Reading Is Believing: The Christian Faith through Literature and Film

Amen

Preface

In the early 1990s, a well-known scholar of classics and philosophy, Martha Nussbaum, gave a series of lectures at Hamline University in St. Paul, Minnesota. The subject of her lectures was philosophical, but she chose, as one of her primary texts, a novel: Charles Dickens’s Hard Times. Since she knew that many of her fellow philosophers, at least, might well have found this choice somewhat surprising, she began her first lecture with an apology (in that word’s ancient meaning of defense) for giving so much attention to literature. Among other points, Nussbaum emphasized that fiction encourages readers to get involved in the story; they are asked to participate, to allow the imaginative world of the work of fiction to become a world that they themselves can inhabit. Moreover, she said, novels point us toward the ordinary aspects of human existence; they are not focused only on rare occurrences or on events that will transpire in only a tiny percentage of the lives of those who read them. Novels often help us to focus on the ordinary case—not on the exception to the rule. They therefore encourage us to acknowledge the full humanity of others: their joys and sorrows, their hopes and aspirations.

I was present at Professor Nussbaum’s lecture, and it led me to reflect on the relationship between narrative fiction and my own academic discipline of Christian theology. I had already been teaching for several years at that point, and I had made considerable use of novels, short stories, and plays in my classes. I had found these works of fiction to be an extraordinarily helpful teaching tool: for one thing, students always enjoyed reading and discussing them. Moreover, most of my students were able to recognize how the fiction that we were reading exemplified and explicated the Christian beliefs that we were studying. So I had already gathered quite a bit of evidence that Christians could gain a clearer perspective on their own faith by reading literature. But Professor Nussbaum’s lecture led me to think more broadly about the relationship between reading literature and believing in the Christian faith. I started to realize that literature could be more than just a useful teaching tool or a reservoir of concrete examples for illustrating theological claims. In short, I came to the conviction that, for Christians, reading is believing.

Literature—particularly fictional narratives and drama—tends to encourage its readers to acknowledge and attend to the humanity of other human beings. Consequently, it seems a particularly appropriate medium for thinking through the claims of Christian theology, since Christianity has, from its beginnings, stressed the importance of such acknowledgment and attention. Most of us, as we work our way through life, tend to focus on ourselves. This is certainly understandable to a point, since we all participate in the biological drive to survive; but Jesus lived his life focused on the significance of other people, and he taught us to try to do the same. Reading fictional narratives helps to reinforce that lesson, for if we are to enter into the world of the novel (or short story, or film, or play), we have to step out of the limelight ourselves. If I am to enter this fictional world, I will have to accept that I am no longer the main character; in all likelihood, I am not a character at all. At least in their form, even if not always in their content, narratives and drama encourage us to become more other-directed.

Moreover, in order to enter the imaginative world that the author has constructed, we are encouraged to get to know the characters, often in a thoroughgoing way. Even if we do not particularly care for a certain character’s outlook on life, our intimate knowledge of that person’s joys and hopes, as well as sorrows and despairs, can give us a certain appreciation for the circumstances in which fictional characters find themselves. Even the most despicable characters—and we will certainly meet a few of them over the course of this book!—tend to evoke our pity or compassion rather than only our anger and resentment. We are strengthened in our resolve to live better lives rather than merely exulting in our superiority over others, and this strengthening mirrors the traditional teachings of Christianity. In fact, I would suggest that if we can learn to react to the various faults and foibles of real human beings with the same spirit of pity and compassion with which we often react to the faults of fictional characters, we will, most probably, already be living more authentically Christian lives.

Finally, by presenting to us a detailed description of a person’s life, literature helps us to understand the relationship between our beliefs and our actions. When we begin to discern the entire shape of a person’s life, we also begin to understand why a particular belief might or might not be important to that person—and why that belief might lead a person to act in particular ways. The circumstances in which many fictional characters find themselves are often similar to the circumstances in which we find ourselves in our day-to-day lives; this similarity can be recognized even if the main characters are talking animals, or the setting is a fantasy world. Whatever takes place in narrative and drama can provide us with fertile soil in which to cultivate a better understanding of the central beliefs of the Christian faith.

Of course, the Christian story itself is in the form of narrative and drama: the stories of the Bible, for example, are stories about people we can recognize and relate to, about their encounters with obstacles and their struggles to survive, about their deepest longings and their greatest triumphs. The stories of the people of Israel, the Gospel accounts of Jesus and the disciples, and the lives of the saints are among the most basic building-blocks of the Christian faith. We should also remember that, when Jesus was trying to help his followers to understand a particularly difficult concept, he often did so by telling them a story.

None of this is meant to imply that the Christian story is fiction (in the sense of an invented story that never happened), nor that other stories can substitute for the Christian story as it comes to us in the Bible and its interpretation through history. This central narrative of the Christian faith must always remain primary. Rather, I am simply trying to suggest that Christians don’t usually need to stretch very far in order to grasp the structure and significance of narrative and drama. We are already well trained by the heavily storied nature of our own faith and its dramatic enactment in our worship and in our lives. The Christian story has helped to make us who we are. Thus, when we read a story that takes up the themes of our faith—even if only implicitly or tangentially—we will begin to make connections and to develop new perspectives on the Christian life.

My hope is that those who encounter this book will emerge from the experience with a deeper and more profound appreciation for the central beliefs of the Christian faith—beliefs that are meant to be embodied by those of us who claim that faith as our own. It may also lead to a better understanding of these beliefs; but it is not intended only, or even primarily, to move the intellect. I also want this book to help us to imagine how these beliefs hang together as a whole, to enter into these beliefs and to inhabit them, and thereby orient our whole lives so that our Christian faith can become our source, our path, and our goal. Regardless of the extent to which it can help others on their pilgrim way, I can at least testify that writing this book has certainly helped me on my own.

Books are written by people who sit alone at a computer and stare at the screen. This can sometimes give the impression that writing is a solitary or individualistic activity, but nothing could be further than the truth. I was able to write this book only because my life is so interwoven with many others who continually provide support, encouragement, and a sounding board for my ideas. These include colleagues and editors who have solicited my reflections on fiction and film over the past decade. Most of this book was written from scratch, but a few of the chapters incorporate a small amount of material from previously published works; in particular, my comments on the film versions of The End of the Affair and A Pure Formality appeared in The Christian Century (vol. 117, no. 4, 2–9 February 2000, pp. 156–58) and Sojourners (vol. 25, no. 1, January–February 1996, pp. 62–64), respectively. Some material on The Time of the Angels and Beloved, as well as my general reflections on the Christian understanding of God, comes from my book These Three are One: The Practice of Trinitarian Theology (Blackwell, 1998). These materials were rewritten when they were incorporated into the present book.

My ability to complete this book—as has been the case with every book I have written—is due primarily to the good graces of my family: my wife, Teresa Hittner, and my daughters, Monica and Emily Hittner-Cunningham. Not only do they let me work when I must; they also remind me, regularly, that good writers need rest and playtime as well, and they make sure that I get plenty of both. The faculty and staff of Seabury-Western Theological Seminary have been thoroughly supportive of my research and writing commitments, even in the midst of the heavy teaching and administrative load that is so much a part of theological education. The people of St. Luke’s Episcopal Church in Evanston, Illinois, have provided a wonderfully supportive environment for our whole family. In addition, they—along with members of other churches in the area—have heard and responded to many of my theological reflections on literature in sermons and adult education workshops. Thanks also to the staff at Brazos Press, including Bobbi Jo Heyboer, Rebecca Cooper, and (in particular) Rodney Clapp, whose early and sustained confidence in this project has been instrumental in its completion.

Finally, I want to thank my students. Special credit goes to those who enrolled in the course Reading is Believing that I taught here at Seabury-Western, and who provided comments and feedback on many of the earliest drafts of these chapters: Hickman Alexandre, Henry Austin, Anne Cothran, Kristen Fout, Mary Ann Garrett, Kate Guistolise, Melissanne Hughes, Mary Koppel, Diane Markevitch, Jojo Pamatmat, Hilda Sey, Jerry Shigaki, Roma Simons, and Mollie Ward. Thanks also to my student assistants, who have done research, catalogued books and articles, assisted me in the classroom, and taken a number of tasks off my hands so that I could concentrate more fully on this project: Margaret Adam, Jason Fout, Julie Gilbert, Clifton Healy, and Lisa Walters. All of them have contributed more than they know to this volume and have enlivened my personal and professional life by their very presence in it. They have also been among the hundreds of students in my classes over the years who have endured my theological reflections on literature with patience and grace. To all these students this book is dedicated in the same spirit of affection, friendship, and love that was embodied and encouraged by the great leader of the church whose life and work is celebrated on this day.

The Feast of St. Aelred of Rievaulx

Anno Domini 2002

Introduction

I Believe . . .

In the very earliest years of the Christian movement, as the community of disciples increased in number and spread over a vast geographical area, the beliefs and practices of its members began to diverge. The followers of Jesus began to differ about some of the most basic assumptions that gave them their identity as Christians. We see evidence of this in some of the earliest writings within the community of faith—for example, in the book of Acts, in Paul’s letters, and even in the subtle differences of emphasis among the four Gospels.

In Paul’s letter to the Galatians, for example, he remarks that, during the time since he originally preached there, the people of Galatia had begun to follow other gospels and other Christs. It soon became obvious, not only to Paul but to many members of the earliest Christian communities, that if the followers of Jesus were to retain any sense of unity, they would have to come to some agreement about what they believed and what they practiced.

Such agreement as there was in these early days developed by means of letters and face-to-face conversations among the leaders of various Christian communities. In comparison with our contemporary experience of instant communication and easy travel, the world of the earliest Christians was one in which transportation was complicated and difficult, and in which long-distance communication was slow and unreliable. Thus, it was not uncommon for very different assumptions and practices to develop in the far-flung reaches of the known world.

Of course, this diversity was not necessarily a bad thing. From the beginning, Christians understood their faith as something that would need translation and adaptation into differing cultural settings. The story of the sending of the Spirit at Pentecost (Acts 2) makes it very clear that people from a wide variety of nations and cultures were able to hear the message of the Christian faith in their own language. Unlike Judaism and Islam, Christianity did not endow the original language of its revelation with a mystical or sacred status. Rather, the gospel can be presented in a variety of languages, to a variety of cultures, and still retain its original shape. (Of course, Western Christianity did experiment with the notion that its adopted language, Latin, demanded a similar sort of reverence; more recently, however, the faith has embraced a wide variety of local languages.)

On the other hand, this diversity does not imply a complete relativism. If the word Christianity is to have any meaning at all, the faith must have a recognizable shape—a general outline of its claims and some degree of agreement about the practices through which it comes to life. Without such agreement, Christians would not really be in communion with one another. For example, if one group understood Jesus to be God, while another group believed him to be simply a highly successful moral teacher, the beliefs and practices of the two groups would likely diverge; eventually, they might find it difficult to recognize one another as identifiably Christian.

Nor would such groups be able to defend themselves against false charges. For instance, in the earliest period of Christian history, the introduction of such language as eating the body of Christ and loving all people led to a number of misunderstandings about the new faith. Some local Roman officials worried that Christians under their jurisdictions were promoting cannibalism and group sex. Christians could only respond to these charges if they could state precisely what sorts of activities Christians were practicing and that the immoral practices of which they were suspected were not, in fact, what Christians do.

Eventually, the exchanges of letters and the face-to-face conversations among the leaders of Christian communities gave rise to the creation of short statements of belief, often referred to as credal statements, or simply creeds. (The word comes from the Latin word for I [or we] believe, which was often the first word of these statements.) These creeds were intended to summarize the most important claims of the new faith and to provide some grounding of and explanation for basic Christian practices. Some of these statements of belief were probably used in connection with the rite of baptism. The earliest among these statements were probably very simple; many scholars believe that the phrases described in the New Testament as associated with baptism (in the name of Jesus or in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit) probably reflect the creeds that newly baptized Christians might have been expected to proclaim at their baptisms.

As time went on, these statements of faith became lengthier and more complex. Some of the earliest creeds were incorporated into Christian worship, and many of them retain a place in the liturgical texts of various Christian denominations to this day. However, some of the later statements of faith became so complex that their liturgical use was considered inappropriate. (One example is a lengthy creed sometimes attributed to St. Athanasius, which attempts to offer a finely-differentiated account of the relationships among the persons of the Trinity. This creed is printed in the standard worship texts of some denominations, but its minute distinctions would probably seem out of place within a worship service. On the other hand, some people would say the same thing about those creeds that are used regularly in worship; more on that point in a moment.)

The latest and lengthiest creed that became thoroughly incorporated into the Western liturgy was the statement finalized at the Council of Constantinople (381). It was based on a similar but shorter version developed at the Council of Nicea, and so is officially known by the somewhat cumbersome label of the Nicene-Constantinopolitan Creed. Fortunately, everyone seems to have developed the habit of calling it, more simply, the Nicene Creed.

The Nicene Creed is used in the worship of the overwhelming majority of the world’s Christians: Roman Catholics, Eastern Orthodox, Anglicans, and many other Protestants as well. The breadth of its usage sometimes comes as a surprise to members of those denominations within which the creeds play little or no role. I grew up in the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ), which uses no creeds at all other than a simple declaration that Jesus is the Christ. My first introduction to the Nicene Creed came, as it comes for many Protestant Christians, when I began to listen to musical settings of the Mass by Bach and Mozart. I thereby became aware that, regardless of my own denomination’s use (or, in my case, nonuse) of creeds, the Nicene Creed had made an extraordinary impact on the church through the ages—and indeed, on various forms of art, music, and literature as well. I began to realize that, even as a member of a noncreedal denomination, I would need to get to know, and to wrestle with, this text.

Moreover, some denominations that officially endorse the Nicene Creed do not incorporate it into their worship services on a regular basis; still others who have used it in the past have reduced or eliminated its usage (or have replaced it with a very different statement of belief). Consequently, some Christians who grew up saying the Nicene Creed may today find it to be little more than a dim, distant memory. Nevertheless, the fact that the Nicene Creed retains an official (or at least a semiofficial) status in many denominations is evidence of its importance. Despite the complexity of some of its language (I will return to this matter), the Nicene Creed has played an enormously important role in the self-understanding of Christians throughout the ages.

All the same, this lengthy, complex creed is not the only statement of the Christian faith that has had a significant status over time. Before the final formulation of the Nicene Creed, a much shorter statement of similar structure was already well known throughout the Christian world. This statement was known as the Apostles’ Creed, and was attributed, by legend, to the original twelve apostles. According to this legend, the twelve apostles themselves created the creed shortly after the day of Pentecost. This occurred under the guidance of the Holy Spirit, and was said to have happened in this way: first, Peter said: I believe in God the Father almighty, maker of heaven and earth, then Andrew said: and in Jesus Christ his son, and so on. The creed was therefore described as having been composed by the apostles, and as consisting of twelve parts or articles.

This story is certainly legendary, but like all legends, it tells the truth more adequately (and certainly more interestingly) than would a complicated documentary history of events that attempted to stick to the facts. In this particular case, the legend emphasizes something that Christians have, throughout history, generally believed—namely, that there are some significant lines of continuity between the creed itself and the beliefs that motivated the original followers of Jesus. Recent scholarship has demonstrated significant connections between the phrases of the Apostles’ Creed and the New Testament. Moreover, because of its brevity and its ancient origin, it has come to serve as one of the most clear and concise statements of the essential structure of Christian belief. Even those denominations that do not regularly use (or even officially recognize) the Apostles’ Creed have often used it, whether explicitly or implicitly, to structure their ministries of teaching, preaching, and social action.

In sum, then, the Apostles’ Creed provides us with a biblically based, historically attested, and frequently used statement of the most basic claims of the Christian faith. Its traditional division into twelve articles, however legendary, is very helpful to us today; it allows us to break down this statement of faith into its component parts, and to consider each one in turn. It also provides a straightforward system for the chapter divisions of books—including this one—that explore the contours of Christian belief.

At the same time, this process of division can be misleading; it can suggest that a creed is simply a checklist or a series of litmus tests of Christian belief. One can imagine someone looking down the list and saying something like, Let’s see, ‘I believe in God’—okay, yes, I can agree with that one; then comes ‘in Jesus Christ’—yes, fine; now this next one, ‘born of the virgin Mary’—I’m not so sure about that, and so on. In practice, however, the creeds have not typically functioned as a checklist. The phrases of the creed are not a series of tests of one’s adherence to Christian belief; they are closely interrelated aspects of the whole story of God and our relationship with God. Thus, if we divide up the creed too sharply—thinking of it as nothing more than a checklist of isolated beliefs—we may be missing the point.

Nor should we think of the creeds primarily as tools for helping outsiders understand why the Christian faith is such Good News. These creeds were never intended to be self-explanatory. We wouldn’t normally expect a frantic rush of new seekers into our churches if we hung a big banner outside that read We believe that Jesus ascended into heaven. While this claim is a key part of the Christian story, and while it encourages us to think deeply and profoundly about certain elements of our faith (see chapter six), it may not have much attraction for those who are unacquainted with the Christian faith.

I find it more useful to think of the creed, first, as a summary of the vast narratives of the Christian faith; second, as a resource for study and conversation among those who already know those stories well; and finally, as a goal that encourages all Christians as they try to live into those stories in their worship and in their daily lives. The relationship between the creeds and the Bible is thus not a matter of opposition or competition, but rather a matter of concentration and complementarity. British theologian Nicholas Lash puts the matter like this: What the Scriptures say at length, the creeds say briefly. Those who are unfamiliar with the Christian faith will come to know it through the primary narratives of the Bible and the liturgy, and through an encounter with the actual lives of Christian believers. The creeds are more useful to those who are already familiar with the stories and practices of Christianity; they help believers understand and summarize their faith.

At the same time, we should note that, not only to those who are unfamiliar with the Christian faith but also to those who are well-acquainted with it, the phrase I believe at the beginning of the creed can be misleading. The reasons for this are deeply embedded in our current cultural assumptions and in our most common uses of the word. We use the verb believe in a variety of ways, none of which is particularly apt for explaining how the word has traditionally been understood in the creeds. We sometimes use the word to describe an opinion or a fact about which we are uncertain: I believe that meeting is tomorrow, meaning: I’m not sure, but I think so. We also use the word to describe a tentative or provisional intention on our own part: I believe I’ll take a walk this afternoon, meaning: I’ve pretty well made up my mind to do this, though I could be dissuaded. Sometimes it’s an expression of trust: I believe you, meaning: I trust that you are telling me the truth. And of course, it can also describe convictions: I believe in free speech, meaning, I think it’s the right thing, I wouldn’t have it any other way, and I might even die for its protection. These various meanings of the verb believe have led to a certain degree of confusion among speakers of the English language, and are also occasionally a source of humor (as in the T-shirt that reads: Everyone has to believe in something; I believe I’ll have another cookie).

But none of these meanings is really descriptive of the use of the word believe in the creeds, or in more general statements that Christians believe in particular things. While the word believe does carry with it some of the above-mentioned connotations—including a proclamation of trust and a statement of conviction—it ultimately transcends all these elements. Part of this is due to the little word that appears just after the word believe—the little unobstrusive word in. To recognize the importance of this word, think about the two statements I believe you and "I believe in you. The first one expresses a willingness to accept what the other says as truthful or accurate; this decision may be based on the person’s perceived authority, an external corroboration, or just habit. But the second expression, I believe in you, implies a real relationship and something of a personal investment in the other person. It suggests commitment, trust, acceptance, conviction, and even certainty—something like, I know you can do it or My whole life is wrapped up in you."

This is part of what we mean when we make a claim such as I believe in God. In doing so, we are announcing an orientation of our whole lives, a direction and a focus that we have come to acknowledge. When we speak about our beliefs, we are describing ourselves as being part of a much larger group—part of the whole company of faithful people, over time and across space. We are aligning ourselves with billions of Christian believers, the living and the dead, who make up the Body of Christ. I might well interpret some aspect of my faith differently from the way a twelfth-century Christian in eastern Europe would have done; but this should not prevent me from accepting that we are both recognizably members of the same Body.

But just how different can our interpretations be before we (and others) begin to have difficulty recognizing our commonality? If we are to hope for any real content in a phrase that begins with words Christians believe in . . . , then we will need to be continuously about the business of exploring, examining, and discussing the meaning and significance of whatever we claim to believe in. We need to have some inkling of what we are saying when we say that we believe in the Holy Spirit or we believe in life everlasting. We need to think about what these words might refer to, why they have been considered to be so important across all of Christian history, and how they might continue to be meaningful for us today. Working through a basic statement of Christian belief (such as the Apostles’ Creed), phrase by phrase, has thus been a favorite procedure for Christian theologians throughout the ages. Even writers in noncreedal traditions often attend to the various elements of belief that are highlighted in the creeds when writing a general text about the shape of Christian faith. (For an example, see the work of the Baptist theologian James McClendon, cited at the end of this chapter.) Choose almost any significant theological writer at random, from the second century to the present day, and you will find—somewhere among that person’s works—an exploration of the essential features of Christian belief. More often than not, that exploration will, at least implicitly, be attentive to the form and content of the Apostles’ Creed or the Nicene Creed.

Unfortunately, many readers of these accounts find them fairly dry, and often come away from the encounter with more than a few doubts about their relevance to present-day Christian practice. Sometimes these accounts attempt to provide rather more historical detail than most believers care to know—explaining the biblical and traditional origins of a particular phrase, commenting in detail on the problems of translation from the original language, and sometimes describing how particular elements of belief are related to others. Since many of the phrases in the creeds were hammered out in an attempt to settle some very complex theological argument, a fair amount of historical contextualization is often necessary in order to show why and how someone came up with a particular phrase and why that phrase won widespread acceptance. As the centuries passed and the number of theological arguments multiplied, so did the number and complexity of the forms of words invented