"In the beginning..." (Genesis 1:1)
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Atonement
What a lovely Fall afternoon! The papyrus harvest, more plentiful than usual, is drying in the sheds. There will be plenty of work to do over the Winter in making paper and copying manuscripts for use of the brethren. The monastic choir has been sounding more harmonious lately when they gather in the church to sing Vespers before the daily meal. There have been no wars, or rumours of wars, for over a year now. In short, life is good for the Egyptian monks.
As philosophy is the luxury of the fed and housed, Br. Paphnutius has been entertaining some guests today who asked him about the particulars of the Fall of Mankind recounted in Genesis and the Atonement wrought on the Cross and in the Resurrection. Basically, their questions [loaded with preconceptions such as a literal 6 day creation and the making of Adam and Eve as the first two people exactly as described in the Hebrew text] boiled down to this one: "Father, what does it all mean?"
"Well", said Paphnutius. "Let's start at the beginning. 'In the beginning, God created the heaven and the earth.' As far as I have always been concerned, the rest of the story up until the serpent's appearance is just a commentary on that first sentence. Did any of it actually happen as described? It may or may not have. Remember when we discussed the four senses [Editorial note: For those of you reading along at home, those are the literal, the allegorical, the moral, and the anagogical.] in which our Scriptures can be read and how it is not only possible, but likely that these senses blend together in the various parts in greater or lesser degree depending on context and circumstance? Well, I think that very thing is at play right here at the beginning of the story. If you can find a good balance of the senses and get past needing 'Adam' and 'Eve' to be historical prototypes and see them rather as archetypes in the midst of the unfolding of creation, then I think you can stand on pretty solid ground intellectually and spiritually. Nowhere in this text do the creation stories demand to be taken literally. But that doesn't mean that what they are telling us isn't true, it just isn't true in the easiest possible way to read it. Somewhat related to this, when we look out into the night sky and observe the heavens, I imagine that we will someday be able to see further out and discover more about the operation of the sky. If it isn't exactly as described here, well that's not really a problem. If you think 'the heaven and the earth' is the most important piece of the sentence I quoted from Genesis, you have entirely missed the point."
"Okay, you have our attention." said one of Paphnutius' interlocutors. "What is the point?"
"The point", my dear fellow, "is 'God created'. That is the essence of the opening line of Genesis. Everything else follows on from that. If you just keep your wits and 'senses' about you, you can read the text without getting bogged down by things that have no primary bearing on what is being communicated. Consider this. Today, when I woke up, after keeping Vigil, I walked out of my cave and turned right to collect some water. That is an historical event that was witnessed by some of the brethren and so they and I can be assured that I actually did this thing. It is 'true'. Conversely, it is 'false' to say that I turned left when walking out of my cave. I could have, but I chose not to. In this instance, I could have made at least four different decisions: turning to the right, turning to the left, going straight ahead, or remaining in the cave. It is only because we live in a linear time cycle that there are such things as the past and the future, events that happened and events that didn't happen. It is like floating down a river which has such a strong current that we can neither swim against it nor get close enough to the shore to see what lies beyond. [Editorial note: If our perspective is that of the one in the river, then God's perspective is, at the very least, of the one standing on the shore who is free to travel to all points up and down the watercourse...and beyond.] Perhaps we can extend this metaphor further."
By now, the heads of his guests were beginning to spin. "What do you mean, Father? This is a bit much to digest before dinner."
"Bear with me, please" replied Paphnutius. "I have given some consideration to these matters and it does me good to speak them out loud in order that they might breathe the free air of discussion, consideration and challenge."
"We'll do our best" said the guests in unison.
"Now, where was I? Oh, yes. What if, from the time I made my first decision, my life, like a river, branched off into each of the possibilities. Therefore, my choice caused me to 'float' down one of the branches rather than the others. Since I am floating at water level in this metaphorical river, I cannot see beyond its banks. And this brings us back around to the text in Genesis. Could there not also be other 'channels' or 'tributaries' wherein other persons are also experiencing the consequences of their decisions independently, yet we are all moving in the same direction? If 'Adam' and 'Eve' are indeed the archetypes I claim them to be, then the subsequent revelation of the Prophets, the Wisdom literature, the Gospels and Epistles all proclaim a common telos as the Greeks would put it. In other words, though we can't/don't see them in the Genesis narrative, all other tributaries are flowing into the main channel eventually and, thus, all moving in the same direction."
"Yikes" said the guests, again in unison, much like a Greek chorus. "But there's only one universe, and God created it. What is this business about rivers, and multiple choices. It's too complicated."
[Editorial note: Please don't get bogged down by the side issue of whether or not all possibilities are necessitated into being. This is not, after all, a script from Dr. Who. The prime purpose of this mental exercise, as Paphnutius will get to straight away, is to bring some perspective to our perspective (i.e. We see what we are able to and/or need to; that doesn't exclude the presence of other 'peripherals').]
"Yes, it is complicated" replied Paphnutius. "But what I'm getting at is that perhaps only the course of one of the 'river-tributaries' is being described in Genesis. Remember that what is written there must logically have been committed to paper long after what is being described and retold by oral tradition. It is hard, nay impossible, for those floating in the river to describe what is beyond its banks, let alone what is at the head of the watercourse which, for them lies many leagues behind and around multiple twists and turns."
"I think we are in agreement about that. It does strain the imagination, but makes sense. Where are you going with this, Father?"
"It gets us back to the nature of truth. I started out by telling you that it was a 'truth' that I walked out of my cave this morning and turned to the right. We instinctively assume, then, that my turning left was a falsehood as I didn't do that. But...as it was a possibility that I do so, perhaps the 'left branch' of that part of the river still exists as a route untaken. Therefore, the possibility exists that that is also 'true', we just won't ever see it since we cannot 'swim backwards'. That is our perspective. And if that is the case about small things of no lasting consequence such as the direction I travel in order to obtain water, might it not also be the case that we are only seeing a singular perspective 'from the river' being recounted in Genesis? Thus it is possible that other people are involved in the story of the Fall over a longer period of what we experience as time that we just don't [need] to hear about. Thus we arrive back at my proposition that 'Adam' and 'Eve' are presented to us as literary and theological archetypes of the disobedience that we live under as human beings. Was there a talking snake and a couple of bites out of a piece of fruit? Maybe, maybe not. The devil, in this case, is in the generality, not the particulars."
"Does the bishop know you teach like this?" they said, somewhat incredulously.
"I have no secrets from him, but he hasn't asked. Let me ask you a question, and thus give you another example to chew on of what I am talking about. What is the most important part of this verse? 'And God saw every thing that he had made, and, behold, it was very good. And the evening and the morning were the sixth day.' (Genesis 1:31)
The youngest of the guests, somewhat timidly, offered: "God saw everything that he had made, and, behold, it was very good"?
"Yes" said Paphnutius, almost exultantly (at least as exultantly as one who has dedicated his life to silence and contemplation can get). "That is exactly the point. Now, tell me this. Is God all powerful?"
"Of course" she replied.
"Can we destroy what He has made?"
She had to think for a while and consult with the others, knowing now that simple, "face-value" answers were not the order of the day with this monk. "I would say, in part, but we cannot undo the universe, if that is what you are asking."
"That is a good insight" replied Paphnutius. "Consider this, then we can break for dinner. You asked me originally about the nature of the Fall in Genesis. We have considered what it means for something to be 'true' in the light of decisions to be taken, realising that what is copied on a page may not be the whole of the story, just the part that we need to see to understand the point of its being recounted, and that, like good literary, visual or musical arts, something need not be literal in order to be true. I will admit that I like to read Homer and Plato for leisure. Does it matter whether Helen of Troy or Socrates were real people, modeled on various personages or completely fictional? No. They 'exist' on the page and in minds and souls of the readers and the author. And they have something to teach us about the quest for beauty and goodness. So, yes, I can confidently say they are 'true' even if they are not literal. But enough about that for now. Whoever, and for whatever duration of time, precipitated the commission of Original Sin, we seem to have teased out that it is not possible for us to completely undo the good work of our heavenly Father. Thus I take severe umbrage at some Christians whose views do much damage to our faith and those who are sincerely trying to follow Christ by insisting on there being strictly a literal, historical, singular meaning to the text [Editorial note: The position given here could thusly be summarised as 'That's all there is and we are seeing it'. Paphnutius' proposition here is that there may indeed be more and we are only seeing a (needful) portion of it.] and who assign terribly tragic consequences to it. I am told they refer to it as 'total depravity' wherein our hearts are described as completely dead and that we became unable even to will the will to do good in the small, everyday circumstances of our life. Thus do they read this portion of Genesis concluding with 'Therefore the Lord God sent him forth from the garden of Eden, to till the ground from whence he was taken.' (Genesis 3:23) Your instinct, young lady, seems a good one to me. While we can bend and irreparably [for us] maim the pieces, we cannot undo the universe and its occupants whose existence, we are told, is 'very good'.
"Dear Father, that's all well and good, but we're hungry. After the meal, may we know your thoughts on the sacrificial lamb?"
"Of course"
Just then the bell was rung for the common meal that was shared with any guests and, in particular, the poor who presented themselves at table.
"If I were hungry, I would not tell thee: for the world is mine, and the fulness thereof. Will I eat the flesh of bulls, or drink the blood of goats?" (Psalm 50: 12,13)
After a fine and satisfying, if not overly opulant meal, Br. Paphnutius and his guests returned to their Socratic dialogue [which, by this time had morphed into more of a monologue, but...]. "We have now arrived at a good place" continued Paphnutius, "to consider how God is."
"But we know that already", said one visitor who had remained silent up until now. "We have the Scriptures and the statement of faith of the Fathers of Nicea."
"We do indeed, and they serve their purpose well. Let's dive on in."
With a raised eyebrow, his latest inquirer asked, "What? Not another river story I hope."
"Not 'what', but 'how' " said Paphnutius with the indication of a smile. "We have been told to call God 'Abba/Father' and that should remind you of the man who raised you. When you disobeyed, did he ever cut you off completely from the family and its interests?"
"No, of course not."
"In light of that, then, consider this." Paphnutius arose, took a scroll from its place in the clay jar, unrolled it, and read: "If a son shall ask bread of any of you that is a father, will he give him a stone?...If ye then, being evil, know how to give good gifts to your children: how much more shall your heavenly Father give the Holy Spirit to them that ask him." (Lk. 11: 11a,13)
"But the instance in Genesis seems more severe," they retorted.
"Does it indeed? Then consider this." And he unrolled a bit further and continued to read: "A certain man had two sons: And the younger of them said to his father, Father, give me the portion of goods that falleth to me. And he divided unto them his living." (Lk. 15: 11-12) Paphnutius laid down the scroll and looked about the room. "In his asking for this, does this son not thereby effectively wish his father dead in claiming prematurely what is reserved for him at that time?"
"That seems to be the case."
"Is this a 'severe' enough instance to consider, then?"
They all agreed that it was.
"Then, in light of what he did, consider what becomes of this son." And Paphnutius continued to read: "And when he had spent all, there arose a mighty famine in that land; and he began to be in want. And he went and joined himself to a citizen of that country; and he sent him into his fields to feed swine." (ibid., vs. 14-15)
"Now", said Paphnutius. "Place yourselves in such a position that you are the father who has been dishonoured in such a way. And then imagine that you can see the straightened circumstances into which your child has gotten himself. Is now the time to demand substitutionary sacrifices in order to placate a sense of wrath? Will you then beat your other son senseless in order to 'make up for' what the first has done?"
"Of course not", they all vehemently agreed.
"Think upon, if you will, the 'scapegoat' in Leviticus and the animal sacrifices in the Temple that were an intrinsic part of Judaic worship. What is the purpose in their sacrifice? Do they take our place? Are they being punished? Or does the rite confer a 'sweet-smelling savor' that is consumed in the liturgical offering? If the latter is the case, then that, I contend, is also what the Lamb of God on the Cross is – a liturgical offering, not a penal substitution. The Lord Jesus is consumed in the fires of suffering on the altar of the Cross in the same manner as the first fruits, flesh meat and incense were consumed by the literal fires of the altars in the Temple. The covenant and rites of the Old Testament are now completed for all time, and through His death our archetypal preference for death is now converted back into the 'sweet-smelling savor' of our innocent creation. We are now made new and prepared for life again."
All sat in silence for some time; some pondered, others prayed. Finally, breaking the quiet of the room: "Consider this my friends." And Paphnutius continued to read from the scroll: "And he arose, and came to his father. But when he was yet a great way off, his father saw him, and had compassion, and ran, and fell on his neck, and kissed him." (ibid., vs. 20)
And he said: "That, my dear fellows, is us. God Himself is so good that He has willed and inspired our turning, our 'arisal' from all eternity. There are many needless things that have been theorised about what it means that we have been atoned for. It is nothing more complicated than this. We have wished for death instead of life. That wish was granted, though that was not what we are made for. The Lord Jesus has Himself arisen from the dead so that we might be able to follow him and do likewise."
The moral of (this part) of the story: Br. Paphnutius hasn't talked this much since we first encountered him. This visit with his guests was more like a Socratic monologue! But hey, they asked! They did, however, pray together both before and after and no one left angry or upset that what they assumed to be right was not necessarily the way that everyone else saw things and that the notion of God's wrath, source of so much anxiety for those on either side of the fence (and everyone in between) perhaps is not the overriding issue that it has come to be in some circles, along with its connexion to an attractiveness of its fulfilling the notion of a "comeuppance" against those who we feel have wronged us or those close to us or those who disagree with our deeply personalised religious notions (whether they bear a semblance to what is good, true and beautiful or not). The beauty of the practice of religion is that it should be taken so personally. The trouble with the practice of religion is that it can be taken so personally. Wisdom lies in seeing the difference.
To be continued...
