This topic might merit some review at this time of year.
Recently Ihad been reading how the early christians were really the fringe element of the Jewish faith, kind of unofficial members who attended service but weren't really welcome because they were not really Jewish. However Christianity grew from this population as the early christian proclaimers said that one need not be Jewish to be saved.
Anyway, I also saw this.
I will trim it because it's a bit long, but not much. CC, your response?
http://www.economist.com/printedition/PrinterFriendly.cfm?Story_ID=2281976
A Mary for all
Dec 18th 2003
New evidence on links between Judaism, Christianity and Islam
IMAGINE what you would think if you had grown up with little knowledge of Christianity, and you arrived in mid-winter in a country whose culture and spirituality had been shaped by that faith in one of its more traditional varieties. In other words, if you found yourself observing the celebration of Christ's Nativity in a country dominated by Roman Catholics, or by the Greek or Russian Orthodox church, or in an ancient outpost of Christendom like Ethiopia or Armenia.
You might have questions about the sex of the worshippers, and of the divinity being worshipped. As you walked into church, you would notice some impressively robed people singing, speaking and gesturing at the far end, either in view of the congregation or else in a partially enclosed space from which they periodically emerged. Both these robed celebrants and, almost certainly, their assistants would all be male; and no female would be allowed to enter the semi-enclosed space. Yet most of the worshippers might well be female.
Then you might begin to wonder about who or what was being addressed in the ceremonies you were watching, and your confusion would be even greater. As you studied both the seasonal decorations—the greetings-cards, the cribs and Nativity scenes, and also more permanent fixtures like statues, icons and mosaics, you might well conclude that the main person being celebrated and adored was not a new-born boy, but his mother.
The impression of a maternally-oriented religion would be especially powerful if you entered one of the many eastern Christian churches where a fresco or mosaic of a giant figure of Mary, with a relatively small figure of Christ superimposed, filled the concave space above the altar, seeming to tower over the worshippers. The sense of a religion dedicated to womanhood, with or without the attribute of maternity, would be stronger still in bastions of Roman Catholic piety such as Mexico, where simple believers often pour out their hopes and fears to an image or statue of Mary alone, without her child.
And your curiosity about the divine force being invoked might grow even greater if you could follow the words being prayed and chanted all around you. Some of these words would be celebrations of a new-born boy, destined to save mankind, but much of the language would be about his mother: the miraculous circumstances of her pregnancy, and the great tragedy that awaited her as her son was to meet a cruel death.
Whatever you made of this story, you would find yourself appreciating one of the great cultural achievements of the Christian era: thousands of lines of subtle and expressive religious poetry addressed to Mary, the mother of Jesus. Some of this was composed for the mid-winter celebration of Christ's birth. Equally beautiful language was inspired by the four other feasts that the early church dedicated to Mary, each with its complex liturgical forms. From the relative handful of direct references to Mary in the Christian gospels, a vast web of ritual and praise has been woven.
Of course, if you then asked a well-instructed Roman Catholic or eastern Christian believer about the meaning of these rituals, you would be told rather firmly about the limits of Mary's veneration. Mary is not a goddess, you would be informed, but a human being with a unique relationship to God, and therefore a unique role in praying for and protecting the human race. She is not worshipped, but rather venerated.
A Roman Catholic might tell you that Mary was the co-redeemer, with Christ, of the human race—though this is not dogma—and that she was conceived without the “original sin” that every other human being inherits. An eastern Christian would not use quite that language. But he would acknowledge a special sort of intimacy with the mother of God, and in particular with icons of Mary with her son, which no other manifestation of the divine can inspire.
Islam's most honoured woman
All this would be rather puzzling if your background was entirely secular, but it would be very familiar indeed if you adhered to another monotheistic world religion, Islam. In some respects, Muslim beliefs about Mary—the most honoured woman in Islam, and the only one to have an entire chapter named after her in the Koran—seem to be quite close to those of the Roman Catholics. The Islamic tradition holds that Jesus and his mother are the only two human souls who were not touched by Satan at birth.
In other respects, the Muslim understanding of Mary seems close to that of the eastern Christians. Both cherish the story of Mary's childhood in a place of supreme holiness that had hitherto been a bastion of male priests. Both name Mary's guardian as the priest Zechariah or Zakariya. In Islam the story is told of Zakariya bringing food to the child Mary and finding that she had already been given nourishment by God; this is cited as a sign of her extreme receptivity to God. In Orthodox Christianity it is stressed that Mary was born an ordinary human, burdened like others with the capacity to sin.
So much for the theology, you might say. But, as an outsider, you would still wonder at the power and intensity of the metaphors that early Christian hymnographers ascribed to Mary. Among the dozens of heart-stopping turns of phrase, she is described as the dawning of a mystical day, a bridal chamber bathed in light, a lily whose perfumes scent the faithful, the vessel of God's wisdom, who showed up the unwisdom of the philosophers and reduced the scholars to speechlessness.
In the eastern church, some of the finest language is prescribed for a feast in late November or early December that is based not on the New Testament, but on a lesser-known Christian text called the Gospel of James. This feast celebrates the presentation of Mary, as a three-year-old child, to the Temple in Jerusalem, where she is described as entering the most holy place—which was normally reserved for male priests—and spending the remainder of her childhood absorbing the Temple's sanctity and scholarship.
Where do all these images come from? A psychotherapist in the school of Carl Jung might say that motherhood, as a force that feeds and protects all humans, is the most important of all the “archetypes” that lurk in humanity's collective unconscious; so any religious practice that fails to answer this need will fail to satisfy its followers. For feminist critics of traditional Christianity, the attention paid to Christ's mother is a feeble counterpoint to the male domination of every other aspect of the faith. Secular historians would link the veneration of Mary to the pre-Christian cult of female divinities, such as the Egyptians' Isis—who was conceived by her followers as a Madonna figure nursing a holy child—or the Romans' Diana.
A somewhat different answer is offered by Margaret Barker, a Hebrew scholar and prolific writer on religious history. Her latest book, “The Great High Priest”, is a collection of densely woven arguments about the continuity between Judaism and early Christian practices. It touches on at least two interlocking themes: the sex of divinity, and the locus of holiness.
From Judaism to Christianity
As she (and many others) have observed, much of the poetry dedicated to Mary comes from what is called the “wisdom tradition” of the Jewish religion. This takes the form of passages in which wisdom is perceived as a form of feminine divinity. One of the most explicit references to wisdom as a sort of female agency or power is in the Book of Proverbs: “Wisdom hath builded her house...She hath killed her beasts; she hath mingled her wine and furnished her table.” Mrs Barker believes that there are scores of other places in the Jewish scriptures where “wisdom language” is lurking just below the surface. Some of this language was transferred, in Christianity, to Christ or the Holy Spirit, but most of it was applied to Mary.
“The all-golden vessel, the most delectable sweetener of our souls...the treasure of innocence and ornament of modesty”
Mrs Barker believes the worship of a deity in feminine form was more explicit before the catastrophe of 586BC when the first Temple, built by Solomon, was destroyed and the Jews went into exile in Babylon. As evidence, she cites a passage in the book of Jeremiah where Jewish exiles in Egypt are scolded for continuing to offer cakes, libations and incense to the “queen of heaven”.
They reply defiantly that everything had been going well in Jerusalem's Temple, and among the Jews generally, so long as the heavenly monarch was given her due. Only when that practice ceased had disaster befallen. Other scholars have noticed references in the Old Testament to “groves” and “high places” where forbidden religious rites were going on, and have assumed, perhaps reasonably, that these too were rites associated with a feminine deity.
To back her interpretation of this passage, Mrs Barker draws on a version of the Book of Enoch found among the Dead Sea Scrolls—manuscripts whose discovery 50 years ago transformed Christian and Jewish scholarship. This document asserts even more clearly that the cult of a female force called wisdom had been a feature of the first Temple, but was then abandoned, disastrously.
As an exercise in textual analysis, Mrs Barker's case is almost unanswerable, albeit not entirely original. The idea of wisdom as a female agency or person also existed among the Greeks, for whom Athene was the goddess of wisdom, just as Minerva was for the Romans. More recently, in the 1930s, the idea caused furious disputes in the White Russian diaspora in Paris, with bitter allegations of heresy being traded.
No wonder. As Jamie Moran, a lecturer on religion and psychology, puts it, “The Christian church does have an understanding of wisdom as a feminine gift of God, but it is so subtle that almost any statement you make about it becomes heretical.” The best way to understand the Judeo-Christian wisdom tradition, in Mr Moran's view, is to think of wisdom as a creature who is not part of God but has a unique role in mixing God and creation together. If so, it is easy to see how “wisdom language” was transferred to Mary.
But whatever the insights offered by comparing texts and metaphors, it can be hard for 21st-century observers to understand the sheer passion of the language that was addressed to Christ's mother in late antiquity. “The all-golden vessel, the most delectable sweetener of our souls, she who bears the Manna which is Christ: land uncultivated, field unploughed, vine streaming with fecundity, vessel most delightful, spring that gushes forth, the treasure of innocence and ornament of modesty.” Those are the words of an eighth-century Byzantine sermon, describing Mary's entry into the Temple.
The holy of holies
To understand the preacher's passion, it helps to look at the other part of Mrs Barker's argument which has to do with the locus of holiness on earth. Like several other religions, the Jewish tradition was torn between its emphasis on the unbridgeable gap between God and human beings and its belief that, in certain circumstances, it is possible for man and the divine to come face to face.
For the Jews, the unique place of encounter between man and God was the temple. Before that, it was the Tabernacle, or tent, constructed by Moses. Mrs Barker's point is that only in the light of the temple or tabernacle tradition can many features of early Christianity be understood. She also believes that the reverse applies: in the light of early Christian practices and ritual, it becomes easier to reenter the world of the Jewish temple. As an example of this, she takes the central Christian rite of the Eucharist, in which bread and wine are offered to God, consecrated and then consumed by worshippers who believe the sanctified gifts enable them, in some mysterious but primordially important sense, to take part in the divine life of Christ.
As many a religious historian has noted, there are two temple practices that foreshadow the Eucharist. One was the weekly ceremony in which 12 loaves of bread were brought into the temple, consecrated and then consumed by the high priests. The other was the annual rite that marks the high-point of the Jewish calendar: the Day of Atonement, the only time when the priest entered the holy of holies, the most sacred part of the temple.
Before doing so, the priest would select two almost identical goats. One would be slaughtered, and its blood was taken into the holy of holies before being sprinkled in various parts of the temple. The other was sent out into the desert, a “scapegoat” bearing the sins of the people.
As one standard translation puts it, the priest would sacrifice one goat for the Lord, the other to a demonic force called Azazel. But Mrs Barker, drawing in part on Christian sources, argues for a different reading of the Hebrew: one goat was sacrificed as, rather than for, Azazel, whereas the other was sacrificed asthe Lord. If she is right, then the paradoxical Christian teaching that God the Son, being crucified, is both “victim and priest” in an act of supreme sacrifice becomes easier to understand. And it is clear that the links between the Eucharist and the Atonement rite are closer than previously realised.
Mrs Barker's broader case is that posterity has underestimated the importance of temple worship in the spiritual universe, not only of the Jews, but also of the early Christians, some of whom were temple priests. .....
Transcending sex
As evidence that Christians self-consciously followed the Jerusalem design, he cites a papal adviser of the 13th century, William Durandus, who said, “Our physical church has taken its form from...two buildings, the Temple and the Tabernacle.” But most of the time, the “temple proportions” of church design, Mr Wilkinson believes, were part of a secret body of orally transmitted knowledge, influenced by the Greek belief that numbers had mystical properties.
Whatever the channels through which the temple influenced Christians, the essential point, for both Mrs Barker and Mr Wilkinson, is that Christianity inherited and built on the Jewish belief that it is possible for the human being to have a direct encounter with God, and in some sense to become part of divine reality.
For the Jews, the temple, specifically the holy of holies, was the unique locus for that encounter. For Christians, the equivalent place was the sacred space around the altar of their church, where bread and wine were consecrated, and believers were enabled to take part in Christ's life.
So how does that argument tie in with Mrs Barker's earlier observations about the worship of the feminine in early Jewish religion, and the transfer of this tradition—or at least its language and metaphors—to Mary? Very closely, she would argue.
First, the Christian (and Muslim) story of the young Mary going into the heart of the Temple indicates, in Mrs Barker's view, that sex is transcended in the divine reality that Jewish high priests entered when they made their annual procession into the holy of holies. There is thus, she argues, a sense in which the priest entering the holy of holies ceases to be male. Mrs Barker, a Methodist preacher herself, concludes that this journey to a “place beyond gender” can be made by a person of either sex, and there is no reason why women cannot be Christian priests. Conservatives may regard this as feminist claptrap but, whatever they believe about that thorny topic, many Christians may be sympathetic to the stress that Mrs Barker lays on the traditional story of Mary's early life among the temple priests, in a place of pure holiness where nobody except an elite caste of males had ever been.
Muslims, like eastern Christians, believe that Mary's mother was expecting a child who would perform unique services to God, and was therefore surprised when her baby turned out to be a girl. Christians and Muslims will never agree on the nature of Mary's child: was he God incarnate, who experienced death and rose again, or a uniquely inspired prophet who did not die but ascended to heaven? Yet Christians and Muslims alike can see in Mary an affirmation that there is no limit to the holiness, or proximity to God, that any human, whether male or female, can attain. Surely that is reason enough, for people of any faith, to feel reverence for history's foremost Jewish mother.