Macquarrie wisdom - 'ransom'

My 'regulars' know well that I hold the late John Macquarrie's works in great esteem. I particularly like his ability to combine theological insight and historical perspective with a very realistic, compassionate, sound pastoral attitude. I was re-reading his Jesus Christ in Modern Thought, an excellent treatment of Christology, and initially intended to write a blog post about his words relating the scriptures to art... and you may be sure such is forthcoming shortly. :) Yet a television programme I recently viewed (and which inspired not only devotion but the stirring up of some old goblins from childhood!) led to my focussing today not on art (my favourite area) but erroneous notions of atonement (my least favourite.)

Macquarrie, in writing of the concept of 'ransom' in the gospel of Mark (this naturally with reference to the crucifixion), cautions the reader to detach from later ideas of ransom as appeasement. "Christ's surrendered life might be a ransom paid to the devil (Gregory of Nyssa), or a satisfaction offered to the Father for the outrage done to his honour (Anselm), or a propitiatory sacrifice (Council of Trent.) All such views are open to serious objections - the first because it assumes that the devil has proprietary rights over the fallen human race, whereas, if there are any devils, they are not to be bought off, but annihilated; and the second and third because they picture an angry God and set the Son over against his Father. The underlying problem with such theological theories is that they fail to recognise the metaphorical character of the language, and try to impose on it (too precise an interpretation.) If we put Mark's words about 'a ransom for many' into context, they occur not in any grandiose theory of atonement, but in a commendation of the life of service as opposed to a life of rule and self-assertion." Macquarrie expounds, then, about how we should see 'ransom' in a context of what it implies for Christian discipleship. "The Christ event...is the transvaluation of all values, the exaltation of servanthood and even self-emptying above domination and acquisition. The 'cross' which the disciples must take us is 'dying' to the standards and values of the 'world' and becoming united with Christ in the new life he offers. The 'ransom' paid by Jesus was his own sacrificial death... which is seen as the price of human deliverance from enslavement to sin."

I would applaud such insights as these on any day of the week, but what prompted me to write on this particular topic yet again is that, just last week, I saw a documentary about the life of Thérèse of Lisieux. It actually was quite interesting, treating of her autobiography and others' recollections in detail, and including a 'tour' of the Carmel where she had lived. Though I am not particularly devoted to Thérèse (as opposed to her namesake from Avila), I believe that, with the possible exception of Anthony, she is the most popular 'favourite saint' on the calendar.

I may not care for her style of writing, but Thérèse had a brilliance for presenting a healthy, accessible (if difficult, as all ways are because of our blindness) spirituality. It is notable that, in a time and place where there was enormous, excessive emphasis on suffering and gloom, Thérèse (if I may summarise and simplify) based all on loving response - and on serving Christ wherever one happened to 'be' at the moment. I believe it is quite important that her oblation as a 'victim for love' is seen in that critical context.

Unfortunately, there was one interview included in this documentary which could be confusing to those who are unaware of the overall thrust of Thérèse's spirituality. One nun who was interviewed, referring to the horrid suffering which Thérèse endured from the tuberculosis which would claim her life at age 24, spoke of the darkness in Thérèse's prayer life (a very common situation for mystics - including a Carmelite or two who is canonised...), and referred to this as Thérèse's 'facing the consequences' for her oblation as a victim.

In itself, this is hardly a problematic notion. If what Jean-Pierre de Caussade, a theologian with whom Thérèse had much affinity, defines as worshipping God 'in the present moment' (reasonable enough - where else can we worship Him?), one who is facing all the dreadful pains of tuberculosis, and this combined with a darkness and remoteness at prayer, has a 'consequence' - and one most beautiful. She is committed to being a servant of love (to borrow a term from Macquarrie above), offering her suffering as a prayer, continuing her prayer life despite the dryness. Yet a misinterpretation of the comment could conjure up images which could lead those about to lift the prayer book to run in another direction! The consequence applies if we define this as 'natural outcome' - one committed to love and devotion will have this show forth in her practise, regardless of what suffering she endures. It should not be interpreted as "Thérèse made herself a victim - so God sent her tuberculosis to make sure she had the maximum agony."

I say this often, but it merits repetition. I think the worst development in all of western theology, and this dating back to the early Christian centuries, was getting away from what I term a Eucharistic notion of sacrifice (praise and thanksgiving), and rather focussing on the 'propitiatory' idea which Macquarrie refutes above. For one who is suffering to offer this as a prayer is fine - but suffering, much as we'll never understand the evils of this world, is not the result of God's looking down from heaven and saying, "There's one of my friends - let's send some particularly horrible pain to him so he can atone for sin! And there's someone who wants no part of me - so let's send equal pain either to express punishment or to prevent my having to punish him eternally in hell!"

Why do I mention this as an 'old goblin'? Devotions focussed on 'suffering' and personal 'atonement' were exceedingly popular in my younger days. As a child, I was very frightened by, for example, the image of little Jacinta at Fatima, begging Our Lady, "Must I die all alone?" It matters little that Jacinta's illness was natural, and her regrettably dying alone was a consequence of others' negligence. (As an aside, it is most unfortunate that, in hagiography, it seems that the saints' illnesses and other sufferings were of supernatural origin. I believe that Jacinta also died of tuberculosis - tragic, but, in her time as in that of Thérèse, a very common disease which led many to an early grave.)

I could be wrong, of course, but those who are thought of as 'victims' (in the sense of having made an oblation) seem to me to have been following Thérèse's 'little way' (whether their lives pre-dated hers or not, I'm speaking of a basic concept). They were offering all that they had, in the circumstances in which they found themselves. Neither they nor Jesus Himself had sufferings that were directly ordained by God - Jesus' death came about through natural situations which sent many others to a cross.

To continue the thought in that last sentence for a moment, I wish to make yet another reference to John Macquarrie. His superb treatment of the Eucharist in the book I referenced sets forth the idea of specifically Eucharistic sacrifice in a

manner I'd like to match just once before I'm in the grave. :) I'll limit the reference to a few quotes:

"The language about Jesus' giving his life as a ransom for many, or about the disciple taking up the cross, or about the new covenant, are all brought into a unity of meaning in the Eucharist. There is already in germ here a doctrine of Eucharistic sacrifice...bringing the sacrifice of Christ before God... Geoffrey Wainwright claims: 'The Eucharist is a dominically instituted memorial rite which, not only serving to remind men but being performed before God, is sacrificial (in
that) it recalls before God with thanksgiving that one sacrifice, and prays for (its) continuing benefits to be granted now.' ....Whatever may have been the specific accusation (leading to Jesus' crucifixion), the real issue was that he

threatened the security of the established powers, and did so not by force of arms but by a transvaluation of values, in which the values of his non-worldly kingdom were supplanting the values of the world. Wainwright remarks: 'By keeping open the vision of a divine kingdom that transcends anything yet achieved, the Christian liturgy is to that extent subversive [of the existing order.]' The point has been put more generally by Richard Holloway: '(One) who worships God is a threat to every
other power which claims absolute authority."

The more I read of the classic mystics of the earliest centuries, the more I recall how sad it is that we Christians so dwelt on the cross, more or less forgetting the rest of the Incarnation: Jesus' proclamation of the kingdom; his resurrection,
ascension, eternal reign, call of his Church to glory. (I shall save my regrets about how common worship is often viewed, by contrast with that wonderful last paragraph I quoted, as an obligation purely undertaken out of obedience... or, worse, as merely a good for society, for another day.)