Christian-Muslim relations blog

Nostra Aetate’s affirmation of the Church’s “esteem” for Muslims is warranted by a number of different points. Muslims adore the one God whom Christians also worship, reverencing many of the same attributes. They reverentially submit to that God, linking themselves to Abraham. They adore Jesus and are devoted to Mary. The passage ends with this striking sentence: “Finally, they value the moral life and worship God especially through prayer, almsgiving and fasting.”

On the basis of these commonalities, the ecumenical council urges Christians and Muslims to work together toward “mutual understanding” and the common good of humanity, expressed in peace, freedom, and moral rectitude. This is a profound and prudently limited affirmation of the prospects of interreligious dialogue. There is no little space for agreement or for mutual exchange among Muslims and Christians. The divine attributes constitute one such area of agreement; common connections to Abraham and esteem for Mary and Jesus constitute an area where there are more starkly different views in play, but nonetheless some common ground. These, it seems, are the ground of “mutual understanding.” Nonetheless, mutual understanding on these issues is not agreement: the document asks of Catholics an earnest attempt to comprehend the other religion, not to concur with it.

This is in keeping with the largely social agenda in which Nostra Aetate urges Catholics to collaborate with Muslims. On the basis of a shared moral life and reverence for the one God, the cultural and human-centered agenda between the two faiths is accessible and desirable. Is this a sufficient basis for interreligious dialogue, or would the document’s critics argue that it does not defend vigorously enough the potential for agreement on contested theological issues?

The conversion narratives recounted by Gaudeul make for an interesting meditation on the interaction between the interior movements and grace and the exterior ones. I’m reminded particularly of an Augustinian account of conversion as the interplay of God’s interior action upon the will and the simultaneous arrangement of environmental circumstances which allow what is worked in the will to be enacted. Gaudeul’s book unsurprisingly prioritizes the interior dimension: narrative after narrative contains dreams and vision, the unbearable desire to receive the sacraments, or the like. Gaudeul’s attention to “psychological mechanisms” aligns with this dimension of conversion.

At the same time, there is the matter of what a theology of grace dubs “environmental” graces. Paul Mehemet-Ali Mulla offers one window into this: his conversion included a strong desire for the Eucharist in circumstances where this was difficult to achieve; his deprivation of the sacraments for period in turn generated a vocation to the priesthood. Several of the accounts of the desire for baptism growing more and more intense echo this theme as well.

In light of this traditional twofold view of grace, I appreciated Gaudeul’s attention to the relationship between convert and community at the conclusion of chapter. The community, in Gaudeul’s telling, effectively confirms the calling of the convert or reveals it as deceptive. It seems that the dynamics of conversion as described in the excerpt are easily integrated with an Augustinian understanding of grace and conversion. On the other hand, while the lives of converts are not sources of dogmatic theology, I wonder how they might challenge or nuance such a theology of grace. Can the experience of conversion in settings largely hostile to Christianity be significant for Christian theology? How might it be integrated with or corrective of a theology of grace?

I greatly appreciated several aspects of the Common Word document as well as the Yale theologians’ response thereto. I found its emphasis on the practical dimensions (and necessity) of the common ground between Islam and Christianity bracing and astute: the double love commandment certainly should constitute the foundation of a Christian attitude toward Muslims and vice-versa. The derivation from this double commandment of a mutual obligation to advance the cause of religious liberty is insightful and challenging. Challenging, because to varying degrees different Muslim- and Christian-majority countries often fail to prioritize precisely this goal; insightful, because sound relationships between people have their basis in common pursuits, and the issue of religious freedom constitutes exactly such a common pursuit. In the face of evils as divergent as the secularism of certain continental European countries and the ongoing mass detention and “re-education” by the P.R.C. of Muslim Uyghurs, Muslim-Christian agreement and cooperation on this issue is essential for the good of both, and often productive of better relationships. In respects such as this, it is easy to see how Christians can be “for” Muslims and vice-versa.

But on issues which are less political and more theological, it is hard to conceive of what it means for Christianity to be “for” Islam and Muslims to be “for” Christians. The Common Word documents handling of this issue does not really clarify the matter; it claims — in what seems an exegetical stretch — that the Gospel straightforwardly suggests that those of other religions who do not oppose Christianity are on the side of Christians. In developing this claim, it argues that Muslims affirm that Jesus is the Messiah, but in a different way from Christians — analogous to the diversity of positions on Christ’s nature which are held by a range of Christian denominations. This seems like a misrepresentation; for one thing, it proposes a fundamental unity between different Christian denominations which is considerably weaker than it might at first appear; and for another, various Christian denominations must reckon with considerable scriptural predicates about Jesus which the document does not engage (e.g., John 1). Those places where the unity between Christians is most profound — e.g., the acknowledgment of the first 7 ecumenical councils between Catholic and Orthodox — do not apply to Islam. What does it mean then to affirm that Christians can be “for” or “with” Muslims in connection with the figure of Jesus?

I appreciated Daniel Madigan’s analysis of the difficulties and hopeful prospects of cultural and theological dialogue between Christians and Muslims. Particularly, I found his analysis of the “clash of civilizations” assessment of the relationship between Islam and Christianity to be helpful. It is not the case that recognizing a “clash of civilizations” makes discourse hopeless or unnecessary; rather, it is precisely where the tension between two “civilizations” is most fraught that dialogue and exchange are most important. Furthermore, Madigan’s assessment of the political dimensions of this problem — e.g., the demand for political “reciprocity” with regard to the treatment of religious minorities as a precondition for dialogue — made quite a compelling case that the Church is obligated to engage with other faiths independent of any political demands. Finally, I found Madigan’s perception that dialogue offers an important occasion for an ever clearer (and perhaps, further developed) understanding of distinctive doctrines of Christianity, precisely in encounter with the tools and methods of the religious tradition of Islam.

At the same time, however, I found the Madigan’s inattention to the ecclesial dimension of Christian-Muslim dialogue troubling. Time and again, he takes the opportunity to point out that it is not religions which engage in dialogue, but individuals. At first, this maneuver avoids the facile objection that interreligious dialogue is impossible on account of the theological and practical differences among Muslims. Later, Madigan points several times to the the successes of interreligious dialogue among scholars as examples of the “individual” quality, where real success is possible. Indeed, it does seem that there is more flexibility for dialogue on a personal level, particularly among academics.

However, this maneuver seems to lead to a bifurcation of the individual and collective, such that the ecclesial dimension of interreligious dialogue is largely elided. I find this theological concerning. For one thing, it sees inaccurate to construe dialogue between a Christian and a Muslim as principally an individual phenomenon: in some sense, at least in a theological exchange, both figures seem to represent their respective faith communities (doubly so in the case of an ordained priest as Fr. Madigan). Such a representative status entails a responsibility to one’s faith community and tradition: their beliefs ought to be accurately represented if the exchange is to be between Muslim and Christian, and not merely between two theologians. This, inevitably, has significant consequences for the positions one can take in dialogue, the scope of agreement which is possible, and the goal of that exchange. Can this dynamic of ecclesial representation and responsibility be integrated into Madigan’s vision of Christian-Muslim dialogue? If not, how might it shape or refine our understanding of the goals and concrete practice of interreligious dialogue?

I found Clinton Bennett’s description of different Christian positions vis a vis Muhammad intriguing and occasionally troubling. I wish to focus this post on the latter reaction, particularly with regard to Bennett’s description of his own views toward the end of the essay. Bennett claims, evoking the apophatic language of “paradox,” that “unity and Trinity may both be equally true about God’s nature, although neither may represent the whole truth.” Thus, God can become “incarnate” as both a person and a book, with the relationship between the two being “mysterious,” and thus grounded in the mystery of God.

This seems like an abuse of the language of mystery and paradox, which the scriptural claims of both religions would object to. The Islamic scriptures takes a decidedly dim view of the characteristic Christian doctrines of Trinity and Incarnation. The Christian scriptures affirm in a range of places the finality of Christ. Bennett’s resort to the language of “paradox” does not seem to take the scriptural claims which either religion would make seriously; rather, it appears to presuppose an external, human category (paradox or mystery) in order to relativize the respective truth-claims of Muslims and Christians. At the risk of seeming unsympathetic, it hardly seems like a “fuller affirmation of Muhammad” to effectively assert that the religious truth claims of Islam can be effectively brushed aside by an appeal to divine transcendence. One wonders what Christianity and Islam would look like if Bennett’s view were a fair representation of the history and theological traditions of either.

One minor but significant theme in the Khalidi text is Jesus’s confrontations with and condemnations of scholars. The first such saying, 17, condemns as “seditious” the errant scholar, because his errors cause many others to fall as well. Frequently, scholars are condemned for having knowledge but lacking good works (e.g., 43, 46). Saying 67 and 68 continue this critique, observing the ease with which the scholar inclines toward pride or toward love of the world. Saying 93 in particular echoes Jesus’s words to the Pharisees in linking the concerns with conceit and worldliness: those who prefer the esteem accorded to scholars precisely are the worldly ones, who receive their only reward in this world. In opposition to this paradigm, the sayings enjoin the possession of some wisdom and a far greater measure of deeds: in this fashion, one both describes the road and proceeds upon it (92).

In a number of places, this portrait of Jesus’s hostility to scholars seems to accord with the Gospels; in this connection, I think particularly of saying 93, with its echoes of Jesus’s critique of the Pharisees, or saying 94, which condemns the hypocrisy of those scholars who enjoin one practice but fail to abide by it. On the other hand, however, the attitude toward scholars presented in this text often appears harsher (or at least lacks some of the qualifications) which we might recognize in the Gospels or elsewhere in the New Testament. Thus, to cite one example, Jesus’s rebuke of hypocritical scholars, with its strong resonances of Matthew 23, lacks Matthew’s emphasis that obedience be accorded to the pharisees on account of their office (the seat of Moses).

In many places, this hostility seems to reflect a greater continuity with the Christian ascetic tradition (E.g., the saying of the desert fathers, referenced as a possible source these texts) than with the complete witness of the Gospels. Assuming that the author or compiler of the Islamic Jesus saying was familiar with both sources, as Khalidi seems to indicate, what might be the rationale for such an emphasis? Is it to be located strictly in the available source material? Contemporary political concerns, to which Khalidi occasionally alludes? Or is their something of a theological agenda on display as well?

I was particularly struck by this reading’s emphasis on the manner in which prayer shapes the attitude of the one who prayers. This emerges first in reference to the salat prayers, at whose heart lies that prostration which Katz describes as “the fundamental stance of the cosmos towards its creator” (15). It is, in this respect, an expression of humility as opposed to arrogance. In this attitude, Katz seems to imply, the Muslim imitates the angels and the rest of the cosmos, and “voluntarily” reflects his or her “inherent subordination to God” (16).

A similar suggestion is made in relation to du’a, prayers of supplication. Many, Katz observes, have argued that du’a is a kind of worship, which “expresses the appropriate creaturely posture of neediness before God” (27). In this respect, engaging in this form of prayer appears quite similar to salat: in prayer, one affirms the chasm between creature and creator, acknowledges the chasm which exists between them, and worships God by acknowledging either one’s neediness or subordination. It seems significant that, in either case, the relationship between divine and human established in prayer is a parallel reflection of the larger uncreated-created relationship.

In this respect, I am reminded of the (Roman Catholic) Liturgy of the Hours, particularly the Canticle of the Children from the book of Daniel. This prayer, which appears frequently in liturgical prayer of the Roman Rite, proceeds through the created hierarchies, inviting all of creation — climaxing in human beings — into the blessing of the creator, and drawing the one who prays it into the cosmos’s chorus of praise (“O Israel, bless the Lord,” etc). Can we compare these two understandings of Christian and Islamic prayer? Some similarities, like the cosmic acknowledgment of the creator/creature binary, seem obvious; what might be some of the differences?

One of the less palatable habits of Miroslav’s Volf’s chapter on the Trinity is his blithe dismissal of the personal names of Father, Son, and Spirit as mere “metaphors.” One example comes from page 138: “Using metaphorical terminology of ‘Fatherhood’ and ‘Sonship,’ in John’s Gospel Jesus claims, ‘The Father is in me an I am in the Father.'” This citation is followed in subsequent pages by the apparently similar affirmation that this is true of any human description of God, as for instance various divine attributes.

But in the context of a chapter addressed specifically to Christians, this repeated claim is insufficient. The language of God as Father, Son, and Spirit is scriptural, ecclesial, and sacramental; it is a formula, Christians believe, enjoined by Christ himself. Thus Volf’s understanding of “metaphor” seems utterly inadequate: “The words paint a picture or tell a story…God is inexpressible, beyond our concepts, beyond our language.” But the usage of this language in the Gospels by Christ Himself is not analogical; Matthew 28 does not set out to describe what God is like, but declares the real being of the God to whom the baptized Christian is united.

I wonder if it is not misleading, then, to compare the scriptural account of the divine persons to a picture on a wall which is entirely different from the thing it describes. It suggests a sort of tertium quid which communicates intellectual content to the reader. But to borrow the imagery of an esteemed contemporary theologian, scriptural language is rather iconography than portraiture: it is the site of God’s self-revelation to us, through which we are granted a window onto Him, not a secondhand description or rendering of the divine relationships. Volf’s apophaticism, while deeply modern, seems out of step with the apophaticism which underpinned early Christian theology. The Cappadocians or Athanasius, for instance, do not conceive of scriptural language as a tertium quid, but the site of an encounter with God, the place at which one cleaves to Him and is overwhelmed by Him.

In this respect, I wonder if the continued understanding of Triune names as “metaphors” is helpful ecumenically. Does it sever the intimate continuity between the scriptural account of God and the reality of the Trinity? How might recovering a different sense of what it means for God to transcend language contribute to a more fruitful dialogue between Muslims and Christians? Or to a more robust understanding on the part of Christians of their distinctive doctrines?

Rahman’s dense account of the Qur’anic understanding of God places considerable stress on the relationship between God and human beings. Particularly, Rahman is concerned to emphasis the mercy of God in the Qur’an, over against polemical or misinformed Western portraits thereof. In the course of emphasizing this attribute, Rahman points to a number of ways that God is “with” the believer: creation is a primordial act of mercy, and the sending of messengers and revealing of books to guide humanity to do his will is its zenith (Rahman 7).

These apparently external forms of mercy are complemented by apparently internal, personal accounts of the human-divine relationship: God is nearer man than his jugular vein, abandons him when he commits a fault, and returns to him if he repents (Rahman 4). He is capable of “sealing up” the hearts of some to the truth, and described in starkly predestinarian language (Rahman 11).

This different accounts prompt me to wonder about the Islamic understanding of the medium of divine-human relationship. In most forms of Christian theology, the more personal elements described above — God’s nearness, predestination, hardening of hearts, returning to the penitent — are raised under the the heading grace. Is there an Islamic equivalent of such a category, broadly speaking? And if not, how is God’s personal, interior interaction within the individual understood?

I found Qutb’s “The America I Have Seen” by turns insightful, ignorant and frustrating. On the one hand, Qutb’s critique of sexuality in American life rings true in many places; I think particularly of Qutb’s account of his conversation with a university student who profoundly proclaims, “Sex is not a moral matter at all.” The discussion of sexuality, though written seventy years ago and featuring rhetorical excesses which make a contemporary reader wince, rings perhaps even truer in 2020 than it did in 1951.

Qutb’s critique of American sexual mores, however, is couched within a larger thesis that American culture has (morally and emotionally) scarcely transcended the state of human affairs in a primordial jungle . This issues in a tendentious and untenable history of America — for instance, the controversial assertion that the sole motive for America’s Civil War was to ensure Northern economic supremacy, or the insistence that all of America’s earlier settlers were either criminals or adventurers with no moral or religious dimension. These first Americans sought solely personal gain and so developed their technical skills in their struggle with the primordial American wilderness, but had no occasion or appetite for moral cultivation and so remain painfully stunted.

Such passages render Qutb’s moralizing about sex considerably less palatable. They do confirm Qutb’s distinct disinterest in fairly describing his subjects. One is left, then, with the question of the work’s intention. On the one hand, there is the real possibility that Qutb’s provides a tendentious history simply to buttress a valid insight into American moral failings. Such a maneuver falls within the typical strategies of cultural polemic. But is the work intended to fulfill solely a polemical purpose, to undermine attraction to Islam in Egypt and the Arab world? Or is it meant to offer a different form of cultural critique? And how influential has it been?