A (Very Specific and Quite Personal) Case for Christianity
Truth be told, I rarely ask myself “Why Christianity?” Nor do others ask me that question all too often. More frequently, I am asked one of two questions that surround the one just mentioned. These two questions are: “Why live as a person of faith”? And “why on earth are you Catholic”? Any case I can make for Christianity sits somewhere in between these two questions.
I do recognize that if I inhabited a context of vibrant multi-faith belongings, the question of “why Christianity?” would pose itself to me more often. As it happens, my daily life and work take place mostly among Christians of various stripes, and/or with those I might describe as wearing shades of agnostic.
There is something utterly compelling to me about Jesus of Nazareth: his clarity, his compassion, his commitment to those on the margins, his inner strength, his willingness to give up his life for love.
This, however, does not make a case for Christianity any easier. On the contrary. Since current circumstances are presenting versions of Christianity that I find not only profoundly troubling but also alienating and infuriating, I constantly have to defend—and, more importantly, safeguard—the Christianity to which I do hold fast. That is to say, I have to articulate that vision of the Christian faith I consider worth holding fast to, against versions for which I could not make a case. To put it sharply: I can only make my case for Christianity against these false and inadequate versions of the Christian faith. Among those that have astounding currency right now are versions of Christianity infected by nativist, nationalist, and hyper-capitalist visions of the world.
Manifold Idolatries
Sadly, I have to admit that these also exist within my own tradition, the Roman Catholic Church, in the United States. I live in their midst, and am compelled to articulate my Christian faith over and against them. This is because inherent in the call to witness to the gospel is the charge to unmask the manifold idolatries we human beings are prone to surround ourselves with. This becomes especially urgent when false or misleading appropriations of the gospel seem to prosper.
There is an odd measure of comfort in keeping in mind that a state of conflicting Christianities is nothing new. In fact, the necessity to adjudicate between divergent versions of the Christian faith has accompanied us for as long as this faith has existed, and it always will. Discernment—the struggle over different options of what true faith is in any given situation—is always required anew. There is no one single, static version of Christianity that can simply be applied through all time. Even seemingly simple and clear questions (such as “WWJD?”) are not sufficient to every time and task of discernment. Jesus, after all, was not confronted with questions of genetic testing or amniocentesis, neither did he have to ponder the possibilities and perils of AI.
Standing Up to be Counted
Closer to our own time, I only have to think back to the so-called German Christians of my country of origin, who neatly aligned their beliefs with Nazi racist, nativist, and nationalist narratives, to know that the struggle over what case to make for what kind of Christianity is very real. And that struggle can have deadly consequences. Under the Nazi regime, some clear-eyed Christians like Sophie Scholl († Feb. 22, 1943), Franz Jägerstätter († Aug. 9, 1943), Alfred Delp S.J. († Feb. 2, 1945), and Dietrich Bonhoeffer († April 9, 1945) discerned a moment in which they felt compelled to stand up and be counted, for a very specific version of Christianity, and with that, against a racist regime. Standing up to be counted meant slightly different things in how each of them resisted, but they were united in their standing up “against.” This discernment—the commitment to a clear decision for the truth of the gospel against false teachings and their consequences in real, lived lives—led all four to imprisonment and, ultimately, the gallows.
The particular moment they faced is only one among many throughout history in which competing Christianities have been enmeshed in irreconcilable political options. Even looking only at the 20th century, Christians in South Africa under apartheid faced these struggles; so did Christians during the Spanish Civil War and under the reign of the military junta of Francisco Franco. Chile during the decades of the dictatorship of Augusto Pinochet endured different versions of the Christian faith enmeshed in a national struggle over political legitimacy. In the sense of competing Christianities entangled with social and political positions, we seem to be in a situation not too distant from the above. In such conditions, any case for Christianity that I would want to offer has to chart a very specific path.
A Confession to Make
First, my basic confession of faith in the Triune God is probably not too far from the faith articulated by the religious voices currently dominant in the United States. I do believe in God, the Creator, Redeemer, Sustainer, and ultimate fulfillment of everything that exists. I am deeply compelled by this faith in the Uncreated Creator, who is the cause of all that is, from the sand corn to the seraphim. I delight in seeing the world through that lens. And yes, there is something utterly compelling to me, too, about Jesus of Nazareth: his clarity, his compassion, his commitment to those on the margins, his inner strength, his willingness to give up his life for love. And how infinitely more compelling is this Jesus of Nazareth if one believes, as I do, that this Jesus is God incarnate, the Creator entering the created world, in matchless dispossession living and walking in solidarity with us, through time and into all eternity.
Compelling to me, too, is the possibility of standing in a long tradition of people of faith who for thousands of years have turned to this God in prayer and praise, and in lament and mourning. As a scholar of liturgy, I count myself blessed to be able to study the treasure trove of their prayers and practices of faith, their seeking and pondering, their reaching out to the Divine Mystery at the heart of the universe. Among these people of faith—and particularly compelling to me—are the many who have followed Jesus to the margins, and into the labor of justice that flows from that. Here is where I must abandon common ground with the currently loudest versions of the Christian faith in this country. I hear Jesus clearly that the first will be last—how on earth can I seek to be “first”? Instead, I choose to stand in awe of women such as Edith Stein, and Rosa Parks, and Mamie Till Mobley. I stand in awe of Dorothy Day, and Sister Dorothy Stang too. And yes, I stand in awe of Sophie Scholl, Franz Jägerstätter, Alfred Delp, and Dietrich Bonhoeffer.
A Genealogy of Morals
I realize that this is a very specific genealogy to stand within, but it is the genealogy of a Christianity for which I can make a case. And, I am convinced, it is the genealogy that most approximates the life, dying, and death of Jesus of Nazareth.
The dying and death of Jesus of Nazareth bring me to my last confession of faith: Compelling to me is the belief that at the end of time, God will right all wrong and be the ultimate fulfillment of all our longings. I was gifted with a taste of what this means in the here and now recently, when a young beloved colleague and rising star in my field (from a university other than Yale) died after a year-and-a-half-long agonizing struggle with leukemia. I was privileged to accompany him, albeit at some distance, during those 18 months. I prayed daily for the miracle of healing for him. This miracle was not to be, but in the end, there was the astounding miracle in the way Nathan was able to die. Only 34 years old, he faced the end of his earthly life lucidly and knowingly, surrounded by his family and loved ones, and accompanied by the prayerful, liturgical traditions of our church: the gift of the last eucharist (viaticum), music, prayers for the dying and the dead, and a peaceful last breath. As devastating as his dying and death were—and continue to be—it was also, for me, a profound witness to the power of the faith tradition within which I live, and within which he died.
If this faith and its practices can see a beautiful, supremely gifted 34-year-old human being through the dispossession of everything he loved about his earthly life, who am I to doubt that the gates of hell—including the hellish versions of the Christian faith I feel compelled to stand against—will never be stronger than God’s own light and truth.
Teresa Berger is Professor of Liturgical Studies and Thomas E. Golden Jr. Professor of Catholic Theology at YDS and the Yale Institute of Sacred Music. She holds doctorates in both liturgical studies and constructive theology, and she writes about how these disciplines intersect with gender theory, creation theology, and digital life. Her recent books include @ Worship: Liturgical Practices in Digital Worlds (Routledge, 2017) and, as editor, Full of Your Glory: Liturgy, Cosmos, Creation (Liturgical Press Academic, 2019). Having taught at Yale since 2007, she will retire from YDS this spring in order to bring to completion her monograph currently titled Benedicite.