Earlier this summer I finished what I hope is the final major round of revisions to a (very) long-running book project currently titled Riddles, Rhetoric, and Theology: Piers Plowman and the Medieval Poetics of Enigma. It’s a little on the obscure side—in more ways than one, in fact, since it is about the literary and theological uses of obscurity.
During the second half of the summer, I’ve been working with two brilliant research students, Anna Goodling and Rebecca Fox, on projects inspired by the work of J. R. R. Tolkien and René Girard, whom we take to be two of the greatest literary thinkers, and arguably the two most important Christian literary thinkers, of the past century. It’s been a rich time, generating more lines of thinking than we will be able to explore in fully researched detail.
Rebecca and Anna, experienced and eloquent bloggers, have been using this form (here and here) alongside developing their work in more traditional ways. I’d like to follow their lead and open a space to play with some ideas related to these projects. I hope blogging will be conducive to the kind of play that Dante finds to be the business, both serious and joyful, of heaven. Literature has, for me, been a major means of entry into what I imagine such play to be. I also hope blogging will lead to partnership in ways that regular academic publication doesn’t.
In order to begin to think about the purposes of literary play, I want to begin with a scene that is far from playful, but perhaps for that reason shows the greatest power of literature—though I may be stretching things a bit far. There is only one reference in the Gospels to Jesus writing, and we do not know what he wrote, only what effect his writing had. Yet this story indicates something about what writing can do—especially the kind that most presses the potential of literacy, what we have come to call literature.
A crowd about to stone a woman caught in adultery asks Jesus what he has to say. As they continue questioning him, he writes with his finger in the dust. Only then does he say the famous words, “Let anyone among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her” (John 8:7, NRSV). Then he writes on the ground again. Meanwhile “they went away, one by one, beginning with the elders” (verse 9). Jesus is left alone with the woman, whom he releases from condemnation and directs to go and not sin again.
The result is forgiveness instead of persecution, individual reflection rather than unanimous violence, and a healing dialogue instead of an argument that the mob with stones would win—a conversion of relationship, selfhood, and community. I would like to ask how this scene might offer direction for thinking about what literature does.
I am thinking of René Girard’s interpretation of the scene (I See Satan Fall Like Lightning, 54-61; When These Things Begin, 121-6). Jesus writes in order not to look at the crowd because, if he did, they would see in his eyes only a reflection of their own violence, which would be enough to provoke the first stone. It does not matter what Jesus writes; he writes simply because he has bent down. Writing in the dust, as Rowan Williams puts it in his short book of that title, “allows a moment, a longish moment, in which people are given time to see themselves differently” (78). Writing is a stall tactic, and Girard pretty much says that it’s not worth bothering much about the particular significance of writing while stalling. But writing gives a certain character to Christ’s silence and evokes a certain kind of attention. The Gospels themselves ultimately enter the space of this silence and give shape to the attention it solicits. For a sense of how this shape might apply to literature more broadly, I would turn to the Gospels’ fondness for parables.
The word “parable” comes from parts meaning “thrown beside.” Used as a term for a figure of speech or a literary genre, the word seems to have been taken as a metaphor for comparison. Other early uses of the term, however—a piece of food thrown to animals or something thrown to a crowd—suggest to Girard another sense: Jesus throws parables to crowds in order to redirect their violent energy (The Scapegoat, 192-3). Elsewhere, he points out that the parables often portray a God of transcendent violence, but so that such a portrayal can be thought about, not simply believed, and can be seen to contradict Christ’s other teaching (When These Things Begin, 116). Some parables, I would say, also point beyond the usual projections of human violence onto God and ask us to imagine a God who is, like the father in the parable of the prodigal son, always surprising us with love beyond expectation or comprehension.
Gospel parables are the cardinal example of what I call the poetics of enigma (another Greek rhetorical term, used by St. Paul in 1 Corinthians 13:12). Enigma was a word for riddles in Greek, and enigmatic texts pose interpretive challenges, but their challenge does not end with a single answer. Indeed, it never ends, but ever moves towards truth that is infinite and cannot be possessed or mastered. Jesus’ writing in the dust is the purest form of enigma because it summons the members of the crown to reinterpret themselves through knowing him. The poetics of enigma forms community around shared interpretive play rather than unanimous violence. (It’s a lot like, or maybe an aspect of, centered-set faith.)
Enigmatic texts such as the parables are condensed examples of literature’s capacity to move an audience away from one way of thought, feeling, and belonging and toward another. I find Girard’s mimetic theory to especially insightful about what literary reading can call us away from and J. R. R. Tolkien’s essay “On Fairy-stories” to be similarly helpful in thinking about what it can call us to. These two will be the poles around which the next few posts will orbit.