore in exploring the behaviour of the passers-by when confronted with the suffering other as victim of evil done by robbers. Jesus’ story is not an answer, and thus in the strict sense of the word, not a clarification, (even though it seems to be one at first sight). His parable is rather a ‘deconstruction’ of perceiving the neighbour as a social category. Due to this, attention can now be directed to the subject of the love of neighbour – namely to the one who performs this. The strength of Jesus’ story, moreover, is seen in the fact that he succeeds in convincing the lawyer of this change of perspective. This becomes clear when he gives his answer of the ‘neighbour’ being ‘the one who showed him mercy’ (Lk 10,37a), namely the one who comes to the aid of the other in one’s suffering. 2. Three people on their way (‘I’ in the nominative) We will now focus entirely on this ethical treatment. More specifically we would like to lay bare, on the basis of a thorough philosophical reading of the parable itself (Lk 10,30-35), the different dimensions of this in order to discover its originality and newness. 2.1. Responsible for oneself One thing that is striking in this narrative, is that it is not about the noble intentions of people who, on the basis of some personal ideal, decide to do a ‘good deed’ for someone, and consciously and ‘pre-dedicatedly’ approach a suffering fellow human being in order to assist this person in one way or the other. Put differently, the starting point is not that of the charitable or social engagement of any given person for another. Instead, as will become more clear later, the narrative does not begin with the I, but with the other. Thus its point of departure is not autonomy, i.e. the independence and free choice of the I, but the strict heteronomy of the ‘inconvenient’ appearance of the other. That is why it presupposes an I that is quite other than noble and loving (at least,

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initially). The story proceeds from the ‘natural’ I (in the sense that selfpreservation and self-development are a natural ‘instinct’) that first thinks of oneself and the meaning of one’s own existence. Of course, this datum or givenness is not the explicit focus of the narrative. One can even say that it lies disguised, almost invisible, so that one can easily by-pass it. Yet, it is there as a self-explanatory presupposition. This remarkable hiddenness that doesn’t even present itself in a mysterious way, is nevertheless not something banal or unimportant. On the contrary, facts that are most evident are often essential. They are constitutive for the further significance of all that surrounds them. This is why we raise this obvious, yet hidden aspect in the Samaritan narrative and take the space needed to explore it in depth. By doing this we can shed light on the main concern of the narrative, i.e. the significance of the appearance of and the relationship with, the ‘other’. As we shall see, the narrative is about ‘ordinary’ and not ‘holy’ or ‘heroic’ people, who, because of one or the other idealistic, generous choice in life, have opted to think first of the other and then only or entirely not of their own being. Three people are travelling on their own and according to their personal designs, plans and provisions in life. We are presented with a priest, a Levite, and a Samaritan wayfaring from Jerusalem to Jericho – or the priest and the Levite perhaps from Jericho to Jerusalem, to give service in the temple. They represent every human being who tries to realize her of his own existence. Life is a ‘journey’, taken up by every person according to certain intentions and ‘itinerary’. These are unclear and ambiguous from the very beginning. Gradually – through trial and error – they grow and gain perspective. We can indicate this as responsibility in the first person. In this, ‘I-myself ’ am both the starting point as well as the subject or goal of responsibility. From the inside out, from the dynamics of my very own existence, I feel myself driven towards taking care of myself, becoming my own guarantor for a personally ‘meaning-full’ and happy existence. I feel my existence as something that I ‘have to be’ and thus not only as a fact but also as a task or mission, wherein a certain ‘must’ or imperative is present. Likewise, I am responsible for my existence, in the sense that I am held accountable for it, especially with regard to what I have done (Ricœur, 1992). 2.2. Fallible freedom and responsibility Within this responsibility that unfolds itself gradually we bump into all kinds of boundaries and forms of mishap (fatum). When the priest

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and Levite on the one hand and the Samaritan on the other, left to substantiate their projects, either spiritual or economic, they probably prayed something like: ‘Lord, see to it that nothing happens along the way so that my plans do not end up confounded.’ They would prefer not be confronted with unforeseen and disrupting circumstances. The care for the other – the love of neighbour – does not refer back to a spontaneously altruistic desire, but rather to a contrast-experience that crosses one’s own striving for happiness and meaning. There is another aspect that plays an important role in the care for one’s own project of existence. One through which the project loses its obviousness and even becomes tense and uncertain: the tragedy of one’s own finality and fragility. We are limited, or to put it in the form of a witticism: ‘We are almighty, until we get up one morning with a headache.’ Our existence is a struggle for life, not so much to be the strongest but the smartest, the most adapted and flexible, according to Darwin. We are not heroes. Our existence is given to us, but it is only half-given. It is imperfect, and can even be very imperfect, mediocre and constantly broken so that we have to search for ‘healing’ and ‘salvation’ beyond ourselves… Freedom is a task, but often also a troubled one due to the injuries that we bear from our past. Our freedom is not given to us as an “inviolable sovereignty” but as a “permanent fallibility”, i.e. as a finite freedom: “to be free is to have time to forestall one’s own abdication under the threat of violence” (TI 214/237), where this refers back to either an external seizure of power by a ‘tyrant’ or to an internal submission to all sorts of passions. The freedom of the ‘I’ in the nominative is, in this regard, anything but gratuitous and frivolous. On the contrary, it is marked by an ineluctable seriousness and tragedy, as is apparent from its reverse-side, namely the weight of the responsibility for its own existence that directly ensues from the dignity of freedom and autonomy (Ricœur, 2001b). 3. Responsible for the other (‘Me’ in the accusative) The striving for being and freedom in a self-responsible way, however, is not the only dynamic aspect of our existence. This becomes apparent in the first words of the Good Samaritan narrative. Something unforeseen and unplanned – something ‘else’ – breaks into the lives of three people who are happily going about their respective business. Their journey is ‘inter-rupted’. Something happens to them that they have not

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willed themselves, nor foreseen, nor planned. Something heteronomous that throws their autonomy upside down. 3.1. The other ‘inter-rupts’ people on their way The ‘other’ and ‘extra-ordinary’, literally ‘out-of-the-ordinary’, that breaks into the ‘planned-order-of-the-day’ is, in this case, the other human being. We will first reflect on this ‘heteronomous fact’ before we figure out what this heteronomy does with people. One immediately notices how a double undesirableness is at play here. On the one hand, the parable begins with the brutal fact that an ‘other’, robbed by bandits and beaten to the point of being half dead, is left behind mercilessly on the road. The robbed and wounded other did not want, wish, foresee nor hope for this to happen. In spite of himself, he is hit by suffering that is inflicted by other people. But the three persons who are ‘on their way’ also experience something undesired. They have not counted on the confrontation with the suffering other. This is for them a true ‘experience’, a real ‘event’, since the fact runs counter to their existence. As long as they are on their way, from their own choice and planning, they seem to be master of their existence. They form the centre of their own free choice that unfolds itself as responsibility by and for oneself. But suddenly, their own striving for happiness and meaning is thwarted. The other shows up as an unforeseen and surprising fact par excellence and, in this regard, as the source of the purest kind of empiricism or the most elemental experience. One would have to be crazy to plan such a thing in advance! This becomes apparent in the text itself where we read that they were “by chance” (kata sugkurian) passing along that road (Lk 10:31). They did not foresee that they would be accosted by the horrifying spectre of this man lying on the edge of the road. All three of the passers-by were wrapped in their individual preoccupations. The last thing these men were pondering was the possibility of such an occurrence, or rather, such a coincidence (literally ‘co-incidence’, that which ‘happens’, ‘falls upon’ or ‘concurs’ at the same time). In fact, in line with their personal planning, they wished and hoped that nothing out of the ordinary would ‘happen’. The person lying by the side of the road is by the three travellers experienced as a ‘disturbance of their order of being’. We can call this the heteronomy of the other, i.e. his radical otherness: “the absolute exteriority of the exterior being” (TI 21/50). Levinas qualifies it as ‘epiphany’, because the appearance of the other takes place despite her- or himself (Greisch, 2000).

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In this regard, the suffering other is a ‘stranger’, no longer a mere social, economic or political category, but a ‘naked’ other, exposed to the elements, to violence and suffering…: “strangeness-destitution” (TI 47/75). An attentive reading of the parable, moreover, shows how this ‘strangeness’ of the injured other displays a remarkable character. In Greek, that other is characterized as ‘anthrôpos’ – ‘human’. Usually, the other is portrayed or interpreted as a man, but it can just as well be a woman. While all the other characters in the narrative are subdivided into categories – the priest and the Levite belong to the religious establishment, the Samaritan is a foreigner that engages in trade, and the innkeeper is a businessman who in his own way also exercises his profession and thus earns his living – the victim is not. This is no coincidence. The narrative makes a statement by not letting the victim belong to any ethnic, social or religious category. If that were the case, if they found that he belonged to their ‘category’ or ‘group’, the passers-by would perhaps have been more inclined to help him. But by means of his indeterminateness as ‘human’, this ‘belonging’ and ‘recognition’ (of the other as ‘alter-ego’) does not play a part. Because the other appears in their lives as ‘any naked face’, they cannot use an argument of preference or refusal on the basis of recognition. It is not about the social category of the other, but about the fact that the other is naked, injured and vulnerable: the stranger as “the widow, and the orphan” (TI 50/78). 3.2. Affected and appealed by the naked face of the suffering other With this description of the naked other as stranger, nothing has as yet been said about the relationship of the passers-by to that other. In the narrative it appears that all three – the priest, the Levite and the Samaritan – enter into relationship with that other and that this is ‘ethical’ in nature. In order to penetrate into the essence of this, we have to ascertain what the confrontation with that other does to them. An attentive, unrushed reading of the parable makes it clear that not only does something ‘different’ take place in the existence of the passersby but that they are also moved and touched by that other. This becomes clearly apparent in their respective, be it different, reactions, as will be discussed below. The evil of suffering that affects the other elicits attention from those who pass by. It manifests itself in a sigh, a wail or a cry that is aimed at anyone around. The sigh that arises out of the filthy depths of one’s suffering does not leave those who hear it indifferent. Each of the three passers-by ‘sees’ the other lying there. What is meant

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here is not some kind of neutral form of ‘seeing’ that only registers and reflects data, but rather a non-indifferent awareness, a sense, whereby the three who go on their way are ‘de-neutralized’ so that any further aloofness becomes impossible. Different from the above-mentioned responsibility in the first person, this reveals a new heteronomous responsibility by-the-other. With Levinas, we can call it ‘an-archic’ and ‘pre-original’ in the sense that it does not refer back to my freedom, which presents itself as arché or ‘fundamental principle’ and origin of responsibility and meaning (cf. supra). It precedes my freedom. I discover myself as being made responsible by the epiphany of the suffering other, in spite of myself. A radical passivity, that is “more passive than all [active] passivity” (AE 18/14). I do not take the initiative in order to make myself available or to set myself in passivitymode, with the intention that the other would then come to me. That would still be an active passivity or receptive attitude. I can neither foresee nor plan the entrance of the other into the circle of my attempt-atbeing, I cannot open myself in all goodwill to the other a-priori or beforehand. It is therefore not about an encounter with the other that rests on a conscious and generous direction of myself towards the other that can determinedly be traced back to myself. It is a confrontation that takes place and happens to me in spite of myself, precisely because the other enters into my existence ‘from elsewhere’ or ‘from the outside’. In a fully unforeseen and uncontrollable way, and against the entire significance of my attempt-at-being and freedom, my existence is turned upside down and ‘called’ to responsibility. This can be identified as a responsibility in the second person since it does not start from myself as ‘I’ but from the naked face of the other. In this heteronomous responsibility, ‘I’ as nominative is transformed into ‘me’ in the accusative – which inadvertently makes us think of the Hebrew ‘Hineni’, a grammatical form without the nominative form, and which Levinas frequently quotes as ‘me voici’. (AE 143/112). In contrast to the English expression ‘Here I am’, whereby the ‘I’ stands in the active nominative as ‘selfpresentation’, we find the ‘I’ in ‘me voici’ in the passive accusative ‘me’ as the one addressed. I stay ‘under accusation’ of the naked face of the other appealing to me and making me responsible despite myself. It is not a matter of being guilty or of having made a mistake, but of being ‘indebted’: I am indebted to the other, obliged to vouch for the other (Schweiker, 1999; Thomasset, 2000). How radical this responsibility for the other is, comes particularly to the fore as ‘by the other’ when we look into the experience of bearing

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children and parenthood. The way in which Levinas puts it makes it sound paradoxical and challenging: ‘People wish for children, but never get the children they wish for’ (TI 244-245/267). To bear children is the dream of many couples. They express in an exceptional manner their mutually shared responsibility in the first person, namely their dream about sharing-their-lives-together. At present this is even expressed in the active voice: people ‘make’ children (while in the past, clearly under the influence of religion, one spoke of ‘having children’). But even though partners ‘make’ children, they never ‘have’ the children they make… Perhaps their children fulfil (partially) their wishes, but they also always surpass these expectations not only in the positive but also in the negative sense (and especially the latter is experienced as dramatic). The other escapes from my wish (‘beyond-the-desire’). Hence a deep ethical feeling – awareness – is ensconced in parents that they are responsible for the children that they actually receive, and not only for the child they had wished for. By means of its epiphany, the child makes the parents responsible. The basis of this responsibility is the other as other, the other as stranger. Thus, the child as ‘strange other’ becomes the master of the parents, just as the naked, strange other is the master for the priest, the Levite and the Samaritan. Not only becoming a parent but becoming a whole human being is a learning process: “The absolutely foreign alone can instruct us” (TI 46/73). We do not find the other in ourselves; the other comes to us as a revelation, that means as a master and a calling. 3.3. Responsibility begins as prohibition and restraint The question that will now be addressed is how the passers-by in the narrative react to the ethical appeal that proceeds from the injured body – the naked face – of the suffering other (whoever that may be)? Do they take up their being made responsible in a heteronomous manner ‘by the other’? Upon closer inspection, it seems that ‘giving ear’ to that responsibility is anything but obvious and easy. The priest sees the one suffering lying there, yet walks around him in a curve. The Levite simply ignores him (Lk 10,31-32). This means that they have chosen not to come to the aid of the suffering other. It seems a blunt refusal but perhaps is there more to it than that. The ethical experience of the other begins as a shockexperience wherein we can unravel a double knot: the possibility and at the same time the prohibition to ignore the robbed person.

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The fact that the priest and the Levite have something to do with the other leads them to embarrassment. Both see the other lying there, halfdead. That they walk their way around him shows that they are affected by the epiphany of the other. The appeal, expressed in and through suffering, that ensues from the naked face of the other makes them restless. They try to escape from it and are thus enticed to turn away their gaze and walk on. Through this they depict the unease that the suffering other arouses within us and leads us to indifference, i.e. to abandon the other to his fate – his death. In a certain sense, this enticement is understandable. That the priest and the Levite were not at all pleased to find the shaken-up other along their way ensues from the fact that the epiphany of that other has disrupted their existence, i.e. change it from order to disorder. The crisis that the other brings about in their healthy (including spiritual) self-care makes them back down. We can call this enticement to indifference or frivolous ‘irresponsibility’ (QLT 84/38), being a form of ‘culpable omission’, the beginning of the ethical relationship to the other. Levinas calls it in rather strong terms the temptation to kill (EI 86/80), in the awareness that ‘to kill’ can take on many forms: “so many ways of being comport a way of crushing the other” (EFP 100/53). Just think about the following: indifference and forgetting, exclusion or assimilation; intimidation, power abuse and tyranny, exploitation and terrorism; rhetoric and diplomacy; hatred, racism and anti-Semitism; up to and including the total negation of murder and extermination (TI 172/198). The ethical moment of the enticement towards indifference (abuse of power and violence) is the awareness of the unease that lies within it. We can identify this as the ‘scruple’ as well as the ‘pebble in the shoe’. In the rather conspicuous obviousness to walk away there is the awareness of a non-self-evidence. What is possible, and even self-evident, namely walking past the suffering other, is not possible or, rather, should not be possible. In the forwardness of indifference, a restraint crops up. Plato calls this the ‘frikè’ in the ‘eros’: in the approach and touch of the other we are inclined to lay claim on the other through our caress. The noble eros in its awareness of the matter, namely in the ‘shudder’ (frémissement), impels us to be careful, i.e. to withdraw at the moment of the touch: the shuddering of hesitation, uneasiness, crisis… (AE 110/87). This means that the ethical approach to the other does not begin as a positive urge, but as “the apparently negative movement of restraint” (NLT 95/126). This shock-experience is marked by a double form of denial: the tendency to deny the other, and the tendency, that causes

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unease, itself. This pushes towards the task ‘to deny the denial’, i.e. to not give in to that tendency and thus to choose for non-indifference. According to Levinas, this is expressed in the prohibition ‘Thou shalt not kill’ (EI 93/89). This is no longer simply a tendency but rather a fundamental choice. From this perspective the behaviour of the priest and the Levite cannot be dismissed as a spontaneous reaction of indifference. It is a free choice for irresponsibility – a refusal to take up the responsibility for the other. They enact this choice rather ‘civilly’. By means of turning away their gaze and by pretending they do not see the other lying there, they do not leave the other brutally to choke. Civilization often involves leaving the other to its fate in a polite, indirect manner: ‘sorry, we did not even see him or her lying there’. But this is a form of bad faith that camouflages a negative ethical option without undoing that choice. You can never act as if you did not see the other after you have in fact done so. In this regard, the cautious avoidance of the priest and the Levite is inexcusable – even if there were an institutional argument to be found in their ‘temple duties’ (for example uncleanliness after having touched a dead body) that would support not being able to perform their duties. Thus it is clear that in case of the priest and the Levite, this is not about one or other form of inattentiveness or absent-mindedness, but about what is ethically right. It is about a choice between good and evil and not between equally valid possibilities: either say no (directly and brutally or else indirectly and a bit more ‘civilized’) or say yes. Here we arrive at the ethical core of the narrative: the passers-by have to come to a fundamental decision. The priest and the Levite must say yes, but they can say no. In this sense, their indifference becomes the utmost ‘nonindifference’ in a negative sense! The ethical relationship to the other begins, in other words, with not doing something, with not choosing for the negative. Responsibility for the other is thus understood as the paradox of ‘self-contraction’ and shame about oneself, as a movement of withdrawal and self-questioning, before doing anything concrete. 3.4. Touched to the guts And what about the Samaritan? Is he, in contrast to the priest and the Levite, the noble person who enthusiastically and wholly goes out of his way because of the wounded other, a hero of goodness? In contrast to what we often presuppose, the Samaritan is a very ‘normal’ and ‘healthy’ person who of himself is occupied with his own project of existence.

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He is not a spontaneously self-sacrificing person who simply helps anyone in need everywhere. Just like the priest and the Levite, he is on his way for personal business. Most likely, judging from his beast of burden, he is engaged in trade. His interests are economic, pragmatic and utilitarian. Consequently, he does not like to be disturbed in his businesses. He has just as many reasons, if not more, to walk away from the man lying there… Initially the Samaritan is not spoken of as someone who is actively altruistic. He was “moved by pity” (Lk 10,33). What is remarkable here is the passive form of the verb: ‘esplagchnistè’. This makes clear that, in spite of himself, the Samaritan is touched to his guts. The form of the verb ‘esplagchnistè’ contains the substantive ‘splagchna’ – entrails, guts, like the Latin ‘viscera’. This passive and heteronomous being touched by the suffering of the other is indicated entirely from the body. The spiritual element of being moved is displayed in a bodily and tangible form. Just like a mother who suffers because of the anguish of her child and thus cannot sleep, experiences palpitations and ulcers, or becomes ill herself because of her child: “exposed and suffering in its skin; stuck in its skin (mal dans sa peau), not having its skin to itself (…); adversity itself, the against oneself that is in the self ” (AE 68/51). 3.5. Incarnated responsibility The radical passivity of being made responsible in spite of oneself does not exclude the active exercise of that responsibility: “despite oneself, starting with oneself ” (AE 71/55). In it one finds the call to make a choice. The Samaritan, like the priest and the Levite, could walk in a circle around the victim – and, as we already mentioned, perhaps he wanted to do. Yet he responds to the appeal of the naked face by effectively relieving the need of the other through generosity of goodness. Remarkably, even disturbingly, in this narrative Jesus does not put the priest nor the Levite – fellow Jews and brothers in the faith – forward as the ones who look after the robbed one, but a foreigner. Moreover, a Samaritan who is not a ‘pure’ Jew (cf. supra). With this, Jesus breaks in an extravagant and subversive way through the normal patterns of expectation. Speaking to Jews, one could expect that Jesus would present a Jew as the merciful one, but he surprises them with exactly the opposite. The Samaritan not only hears the ethical appeal that ensues from the injured face of the other, he actually acts upon it as well. He becomes actively responsible. He does not wait for the wounded one to turn to

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him but he approaches the other to see what is actually needed to assist. The need of the other not only sobers the Samaritan as to his striving towards (economic) self-unfolding. It also arouses in him the desire, the urge, to care for the well-being of the other. In this sense Levinas speaks of the “Work” (HAH 40/26). Concretely, the Samaritan applies first aid to the robbed and injured other by disinfecting his wounds and binding them. In the Christian tradition, this ‘work’ is expressed tangibly in the ‘seven bodily works of mercy’: feed the hungry, give drink to the thirsty, clothe the naked, shelter the homeless, visit the sick, visit the prisoners, bury the dead (for the first six works, cf. Mt 25:25-36 and Is 58:6-11; for the last work, cf. Tob 1,17). When this ‘work of diakonia’ is thought through to its radicality, it reveals itself as a movement of the self toward the other that never returns to the self: “The Work thought all the way through demands a radical generosity of movement which in the same (self ) goes toward the other” (HAH 41/26-27). It is the work of goodness, in the sense that it “demands ingratitude from the other” (HAH 41/27). It is better to give than to receive. Stronger still, if the gratitude of the other would be the condition for giving, then that giving is based on reciprocity and is not true goodness. Authentic goodness is essentially ‘disinterestedness’ – “breathlessness of the spirit, or the spirit holding its breath” (AE 5/5). In the narrative no mention is made about the reaction of the suffering other. But since the narrative focusses on the responsibility of the Samaritan for the suffering other, the ‘answer’ of the other does not matter here. To declare acknowledgement from his side would affect the goodness of the Samaritan in its sincerity and degrade it to ambiguity. In this regard, we also note how the narrative says nothing about the emotions of the Samaritan. We do not know whether in his being touched by the other he develops feelings of ‘sympathy’ for the other. If that were the case, then the generosity of his goodness would again have been endangered (Chisholm, 1963; Heyd, 1982). Sympathy after all is based on ‘having fellow feeling’ (Einfühlung) ‘recognizing oneself ’ in the other, and thus on reciprocity: “One is for the other what the other is for oneself. The other is known through sympathy, as another (my)self, as the alter ego” (TA 74-75/82-83). I find myself in the other, in her or his characteristics, and thereby I become drawn to the other. Sympathy expresses the yearning for a common existence in which both sides commonly and mutually participate. It is a relationship of direct exchange because the partners are accessible to each other and understand each other by means of their shared characteristics. In and through the feeling

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of sympathy, I put myself in the place of the other and the other in my place so that we see each other as similar (semblable) (DMT 51/40). Of this sympathy and reciprocity between the Samaritan (the benefactor) and the suffering other (the victim of crime), there is, once again, no trace at all in the story. After all, it is not about feelings of affection and conciliation (affectivity) but about the effectiveness of doing, namely that which urgently needs to be done for the other. And that is the real and only focus of the Samaritan. Whatever his disposition may be of sympathy (or antipathy), it does not matter! What is certain is that the Samaritan’s ‘work of diakonia’ does not go without a fight. It does not at all take place as something obvious but is contrary as it flows against the first focus of the economically disposed Samaritan. Hence we can state with Levinas that the service of goodness is not possible without pain and suffering. Goodness means extracting oneself out of the dynamism of self-complacency that develops ‘by nature’ in the subservient subject’s enjoyment – and striving for happiness. Stronger still, giving presupposes the attachment of the I to itself, and its delight therein, whereby giving cannot but be paired with pain, namely the pain of tearing oneself from oneself: “pain comes to interrupt an enjoyment in its very isolation, and thus tears me from myself ” (AE 71/55). To give, to-be-for-the-other takes place despite oneself, as we have already indicated above, namely “in interrupting the for-oneself ”. The work of goodness consists hereof: “to take the bread out of one’s own mouth, to nourish the hunger of another with one’s own fasting. The for-the-other is enacted already in the enjoying and savouring” (AE 72/56). This generosity realizes a down-to-earth ethics of disinterested goodness, which we can call also ‘solicitude’ that seeks an appropriate answer to the needs of the other (Berten, 2019, 9-10). 3.6. Ethical transformation of self-development There is another aspect in the responsible actions of the Samaritan that deserves our attention, namely that he – after providing first aid – puts the wounded other on his own animal and brings him to the inn where he can be cared for. The text says literally: ‘his own animal’. The Greek ‘idion’ expresses that he uses that which is solely, entirely and exclusively his own property, to come to the aid of the robbed person. The ‘own animal’ appears here as an image. As metaphor of the means to achieve one’s self-development, it substantiates the responsibility of the Samaritan in the first person. The only thing which the Samaritan

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has at hand to assist the robbed person is that which he has developed into a ‘capability’ thanks to his knowledge and skills. This implies a reassessment of one’s self-development, a self-unfolding that is no longer ‘for me’ but is undertaken ‘for the other’. I should not set aside, stifle, repress or deny my personal self-development, but rather turn it round and transform it. To face another who is in need with empty hands is a vain and sanctimonious gesture: real and ‘fitting’ assistance is one that the other deserves. In the name of my taken-up responsibility for the suffering other, I am ineluctably appealed to unfold myself as best I can, ‘to equip’ myself well and to develop my talents as broadly as possible, up to a certain professionalism. The suffering that the other meets as a fatality or injustice demands that I invest all means and ‘discoveries’ of my (socio)scientific and technical or medical knowledge and aptitude for the other’s well-being. This then also leads to a deepening and sublimation, stronger still, a ‘consecration’ and ‘sanctification’ of myself and my self-development (Schweiker, 1992). 3.7. ‘You shall not let anyone die alone’ To conclude our reflections on the incarnated responsibility of the Samaritan, we would, along with Levinas, like to indicate one important dimension that deserves attention especially today. It is the appeal that flows forth directly from the non-reciprocity – beyond every ‘do-ut-des’ – of goodness, namely “the order not to let the other alone, be it in the face of the inexorable” (EI 128/119). We cannot forget that in the story, the robbed person was left ‘half dead’, i.e. ‘delivered unto death’. We can hardly deny that the most eminent and at the same time most painful human misery is mortality, of which our being in need of help, and especially physical suffering, signifies a frightening anticipation. In his afflicted body, the person in the narrative – the other – is exposed, direct and defenceless, to the threatening approach of death. In the body that suffers pain, death is no longer a future prospect. It already announces itself in the present. Through physical suffering we can no longer deny the existence of death. It is like a sting stuck into our flesh. Physical suffering reveals our inescapable vulnerability: we are in no way whatsoever armed and insured against death. In the pain we experience here and now our existence has no guarantees and this makes it all the more painful. Suffering assails, from the inside out, our attempt-at-being. It brings about a foretaste of my future death, which I can postpone in my thoughts as long as it has not yet come but not into my experience now.

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The fear of death takes place as the ‘evil in my very flesh’ by which I know I am inevitably handed over to the final, unrelenting enemy, up to the merciless paroxysm of death in utter loneliness and destitution (DVI 196/127). This is why we can rightly state that “the fear for the death of the other is certainly at the basis of the responsibility for the other” (EI 128/119). The one who ‘passes-by’, as in the narrative, is so moved by the suffering and the being-near-death of the other that he has to give an account of the ultimate violence under which the other, in his extreme vulnerability as a mortal human being, has suffered. ‘To see’ the suffering-and-dying other lying there means to be demanded not to leave the other alone when he – precisely through suffering and pain – is confronted with impending death. This remains the case even though I am in no position to fight against this unmerciful enemy and even though I can do nothing but respond with the ‘here I am’ of a lingering and caring nearness. I can hold the hand of the other, lighten and make the suffering and dying bearable without the other being able to return the favour. Rabbinic literature even goes so far as to call the latter the criterion of ‘true mercy’, which consists of loving someone as if that someone were dead. This does not mean that someone must first be dead in order to be loved, but rather that we must love ‘as if the someone were dead’. This is utter asymmetry or non-reciprocity. Then we can no longer approach the other starting from the idea of proportionality, whereby one does something in order to get something back (‘quid pro quo’). When someone is dead he or she can no longer return a favour, so much so that I can no longer show mercy towards that other just in order to fare well in one way or the other or to expect something in return. The truth regarding mercy is apparent only in its utter gratuity (DVI 29/11). 4. Responsibility beyond the face-to-face We are now at the point where the insights that lie in the narrative come closer to satisfaction. Yet the issue whether the narrative is only about goodness that only occurs on a strictly interpersonal – face-à-face – level, as it has been presented thus far, persists. Does the narrative also offer points of reflection in relationship to structural justice? We pose this query because of the accusation, heard all too often, that Jesus’ parable is only about ‘charity’ and not about ‘justice’. Our probing into this is also motivated by the social-ethical thought of Levinas in the sense that for him one not only talks of the self (cf. responsibility in the

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first person) and – especially – the other (cf. responsibility in the second person), but also of the ‘third party’ or the responsibility in the third person that is related to the many in the plural and in the social, economic and political ‘mediation’ of that responsibility. 4.1. Where is the indignation against inflicted evil? Though the narrative focusses on the responsibility and care for the injured other, we should not forget that this person has been beaten up and left half dead by robbers. This kind of suffering has nothing to do with illness. The man is a victim of a crime. Others have struck him at his physical integrity. Being committed to the victim thus implies more than simply ensuring that we meet his or her needs. We must also engage ourselves to the fact that something has happened that is not right, something that is intolerable. Responsibility for the other contains the aspect of being sensitive to the evil and becoming angry about this. Compassion, literally ‘suffering-with’ someone, means daring to judge and pose questions. Edward Schillebeeckx called it the negative contrastexperience (Schillebeeckx, 1968, 28-36): you become indignant; you are affected, because you find it unjust, unacceptable. ‘This cannot go on any further! This is unheard of! This cries out to heaven. What is happening here cannot be, or better should not be!’ We become angry about inflicted evil and in this we are moved to dare see, judge and condemn it. In this sense a ‘negative contrast experience’ is always contextual. It arises as a protest against the factually given, limited level of humanization and against the actual form of dehumanization. That is why contrast experience always appears as a negative experience, although a positive sense of value coupled to a strong urgency of what ‘should be’ lies hidden in its soul! Fundamental values and possibilities address us most strongly in the context of their being threatened. At times, we are so concerned with the sufferer that we lose sight of the ‘how’ someone becomes a victim. Indignation has the same source as goodness (responsibility, compassion, mercy, solidarity). You are affected, you are touched viscerally, and you feel the unease. Dorothy Sölle calls it the ‘anger in the belly’, once again, and not coincidentally, a bodily expression. One reminiscent of the Biblical tradition, where prophets become angry and denounce evildoings not in their own name but in the name of God. The ‘holy anger God’, as we explained in Chapter IV. God does not remain indifferent, always and eternally the same, impassive: ‘impassibilis’. Even the Holy One – as love – is touchable and is thus

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thrown off-balance by all the injustice that takes place amongst humans in his world. A God who is loving and merciful becomes indignant about the violation of love. The indignation at the fact that the other becomes the victim of crime thus forms an inherent part of the responsibility-by-and-for-the-other. Out of this being troubled and turned upside down, we are challenged to reflect on the inflicted evil, to rebel against it, to do something about it, to address the injustice. In the parable of the Samaritan we do not find anything in that regard. The injured and suffering other is eventually helped, but one could also state that we must make the roads safer and tackle the robbers in order to prevent that more people will fall victim to such crimes. Responsibility for the other is not only healing but also preventing and providing remedy. The story of the Good Samaritan cannot be seen as a ‘total’ or ‘final narrative’ wherein all aspects of our ethical relationship to other people, namely our responsibility-by-and-for-the-other, are presented. Like all stories Jesus’ tells, the parable remains particular, marked by its own perspective. Only an ‘open’ reading respects the unique genre of a true narrative. One that always evokes an experience from a certain point of view, without having the pretence of containing all perspectives. Were that to be the case, it would give rise to a ‘final’ and thus ‘totalitarian’ narrative. The narrative of the Samaritan thus challenges us to think beyond itself… This book likewise seeks to do this. Hence it contains commentaries on other Biblical stories like that of Naboth and his vineyard in Chapter IV, on prophetic judgment and a ‘God who is angered by inflicted evil’, as well as the story of Cain and Abel in Chapter III where God jolts Cain’s conscience. 4.2. Organized and institutionalized responsibility In the parable of the Samaritan, is there negligence in regard to the structural dimension of the responsibility of humans for each other? A ‘slow close reading’, reveals that this is not the case. Although the institutional dimension of responsibility is only briefly alluded to, still it is present and this in multiple aspects. First of all, we have the priest and the Levite who are mentioned as representatives of organized religion. As they function at the service of the temple they should keep their hands pure and take every precaution to avoid being tainted. Thus it is better if they do not touch the man lying there. He could be dead and not only wounded. As representatives

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of a religious organization they are put in a situation where it is possible to avoid being merciful through a ‘plausible argument’ to legitimize this. Naturally they could have chosen to go beyond their role and take an oppositional stance, stepping out of their institutional setting and saying: ‘I am doing it nonetheless!’ In religious as well as other forms of organization, agreements and rules are specified. Sometimes, through our own place, function, in our attachment to that institute, we are hindered from fulfilling what the ethics of responsibility, mercifulness and justice requires. That is why saints are perceived as charismatic figures who are often recalcitrant: they have not adhered to what has been prescribed. or rather they have surpassed these rules in the name of the “wisdom of love” (AE 37/188). An organized justice can be found in the actions of the Samaritan when he carries the victim to an inn and makes a request with the innkeeper (Lk 10:35). The Samaritan is, ethically speaking, both radical and modest at the same time. Without delay and unconditionally he takes upon himself the responsibility for the suffering other. And yet he is no ethical hero who intends to do everything himself. He requests goods and services and addresses of the one responsible at the institution he turns to, namely the innkeeper. The latter has more possibilities to care for the wounded man. Through this the Samaritan is presented as someone who does not lock himself in his responsibility-by-and-for-the-other, but passes it on. He transforms responsibility into a delegated, shared one by appealing to the expertise of the innkeeper. His active responsibility embodies anything but a thoughtless or naive goodness. This is, once again, a modality of the wisdom of love. 4.3. Money as ‘mediator’ Moreover, as a ‘mediator’ the Samaritan uses his money for his ‘broadened’ responsibility: “The next day he took two denarii, gave them to the innkeeper, and said, ‘Take care of him” (Lk 10,35a). The money the Samaritan gives, embodies his generosity, but this generosity is a wise and prudential generosity, while it makes organized care by others possible. Through money economic transactions happen between people. This allows for the objectification of one’s possessions and makes them available to and for others. Initially possessions are attached to me singularly. They are in ‘my possession’. But by making it available and setting a price on goods and services, and thus making these negotiable, it acquires an objective and general significance. In other words, it can

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become ‘for others’, thus ‘for everyone’. The ‘works’ – the goods and services – that I produce are ‘mine’, and thus ‘my’ possessions. But thanks to money they lose the weight of being possessed, i.e. their being attached to my identity. Through money my possession becomes ‘de-possessed’. Besides, money has the advantage that it is objectified as ‘amount’, and thus that the value of things become calculable whatever the nature of those ‘things’ may be: both material goods as well as immaterial services. Thanks to this system people become capable of meeting each other’s needs and necessities and of bearing real responsibility for each other, not only for those near but also far, all around the world (TI 44/72, 4876, 113-114/140, 136/162, 294/297; SA 79-83/116-121). The Samaritan gives two denarii to the innkeeper with the explicit request that he now takes further care of the man. He does not ask him for generosity nor for free service but pays him for the services so that the innkeeper can also live off this and ‘care for the other’. The Samaritan is not stingy, for two denarii represent a considerable sum of money. One denarius in Jesus’ time amounted to a day’s wages for a well-paid labourer. For one denarius one could buy a sheep, or around 15 measures of wine. And… the temple tax costs two denarii. The money (of the Samaritan) is an indispensable link in the organized, professional and salaried responsibility that the Samaritan initiates. In this regard, money has an ethical significance, even though we do know that it can become perverted into ‘dirty money’. Money is also ‘mammon’, i.e. the ‘devil’ of greed and avarice, of abuse of power or striving for omnipotence… (EPA 45) (cf. also Mt 6,24; Lk 16,9.11.13: “dishonest wealth”). This indicates a secondary perversion of what originally has a positive ethical meaning. In matters of money, one should never forget inter-human nearness. However perverse it may become, we can never lose sight of the fact that it originates and has been inspired by social awareness: the relation of the one to the other whereby people care for each other and can receive from one another (SA 80/117). 4.4. ‘Wisdom of love’ as compromise and ‘ethical individualism’ The narrative, however, does not end with delegated, organized and salaried responsibility. While delegating, the Samaritan after all says: “… when I come back, I will repay you whatever more you spend” (Lk 10,35b). The Samaritan does not stay in the inn to oversee that everything proceeds accordingly. He leaves and thus trusts the professional and counts on the innkeeper to take his responsibility and do all that is

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necessary for the victim. He picks up the thread of his initial responsibility in the first person. And thus he finds a compromise with his own plans. This is not a narrative about absolute goodness that ends in some form of ethical burn-out. Responsibility by-and-for-the-other is quite radical, it overcomes me, but in its execution it is modest, attainable and shared. We can call it a form of ‘wise responsibility’: a radical goodness that does not want to be a ‘total goodness’. We could say that the Samaritan has only ‘dropped everything’ initially, but not definitively. His goodness remains humble in its unconditional and anything but utilitarian character. And it is precisely this confluence of radicalism and realism that makes responsibility-by-and-for-the-other recognizable and vivid. In other words, the original imbalance becomes tempered by a secondary balance whereby the radical responsibility for the other becomes attainable, without having to give up the radical appeal for responsibility. On the other hand, the Samaritan does not abandon the other. This is not about a facile and cheap sentiment but about a sharp ethical awareness. The other who happens to befall him on his way keeps on appealing to his responsibility. After he has delegated his responsibility to the well ‘provisioned’ innkeeper (the professional), he does not wash his hands in innocence. He takes leave without letting go of that other. He remains involved, so much so that he promises that after he has gone about his ‘own business’, he shall pass by to see whether everything is all right with the other. Whoever makes a promise takes upon oneself a responsibility for the future. Moreover, to the one to whom he has made the promise he gives the right to count on that commitment and, if needed, to remind him about it. Thanks to his promise the Samaritan does not desert the other. We can thus pose this as a modality of the wisdom of love: love, as a response to the appeal not only to care for oneself but also for the other, in search of a balance between both – though a pure and utterly balanced equilibrium is perhaps never possible, nor humane. Even in the wisdom of love, people do not have to be heroes nor champions. That the Samaritan returns does not only mean that he keeps up his responsibility but also that he doesn’t intend to give the final word to the organization (the inn), i.e. the socio-political order with its structures, systems and institutions in general. Here, the narrative moves in the direction of ‘ethical individualism’ (TH 82/24) as Levinas has described: “There are, if you like, the tears that a civil servant [of state or socio-political order] cannot see: the tears of the [unique] other. In order for things to develop an equilibrium, it is absolutely necessary to affirm the infinite responsibility of each, for each, before each. In such a situation [of social and political systems], individual consciences are

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necessary, for they alone are capable of seeing the violence that proceeds from the proper functioning of Reason itself [‘la raison d’état’]. To remedy a certain disorder which proceeds from the Order of universal Reason, it is necessary to defend subjectivity. Subjective protest is not received favourably on the pretext that its egoism is sacred but because I alone can perceive the ‘secret tears’ of the Other, which are caused by the functioning – albeit reasonable – of the hierarchy [and the administrative and legal system of the socio-political order]” (TH 81/23). The individual conscience can – or rather should – never be eliminated. However good the intention may be, organizations (and their ‘laws’) can be or become unjust, because they no longer satisfy when new situations or problems arise. There is not only the dictatorship of bad but also of good rules. The worst rule is perhaps the one of the ‘best’ regulations, which then elevate themselves as such to be a ‘final’ regime (cf. chapter IV). Precisely for that reason the unique, responsible subjectivity is indispensable in assuring the well-being that the socio-political order searches for in equal measure, but that is again brought into a tight corner by that order as system and regime.

5. Beyond the narrative: Small goodness and a new vision on the future According to Levinas, ethical individualism is not only expressed in the alertness to judge the quality of care that the organization provides, but also the concrete actions of the responsible subject itself, namely in its actual deeds. Not only the first word falls upon the shoulders of the individual, responsible subject – face-to-face with the other in need – but also the last word in and through the ‘small goodness’. With this, we go beyond the narrative, taking inspiration from the Samaritan’s action in coming graciously and without hesitation to the aid of the wounded, providing primary care and then surrendering him to the inn-keeper and his welfare organization. Along with Levinas, we will now investigate the meaning of this small goodness. 5.1. A ‘small’ goodness Earlier we explicated the idea of goodness as ‘disinterestedness’, i.e. generosity and ‘diakonia’. Now we look into its ‘smallness’, a characterization that Levinas takes from Ikonnikov-Grossman (Grossman, 2006) (see also Chapter IV).

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Inspired by Vasily Grossman’s novel ‘Life and Fate’ (G), Levinas refers to the small goodness in the context of the socio-political order that, in the pretence of accomplishing a ‘wholesome regime’, turns into its own terrifying opposite or that gets bogged down in institutionalism. He says literally through the scribblings of Ikonnikov the ‘madman’, ‘simpleton’, ‘feeble-minded’, ‘holy fool’ (who can be inspired) (G 11, 394 – HN 103/90; PO 34/90) in Grossman’s book, with quotes and paraphrases: “In the decay of human relations, in that sociological misery, goodness persists. In the relation of one person to another, goodness is possible. The impossibility of goodness as a government, as a social institution. Every attempt to organize the human fails. The only thing that remains vigorous is the goodness of everyday life. Ikonnikov calls it the small goodness. It’s a goodness without witnesses. That goodness escapes all ideology: he says that ‘it could be described as goodness without thought.’ Why without thought? Because it is a goodness outside all systems, all religions, all social organizations. Gratuitous goodness! The feeble-minded are those who defend it and work at its perpetuation from one being to another. It is so fragile before the might of evil. It is a ‘mad goodness’, the most truly human in a human being. It defines man, despite its powerlessness, and Ikonnikov has another beautiful image to qualify it: ‘It is beautiful and powerless, like the dew’. What freshness in this despair” (AT 117-118/107-109). Upon further reflection on this ‘small goodness’ we discover two of its aspects, namely ‘smallness’ and ‘goodness’. The small goodness is small because it expresses an “ethics without ethical system” (EFP 135/81). This means that it rises above or beyond whatever system of norms and rules. Stronger still, its vocation is to surpass the political as a system with its alienations, including its totalitarian aberrations, in particular. That is why it neither can nor may be of the same calibre as the social, economic, juridical and political regime. Hence, Ikonnikov-Grossman and Levinas call it ‘small’, or ‘unsightly’, weak and powerless, fragmentary and partial, unostentatious and casual. It is anything but lofty and awesome, like the idea of the collective Good announcing itself as something ‘great and threatening’. On the contrary, it is so commonplace that it usually happens unnoticed, taking place without much reflection, unplanned and coincidental – ‘thoughtlessly’, as Ikonnikov calls it. It is so meagre and usually invisible that you barely hear any testimonials about it, certainly not in the ‘media’ that makes things public. Small goodness spreads like tiny particles here and there through life so that we easily overlook it. “One might just as well be afraid of a freshwater fish carried out by chance into the salty ocean”,

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says Ikonnikov ironically (G 393). Its powerlessness is so huge that we easily begin to doubt it. In its smallness it is also foolish, silly, and even insane and to a certain extent meaningless, says Ikonnikov. But it is and remains “as simple as life itself ” (G 393). It possesses in its weakness a hidden force. A mild force that does not impose itself or anything on anyone. It never enforces itself. Hence, it can never be raised to an ‘ideology’, ‘theory’ or ‘thought construct’ (RA 15). And it should never be the object of an edifying and persuading discourse (EN 116/85), nor of dogmatic argumentation or propaganda that in a sly manner presents or imposes it as the ‘truth’ (EN 139/103). Actually, it must remain under the radar of every argumentation… whatever the philosophical discourse may be that tries to make it seem suspicious. In spite of the awareness that it cannot be hushed up, the uneasy awareness must remain that this discourse can degrade into an oppressive ‘persuasion speech’. It is only thanks to this ‘self-restraint’ that the modest and at the same time ‘effective’ force of the small goodness can remain intact. 5.2. Reversal of the view on the future of a humane society ‘Small goodness’ as ‘unselfishness’, does not only surpass the sociopolitical order, it also introduces a reversal of the view on the future of a humane and humanizing society. At first glance, the idea of small goodness evokes the indulgent-cynical reproach of ‘cheap and silly altruism’ or “love as amusement” (amour rigolo, amour rigolade) (EFP 115/65). That is also what happens when in Life and Fate a certain Mostovskoy has read through the scribblings of Ikonnikov. Grossman notes how he first remains seated for a few minutes with his eyes half closed and then reacts contemptuously: “Yes, the man who had written this was (…) the ruin of a feeble spirit! The preacher declares that the heavens are empty… He sees life as a war of everything against everything [cf. Hobbes]. And then at the end he starts tinkling the same old bells, praising the goodness of old women and hoping to extinguish a world-wide conflagration with an enema springe. What trash!” (G 394). The reproach, that also ridicules small goodness, shall reoccur time and again. At times it will be convincing and effective as when the small goodness is reduced to an isolated burp of feelings of empathy or sympathy, without effectively doing something. This in contrast to small goodness that actually develops its own decisiveness in contrast with the powers of a system threatening to flood everything and which one cannot resist.

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Small goodness, we can state, installs a new view on history. To look at how, we will pursue the last paragraph of the scribblings of Ikonnikov (G 394). Levinas also refers to this in conclusion of his Talmudic lesson ‘Beyond memory’ (HN 105/91): “My faith was steeled, reinforced in Hell. It has emerged from the flames of the crematoria, from the concrete of the gas chambers. I have seen that it is not human beings who are impotent in the struggle against evil, but the power of evil that is impotent in the struggle against human beings. The powerlessness of small goodness, is the secret of its immortality. It can never be conquered. Evil is impotent before it. Prophets, religious teachers, reformers, social and political leaders are impotent before it. This dumb, blind love is human’s meaning. Human history is not the battle of good struggling to overcome evil. It is the struggle of a great evil trying to crush the tiny seed of humanity. But if even now [by Stalinism, Hitlerism, genocides, terrorism …] the human has not been destroyed in human beings, evil will never prevail” (G 394 – HN 105/91). This quote presupposes a classic view of history in that it can be generally read as a struggle between good and evil, or rather as a struggle of good against evil. Moreover, this dynamism of history is interpreted from a certain Messianic or eschatological perspective, in the sense that one ‘hopes’ and ‘believes’ that history will end well. Briefly and particularly: good shall defeat evil. There will be a new world without blood and tears, without hate and persecution and extermination… Time and again, in the heat of the struggle and alienation, we envision liberation as conquering alienation… thanks to the struggle that was waged! But has that precisely not been the concept of history that Stalinism employed? Through its struggle, it promised the ultimate victory of the good, of which it portrayed itself as its incarnation and guarantee. But that victory of good over evil was only possible through all those forms of censure and repression, persecution and violence, deportations and camps… And much more that actually should not have been seen but were ‘revealed’ plainly and without exaggeration in Grossman’s novel. For Marx, and especially for Lenin and Stalin, history had an apparent goal: the communist society. But Grossman saw how this was striven for at the price of innumerable inhuman acts. This shows how the ideology of an ideal society – entirely humane, ‘messianic’ – legitimizes all coercive measures and forms of state violence, including ideological purifications, as necessary. This brought not only Ikonnikov but also Levinas to his senses. He interprets the novel by Grossman as a true ‘revelation’. This book reinforces his view on history, which actually becomes a view without a view on a ‘telos’ or ‘end goal’ of history. Hence Levinas states, with his ability to express

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paradoxical exaggeration, that he has no philosophy of history (RA 15; PO 34/90). He rejects every idea of a dialectically teleological process that is directed towards the final victory of the good over evil. He lets go of this view once and for all. There is no such thing as a fulfilment of history, to which we would be on our way and, furthermore, where such fulfilment would be ensured by God’s promise or by divinized human powers. Since Auschwitz, he no longer subscribed to such a promise since the Lord of Hosts did not intervene to protect his people from the absolute evil of extermination (EN 114/83). Apparently, God had abandoned his people Israel, which stood for humankind. That is why God can no longer be thought of as someone who intervenes in history and directs it towards Messianic fulfilment (EN 196/153). Auschwitz is the end of every theodicy, and consequentially also the death of God (‘Has he not died in the extermination camps? Isn’t his death thus almost an empirical fact?’) (EN 115/84). Auschwitz has introduced the inexorable end of the traditional view on ‘salvation history’. Hence Levinas’ radical thesis that we must dare to think not only of history and ethics but also of religion as a “religion without promise” (EFP 130/78): “Is one loyal to the Torah because one counts on the promise? Must I not remain faithful to its teachings, even if there is no promise? One must want to be a Jew without the promise made to Israel being the reason for this faithfulness. Judaism is valid not because of the ‘happy end’ of its history, but because of the faithfulness of this history to the teachings of the Torah” (EN 242-243/178). Is history then entirely without prospect? Is there no promise at all anymore? In his Talmud lesson ‘Beyond memory’, despite the impression of the contrary, Levinas continues to hold on to the idea of a view of the future as it is also expressed in the Bible, namely in Isaiah: “Do not remember the former things, or consider the things of old. I am about to do a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it?” (Isa 43,18-19) (HN 96/83). And this radically new, that no ear has heard and no eye has seen, is declared precisely in the preceding verses, namely the annulment and surpassing of the battle as the only way towards the good: “Thus says the Lord, who makes a way in the sea, a path in the mighty waters, who brings out chariot and horse, army and warrior; they lie down, they cannot rise; they are extinguished, quenched like a wick” (Isa 43,16-17). The new and unheard of that is mentioned should certainly no longer be understood as the awesome and fanatic battle of the good and its victory over evil, but as the goodness that takes place in and through the face-à-face of the responsibility-of-the-one-for-the-

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other. Levinas discovers therein the true meaning of messianism, namely that every person, being responsible for the other, is Messiah: a personal, unique vocation. We do not have to wait for a mythic Messiah, appearing at the end of history, installing a ‘perfect society’ as achievement of every social and political promise by suppressing all suffering and violence (DL 85/60). Levinas makes the Talmudic comment of Rabbi Nahman his own: “The Messiah is the King who no longer commands from outside. The Messiah is Myself; to be Myself is to be the Messiah. The one who suffers, who has taken on the suffering of others is the Messiah. (…) All persons are the Messiah. (…) In concrete terms this means that each person acts as though he were the Messiah. Messianism is therefore not the certainty of the coming of a man who stops History. It is my power to bear the suffering of all. It is the moment when I recognize this power and my universal responsibility” (DL 120/89-90). Inspired by the Talmud and confirmed by Grossman-Ikonnikov, Levinas arrives at a reversal but not an abolishment of eschatology: “The small goodness does not win, but will never be defeated” (la petite bonté n’a pas vaincu, mais n’a pas été vaincue non plus) (EPA 47). As ‘incarnation’ of the ‘the one responsible for the other’ the small goodness is invincible, although it never wins! In contrast to the traditional – spectacular and violent – eschatological interpretation with apocalyptic allures of the battle of the good against the evil ones, the small goodness does not engage in an ultimate battle against all evil in the world, for it realizes it cannot go against it. But in its paltriness and weakness, it still maintains its strength, in the sense that it does not let itself be destroyed in the battle of evil against good. It stubbornly clambers to stand up, like a downtrodden blade of grass pokes fun at us behind our backs by again, slowly but resiliently, raising itself up. It is eternal, indestructible, even though it is powerless in assuring a world without violence. What is essential for its significance is that it comes without guarantees that all will be well. It is not meaningful because it is indestructible, for then its invincibility would be a condition for its meaning and fulfilment. It takes place without worrying whether it will survive or endure. In this regard, it is unreflective and without any thought on ‘quid pro quo’. It is also valuable when it is aimless. If it does something for the other here and now, then that is enough. ‘Tomorrow and the day after tomorrow’ as a lasting significance is not needed in order to have value. In its expression, it has no need for compensation, not even the condition of compensation of its indestructible eternity. Of course, this unconditional character does not preclude that it is unassailable: “invincible but unarmed” (HN 103/90).

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This reversal of eschatology can be found in the vision of the end of time as expressed in the Gospel as well, especially in the famous chapter 25 of Matthew (a text to which Levinas refers to numerous times) (RTJD 224-225; DMT 228-229/199; EN 128/94). This vision is simply paradoxical. It begins with the announcement of the arrival of the Son of Man, who returns at the end of time as King and Judge in order to pronounce the ‘last judgment’ and thus to introduce the ‘new world’. This corresponds to the (already mentioned) popular presentations of a mythical Messiah: “When the Son of Man comes in his glory, and all the angels with him, then he will sit on the throne of his glory” (Mt 25,31). But that which he announces no longer corresponds to the spectacular images of a ‘dreamt of ’ new, perfect world wherein all suffering and violence are overcome by the intervention of a Saviour ‘who comes from elsewhere – from beyond the world’. Those who gain access to the Kingdom of God are not the tyrants nor the mighty warriors, but ordinary people who have done deeds of small goodness: giving food to the hungry, giving drink to the thirsty, clothing the naked, caring for and visiting the sick, offering hospitality to strangers, visiting the imprisoned (Mt 25,35-36). This implies a radical reinterpretation of the end-time as finality, namely as what matters here and now, as the ‘unum necessarium’. Only those individuals who have assisted ordinary people in need with effective deeds of goodness are given access to divine reality. They are messianic people because they have taken up their responsibility for others. The rabbinic thought resonates in them that the true Messiah is the ‘holy I’ as ‘the-one-for-the-other’. Precisely through this small goodness as a form of justice in the broader sense of the word, namely as good deeds done to the other, does the unique ‘I’ come near to God: “Truly I tell you, just as you did to one of the least of my brothers, you did it to Me” (Mt 25,40). The new future, eschatology, takes place in and through concrete, unique people who – touched as they are by the suffering of a unique other – by means of their deeds of small goodness bear this suffering and allay it. In Matthew 25 the great and spectacular promise of a ‘new world’ is turned into the commencement of the effectively new in the here and now, in and through the deeds of mercy, i.e. disinterested goodness and generosity. This reversal of eschatology does not mean that the battle against evil becomes redundant. Racism and anti-Semitism, genocide and terrorism cannot be left undisturbed. We cannot remain indifferent to evil. What it does imply is that the battle can never acquire an ultimate significance. It remains a battle with a bad conscience, or rather it must remain a

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struggle with a bad conscience. The bad conscience of that battle should never be suppressed or undone. Also, the battle against evil remains standing before the ethical appeal of the non-violent face-to-face: ‘Thou shalt not kill’. In other words, bad conscience is the space for small goodness that simmers up in the heart – or the soul – of people in the most impossible and abominable circumstances. Beyond and within every battle, however historically inevitable or necessary it may be, the small goodness breaks into the open from within the ‘soul’ – the desire (cf. supra) – without promise as a condition for its fulfilment, i.e. without the certainty and ‘assurance’ ever of coming to fulfilment in a world ‘without death and tears’. It is precisely its smallness and vulnerability that makes it dynamic and entices it to ‘infinitizing’, an infinity that is never infinite enough. A dynamic, ever breaking-out promise in a history without view to an end – because the history of people in this world will never be without evil and terror.

6. Religious resonance: The divine ‘soul’ of the responsibility for the other So far we have attempted going beyond the narrative, inspired by the narrative of the Good Samaritan itself. A second surpassing of the narrative from within the narrative consists in its religious resonance. Even though the focus of the narrative lies on the humane perspective, it is precisely this that sets us on the track towards the Biblical God. This is related to the way in which the responsibility-by-and-for-the-other is interpreted bodily as ‘being touched in the guts’ (esplagchnistè). This image – or rather this reality – immediately evokes the idea of ‘Rahamim’ – mercy – in the First Testament. This explains why Levinas, as a Jewish Talmudic philosopher, links the small goodness directly to the Rahamim: “I call the ‘small goodness’ the Rahamim of the Bible” (HN 157/135). Its etymology helps in comprehending the meaning of rahamim: “Rahamim goes back to the word ‘Rehem’, which means uterus. ‘Rahamim’ is the relation of the womb to the other, whose gestation takes place in it [to be born]” (SaS 158/183). Or the same in other words: “trembling of the womb where the other is in gestation in the same” (AV 172/142) – “gestation of the other in the same” (AE 134/195). Rahamim thus stands for ‘maternity’ as ‘uterinity’: “Maternity is sensibility itself ”, i.e. touchability and vulnerability by and for the other (cf. supra), “of which so much ill is said among the Nietzscheans” (SaS 158/183). In the First

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Testament, and in the rabbinic tradition, Rahamim is also a preferential name and qualification for God: “What is the meaning of the word Merciful (Rahmana)? It means the Torah itself or the Eternal One, the Eternal One who is defined by Mercy. (…) God as merciful is God defined by maternity” (SaS 158/183). This does not mean that divine justice (cf. chapters III & IV), with its demands, critical judgments and indignation against inflicted evil, is forgotten or pushed aside. It is actually encompassed by and embedded in mercy: “Mercy attenuates the rigors of the Law (without suspending it in principle; yet it can go so far as to suspend it in reality)” (AV 172/142). In his ‘good news’ Jesus carries the qualification of God as Merciful directly forward. He does not proclaim God per se but the ‘Kingdom of God’ (Mk 1,15; Lk 4,43) or the ‘Kingdom of the one who is in heaven’ (Mt 4,17).1 With ‘kingdom’ he does not mean a place but an active event, namely the ‘reign’ of God (Merklein, 1981). Out of our ‘imaginary preconception’ (Balmary) we link the word ‘reign’ immediately to ideas of power and domination, or with ‘pantocrator’ and ‘omnipotens’, with which the gods in the Greek and Roman pantheon, for instance, were qualified. What is remarkable is that Jesus rids the category of ‘lordship’ of this ‘pagan’ qualification, and thus turns it inside-out. It is for that reason no coincidence that Augustine proposes to replace ‘omnipotens’, a term that evokes the pagan presentation of a ‘magiciangod’, with ‘omni-tenens’: the One, Infinite One, who encompasses all and bears all. God rids himself of his lordship and majesty in order to descend to and associate himself with the misery of the miserable: “the passion of God” (TrID 59-60/282). We can also call this an ‘ethical kenosis’, precisely because one rids oneself in order to bind oneself with the other than oneself (Beasley-Murray, 1989). Not only does Jesus portray the kenosis of God’s lordship in and through his proclamation, particularly in his numerous parables, but also and especially through his deeds, as in the table-fellowship with tax collectors and sinners. Or through his ‘deeds of power’ (dunameis), with which he fights against disease by healing people of all sorts of ailments. Also against the powers of evil by liberating people from all kinds of ‘demons’ and by forgiving them their ‘sins’… It is no coincidence that Luke begins his Acts of the Apostles with a reference to his gospel in 1

We render the ‘Kingdom of heaven’ as the ‘Kingdom of the one who is in heaven’ in order to avoid all misunderstanding. Since Matthew cannot pronounce the name of God, he refers to ‘heaven’, i.e. to God who is in heaven. By doing so it is not said that God’s kingdom would be in heaven and not on earth. On the contrary, it is indeed about the Kingdom on earth of God who is in heaven.

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which he presents Jesus’ deeds followed by his words (proclamation): “In the first book, Theophilus, I wrote about all what Jesus did and taught” (Acts 1,1). His deeds are the foundation of his words, and in those he shows how God is no neutral Highest Being that has to account for all that is, as we find for instance in Aristotle who describes God as the ‘Unmoved Mover’, the begetter and the goal – cause and telos – of all change of and in this world. Blaise Pascal (1623-1662) rightly labels this as “the god of the philosophers”, from which “the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, the God of Jacob, the God of Christians” is radically different (Thoughts, Section VIII, n° 556). The Biblical God, in this case the God of Jesus, is no proof in a line of reasoning, no first and last principle of explanation (arché), but a ‘moved Mover’, someone – the One – who is involved in what happens to humans in the world. Of course we can only express this ‘association-with-the-other-than-oneself ’ in imperfect words and concepts. But it is crucial to note that the God of Jesus (and of the whole Bible) is no static but a dynamic God, who is ‘moved’ because the Holy One is touched and affected by what happens to people, literally by their ‘history’. He is no unapproachable and indifferent Supreme Being, but vulnerable in what people undergo: the most non-indifferent-of-all! He is no ‘Deus impassibilis’ but ‘Deus compassibilis’, as Bernard of Clairvaux expresses it acutely. As the evangelist John puts it in his first letter: “God is love” (1 Jn 4,8b). Jesus speaks time and again about God in terms of ‘ethical excellence’, and not in merely descriptive, neutral, distant and abstract terms. The God that Jesus presents to us is not just an ‘unknown, transcendent, infinite’ God, but is, as radically transcendent, also always a near and sensitive God – an ethically qualified, Merciful Holy One. Inspired by Jesus’ deeds and words, the conviction has grown amongst Christians that even in his ‘being’ the divine Rahamim, the merciful love of God, incarnated. Jesus ‘is’ what he does and says: ‘agere sequitur esse’ becomes ‘esse sequitur agere’: being follows from doing and saying. Not only is Jesus the face of God’s compassionate and passionate just love, he also makes it tangible and sensible in his flesh and blood: “God’s love was revealed among us in this way: God sent his only Son into the world” (1 Jn 4,9). It is thus not a formal or neutral form of God’s being in this world, but an ethical one. Since God’s merciful and just love as sensibility by-and-for-the-other is an ethically qualified modality of being, God’s incarnation in and through Jesus’ being, deeds and words, can only be an ethically qualified incarnation. To put it paradoxically: God has not become human in the human Jesus, but in the humane human Jesus (Focant, 1998).

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To put more sharply what God’s incarnation in Christ is, but also what it is not, we can make a comparison between the Greek gods on Olympus. They are ‘divinized people’ with all the good and bad passions that are to be found amongst ordinary mortals. They are ‘human-gods’, gods in human form, whereby tempers, with all their mutual intrigues, are often magnified. Hence their divinity was questioned and put to discussion by the Greek philosophers. In their critique that was considered ‘asebeia’ (godlessness), a purer image of God developed. In the course of time this became more abstract and farther removed from human experience. In line with Greek thought, among others with Aristotle’s ‘Unmoved Mover’ (cf. supra), the entire western philosophy and theology have promoted God to the highest Being, so transcendent that humans could no longer approach God… Christianity wagered the attempt to think of a divinity that remains near people without losing its transcendence and holiness: Jesus as ‘God-human’. That is something totally different from the Greek ‘human-gods’. This contrast does not begin with Jesus but is already rooted in the entire Biblical tradition, as seen in the previous chapters. In Moses we see how Yhwh-the-Lord, ‘I am who I am’, descends from his ‘heaven’ to draw to himself the fate of his people in slavery in Egypt. Starting from Abraham, through Jeremiah and Isaiah, and in all the prophets, great and small, we see how God as Rahamim – the passion of mercy, embracing justice – mingled with humanity, stronger still bonded himself with humans. God reveals himself as ‘for-the-other’. Here we discover once again God’s selfemptying. The Infinite One rids himself of his majesty in order to descend towards and enter into the finite. Wherever the grandeur of the Holy One is mentioned, we encounter his humility. Not self-humiliation, but the humility that associates itself with the humble in her or his suffering, as, for example, is found in Psalm 113: God comes down from his awesome, sublime heaven to associate himself with the poor in the dust and with the barren woman, in order to raise them amongst princes and make the woman a ‘joyous mother with children’ (or according to another translation: a ‘mother with joyous children’). It is this ethically qualified self-emptying that, according to the Christian faith, has reached its outburst, culmination and perfection in Jesus: “In Christ the whole fullness of deity dwells bodily” (Col 2,9).2 2

In the Christian tradition, this has even led to a maternal presentation of Christ, beginning with Augustine (354-430). Ambrose of Milan (337-397) wrote of Christ who bears humanity in his womb and nourishes them with spiritual milk. Anselm of

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This fullness of God’s merciful love in Christ should, however, not be understood wrongly. It is about an incarnated fullness in a worldly shape. This means that the fullness of God’s merciful love in Christ is a historical, and thus contingent and finite shape. The being-human of Jesus is no semblance, as is presented in the heresy of Docetism, but real, tangible and visible in this created world. That means that Jesus’ beinghuman is marked by the finitude whereby all creatures are marked. Or as the dogma of Chalcedon says about Jesus: ‘truly God, truly human’. Hence Jesus reveals and gives shape to God’s love in a finite, thus imperfect, manner. And hence it requires further interpretation and development throughout history. There is work to be done for all who in line with Jesus let themselves be inspired by God’s compassionate and passionate love. There is still an important aspect of the incarnation as revelation of God’s passionate mercy in Jesus that deserves our attention. Jesus’ uniqueness – the way in which he gives unique and exceptional shape to God’s passion – should not be confused with exclusivism. As Godhuman, Christ also reveals how God’s love – as mercy and justice – is in an inclusive manner the ‘soul’ in every human person. In Jesus Christ, Canterbury (1033-1109) calls Jesus ‘our Mother’ for he has suffered more than all women during childbirth. Through his death on the cross he has raised us to life. Later, women saints and mystics likewise refer to the maternal Christ. The famous recluse Julian of Norwich (c.1342 – c.1416) thus distinguishes in the Trinity God’s fatherhood, the motherhood of the Son and the inspiration of the Spirit. Also Catherine of Sienna (1347-1380) sees maternal traits in Jesus. Hence it becomes understandable that such a motherly Christ can be found on a late 16th century painting, namely “Lamentation autour du Christ” (see the cover of this book). The painting was discovered in the former “Hôpital Notre-Dame à la Rose” (1242-1980) in Lessines, Belgium, where the Augustine Sisters continuously have devoted themselves to the care of the sick – the homeless and the beggars who were victims of poverty, neglect, exclusion – with all their ailments like cholera and the plague… The painting presents the dead Jesus, surrounded by angels and women (who evoke the hospital sisters). The painting was clearly retouched and painted over due to the shocking manner in which Jesus was portrayed. Its restoration in the beginning of the 21st century revealed both a masculine as well as maternal – a kind of androgynous – Christ. On the one hand, Jesus wears a thick beard, yet on the other, a large underbelly like a womb and female breasts. The latter draws strong attention because the reclining Jesus points and touches with his right hand the nipple of his feminine left breast. We may thus assume that such a depiction of a maternal Jesus was connected directly to the spirituality of the hospital sisters of the 16th century. Like Jesus, who as a mother bore humanity within him and by his suffering and death on the cross also gave new life, they could ‘bear’ and ‘give new life’ to the poor and the sick. That was a mystical spirituality that lived in different religious communities for women from the 13th up to the 16th century. Thus the sisters could identify themselves with Jesus in the awareness that Jesus was their mother and that thereby they could likewise be mother for the sick and the poor. See: Debruyn, Vuidar, 2008. See also: Vuola, 2013.

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God-in-a-humane-human, all people are included. He reveals and embodies what every human person is and must be: touched, moved, and opened up by God’s merciful and just love. For Paul, that is the significance of God who has become human in Jesus: the New – Last – Adam, the new Human in whom – like the first Adam – all people are included (1 Cor 15,22.45). Jesus reveals in the flesh our own being, i.e. our being attuned to each other as ‘uterinity’ (cf. supra): to bear the other to give birth to the other. Or as a magnificent meditation of John Paul II teaches us: “that God would be incarnated not solely in Christ, but through Christ in all human beings” (VA 96/109). From a Christian perspective, Jesus’ inclusive revelatory significance can be linked to the Holy Spirit. God is not only outside of us, in the God-human Jesus, but also present and active within each of us. In other words, God’s love, filled with mercy and justice, dwells as Spirit in the human person. That is what we indicate as the immanence of God’s transcendence. Jesus Christ reveals the Spirit as the Infinite in the finite without any indication of an idolatrous identification between the human and the divine. God’s love, as mercy and justice, is the soul of the human person. In the Bible, the human being is not portrayed as a ‘rational animal’. He and she resemble God and are the image of God, ‘tattooed’ by God’s love – what we (at the end of Chapter III) called the ‘theological affection’ of the human person. People are thus ensouled by God’s passionate compassion so that God becomes the Soul of their soul: ensouled in order to give shape to merciful and just love in this world. As Holy Spirit, God moves the human person to ‘being-by-and-for-theother’ and thus the experience that God’s love is a gift that is to be given, to be shared.

7. “Our Redeemer lives”: Beyond the ethical Jesus The question arises whether this gift is not a ‘poisoned’ one. As the philosophical reading of the story of the merciful Samaritan made clear, we are inspired and called by the Spirit to be love in fullness and this involves being responsible for the other. But, is this radicality of responsibility-by-and-for-the-other not too much or a ‘mission impossible’ that becomes unbearable? Does the gift of love as a commission not lead to the destruction of the human person as an ethical subject, even if love is grace? Put differently, if one gives the last word to ethics, does this not crush the human person under the ethical weight?

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This reproach of charity as responsibility-by-and-for-the-other, of which Jesus is the incarnation and appealing example, requires of to think ‘beyond the ethics’ – and thus also beyond the ethical interpretation of Jesus himself. However, this raises the question as to how we should understand this concept rightly. Our suggestion is to approach this from the idea of desire, or, more accurately, from the interpretation of religion as desire. For this we find a point of connection with Levinas who interprets the ‘eros’ as “child of indigence and abundance” (NP 169/113) – an idea already encountered in the chapter about the rich young ruler (Chapter VI). This notion suggests that eros as desire is driven by a double movement: need and lack on the one hand, and fullness and abundance on the other. At first sight our human striving appears to arise from the experience of shortage and lack. “Appetite” (HAH 46/30) as the negativity of what we do not have and yet need. That is why we do not remain affixed to ataraxia or frozen in the unmoved manner of coinciding with ourselves. We go dynamically – avidly and passionately driven – in search for that which can resolve and fulfil our shortage. Plato, however, discovers in human eros another movement. He speaks of a fullness that strives to ‘pour out’ itself. Desire does not lock itself in itself but moves outwards but in order to give itself to the other. Levinas characterizes this as the “insatiable desire – not because it corresponds to an infinite hunger, but because it is not an appeal for food. This desire is insatiable, but not because of our finitude” (TI 34/63). This desire beyond need “is a more within a less that awakens with its most ardent and most ancient flame a thought given to thinking more than it thinks. Here is a desire of a different order than that of affectivity or the hedonic activity by which the desirable is invested, attained, and identified as an object of need (…). The negativity of the ‘in-’ of infinity hollows out a desire that could not be filled, that nourishes itself from its own growth, that exalts itself as desire, and that grows distant from satisfaction insofar as it approaches the desirable. A desire that does not identify as need does. A desire without hunger, and also without end [sans faim et aussi sans fin]; a desire for the infinite as desire for what is beyond being, which is stated in the word ‘dis-inter-estedness’. This is transcendence and desire for the Good” (DMT 250-251/221). This richness of desire, this ‘infinity’ within the human person, completely resonates with the self-surpassing goodness we discovered in the narrative of the Samaritan (cf. supra). According to Plato, however, the paradox lies in the fact that both forms of eros, poverty and wealth, actually go together. They do not only

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indicate two forms of desire. Both are also marked by poverty and wealth as an interaction between both, albeit in different ways. In its reaching towards the other, desire is also a way of enjoying and to acquire independence via dependence. In the relationship to the object that must offer solace, desire finds satisfaction as well. Desire fulfils itself as the wealth of poverty. We enjoy what we eat, we savour what we need in order to live and live well. I am happy with my needs, I live of my needs while these provide pleasure and gratification as well. Without hunger you cannot enjoy delicious food. Perhaps we deplore our neediness, but this sadness is not final because it is transformed into the pleasure of devouring the ‘other’ in and through that devouring itself. In other words, finitude might at first seem negative, but upon closer inspection again not. We are not merely ‘thrown’, as Heidegger suggests (Geworfenheit); our finitude is not without delight. Put succinctly, the striving that ensues from finitude does not only express emptiness but also the fullness of the striving itself. On the other hand, as a child of wealth eros is also marked by need and thus by the coincidence of wealth and poverty. Now, though, experienced as the poverty of wealth: “Need is the poverty as source of riches, in contrast with desire, which is the poverty of riches” (TI 87/115), “the indigence of wealth itself ” (TI 34/63). The wealth of desire that is insatiable manifests itself as the need – the inner impulse – to develop oneself and to give to the other to which it reaches out. As insatiable longing it strives not for gratification in itself, since it is a “desire without deficiency” (HAH 45/29). Precisely as such it can direct itself entirely to the other than itself for the sake of that other. “The desire without satisfaction takes cognizance of the alterity of the other” (PhI 175/56). This is also a form of hunger, albeit a special form: “The desirable, namely the other, does not satisfy my desire, it hollows me, nourishing me somehow with new hungers,” i.e., the hunger to be for and with the other. Here, desire reveals itself as disinterestedness, goodness, radical generosity, “insatiable compassion”, as the 18-year-old Sonya Marmeladova in Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment looks at Raskolnikov, the murderer, in his despair (HAH 46/30). This desire as a need, which needs to go beyond every need, is “burning with a fire that is not need extinguished by saturation” (HAH 50/33). “The relation with the other challenges me, empties me of myself and keeps me on emptying me by showing me ever new sources. I did not know I was so rich, but I don’t have the right to keep anything anymore” (HAH 46/30). Because of its surplus, Levinas calls this goodness, so full of desire, a hunger that never

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ceases and that infinitely increases: “the marvel of infinity in the finitude” (HAH 30/34). Thus insatiable desire is a fullness that is at the same time need and necessity. It is fullness that is not fullness enough, a nearness to the other that is never near enough. This infinite desire – a desire that ‘infinitizes’ itself – thus reveals an inverted world: the emptiness of fullness. One that bursts open and does not take delight in itself. Thus it does not suffocate but turns itself ‘extra-versively’ towards the other than itself, without stalling. And this not because it needs the other but because in all its wealth it attunes itself – or, rather, it is attuned – to the other than itself with the intention of acknowledging, confirming and promoting the other. Hence this desire never rests in itself but deepens itself time and again: every end is a new beginning! This analysis of the double dimension of eros, with its paradoxical relationship between poverty and wealth, can be applied to religion. In doing so, we go against the often used thesis, namely that religion is a doctrine or system of doctrines and thus true. This thesis is rightly criticized. The positive reverse-side of this critique is that primarily religion has an existential significance. Anthropologically it is anchored in the desire of human beings, in their visceral and their emotional reality. Only after this can it develop into a ‘system of doctrines’ or a ‘world view’. In other words, life comes before thought and is informed by it. According to the bi-dimensionality of human desire, as sketched above, we can now propose that religion is also bi-dimensional. On the one hand, religion is the answer to our finitude, or rather a way of dealing with this finitude through stories, symbols and rituals. Religion thus functions as a “need for salvation” (HAH 45/29). The paradox lies in the observation that, as with all human forms of need, this need-religion is equally a source of gratification. Even though we are dependent on salvation, in and through our striving for and our experience of salvation, we simultaneously reach independence and fullness – call it ‘heaven’ if you will. This not only as a reward but in and through the experience of salvation itself, in the here and now of this world as a ‘valley of tears’. Experiencing religion brings forth joy: the wealth of poverty. Religion has always been an answer to human needs, great and small. People travel to pilgrimage sites to pray to the almighty divinity to intercede for them, to spare them from danger and sickness, to heal them not only bodily but also relationally and, last but not least, spiritually. They go and pray for themselves and for others, in the awareness that there is much that they need and that they do not have the power to provide for themselves. They are aware that they are in need of help and feel

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‘salvation-needy’. Hence they – humbly – step out of themselves and turn towards the ‘other’ – supernatural – world to find solace for that which lies beyond their power. Unfortunately, some believers and often unbelievers or especially post-believers have looked rather contemptuously at this ‘need-religion’ as if it were an inferior form of religion. They assert that in such a needreligion God is reduced to a ‘problem-solver’, a magical power, or a means and an instrument of one’s own self-development: “egoism of salvation” (HAH 50/33). This critical approach through religiously ‘correct thinking’ certainly has its merits, but it can also be an expression of haughty arrogance. From exalted ivory towers some people might think they know better… until they are themselves affected by one or the other disease or an accident leading to misery and defeat. And then they no longer find it beneath their dignity to light candles before an image that represents a healing and saving godhead. An honest, and at the same time humble, interpretation of religion, however, is not ashamed of acknowledging this need-religion, though it is not given the final word (as will become apparent below). The Christian faith, to which this certainly applies, is not ashamed of speaking about healing and salvation from God-in-Christ, with Mary and the saints as mediators and advocates. In his earthly life Jesus was involved with the finitude, fragility and injuries of ordinary people. Hence he healed the sick and freed people from all sorts of awkward situations like possession by ‘evil spirits’ or ‘demons’. He allowed need-religion without question when and if it brought people close to healing as source of new life. One clear example of this, is the story of the woman who had been suffering from bleeding for more than a decade (Lk 8,43-48). Socially excluded she touched the hem of Jesus’ robe in the hope and trust that this would stop the disease. Jesus did not condemn her or call her superstitious. Instead he pointed her beyond her immediate desire towards lasting health and wholeness. In accepting her, he also restored her social integration. It is no coincidence that Christ is called the Saviour in imitation of God who in the First Testament is called ‘go-el’, ‘the one who disentangles’ (cf. Job 19,25: “I know that my Redeemer – Go-el – lives”). While accepting this need driven religion, religion does not refrain from expressing our infinitude as was unveiled in the infinitizing of desire. Levinas even goes to the extent to say that eros as the ‘sublime desire’, i.e. as desire for and dedication to the other than oneself, puts us precisely on track to the Infinite, in concreto to the transcendent Other as the Infinite. The inter-human desire of the one for the other reveals

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itself literally as “à-Dieu” – “unto God” (DVI 13/XV). “The idea of the Infinite, that is, the Infinite in me” (DVI 106/63), is already God breaking up the consciousness beyond myself, towards – for – the other. The idea of the Infinite, literally the non-finite within the finite, is the idea of the Good in me: “a passivity, or passion, in which desire is recognized, in which the ‘more in the less’ awakens with its most ardent, most noble, and most ancient flame” (DVI 111/67). Within the Christian faith, this religiosity as self-surpassing desire takes central stage and is inexorably linked to surrendering to divine love as agape. Agape has been poured into our soul and body by the Holy Spirit and thus inspires and appeals us to love the other (cf. supra). This reveals how the human person is a ‘soulmate’ of God, without losing sight of the fact that the human person substantiates this ensoulment as a finite and sinful being – which in turn sheds light on the need of the human person for salvation and healing. It is within the finite of our existence, desires and needs that we thus anticipate and touch the infinite aspect of our ensouled humanity. Before we enter more deeply into this need for salvation in its Christian specificity, particularly in relationship to the ethics of charity, one more consideration needs to be addressed. No matter how distinct the two forms, based on human finitude and infinitude, of religion may clearly be, in their concrete religious expressions – in our case, Christianity – they cannot be separated. All articulations and shapes of religion, i.e. all narratives, forms of prayer, symbols and rituals, including the truths of faith or the so-called ‘dogmas’, are marked by both dimensions. Even though one form may express more and the other less, depending on the circumstances and the context where the experience takes place, they give shape to both finitude and infinitude. In all forms of meaning, spirituality and religion, however particular they may be, there remain aspects of emptiness and fullness, and of their mutual connection: the wealth of poverty and the poverty of wealth. Hence we cannot – and shall not – separate the religious forms but treat them as integrated, paying attention to how both relate to the finitude as well as to the infinitude of human desire. We will now turn our attention to an often forgotten dimension of the Christian vision of salvation: the intimate correspondence between the ethics of charity (responsibility, mercy, justice) and redemption. In the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus clarified the ethics of the Kingdom of God by radicalizing the traditional requirement to love for neighbour (charity): “You have heard that it was said to those of ancient times: ‘You shall not murder’, and ‘whoever murders shall be liable to judgment.’

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But I say to you that if you are angry with a brother or sister, you will be liable to judgment’” (Mt 5,21-22). Beyond the traditional symmetry of “an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth” (cf. Chapter IV), Jesus opposes an ethical asymmetry: “Do not resist the evildoer. But if anyone strikes you on the right cheek, turn the other also; and if anyone wants you to go one mile, go also the second mile” (Mt 5,38-38). He provokes even more, by saying: “Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you” (Mt 5,44): an appeal to what is commonly considered an injustice. In the eyes of Jesus, charity is an asymmetrical relationship. One we recognized in what Levinas calls the heteronomous responsibility of one another and that was rather clearly pictured in the mercifulness of the Samaritan. However, in the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus Christ also anticipated and announces his Passion. His words that love conquers death make sense and are empowered by his suffering and crucifixion. While Jesus was going from Galilee to Jerusalem, he arrives, through his speaking and acting, to the realization that “the Son of Man will be handed over… to be condemned to death… and to be mocked and flogged and crucified” (Mt 20,18-19). “All this is strictly parallel to Levinas’ analyses of the ethical demand and the responsibility for the others (as we saw through the philosophical reading of the parable of the merciful Samaritan). The responsibility for others is a fundamentally asymmetrical relationship: it consists in the recognition of an infinite debt, a “debt exceeding one’s means”, a debt that goes “to the point of substitution” (AE 142-143/111-112). “Levinas himself grants the similarity between this ethical situation of the human being, and the [ethical] kenosis of Christ. This parallel between the Levinasian righteous person and Christ goes far therefore” (Nemo, 1998, 187-190). The asymmetry of the ethical relationship, which is for Levinas the essence of the compassionate goodness of substitutional responsibility, is total in the Cross of Christ. Consequently, so is Love. Yet, the Gospels and the Christian faith go a step further. One that exceeds the ‘ethical Christ’. They discover in Him also the Saviour of the responsible human being from his ‘sins’, i.e. his refusal to act responsibly and his lack of goodness and mercy. “The Gospel, after all, does not say simply that the Christ takes on the world’s sins – the Levinasian righteous person does that also: that is the very meaning of responsibility for others – it also says that, taking the world’s sins upon his shoulders, he accordingly alleviates our burden. In other words, the Christ atones for us” (Nemo, 1998, 193). Through his suffering on the Cross,

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Christ does not only come as Redeemer towards us in our finitude, suffering and mortality. He also heals our ethical destination so that we actually bear the destiny of the other. As Deliverer he does not destroy our radical ethical mission but lift it up as grace into her divine Love. Exactly like this, our ‘altro-centric’ ethic becomes achievable and doable, without playing down, adjusting or destroying its radicality. Exactly by touching us in our ethical heart, to purify and heal us, the redeeming Cross of Christ, Gods Anointed One, enables us to realize, and persist in, our calling and mission. This not only through our failings (imperfections) but also in spite of, and through, our ‘sinful’ defaults, it guides us into self-transcending, ‘dis-interest-ed’ love. That Jesus Christ redeems us from ethics and by doing so transforms, heals and lifts it into a bearable and even joyful ethics, implies, last but not least, that the ethics of responsibility and goodness (charity or love for neighbour) does not have the last word. That goes to grace. Grace should thus not only be understood as the gift of Love through the Spirit, as indicated above, but also as healing. Healing as a promise of recovery and completion, on the way in this life and ultimately. Jesus makes this clear in his proclamation of the beatitudes (Mt. 5,1-12). Not only the radical ethical effort of the meek, the ones who hunger and thirst for righteousness, the merciful, the pure of heart, the peacemakers or the ones that are prosecuted because of righteousness are being praised blessed. That would be a reduction of the beatitudes to some kind of ‘ethical charter’. They also receive admission to the Kingdom of God (Mt 5,3.10). In order to articulate this, Matthew, who as a Jew cannot pronounce the Name of God, uses the passive form (‘theological passivum’) of the verb in the third person plural: “they will inherit the earth; they will be filled; they will receive mercy; they will see God; they will be called children of God” (Mt 5,5.6.7.8.9). The grace of this promise does not dismiss ethics, but grounds it and gives its future. “My works will never redeem my debt, my sin; I must, in the face of the other man’s suffering, give everything, up till my life; love asks for an infinite gift. But that, says the Gospel, will be rendered back me ‘a hundredfold.’ Therefore I do not give ‘for nothing,’ I will obtain justice. Love is infinite like death, it bears up in the face of death victoriously” (Nemo, 1998, 190). From this perspective, the Passion of Christ changes our human condition and the face of the earth. As the Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world, Jesus Christ puts into operation a radical change of our human condition in this world. It is on the Cross that he creates the conditions for a redemptive approach to the ethics of God’s Kingdom,

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through which the appeal and the realization of the responsibility-of-theone-for-the-other is made possible and elevated into the Infinite, and thus saved. “The salvation provided by Christ does not consist in giving the sinner a right to abide in his sin (to be a ‘saved evildoer’), but in giving him a weapon for combating evil without which the fight would be lost from the beginning. This has meaning only if one can believe in the promises of Christ, and if Christ changes something in our condition and in History. (…) If it is necessary to believe in the Kingdom in order to love unto death, and if Christ accepts death, it is because these promises are, for him if for no one else, the word of truth” (Nemo, 1998, 191). That Christians confess Jesus Christ as Redeemer implies the acknowledgment that, in their misery and ‘being-towards-death’, God reaches out to them through Christ (and his ‘mediators’) with the promise of salvation, healing and fulfilment ‘to-eternal-life’. Yet, this also entails something both believers and unbelievers all too often lose sight of, either due to carelessness or because of resentment against all that relates to faith-in-God. This is that the idea of salvation, in casu of Jesus Christ as Redeemer also applies to the radical and exacting ethical calling to responsibility for the other (charity, love of neighbour, mercy, justice). Jesus Christ is not only the incarnation and thus the ‘icon’ of our ethical commission. He is also – precisely within this – our grace, healing and salvation. Jesus’ suffering and death on the cross entails the promise of the resurrection which is the victory over death (our finitude) and the healing and completion of our love as vulnerable, wounded and failing responsibility for the other. This is how the risen Christ, in whom the cross and wounds in hands, feet and side are taken up and ‘preserved’, reveals and declares the “glory of the Infinite” (AE 179/140). A glory in which we can already participate in order to one day come home to it in fullness and forever ‘risen’ up.

Conclusion: Redeemed ethics As incarnated beings we are marked by historicity and contingency, thus by finitude and imperfection. Yet sinfulness through our lacking, missing or defective love, is also a reality. We are ‘poor sinners’, as is pronounced in the Hail Mary. Or as the apostle Paul puts it: “we have this treasure [of the knowledge of Christ] in clay jars” (2 Cor 4,7). From this, it is a logical consequence that the way in which we give shape to God’s merciful and just love is not only marked by fragility and failure,

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but also by sinfulness and evil. Hence the Catholic belief in ‘original sin’. This term expresses that we are marked by sinfulness.3 Moreover, it is a form of solidarity that precedes us as ‘free subjects’. In our human history and our personal lives we give expression to that ‘shared sinfulness’. On the basis of our finitude, then, we are called to surpass our imperfections and to grow in our incarnation of merciful and just love, in the awareness that we will always remain deficient and mediocre. On the basis of our sinfulness, though, we remain conscious of the fact that we need salvation and healing. This we can truly find in Jesus Christ our Redeemer and Healer on two levels. Christ comes towards us in our misery, suffering and mortality by healing our fragility and lifting our finitude all the way into divine infinitude that brings us ‘eternal life’. He also meets us in our ethical sensitivity through and for the other. This not only through inspiration and his Spirit, but also in healing, transformation and exaltation to the grace of divine agape. Agape that allows us to arise into the fullness of love. In the words of Paul, the apostle: “I pray that, according to the riches of the glory of the Father, He may grant that you may be strengthened in your inner being with power through his Spirit, and that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith, as you are being rooted and grounded in love. I pray that you may have the power to comprehend, with all the saints, what is the breadth and length and height and depth, and to know the love of Christ that surpasses knowledge, so that you may be filled with all the fullness of God” (Eph 4,16-19). This redemption of ethics by transcending ethics from the grace of salvation, contains a remarkable paradox. Looking more closely, both redemption and grace demonstrate a strong ethical nature. Not only here, in this last chapter, but also in the previous ones it has become clear that the Biblical God of both Testaments is an ethically qualified One, rendered in terms like love, mercy, justice… This means that the believer who entrusts him or herself to this God as grace and redeemer, receives divine grace due to the ethics of God. Expressed in terms of its paradox: the ethics of God is our grace. Or, put differently, the ethics of the other 3 This should not be interpreted in a Manichean manner as if a person would either by nature or in essence be bad. On the contrary, human beings were originally created good, i.e. as being attuned to the good. But through their disobedience, thus through the irresponsible use of their free will, they have brought moral evil and sin into the world. This becomes very clear in the story of Cain and Abel (cf. chapter III). Since Adam is to be understood inclusively, i.e. he stands for every human person (cf. Chapter II), this means that all people are interconnected in sin. They thus ‘infect’ each other not only with good but also evil, so that good and evil trace a line in history.

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is my grace. This can be applied on a basic human level and in terms of religion: the ethics of the one is the grace for the other. Thanks to the responsibility and the goodness of another human person, of a ‘thou that meets me as thou’, as Martin Buber would express it, we experience closeness, care and healing. This is not our ethical commission but a present given through the ethical effort of the other to me. The relationship between the ethics of the other as grace for me is within the Biblical perspective, religiously extended: the love of the divine Other, that is his ethic, signifies and serves grace and healing for the human being and the whole of creation. It is precisely this ethic of the Other as my grace that appeals to me as a human being to be ‘as good as God’. In this radical ethical commission, involving an ethical calling as ‘mission impossible’, I am treated in my ethical being-human by the ethical Other in grace in order that I can also be healed through it ‘in good and evil days’. In this regard the ethical grace of the other, and especially the divine Other, the Alpha and Omega is the embracing of the human ethic of mercy, goodness and justice as we discovered especially in the parable of the good Samaritan as being responsible-forand-through-the-other.

Narrative and Reflective Postscriptum with a story of protesting angels to start To finish, and to complete this book we would like to retell and interpret in our own way – as a kind of a midrash of a midrash – an ancient Talmudic apologue. Levinas cites this (HS 56-57/39), in order to express evocatively the fundamental relational and bodily dynamism of the multidimensional responsibility by-and-for-the-other, as we discovered in different chapters of the book and particularly in the last chapter through our philosophical in-depth reading of the Good Samaritan narrative. One day the angels in heaven found out that God in His unfathomable wisdom wanted to entrust the Torah or the Law to humans. Not only were the angels surprised, they were also perturbed. They did not understand why God ignored them and turned to beings of a lower status. Thus they organized a protest march to prevent the Torah from leaving heaven. With the archangels leading them they set forth to meet God, who had already seen their approaching from afar. Since God was at that moment not yet omniscient, the One wondered what was going on (only one who is not omniscient is curious about what the other has to say). When the angels arrived they questioned God. In their opinion, the One had to justify Himself for His choice, which to them seemed more foolish than wise. And God was prepared to tell them why He wanted to give the Torah to humans, on the condition, however, that the angels first answered His counter question: ‘Do you work by the sweat of your brow for your daily bread?’ The angels looked at each other for they actually did not understand what God was asking. To save face, they decided not to answer. Likewise the Holy One did not answer their question. He withdrew back into hiddenness. After a time, however, God was overcome with sadness for He did want to shed light on His decision. Thus He posed a second question to the angels: ‘Do you buy and sell?’ The angels were shocked for they had heard of machinations, corruption and abuse of power that arise because of money – dirty money! – amongst humans. But because they only knew about this from hearsay, they did not dare to answer. And again

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God withheld His answer. He withdrew until it became too much for Him again, for He does not shield His wisdom in fear and jealousy from His creatures. Since all good things exist in threes, He decided to give the angels a third chance. His new question went: ‘Do you bear children?’ The angels were even more scandalized by this question than by the former. The stories of humans and sex – and everything in between – had even reached heaven. But the angels kept those stories at bay as much as possible for they did not want to be infected by human desires, so much so that they again withheld their answer. And God withdrew Himself definitively, without answering the question of why He had chosen to entrust the Law of Life to earth. Here ends our retelling of the story. The question is still left unanswered, however, like a pebble in the shoe. There must be an answer somehow to the angels’ question?! Perhaps the answer already lies hidden in the questions of the One. And indeed, not only the starting question in the story but even God’s questions allow for clarification: The Infinite One cannot but give the Law to humans, for the Law is not meant for heaven but for the ‘earthly human person’. Thanks to one’s body – one’s ‘own body’ – the human person is capable of working, of engaging in trade, of begetting children. The human person is a being that can suffer. Precisely because one has a body, or stronger still, because one is a body. But by means of one’s sensibility the human person is also touchable by and sensitive to the suffering of the other. Thanks to their ‘vulnerable body’ humans are bonded with each other, are attuned towards each other, are responsible for each other, and are meant to care for each other. This means that the traditional hierarchy between angels (who as spiritual beings stand closer to God and are thus loftier) and humans (who as earthly beings stand lower on the ladder of being) is reversed radically: “Did the angels catch a brief glimpse of the superiority of earthly beings capable of giving and of being-for-one-another and thus beginning the ‘divine comedy,’ above and beyond the understanding of the being to which pure spirits are consigned?” (HS 57/39). Thanks to their so-called ‘lower’ nature and their bodily condition, humans stand ‘higher’ than angels. This is truly a paradoxical situation: the lower opens up the perspective towards the higher, the humble to the sublime! Levinas’ ironic conclusion does not lie: “I do not see what angels could

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give one another or how they could help one another” (EI 104/97). And because they do not have a body they cannot ‘suffer because of the suffering of the other’, meaning they are not able to give the bread from their mouths and the products of their labour and trade to the other, and so to ‘be-for-the-other’. Here, we touch upon the core of our responsibility: our ‘human condition’ to be created ‘by-and-for-the-other’. Both the appeal to responsibility that ensues from the face of the other as well as the – interpersonal and organized – response to that appeal are only possible thanks to human embodied reality (‘bodiliness’), and therein lies the entire spirituality of being responsible for each other. Thanks to the ‘sensibility’ of our body we are vulnerable by and for the other so that we are ‘conditioned’ and ‘created’, that means inspired or animated – literally ‘ensouled’ – to take upon ourselves the being and the fate of the suffering other. As Levinas says: “The tie with the other is knotted only as responsibility, this moreover, whether accepted or refused, whether knowing or not knowing how to assume it, whether able or unable to do something concrete for the other. To say: here I am (me voici). To do something for the other. To give. To be human spirit, that’s it. The incarnation of human subjectivity guarantees its spirituality” (EI 105/97). For Christians this sensibility-by-and-for-the-other is rooted in the sensibility of God’s merciful and just love, incarnate in Jesus Christ and poured out in our heart and body by the Spirit of love (agapè). This love is also a healing love that meets and transforms us in our ethical vulnerability and brokenness so that we can joyfully and humbly grow in and towards love without being driven to an ethical burnout and despair: “God loves a cheerful giver” (2 Cor 9,7). The source of this joyful though imperfect love is the love of God in Christ who heals and completes our love: “In this is love, not that we loved God but that He loved us and sent his Son to be the atoning sacrifice for our sins. Beloved, since God loved us so much, we also ought to love one another. No one has ever seen God: if we love one another, God lives in us, and his love is perfected in us” (1 Jn 4,10-12).

Bibliography I. Works of Emmanuel Levinas The cited studies of Levinas are listed below in alphabetical order, as first part of this Bibliography. References and citations are indicated in the text with an abbreviation of the original French edition, along with the cited page or pages. For the literal quotations, the cited page or pages from the available English translation are indicated after the forward slash (/). Abbreviations used: AE:

Autrement qu’être ou au-delà de l’essence, La Haye, Nijhoff, 1974. [English translation (ET): Otherwise than Being or Beyond Essence, translated by A. Lingis, The Hague/Boston/London, Nijhoff (Kluwer), 1981.]. AR: “Amour et révélation,” in: P. Huot-Pleuroux, et. al., La charité aujourd’hui, Paris, Éditions S.O.S., 1981, pp. 133-148. AT: Altérité et transcendance, Montpellier, Fata Morgana, 1995. [ET: Alterity and Transcendence, translated by M.B. Smith, New York, NY, Columbia University Press, 1999.]. AV: L’au-delà du verset. Lectures et discours talmudiques, Paris, Minuit, 1982. [ET: Beyond the Verse. Talmudic Readings and Lectures, translated by G.D. Mole, Bloomington & Indianapolis, Indiana University Press, 1994.]. BPW: Emmanuel Levinas. Basic Philosophical Writings, edited by A. Peperzak, S. Critchley and R. Bernasconi, Bloomington & Indianapolis, Indiana University Press, 1996. CPP: Collected Philosophical Papers, translated by A. Lingis, Dordrecht/ Boston/Lancaster, Kluwer/Nijhoff, 1987. Difficile liberté. Essais sur le Judaïsme, Paris, Albin Michel, 1976 (2nd DL: revised and expanded edition). [ET: Difficult Freedom. Essays on Judaism, translated by S. Hand, Baltimore, The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1990.]. DMT: Dieu, la mort et le temps (Établissement du texte, notes et postface de J. Rolland), Paris, Grasset, 1993. [ET: God, Death, and Time, translated by B. Bergo, Stanford, CA, Stanford University Press, 2000.]. DVI: De Dieu qui vient à l’idée, Paris, Vrin, 1982. [ET: Of God Who Comes to Mind, translated by B. Bergo, Stanford, CA, Stanford University Press, 1998.]. EE: De l’existence à l’existant, Paris, Vrin, 1978 (2nd ed.). [ET: Existence and Existents, translated by A. Lingis, The Hague, Nijhoff, 1978.]. EFP: “Entretiens,” in: F. Poirié, Emmanuel Lévinas. Qui êtes-vous?, Lyon, La Manufacture, 1987, pp. 62-136. [ET: “Interview with François Poirié,” in: IRB 23-83.].

320 EI:

EN: ELSA: EPA: HAH: HN: HS: IH: IRB: LC: NLT: NTR: PhI: QLT: RTJD: SA:

SaS:

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Éthique et Infini. Dialogues avec Philippe Nemo, Paris, Fayard & France Culture, 1982. [ET: Ethics and Infinity. Conversations with Philippe Nemo, translated by R.A. Cohen, Pittsburgh, Duquesne University Press, 1985.]. Entre nous. Essais sur le penser-à-l’autre, Paris, Grasset, 1991. [ET: Entre nous. Thinking-of-the-Other, translatad by M.B. Smith and B. Harshaw, London/New York, Continuum, 2006.]. R. Burggraeve, Emmanuel Levinas et la socialité de l’argent. Un philosophe en quête de la réalité journalière. La genèse de ‘Socialité et argent’ ou l’ambiguïté de l’argent, Leuven, Peeters, 1997. “Entretien préparatoire avec Emmanuel Levinas sur l’argent, l’épargne et le prêt (le 10 avril 1986 à Paris chez Levinas),” in: ELSA 31-67. Humanisme de l’autre homme, Montpellier, Fata Morgana, 1972. [ET: Humanism of the Other, translated by N. Poller, Urbana & Chicago, University of Illinois Press, 2003.]. À l’heure des nations (Lectures talmudiques, essais et entretiens), Paris, Minuit, 1988. [ET: In the Time of the Nations, translated by M.B. Smith, Bloomington & Indianapolis, Indiana University Press, 1994.]. Hors sujet, Montpellier, Fata Morgana, 1987. [ET: Outside the Subject, translated by M.B. Smith, London, Athlone, 1993.]. Les imprévus de l’histoire, Montpellier, Fata Morgana, 1994. [ET: Unforeseen History, translated by N. Poller, Urbana & Chicago, University of Illinois Press, 2003.]. Is It Righteous to Be. Interviews with Emmanuel Levinas, edited by J. Robbins and translated by J. Robbins, M. Coelen, with T. Loebel, Stanford, CA, Stanford University Press, 2001. Liberté et commandement (suivi de “Transcendance et hauteur”), Montpellier, Fata Morgana, 1994. [ET: “Freedom and Command,” in: CPP 109-126. Nouvelles lectures talmudiques, Paris, Minuit, 1996. [ET: New Talmudic Readings, translated by R.A. Cohen, Pittsburgh, Duquesne University Press, 1999.]. Nine Talmudic Readings, translated by A. Aronowicz, Bloomington & Indianapolis, Indiana University Press, 1990. “La philosophie et l’idée de l’Infini,” in: E. Levinas, En découvrant l’existence avec Husserl et Heidegger, Paris, Vrin, 1967, pp. 165-178. [ET: “Philosophy and the idea of Infinity,” in: CPP 47-59.]. Quatre lectures talmudiques, Paris, Minuit, 1968. [ET: “Four Talmudic Readings,” in: NTR 1-88.]. “La révélation dans la tradition juive,” in: D. Coppieters De Gibson (ed.), La révélation, Bruxelles, Éditions Facultés universitaires SaintLouis, 1977, pp. 55-77. “Discussion d’ensemble,” pp. 207-236. “Socialité et argent,” in: ELSA 79-85. [E.T.: “Sociality and Money,” in: R. Burggraeve, Proximity with the Other. A Multidimensional Ethic of Responsibility in Levinas, Bangalore (India), Dharmaram Publications, 2009, pp. 115-123.]. Du sacré au Saint. Cinq nouvelles lectures talmudiques, Paris, Minuit, 1977. [ET: “From the Sacred to the Holy,” in: NTR 89-197.].

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TA:

Le temps et l’autre, Montpellier, Fata Morgana, 1979 (2nd ed.). [ET: Time and the Other, translated by R.A. Cohen, Pittsburgh, Duquesne University Press, 1987.]. TH: “Transcendance et hauteur,” in: LC 49-100. [ET: “Transcendence and height,” translated by S. Critchley, in: BPW 11-31.]. TI: Totalité et Infini. Essai sur l’extériorité, La Haye, Nijhoff, 1961. [ET: Totality and Infinity An Essay on Exteriority, translated by A. Lingis, The Hague/Boston/London, Nijhoff, 1979.]. TrID: Transcendance et intelligibilité (suivi d’un Entretien), Genève, Labor et Fides, 1984, pp. 33-68 (Entretien avec Emmanuel Levinas: 2 juin 1983, à Genève). [ET: “Discussion Following ‘Transcendence and Intelligibility’ (1984),” in: IRB 268-286. VA: “La vocation de l’autre” (entretien réalisé par Emmanuel Hirsch), in: E. Hirsch, Racismes. L’autre et son visage, Paris, Cerf, 1988, pp. 89-102. [ET: “The Vocation of the Other,” translated by J. Robbins, in: IRB 105-113]. II. Other works The other authors consulted are mentioned in alphabetical order. The works of one and the same author are arranged chronologically, beginning with the oldest to the most recent work. Throughout the present text, we refer to the work cited by mentioning the name of the author, followed by the year of publication and the consulted page(s). Some authors have more than one work published in a given year. In this case, the reference will mention the year to be followed by a,b,c, etc., according to the sequence of the works under the same year of publication listed in the bibliography. Abécassis A., “L’acte de mémoire,” in: O. Abel (ed.), Le pardon. Briser la dette et l’oubli, Paris, Autrement, 1991, pp. 137-155. Abécassis A., “Le rire des Patriarches,” in: Lumière et Vie, 45 (1996), no. 230, December, pp. 7-14. Amery C., Das Ende der Vorsehung. Die gnadenlosen Folgen des Christentums, Hamburg; Reinbek, 1974. Anatrella T., La différence interdite. Sexualité, éducation, violence. Trente ans après Mai 1968, Paris, Flammarion, 1998. Arendt H., The Human Condition, London/Chicago, The University of Chicago Press, 1958. Arendt H., Eichmann in Jerusalem: A Report on the Banality of Evil, New York, NY, Viking Press, 1963. Auer A., “Fünftes Gebot: ‘Du sollst nicht töten!’,” in: W. Sandfuchs (ed.), Die 10 Gebote. Elf Beiträge zu den Zehn Geboten, Würzburg, Echter Verlag, 1976, pp. 71-78. Balmary M., Le sacrifice interdit. Freud et la Bible, Paris, Grasset & Fasquelle, 1986. Balmary M., La divine origine. Dieu n’a pas créé l’homme, Paris, Grasset & Fasquelle, 1993. Balmary M., Abel ou la traversée de l’Éden, Paris, Grasset & Fasquelle, 1999.

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Index of Names A Abécassis, A. 114, 180, 219, 321, 324 Abel, O. 321 Ahmed Al-Tayyeb 137, 324 Akiba (Rabbi) 268 Ambrose of Milan 302 Amery, C. 96, 321 Anatrella, T. 77, 321 Anckaert, L. 327 Anselm of Canterbury 302 Antigone 1 Arendt, H. 143, 198, 321 Aronowicz, A. 320 Auer, A. 248, 321 Augustine 138, 300, 302, 303 Azouvi, F. 327

B Balmary, M. 26, 93, 108, 109, 111, 113, 118, 119, 124, 125, 127, 203, 223, 228, 300, 321, 327 Banki, P. 196, 322 Barbour, H.G. 330 Barnes, H. 328 Basil of Caesarea 91 Basow, S.A. 74, 322 Basset, L. 108, 121, 163, 322 Baudler, G. 9, 31, 154, 155, 322 Beasley-Murray, G.R. 300, 322 Beauchamp, P. 236, 322 Becker, J. 38, 322 Belford Ulanov, A. 73, 322 Bergo, B. 319 Bernard of Clairvaux 301 Berten, I. 83, 284, 322 Bieringer, R. 29, 322 Blamey, K. 327, 328 Bocquet, E. 323 Boff, L. 187, 322 Borobio, D. 201, 322 Borradori, G. 196, 322

Boszormenyi Nagy, I. 184, 322, 329 Bourg, D. 327 Bouthors, J.-F. 28, 42, 322 Brenningmeijer-Wehrhahn, A. 323 Burggraeve, R. 7, 84, 108, 160, 239, 259, 320, 323, 327

C Cairns, D. 83, 232 Catherine of Sienna 303 Chabert, Y. 196, 323 Chalier, C. 95, 221, 223, 323 Chandler, R. 172, 325 Chauvet, L.-M. 201, 323 Chisholm, R.M. 283, 323 Coelen, M. 320 Cohen, R.A. 320, 321 Coldefy-Faucard, A. 172 Copernicus, N. 22 Coppieters de Gibson, D. 320 Crépin, A. 162, 323 Critchley, S. 319, 321 Curran, C.E. 328

D d’Aquili, E. 224, 327 d’Aspremont, I. 184, 326 Dauenhauer, B.P. 327 De Boer, Th. 27, 156, 323 De Clerck, P. 201, 323 De Foucauld, C. 246 De Lange, F. 103, 246, 323 De Launay, M. 327 De Stexhe, G. 325, 329 De Tavernier, J. 104, 323, 324, 330 Debruyn, R. IV, 303, 323 Dehaene, T. 322 Deissler, A. 249, 323 Deleuze, G. 323 Deplancq, C. 323 Deproost, P.-A. 328

332

R. BURGGRAEVE

Derrida, J. 195, 322, 324 Descartes, R. 96, 104 Desmond, W. 200, 324 Diedrich, W. 5 Dillen, A. 248, 324 Dominian, J. 249, 255, 324 Dostoevsky, F. 306 Doyle, J.A. 67, 324 Drijvers, P. 27, 324 Duffy, M. 195, 324 Duquoc, C. 171, 324 Duyndam, J. 116, 324

E Eisenberg, J. 114, 324 Ekind, E. 172 Erfani, F. 329 Euripides 1

F Farley, M.A. 255, 324 Finkielkraut, A. 86, 324 Focant, C. 301, 324 Francis I. 80, 82, 83, 97, 101, 137, 258, 324 Frankel, Z. 14 Freud, S. 67, 123, 181, 206, 321 Friedrich, G. 95, 324 Fuchs, E. 51, 57, 66, 253, 324

G Galilei, G. 22 Gasslein, B. 326 Gillingham, S.E. 15, 324 Girard, R. 108, 110, 116, 123, 129 133, 177, 324, 325, 330 Goethe (Von), J.W. 27 Gornik, H.A. 325 Gouhier, A. 198, 325 Gowler, D.B. 15, 325 Graez, H. 14 Graves, G. 114, 325 Greisch, J. 71, 144, 276, 325, 327 Grossman, V. 172, 173, 174, 292, 293, 294, 295, 297, 325 Gutiérrez, G. 117, 325 Guzman, E. 5

H Halpérin, J. 324 Hand, S. 319 Hanssens, J. 323 Häring, H. 329 Harshaw, B. 320 Hauerwas, S. 245, 325 Hegel, G.W.F. 9, 54, 152, 325 Heidegger, M. 10, 15, 306, 320 Hertz, A. 322 Heyd, D. 283, 325 Hillel (Rabbi) 268 Hirsch, E. 139, 321 Hobbes, T. 131, 294 Hoekema, A.A. 90, 325 Holvoet, C. 323 Homer 1 Hitler 172, 267, 295 Hüber, W. 251, 325 Huot-Pleuroux, P. 319

I Ihde, D. 327 Ikonnikov 292, 293, 294, 295, 297

J Janssens, L. 244, 325 Jenkins, W. 102, 325 John Paul II 140, 243, 257, 259, 304, 325 Jonas, H. 97, 325 Julian of Norwich 303

K Kant, I. 9, 250 Kaptein, R. 116, 325 Keenan, J.F. 323 Kevers, P. 146, 270, 325 Kigel, M. 326 Knieps-Port le Roi, T. 323 Koelega, D. 323 Korff, W. 258, 322, 326 Krasner, B.R. 322

L Lacan, J. 78, 238 LaCocque, A. 7, 16, 29, 30, 88, 326

INDEX OF NAMES

Lacroix, X. 66, 68, 79, 326 Laenen, J.H. 58, 62, 326 Lapide, P. 2, 326 Laytner, A. 123, 326 Lefort, G. 325 Lenin 295 Lessing, G.F. 27 Levinas, E. VII, XI, 1, 2, 5, 7, 10, 14, 28, 36, 41, 42, 43, 44, 47, 54, 55, 71, 85, 108, 124, 125, 126, 131, 133, 134, 136, 137, 139, 172, 174, 226, 227, 265, 268, 269, 272, 276, 278, 279, 280, 281, 283, 284, 285, 286, 291, 292, 293, 295, 296, 297, 298, 299, 305, 306, 308, 310, 315, 316, 317, 319, 320, 321, 324, 326, 327, 329 Lévi-Strauss, C. 87 Lévitte, G. 324 Lingis, A. 319, 321 Lion, A. 327 Loebel, T. 320 Luria 62

M Marcel, G. 329 Marion, J.-L. 60, 207, 326 Marmeladova (Sonya) 306 Marx, K. 169, 172, 173, 295 McAfee Brown, R. 325 McCormick, R.A. 328 McFague, S. 101, 326 McIntyre, A. 245, 326 McLaughlin, K. 327 Merklein, H. 300, 322, 326 Merleau-Ponty, M. 327 Meulink-Korf, H. 186, 329 Mole, G.D. 319 Monbourquette, J. 159, 165, 184, 190, 326 Montaigne (de), M. 27 Moreau, P. 79, 326 Morin, E. 195, 196, 326 Morrison, G.J. 199, 326 Mosès, S. 257, 326 Moyaert, P. 19, 60, 61, 99, 181, 200, 326

333

N Nahman (Rabbi) 297 Nemo, Ph. 310, 311, 312, 320, 326 Newberg, A. 224, 327 Noordegraaf, H. 323

O Odysseus 39 Ouaknin, M.-A. 255, 327 Ougbourlian, J.-M. 325

P Paludi, M.A. 67, 324 Pascal, B. 27, 156, 171, 176, 301, 323, 327 Pataï, R. 114, 325 Pellauer, D. 326, 327, 328 Peperzak, A. 319 Perrin, M. 323, 325, 328 Philibert, R. 196, 323 Philippo, M. 228, 327 Pindarus 206 Plato 27, 67, 68, 256, 280, 305 Poller, N. 320 Poor, K. 326 Pollefeyt, D. 29, 55, 178, 179, 195, 322, 327 Poorthuis, M. 196, 327

Q Queré, F. 229, 327

R Raba (Rabbi) 28 Rachi (Rabbi) 223 Rahner, K. 328 Raskolnikov 306 Rause, V. 224, 327 Remus 129, 130 Rendtorff, T. 322 Richard, L. 62, 327 Ricoeur, P. 7, 8, 9, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 24, 29, 30, 52, 53, 88, 142, 143, 144, 153, 164, 166, 167, 177, 181, 183, 187, 188, 195, 196, 198, 205, 217, 274, 275, 324, 325, 326, 327, 328, 329

334

R. BURGGRAEVE

Robbins, J. 320, 321 Rolland, J. 319 Romulus 129, 130 Rosa, H. 236, 328 Rovers, M. 249, 328 Ruytjens, K. 160, 322

Thévenot, X. 84, 236, 262, 329 Thomasset, A. 278, 329 Tijmes, P. 116, 325 Troisfontaines, R. 254, 329 Trotter, W.E. 327 Tumushabe, S. 104, 329 Turner, Ph. 322

S Sacharov, A. 172 Sagne, J.-C. 252, 328 Sandfuchs, W. 321, 323 Sarazin, B. 108, 110, 114, 328 Sartre, J.-P. 11, 12, 328 Scheler, M. 244, 328 Schillebeeckx, E. 287, 328, 329 Schiller, F. 152 Schleiermacher, F. 239 Schmid, J. 13, 328 Schmidt, P. 272, 328 Schneider, T. 328 Schoofs, T. 329 Schreiner, J. 240, 328 Schüller, B. 26, 328 Schüngel-Straumann, H. 52, 328 Schwarz-Liebermann Von Wahlendorf, H.-A. 192, 328 Schweiker, W. 278, 285, 328 Searle, J.R. 25, 58, 328 Selling, J. 52, 328 Servaas, M. 5, 238, 329 Shakespeare, W. 27 Simlai (Rabbi) 267 Singer, P. 96, 329 Smith, M.B. 319, 320 Sölle, D. 156, 287, 329 Sophocles 1 Spinoza (De), B. 73 Spohn, W.C. 247, 329 Stalin 171, 172, 173, 174, 295 Standaert, B. 10, 329

T Tassin, C. 109

V Vacquin, M. 325 Van Halst, I. 108, 323 Van Iersel, B. 12, 329 Van Rhijn, A. 186, 329 Van Tongeren, P. 162, 329 Vandecasteele-Vanneuville, F. 29, 322 Vanhoozer, K.J. 24, 329 Vansteenwegen, A. 252, 329 Venema, H. 195, 329 Vergote, A. 57, 61, 329 Verkuyl, J. 56, 329 Verstraeten, J. 246, 325, 329 Vervenne, M. 51, 330 Viatour, A. 323 Vuidar, M. 303, 323 Vuola, E. 303, 330

W Wagner, J. 328 Warmke, B. 196, 330 Watthee-Delmotte, M. 328 Wénin, A. 108, 330 White, L. 96, 330 Wiesel, E. 98, 114, 330 Willems, A. 329 Willi, J. 253, 330 Williams, J.G. 130, 330 Wyschogrod, E. 197, 330

Z Zeffirelli 10 Zunz, L. 14