Entries tagged with “language”.


Last weekend, I ended up spending Holy Saturday evening at the Orthodox cathedral in town. My own church doesn’t hold services that day, so I took a friend’s advice to sit in on the Orthodox service. I wanted to reflect upon Christ in the tomb and celebrate his resurrection, and I wanted to do both in the company of other Christians. And while the service allowed opportunity for these things, it also served as a reminder of something else: namely, how traditional liturgy can act as a type of universal language for Christians, offering a glimpse of worship as we will one day experience it in heaven.

I’m sure some of you reading this will be surprised at that assertion, particularly if you come from a more contemporary-driven worship background. For many people, liturgical worship has become synonymous with dead worship. Repeating the same prayers, chanting the same chants week in and week out? Surely it just becomes mere words, said without meaning – a matter of habit as opposed to spontaneous faith.

That may be the case for some (regrettably, no doubt, for too many Christians attending liturgical services). But that a thing can be used inappropriately doesn’t mean that the thing itself is bad. Approached rightly, liturgy offers exactly what I said before: a glimpse of heavenly worship. When we pray the “tired old prayers” so often disparaged by today’s Christians, we in effect proclaim our unity with the Church through the ages. We pray the same prayers Christians a thousand years ago prayed. In fact, we pray the prayer Christ himself prayed. And we confess the same creedal faith the Church has confessed for nearly two millenia. Likewise, we reflect each week that the worship we render here on earth is joined with that offered in heaven. “With angels, archangels and all the company of heaven,” the preface to the Sanctus begins, “we laud and magnify your glorious name, evermore praising you and saying: ‘Holy, holy, holy is the Lord God Almighty!'”

The liturgy fosters a sense of timelessness, of worship as something not bound to any particular century or culture. It reaches back to antiquity; it points us forward to the unending depths of eternity. We recognize ourselves as part of that unbroken chain, recognize the unity of the Church past, present, and future.

The Orthodox Holy Saturday service reminded me of that truth in a new way. It reached back as we listened to numerous readings from the Old and New Testaments. We declared the Christian faith according to the Nicene Creed, as it was prepared in the 4th century A.D. Likewise, the sermon was a reading from John Chrysostom’s writings, also from the 4th century. We used liturgical structures developed by the ancient church and used by many Christians over the following centuries. We sang, as so many before us have sung, the Paschal Troparion, “Christ is risen from the dead / Trampling death by death! / And upon those in the tombs / Bestowing life.”

Likewise we proclaimed to one another the glorious message of Easter: “Christ is risen!” / “Truly he is risen!” In fact, it was that Paschal greeting which made me reflect anew upon the universality of liturgy. And the reason for that was because we didn’t just say “Christ is risen!” in English. We said it in numerous languages. Saturday’s service was the most culturally diverse I’ve ever attended. The priest had a crisp, east-European accent, and he greeted the various people groups in the church in their heart languages. “Christ is risen!” he cried to the English, and we shouted back “Truly he is risen!” He proclaimed the same thing in Greek, and the Greeks responded in joy. He shouted it in Amharic, and the Ethiopians echoed in praise. He called the same in Russian, in Ukrainian, in German, and in a number of other Eastern European languages (and perhaps one Asian) that I could not identify, and every time the people declared the Good News of Jesus Christ.

Though from very different cultural backgrounds, we were all united in that moment. Though speaking different languages, we all prayed and praised God with one voice. And the words of Revelation played through my mind: “I looked and there before me was a great multitude that no one could count, from every nation, tribe, people and language, standing before the throne and in front of the Lamb. They were wearing white robes and were holding palm branches in their hands. And they cried out in a loud voice: “Salvation belongs to our God, who sits on the throne, and to the Lamb.” (7:9-10).

Every nation. Every language. One voice. “He is risen! Truly He is risen! Kristos tenestwal! Wahrlich ist er erstanden! Christos anesti!”

“Χριστός ανέστη!”

Much of my previous literary theory discussion has operated in the realm of the ideal. For example, my discussions of the Experience (judging the “message(s)” or Logos of a literary work) have assumed two things: first, that authors are capable of encoding the (unconscious or intended) message; and second, that readers are capable of decoding it. Likewise, my post on Beauty implies that authors are able, in essence, to first, encapsulate in text the (unconscious or intended) encounter of the mysterious; and second, that the reader is equally capable of entering into that same encounter, feeling the same awe, or pleasure, or disgust that went into its construction. Both of these assertions have one fundamental underlying assumption: namely, that language is capable of accurately transmitting information between speaker and hearer without any loss of that information.

Having taken degrees in both English and Linguistics, I have been exposed to rather contrary views of the nature of language. As a linguist, I want to say that language functions as a science: it follows very specific (if unconscious) rules. From the most basic levels (eg, phonetics and phonemics) to the more complex (eg, morphology and syntax) to the most complex (eg, semantics, pragmatics and speech acts), language can be broken down into its constituent parts; it can be analysed, and the laws governing its construction can be identified. And these laws help us to explain how utterances carry meaning.

But on the other hand, I also hold a degree in English. In that capacity, I saw (and, indeed, contributed to ) the broader activity of interpretation – of drawing meaning from a text, often arguing that the meaning you are identifying has gone unobserved by prior readers. And as any student of literature (or Scripture for that matter) knows, different people often come to different interpretations of the same text. The question one must ask is obvious: if language operates on a system of basic laws (as linguists assert), why do such differences in interpretation occur?

Much of late twentieth century critical theory capitalized on this seeming inability to arrive at definitive interpretations. Indeed, Derrida argued that language is always self-deconstructing; one cannot say anything without using words which simultaneously say the opposite of what one means. In purely biblical terms, one might summarize Derrida by quoting Ecclesiastes 6:11: “The more words, the less the meaning.” For Derrida, the issue of language is a simple dichotomy: either language can convey meaning or it cannot. And if it can be shown to fail in one instance, despite the intention of the author, than the entire structure collapses; we can never again trust with any certainty that our language will accurately convey the meaning we intend. It’s Babel all over again.

David Lyle Jeffrey does a good job of breaking down this dichotomy in his 1996 work People of the Book: Christian Identify and Literary Culture.1 Jeffrey asserts that Christians need not make a choice between the two poles; sometimes language carries meaning effectively and sometimes it does not. “Christian literary theories are generally affirmative of an ultimate Truth or Logos,” he writes, “but also firm in their insistence on the limitations of human language more than dimly to refract that Logos.” In other words, language is related to meaning but it seldom has a one-to-one correlation. Because language is imperfect, it often fails to convey intended meaning in its totality. As such, Jeffrey says, it leads sometimes to “endless frustration” and sometimes to “momentary joy.”

It is this simultaneously-good-and-bad nature of language Christians ought to recall when they approach literature. Like all of creation, human language was “subjected to frustration” in the Fall. But it was originally created good. And just as humanity retains some semblance of “the image of God” after the fall, so too human language retains some of its original goodness. We may find that the meaning in literature is often obscured, but there is still some meaning to be found. It’s beauty may be marred, but there is still fragments of beauty. And this is all, as I reflected in my first post on Christianity and literature, because God is still at work in creation – the hidden God working through the vocations of man for the good of the world. When the meaning of a story is successfully experienced via language, it is because God is good. When beauty is successfully crafted by an author and appreciated by the reader, it is because God is good. In the end, that is the most important argument why Christians ought to read literary works: because God is amazingly and undeservedly good. Despite the brokenness of language and literature, he works though them to reveal beauty and truth and goodness. It’s the promise of Pentecost. In good literature, we are the recipients of God’s grace. And so we read, trusting that the “Giver of all good things” will, indeed, give us something good.

[This is the fifth and final article in a series exploring why and how Christians ought to engage in literary studies. You can see all the essays in the series here.]

 

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1I will say, however, that his tendency to prolixity in the text manifests, if unintentionally so, an occasional impenetrability which has the effect of obfuscating his general purposes. In other words, he uses too many big words. I’m not against flexing your lexical abilities in general, but his sentences are often far heavier than they need to be – perhaps reflecting, in some small way, the very limitations of language he is discussing.

Image credits: (1) Open book image: vichie81 / FreeDigitalPhotos.net. (2) Tower of Babel illustration from Gustave Doré.

Book of ConcordThe latest issue of the The Canadian Lutheran included a number of letters-to-the-editor on my recent article “‘Can you hear me now?’: Evangelism for the 21st Century world.” It was exciting to see so many people engaging with the article’s content as well as engaging with another article in the same issue highlighting CFW Walther’s thoughts on the place of the Confessions in the Lutheran Church.

Some of those who wrote in thought they perceived a distinction between these two articles: mine which highlighted the importance of speaking understandably to the world around us, and Pastor Teuscher’s which highlighted Walther’s well-deserved regard for the Confessions. Dr. Edward Kettner (professor of Systematic Theology at Concordia Lutheran Seminary, Edmonton) writes an excellent response to these letters demonstrating that there is no necessary contradiction between the two articles. “The need the world has for a clearly proclaimed Gospel and for compassion,” he writes, “in no way absolves us from the responsibility [of] reminding ourselves what the Gospel actually is.” Well put. If we are to proclaim the Gospel to the world, we must first understand ourselves what the Gospel is. And the Confessions act as a guide to a right understanding of the Gospel, of Scripture, and of the faith we profess.

Individual study of the Confessions can certainly help Lutherans grow in their understanding of Scripture and their faith in God – a method by which we can learn to “leave the elementary doctrine of Christ and go on to maturity” (Hebrews 6:1). I know that my own personal reading in the Confessions has bolstered my own faith.

That said, it is certainly possible that not everyone will find the Confessions so easily accessible. They do, as might be obvious, speak the language of another time and place. And while it is certainly an admirable goal to want to see the Confessions read and understood in the houses of laity across our nation, it is, I tentatively suggest, perhaps not a realistic goal. The Book of Concord can be a difficult book for those not used to such in-depth theological discussion. It can even be a difficult book for those who are used to in-depth theological discussion.

The common people should be spared such readings if they prove to be too difficult for them. In fact, our Confessions explicitly tell us to take just such an approach when confronting issues of this type. Consider the following passage from the Epitome of the Formula of Concord:

Now, consider the Latin terms substantia (substance) and accidens (a nonessential quality). They are not words of Holy Scripture and, besides, are unknown to the ordinary person. So they should not be used in sermons before ordinary, uninstructed people. Simple people should be spared them.

But in the schools, among the learned, these words are rightly kept in disputes about original sin. For they are well known and used without any misunderstanding to distinguish exactly between the essene of a thing and what attaches to it in an accidental way. (FC Ep 1:23-24).

This passage tells us two important things: one, that theological “jargon” should never be entirely abandoned; it has its place in the discussions of those instructed in theology (“the learned” – both clergy and laity); second, that our public proclamation must focus on being understandable – intelligible – to the “ordinary person.” Our sermons should never descend into academic Churchese. Likewise, the “ordinary person” may well need to be spared reading the Confessions if the language and concepts prove too difficult.

That does not mean however that the Confessions do not have their place in the lives of Lutheran laity. No, the average person in the pew needs to hear the Gospel message of Scripture, a message the Confessions faithfully expound. This is why we need our pastors to speak clearly from the pulpit. They must clearly explain – in everyday common language that everyday common people can understand – the incredible message of Grace found in the Word of God. They must teach the laity the meaning (if not the literal words) of the Confessions, so that the laity may more carefully read and understand the Scriptures.

When it comes to Confessional preaching, we need clear teaching as much as ever.

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For those looking for a copy of The Book of Concord to read on their own, I highly recommend Concordia: The Lutheran Confessions – A Reader’s Edition from Concordia Publishing House (see the link here for the hardcover edition). This version is presented in updated English, making it easier for the average person to read than some other translations. Among its features is a reading schedule which can help you read through the Confessions in a year. (And if you get the Pocket Edition, it has the added bonus of being very, very portable. Many’s the day when, out for a stroll, I’ve stopped in at my favourite coffee shop, purchased a London Fog, and sat down for a little theological reading. It takes very little space in my satchel so it’s easy to carry around just about anywhere.)

It seems to me there is an obvious deficiency in the logic that says one demonstrates the superiority of a position by stereotyping his or her opponents through name-calling. Such “labeling” typically demonstrates the speaker’s simplicity of argument at best; at worst, it speaks to the general irritability of the name-caller. Yet, the fact remains such behaviour is a feature quite common in all sorts of debate. “So-and-so has defended proposition X. She must undoubtedly be a [insert negative term here].” But while there are many who are disposed to label other thinkers, there are regrettably few who seem to have an adequate grasp of either the label or the individual they are labeling. In such cases, the end result is inevitably an increase in hostility rather than an increase in dialogue.

An example might be helpful here. Take my stand on healthcare. As a Canadian, I tend to support government funded healthcare. In fact, I am unaware of any serious Christian thinkers in Canada who are fundamentally opposed to the institution (though they and I might criticise specific issues which have arisen within the institution). As a Christian, I find government healthcare an admirable method of ensuring the poor receive the same level of medical care as do the rich. I myself benefited from the program particularly as a child, receiving necessary surgery which would otherwise have been a significant financial hardship for my family.

Now imagine my surprise upon being called a communist by a certain American fellow I was once speaking with. Communism, as anyone who has actually bothered to read any of Marx’ writings will tell you, has a number of positions beyond socialized healthcare. Heck, even someone who bothered to spend a minute reading the Wikipedia article on communism could tell you as much. Perhaps the most prominent feature of the ideology is the idea that all property should be commonly controlled; communist states have accomplished this through the state ownership of all property. I, however, am not in the least in favour of government ownership of all property. So I clearly cannot be a communist.

My American acquaintance was certainly welcome to criticise my opinions on healthcare; but I am less inclined to think he was right to abuse words and their meaning in the process. More frustratingly, by labeling me a communist he was not only wrong, he was also deliberately attempting to put an end to our discussion. “You are one of them,” he seemed to sneer, “and I need not argue with your kind.”

This type of name-calling is a problem which has been exceedingly prevalent in Christian discourse for centuries. In the Book of Homilies (1547), the final sermon warns Christians against labeling each other so haphazardly. Satirizing the language of the day, the author writes: “He is a pharisee; he is a gospeler; he is of the new sort; he is of the old faith; he is a new-broached brother; he is a good Catholic father; he is a papist; he is a heretic.” In resorting to language like this, speakers were more interested in casting derision on others than thoughtfully reading and considering their ideas.

Today all sorts of labels are thrown about within and between denominations. Perhaps the insults most universal across the Christian spectrum are those of “fundamentalist” and “liberal”. The first is used to imply that a thinker is incredibly simplistic – an uneducated yokel or some similarly negative stereotype. The latter suggests that the thinker is more enamored of his own thoughts over and above scripture and the history of Christian thought over the centuries.

Yet if all sides in a disagreement automatically respond by using such labels – without hearing each other out – then whoever is in the wrong will never be persuaded of their mistake. In labeling others as heretics, we not only stop up their ears, we also insulate ourselves from considering the possibility that we may have erred.

Now, I am not suggesting that using labels is either unnecessary or inherently wrong. Quite the opposite in fact – I am arguing that labels are of the utmost important. But it is precisely because they are important that it is also important that they be used properly. The practice of naming is necessary to understand and distinguish one idea from another. It may well be, for example, that some writers might be accurately identified as “heretics” if they deny the resurrection or some other fundamental Christian doctrine. In rejecting the testimony of the ancient ecumenical creeds, they would by definition move themselves out of the accepted understanding of Christianity and into the category of heresy. Bishop Spong’s book Why Christianity Must Change or Die is an excellent case-in-point: in attempting to redefine Christianity on the creedal level, he admits that he and his beliefs cannot be included in the existing definition of the word. And if his thoughts on Christianity cannot themselves be called “Christian”, they must, by definition, be “heresy”.

But note the difference here. In order to label a thought or person, one must first a) understand what the label actually means, and b) have a thorough knowledge of the person/position to be labeled. We can only call something “heretical” if we first understand what heresy actually is and secondly have a thorough understand of the person/position being labelled such. Few things so impede the fruitful discussion of theology as does the assumption that any position contrary to one’s own must inevitably be “heresy”. If we would instead obey the words of St. Paul to “test everything” and “hold on to what is good” (1 Th 5:21), we would no doubt be pleasantly surprised to discover how much we have to learn from those we first dismissed. After all, the scriptures are clear that we are supposed to teach and admonish one another (Col 3:16); calling each other names succeeds in doing neither.