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Against Patriarchy

2015; Duke University Press; Volume: 30; Issue: 4 Linguagem: Inglês

10.1215/08879982-3328697

2164-0041

Will O’Brien,

Religion and Society Interactions

Few beliefs in the Christian tradition are as controversial as that of the virgin birth. The doctrine is derived from the “nativity narratives” in the gospels of Luke and Matthew, which recount that the young Jewish maiden Mary conceives Jesus not through human agency but through the Holy Spirit. The teaching appears nowhere else in the New Testament, and even these two accounts have some divergent details. But both evangelists—and consequently official church teaching—agree on this divine miracle of Jesus’s birth.It’s a right peculiar doctrine with a long and complex history in the church, and it provokes a range of responses among contemporary believers. On the one hand, the virgin birth is deemed a fundamental of Christian faith (as defined in the early twentieth-century manifestos of “fundamentalism”)—on par with the resurrection, the divinity of Christ, and the saving nature of the cross. At the other end of the belief spectrum, those in the flock who are more inclined toward a modern worldview have little problem discarding the teaching as obviously untenable and at best a marginal notion in our biblical stories. For many of us in the middle, the doctrine is a little odd, confusing, perhaps even embarrassing.I take the gospels very seriously, and I don’t trust an arrogant, enlightened intellectualism that dismisses anything that doesn’t fit into our rational model of the way the world works. Simply rejecting the stories of the virgin birth is not, for me, an option. I am not so much concerned with solving the historicity or factuality of this part of the Jesus story or debating whether the evangelists were weaving fictions to validate prophetic fulfillment. Nor do I worry about historians’ accusations that the early church developed the doctrine to compete with other religions (like Mithraism) that already had virgin birth mythologies. But I am deeply troubled by the role the doctrine of the virgin birth has played in church history and in the church’s witness to society at large. And I am convinced that we have inherited a distorted interpretive lens on what the evangelists are trying to say through these narratives.First, there is the matter of the deleterious consequences of this doctrine: the church’s promulgation of the virgin birth as an essential plank of orthodox faith became one of the toxic roots of centuries of very damaging teachings about human sexuality, particularly regarding women. As the institutional church gained social sanction from imperial Rome, its character increasingly aped the power dynamics of the dominant culture—including a regression from the revolutionary egalitarianism of the early Jesus movement to a reinvigorated male patriarchy with its subordination of women. As ecclesiastical leadership increasingly enmeshed itself in worldly systems of power, Christian theology evolved toward a more abstract, otherworldly, highly spiritualized character, blunting the social and political dimensions of the prophetic tradition and the gospels—all of which was rather self-serving for an increasingly corrupted and domesticated church.A greater emphasis on the spiritual meant a diminishing of the flesh. Greek philosophical paradigms, which tended toward an almost dualistic tension between the ideal and the real, the spiritual and the material, aggravated the growing distance of the early Christian community from its Jewish roots and became the predominant framework for interpreting the biblical tradition—which made the human body itself suspect. Then along came Augustine in the fourth century, who, in working through some of his own neuroses around his youthful sexual naughtiness, began explicitly to link human sexuality with sinfulness, suggesting that original sin was literally passed on through the sex act, and stressing that sins of the flesh are among the most grievous possible.Not surprisingly, by this time, the notion of the virgin birth had been highly elevated in church tradition, including the Christian midrash that, despite numerous New Testament references to Jesus’s siblings, Mary was a “perpetual virgin.” The staid and statuesque (and decidedly nonsensual) figure of the holy Virgin Mother garnered a cult of worship (mediated, one might sardonically suggest, by cross-dressing males). With the eventual elevation of the celibate male priest as the paragon of faith, a pernicious formula would take root in Christendom: virginity equals holiness, and sex equals sin. This formula would, over centuries, claim no small share of casualties.Illustrative of this corruption was the historical mangling of the story of Mary Magdalene. Gospel references and ancient tradition make it clear that she was an important leader in the early church, no less than an apostle. But a 591 ce sermon by Pope Gregory the Great portrayed her as a prostitute by conflating the Lukan text of the woman who anointed Jesus (7:36–50) with the reference to the seven demons being cast out of her (8:2)—his “logical” conclusion being that she engaged in sins of the flesh. Hence the traditional depictions of the Magdalene in Western art, with her trademark fiery, loose red hair—her dignity can be restored only when she grovels at the feet of the superior (asexual) man. (The 2002 film The Magdalene Sisters is a harrowing depiction of the Irish Magdalene Asylums, where “fallen women” were sent to do lifelong penitence for their assumed sexual promiscuity.)From that distortion, blended with the Marian tradition, is birthed the dichotomous paradigm of women as virgins or whores, saints or sexual sinners, with little in-between—and surely no possibility that they could be church leaders. Meanwhile, in our contemporary political culture, the seemingly endless conservative attacks on women’s sexuality—such as Rush Limbaugh’s outburst accusing Sandra Fluke of being a “slut,”— are cut from the same misogynist cloth.Growing up Catholic, I personally experienced and witnessed a plentitude of psychologically damaging guilt and shame around sexuality. When human sexuality is suffocated by religious teachings on sin, it inevitably breeds neuroses and harmful behaviors. It is hardly a stretch to see the current pedophilia scandal involving Catholic priests as part of this same legacy.I don’t wish to suggest the Catholic tradition has cornered the market on sexual dysfunction or misogyny—examples abound in almost all the church traditions. Nor do I blame gospel stories of Jesus’s miraculous conception for millennia of abuses and corruption. Rather, the texts played a complex role in the emergence of a toxic theological moralism around human sexuality. With their roots in the Jewish prophetic tradition, these stories on their own would hardly have fostered such institutional misogyny. But they were hermeneutically hijacked and put at the service of a patriarchal institution.Clearly it’s tempting to jettison the virgin birth as nonsense. While it is an important task for Christians of conscience to deconstruct this dismal legacy and the role these gospel texts have played, I want to suggest a very different approach: maybe the lesson of the miracle of Jesus’s birth is not the matter of its nonsexuality but what it reveals about the nature of the faith community and its sources of meaning and security.It’s worth taking a fresh look at the texts themselves—especially Matthew’s account, which predates Luke’s, and thus is presumably the first literary version of the tradition. After recounting the scandal of Mary’s premature pregnancy, Joseph’s compassionate effort to resolve it, and the angelic appearance to him to explain the matter, Matthew then resorts to a standard formula that punctuates his opening chapters, a prophetic interpretation: “All this took place to fulfill what the Lord had said through the prophet: ‘The virgin will conceive and give birth to a son, and they will call him Immanuel,’ which means ‘God with us’ ” (1:23–24).Matthew is citing Isaiah 7:14. And translation is an important matter in this verse. Matthew’s Greek uses the word “παρθενος” (parthenos, “virgin”). He is quoting the Septuagint, the Greek translation of the Hebrew Bible, which, owing to the predominance of Greco-Roman culture, was the standard version of that era. However, the original Hebrew text of the same verse has “המלע” (almah), which means something like the English “maiden,” a young, unmarried, or perhaps newly wed woman. Isaiah specifically does not use the Hebrew word “הלותב” (bethu lah), which has the specific, focused meaning of “virgin,” just as the word does in English—someone who has not had sexual intercourse. No Jewish English translation of Isaiah 7:14 uses the word “virgin.” Consequently, no Jewish commentator, rabbi, or ordinary reader would assume Isaiah is referring to anything like a miraculous virgin birth.The point is not to suggest that Matthew has made a linguistic error or an illegitimate interpretive reach. But I do think the ambiguity forces us to ask the question: what did Isaiah mean in that text? And here is an important lesson in biblical literacy: when the Gospels cite the Hebrew Bible, which they do countless times, directly or indirectly, it is not simply recalling a single text (which is usually just a sentence); it is evoking a broader passage or story or tradition. For instance, Jesus’s riposte to the devil in the first of the desert temptations (“People do not live by bread alone but by every word that proceeds from the mouth of God,” Matt. 4:4 and Luke 4:4) is part of a broader passage in Deuteronomy 8 recounting the manna story—which is critical to understanding the nature of that temptation and what it prefigures in terms of Jesus’s ministry. Likewise, Jesus’s controversial statement to the disciples, “The poor you will always have with you” (Mark 14:7), has a meaning that is dramatically different from the usual interpretation when we understand that the immediate citation of Deuteronomy 15:11 in fact evokes the broader economic stipulations of care for the poor in the fifteenth chapter of Deuteronomy.So the obvious but frequently neglected task for the reader of Matthew is to go back to Isaiah 7—not just the immediate verse but the full oracle in its historical context.Isaiah preached in the late eighth century. This oracle is addressed to King Ahaz of the southern nation of Judah, likely around 734 bce. Ahaz, whom 2 Kings roundly condemns as one of the most wicked kings of Judah, faces a serious political crisis. The super power nation of Assyria has been wreaking havoc in the region and forcing many nations into vassalage, including Syria and the northern kingdom of Israel. Their two kings, Rezin of Syria and Pekah of Israel, are plotting a revolt against Assyria and are pressuring Ahaz to join their coalition. He has refused, and they are now embarking on a full-fledged invasion to force Judah’s compliance. (The story is told in 2 Kings 16, complementing the Isaian texts.)Ahaz’s Machiavellian geopolitical instincts are to respond by in fact going to Assyria and offering to make Judah a vassal. Isaiah, acting as a kind of theological secretary of state, urges Ahaz to do what the ancient covenant insisted: hold fast to Yahweh, who is Israel’s true and only security. As part of that assertion, a “sign” is given. (At first Ahaz refused God’s urging to “ask for a sign,” perhaps fearful of what he might hear—or because he has already made his foreign policy decision, which is the Assyrian connection. But God gives the sign anyway.) The sign is a young woman giving birth to a son. “And she will call his name ‘God is with us’ ” (7:14). Most importantly, this child will choose between good and evil. Most commentaries suggest that the prophecy, in its context, is simply referring to the next Davidic prince, who, unlike the wicked Ahaz, would be faithful to Yahweh and would deliver Judah from its enemies. It may even be a specific reference to Ahaz’s son Hezekiah, who was deemed by 2 Kings to be one of Judah’s most righteous kings.But whatever specific historical details are involved, the Isaian declaration of “Immanuel” (Hebrew for “God with us”) has a broader theme that touches on one of the central tensions within the entire Hebrew Bible narrative: As the people of Israel make their way in the world, where is their security to be found? In whom do they trust? As they adopt the worldly model of kingship, in contrast to their early covenantal tribalism, do they likewise reject their covenantal God, Yahweh, and adopt worldly forms of security? “What sorrow awaits those who look to Egypt for help, trusting their horses, chariots, and charioteers and depending on the strength of human armies instead of looking to the Lord, the Holy One of Israel,” the prophet foretells (Isaiah 31:1). “Some trust in chariots and some in horses, but we trust in the name of the Lord our God” (Psalm 20:7).So, to return to the text from Matthew: I suggest that the Immanuel prophecy is not simply (or solely) intended to illuminate the miraculous nature of Jesus’s birth, but also to evoke a fundamental challenge from the Israelite tradition about the need for God’s people not to adopt worldly forms of security, but rather place their trust in God alone. It is certainly relevant that the episode following Jesus’s birth is the horror story of King Herod’s maniacal paranoia that results in the “slaughter of the innocents.” This story cannot be historically corroborated, but it rings true, given the well-documented nature of the half-Jewish, publicly loathed Roman puppet ruler. In this gospel account, Herod plays the same role as Ahaz: an Israelite monarch who is drunk on worldly power and ferociously intent on maintaining it immerses himself in geopolitical realpolitik, and trashes the Torah and sacred tradition. He is far from a righteous shepherd of the people rooted in Immanuel. As the prophets repeatedly warned the Israelite people and their rulers, if you choose to adopt the ways of the world, the results will be far from biblical Shalom—as grieving mothers, like Rachel, will agonizingly attest (Matt. 2:17–18, citing Jeremiah 31:15).As I say, I can’t speak to the historicity of either of the New Testament nativity stories. But I am certain that their function in both Matthew and Luke is to foreshadow critical themes of the person, the ministry, and the life of Jesus that will be unveiled in their respective gospels. In Matthew, I would argue, this theme creates a context for Jesus’s ministry and proclamation: the discipleship community is to hear anew the prophetic call to faithfulness and resist the ways of the world. Its radically different path will be charted by the Sermon on the Mount—which teaches the way of humble servanthood, radical nonviolence and reconciliation, economic freedom through trust in God’s providence—and not by the world’s materialism. Be whole, as God is whole (Matt. 5:48)—which is possible only because of Immanuel, God with us.Tragically, the institutional church, in its Constantinian bargain, makes the same choice that King Ahaz and later Herod did. It trusts not in Immanuel, but instead conforms to the ways of the world: its hierarchy, power, and wealth bestow a tacit blessing on worldly violence and injustice. And in the process, the patriarchal church conveniently truncated the Isaian prophecy in Matthew 1 to a matter of sexual chastity.I agree that the virgin birth accounts are intended to stress the unique divine origin of Jesus. And I don’t mean to argue that all Christians need to reject the doctrine of the virgin birth. Even those with very traditionally orthodox beliefs need not be excluded from the political-prophetic interpretation. Just a little more biblical attentiveness would go a long way: the Virgin Mary of Luke 1:48–55 speaks directly out of the same prophetic tradition in magnifying the God who casts down the mighty and lifts up the poor and oppressed. Might this not include women oppressed by patriarchal religious traditions?Many contemporary voices of faith fully embrace the symbiosis of the theological mystery of the virgin birth with its prophetic challenge to the community of God’s people. Some contemporary Christian feminists have seen in Marian devotion the preservation of a feminine presence and feminine power within the male-dominated structure—including the compelling assertion that a male was not necessary for the conception of the Savior. Mary’s virginity, in a feminist midrash, becomes symbolic of freedom and self-determination. Pope Francis, who is very rooted in the Marian devotional tradition, also speaks strongly out of the prophetic tradition for peace and justice in the global community. Similarly, some Latin American liberation theologians (such as Brazilian feminist Ivone Gebara and Mexican American theologian Virgilio Elizondo) have built a compelling bridge between the popular devotion to the Virgin of Guadalupe, who appeared to the peasant Juan Diego, and the biblical imperative of justice.Ironically, a reclaiming of the virgin birth narrative in the gospels, rerooted in and framed by the authentic Isaian prophetic tradition, can challenge the patriarchy that has strangled much of the Christian theological tradition and institutional character. Putting together Matthew’s and Luke’s complementary portraits of “the Virgin Mary,” the church has a vibrant and powerful biblical source with which to critique and repent of its own complicity in sexual oppression and bring a message of justice to the broader world. What a magnificent message that would be (I consciously echo Mary’s “Magnificat”) to hear from the ever-surprising Pope Francis, as he continually charts new possibilities for liberating the faith community from the stodgy structures of the Roman Catholic institution.I yearn for more of Jesus’s followers to hear this prophetic gospel challenge, with our sisters and brothers in the Jewish faith and in other communities of faith and conscience. A Christian church that, like the young Jewish maiden, said yes to Immanuel would resist the Constantinian exchange of social legitimacy for allegiance to and acceptance of worldly systems of power. A people whose character is rooted in radical trust in God would see through the false ideologies of security provided by violence and domination. A church that understood the sign of the child who could discern good from evil would have its eyes wide open to the terror and oppression that plague so many of God’s children, and would respond with loving, nonviolent, sacrificial compassion.Christians who grasped the true miracle of Jesus’s origins would not accept a foreign policy rooted in realpolitik, but would witness to and work for justice, peace, and true liberation for all God’s precious children. Church folk would wean themselves from the uncritical patriotism fostered in recent decades by the religious right. Following Pope Paul VI’s dictum, “If you want peace, work for justice,” more people of faith would be vigorously involved in efforts and campaigns that foster social justice and uphold human dignity. We would see expanded participation in cutting-edge initiatives like Christian Peacemaker Teams, in which persons of faith engage in nonviolent presence in situations of conflict and violence. We might even rethink the tax-exempt status of our religious institutions, which could free up our preachers to take on a more prophetic mantle, speaking truth to power and mobilizing our congregations to action.Two millennia since Matthew wrote his narrative of Jesus’s miraculous birth, power-hungry Herods are still massacring the innocent. Millions of Rachels are still weeping, refusing to be comforted. We have far more to offer such a world than an instruction manual for sexuality. We have the good news of God with us, and a power that comes from such good news. I deeply hope and pray we grasp that good news and offer it to this hurting world.