crux of ecumenism - universality and chosennes

Journal of Ecumenical Studies, 26:1, Winter 1989

THE CRUX OF CHRISTIAN ECUMENISM: CAN UNIVERSALITY AND CHOSENNESS

BE HELD SIMULTANEOUSLY?*

Raimundo Panikkar

PRECIS

We cannot have it both ways. The Jewish-Christian dialogue, for instance, is all right, provided no Hindu hears the conversation, and vice versa. Each tradition is understandable within its proper background and as a proper language. There is no lingua universalis. Pluralism is at the heart of Reality. This essay shows the particularity of any pretension to universality and the internal dialectic it implies. Only a kenotic Christ and a de-kerygmatized Christianity can face the challenge. What, then, is the identity of Christ and of Christianity? The mystical element, tul now neglected or segregated, reveals itself as essential in any ecumenical - and human - enterprise.

At the start, we should distinguish between information and participating or communication which eventually leads to or assumes communion. The question has nothing to do with the so-called "sciences of information." The problem is as follows: How far can we communicate with others if we intentionally reserve for ourselves what we take to be our distinctive and most precious

This essay began as a lecture at Jyotiniketan, Jerusalem, September 27, 1973; it was repeated at Union Theological Seminary, New York City, in 1977. Revised for the research seminar on Communicatio in Sacris in Bangalore, January 20-25, 1988, it was published with the papers ofthat symposium in Sharing Worship (Bangalore, 1988), as well as in Cross Currents 38 (Fall, 1988): 309-324, 339, where it was titled "Chosenness and Universality: Can Christians Claim Both?" It has been further edited and the author's "Epilogue" added for this special issue of /. E. S.

Raimundo Panikkar (Hindu and Roman Catholic) is Professor Emeritus of Religious Studies at the University of California (Santa Barbara), now living primarily in Spain and India. He has also taught in Madrid, Rome, and Bangalore, and at Harvard University, in the fields of Sanskrit, philosophy, Indology, and comparative religion. He has doctorates in philosophy (1946), chemistry (1958), and systematic theology (1961), with studies in Bonn, Barcelona, Madrid, and Rome. Ordained a Roman Catholic priest in 1946, he has published more than 300 major articles in journals and books, as well as thirty books. Among the latter are The Vedic Experience (University of California Press and Darton, Longman & Todd, 1977); The Intrareligious Dialogue (Paulist Press, 1978; 2nd ed., Asian Trading Corp., 1984); Myth, Faith, and Hermeneutics (Paulist Press, 1979; 2nd ed., Asian Trading Corp., 19S3); Blessed Simplicity: The Monk as Universal Archetype (Seabury Press, 1982); and The Silence of God: The Answer of the Buddha (Orbis Books, 1989). A member of the First Liturgical Commission for Vatican II and of the Roman Synod during John XXIIFs pontificate, he has served as president of INODEP International (Institut Oecuménique Développement des Peuples, Paris).

The Crux of Christian Ecumenism 83

feature? As I put the problem in Worship and Secular Man, "[U]nless there is communicatio in sacris . . . there is no communication, but only an exchange of goods or words . . ."*

The question can be answered easily if it is assumed that "we" have a special gift or particular grace not given to others. Spouses usually do not share the intimacy of wedlock even with their best friends. If there were an exclusive Christian uniqueness, it would be a sacrilege to share it with aliens. If Christians are a chosen people, they cannot throw their precious pearl to the swine—and the traditional disciplina arcani is abundantly justified. The issue concerning "infidels" is not specifically a Christian problem. Nearly every tradition must deal with the "other"-the goy, kafir, mleccha, barbarian, pariah, poor, alien. Our specific problem is not one of chosenness.

The problem arises with universality. If Christians claim an unrestricted universality, they cannot withhold their treasures from any aspirant. If the conditions for accepting a candidate are tied to a particular culture or religion, the alleged universality is not humanwide but is linked to the belief that the given culture and religion represent the acme of humanness. This leads to the belief that the Christian is the perfect person, and Christianity the objectively superior religion. Universality, then, means that every human being is called to become a Christian. The other human and religious traditions are interpreted as praeparatio evangelica of an anima naturaliter (that is, potentialiter) Christiana.

Granted, this is a coherent position. If "we" are the "best," we simply invite the "others" to become this best also. Put less crudely, God is calling everybody to become a Christian. The difficulty arises when we concretize the concept of universality; it becomes insurmountable if Christians accept pluralism and no longer claim to be the only custodians de vera religione. Such an attitude represents^ mutation in the usual Christian self-understanding during at least the last millennium. I contend that the traditional prohibition against sharing worship, so common in many religions, is justified alongside such assumptions as caste, pure-impure, chosenness, etc. However, these assumptions are being challenged and substantially modified today under the banner of a universal unhierarchical human dignity.

Let us state the question in all its pungency for the Christian case. Ecumenical ecumenism, interreligious dialogue, authentic tolerance, and recognition of the other as an equal are empty, if not hypocritical, words unless we face squarely this mutation in self-understanding. To make a distinction between Christianity as universal religion and particular cultures does not help soften the acuteness of the problem—first, because most religious traditions would not accept this separation between religion and culture; second, because the moment the Christian

Raimundo Panikkar, Worship and Secular Man: An Essay on the Liturgical Nature of Man, Considering Secularization as a Major Phenomenon of Our Time and Worship as an Apparent Fact of All Times-A Study towards an Integral Anthropology (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 1973), p. 65.

84 Journal of Ecumenical Studies

claim is clothed in language it becomes a tributary of the culture of that language. By "language" I mean here the language of the Bible and of the Councils, the cosmology of Christian thought, and the actual words used, such as "God," "person," "grace," "redemption," "history," "nature," etc.

For the sake of clarity, I shall devote the major part of this essay to an analysis of the concept of "chosenness," keeping in mind the issue of universality, and end with a discussion of whether or not they are compatible. I begin with an exegetical comment, followed by a theological reflection, some philosophical considerations, and some provisional conclusions.

/. An Exegetical Comment

For the exegetical comment, let us take Acts 9:36-11:18. This is one of the longest narratives in Christian scripture, and, though the meaning is not difficult to grasp, the entire story is repeated in detail no fewer than three times. Thus, it must surely be regarded as an important subject. The main message of this passage seems clear: we human beings have no right to make any a priori dichotomy between pure and impure, sacred and profane, or (in Peter's mind) good and bad. Peter is told—as was one of his predecessors whom he considered to be the source of his Jewish faith—to go and "kill" (in Gen. 22:2, a son; here, unclean animals) "and eat." I want to stress the parallelism between these two momentous episodes. One of the great phyla of humankind is founded on the fidelity of Abraham—father of all believers in the Abrahamic tradition. Another great tradition—Christianity—is founded on the fidelity of Simon, who became Peter, the Rock of all Christian believers. In short, this passage relates a foundational event: the start of Christian history.

The narrative insists on making no distinction not only with regard to creatures but also with regard to persons. God does not make any distinction among persons (prosôpolëptës). All our preconceived ideas seem to be shattered. The Holy Spirit is always unpredictable. One would never expect that the Holy Spirit would dwell in all these uncircumcised gentiles or, even more, that Peter would be commanded to transgress the Torah. Similar experiences happened to Paul and Barnabas, and the First Council of Jerusalem (Acts 15:1-29) decided, once and for all, to do away both with the rule that it was unlawful for a Jew to visit or to associate with someone of any other race or nation (allophulos; Acts 10:28) and with the primordial sacrament of the entire Covenant—circumcision. Recounting the same experience for the fourth time, Peter said that the Holy Spirit "made no distinction" (puden diekrinen ; nihil discrevii) "between us and them" (Acts 15:9, R.S.V.).

Since human beings cannot live without rites, baptism almost automatically replaced circumcision; after twenty centuries it is no wonder that Christians have also come to make discriminatory judgments about pure and impure, "we" and "they," Christians and non-Christians, baptized and unbaptized. There is a fun-


damental distinction between discernment of spirits and discrimination among persons. Further, the distinction is revolutionary in that only the latter gives "religious" identity, while the former demands an ever-open "spirituality."

Theology used to put the Christian religious issue more politely: there is salvation inside and outside, ordinarily by water baptism and extraordinarily by baptism of desire. There was talk of "invincible ignorance," "clean conscience in good faith," etc. Yet, Peter's dream destroys all these judgments and convictions. If the disciple is not expected to fare better than the master, likewise, Christians should not pretend to know better than Peter. First of all, Peter is asked forth-rightly to commit one of the most heinous sins, "Kill and eat!" Only idolatry might have been worse. It upset all his values: Go and prostitute yourself! Share with unbelievers, atheists, those of other religions, those of the right and the left, the rich and poor, the brahmins and the outcastes. Second, Peter has a terrible identity crisis. How can he defend his own stance? What will the others say? There is a great stir in Jerusalem, for they have heard that something has happened in Caesarea. Then comes this unconditional confidence: "What God has cleansed you must not call common" (koinou; Acts 11:9, R.S.V.). There is more than linguistic irony that the Greek word here for "common" or "impure" is also the root for koinönia, community or communion.

The main lesson from this text is that nobody knows beforehand what God wants, thinks, does, or is. If we behave as if we had some criterion regarding the Ultimate Reality, which we call God here, we are assigning ourselves a role higher than God's. Then God would not be free but would have to submit to what we think God is and that we expect God to do because things have always been done this way or because God has promised to do it thus—a deus ex machina. This is just what Peter's experience refutes. We have no criterion whatever, when we utter God's name, by which we can say what God is or thinks or wills or how God will act.

Contemporary mentality finds it hard to accept the privilege-minded and hierarchical views on humanity. Restrictions in sharing worship smack of elitism and injustice. For many centuries, the eucharist was considered de necessitate medii and not only of precept for salvation (Jn. 11:53). Only a few were even permitted to approach the sacrament. We should not too quickly dismiss the widespread consensus of most traditional religions that few will reach the goal-be saved, born again, attain nirvana, and the like. God is absolute Sovereign over and above our personal conscience and feelings. The case of Abraham was paradigmatic, and it certainly was so for Peter. God can oblige us to kill our children despite the qualms of our consciences. Humanity in general and centuries of Christianity bear witness to the fact that thinkers of all persuasions have not found it repugnant that only a tiny fraction of people were realized or, for Christians, saved.

If conscience rebels against this today, we should not forget that the same God who seemed to "allow" hell for the great majority of humans continues "allowing" human hell for most people living now, also. This is the challenge


of sacred secularity as a novum for our times across religious persuasions. The mutation in self-understanding is not superficial but entails cosmological and theological quantum-leaps. It also defies the old notion of the nature of God as Lord, though that is not our topic here.

I am submitting here a commonplace agreed to by nearly everyone—intellectuals and common people alike—namely, that a new degree of consciousness, a new epoch, is dawning for humankind. We can see it as a crisis or a challenge, interpreting it from any viewpoint we prefer—personal, depth-psychological, sociological, theological, or mystical. I will distinguish here only two levels of interpretation, the personal and the ecclesiotheological.

First is the personal level. Peter, Paul, and Barnabas were individuals, first of all. Their deepest beliefs were called into question. We, too, should face the challenge personally. Are we ready to undergo a similar shattering of all our previous ideas, not just once, but constantly? Or, are we freeze-framing what the passage seems to say and no longer hearing the living message directed to ourselves? Acts 11:18 declares, "Then to the Gentiles also God has granted repentance unto life" (R.S.V.). The N.E.B. calls it "life-giving repentance"; the Vulgate, "Paenitentia ad vitam"; the Greek, metanoia eis zôën. It has been granted to the people of the world (the ethnesin), to all races and nations. Here I would stress the dynamic character of this required attitude. It is a metanoia, a change of mentality, a transcending of one's mental habits, which is life-giving because it is an ongoing conversion, a constant overcoming of the mind's inertia. If Christian exegesis has any value, it cannot be reduced to historical reconstruction ("wie es eigentlich gewesen ist"), as the founders of modern biblical criticism wished, but it also has to extract a living message for the hearer. If Peter recounted four times how he overcame his prejudices, should we not persevere in overcoming ours? Openness to the Spirit may be frightening, but all fear must be overcome. "Peace to you" and "fear not" are the recurring messages of the Risen Christ.

Second is the ecclesiotheological level. Have we not too quickly identified Christianity, the church, and Christ—three principal notions that should be distinguished carefully, though they are not separate? Have we not monopolized— no doubt with good intentions—the understanding of Christ on the one hand and the very reality of Christ on the other hand? I will not argue here theological doctrines maintaining that baptism is not the Christian substitute for circumcision or that the New Testament is an ersatz for the Hebrew Bible. I am only saying that from the Christian viewpoint we cannot deny the call to maintain ourselves in this constitutive openness—the openness Peter showed when he was able to kill and eat, to have social intercourse with those who were not of his race and uncircumcised. I am reminded of the invitation to "come, let him who desires take the water of life without price" (Rev. 22:17, R.S.V.). The great ecclesial challenge today arises from what I call "Christianness"—to differentiate it from "Christianity," just as the latter is distinguished from "Christendom."


//. A Theological Reflection

A. One Is Chosen to Transgress the Status Quo

Let us begin with a sketchy reference to what the Hebrew Bible means by "being chosen." Significantly, the prophet (individual or group), when chosen by God, is generally chosen in order to transgress limits, to break boundaries, and even to break the law. One is chosen to do something one would otherwise not do, something contrary to the ordinary way that things take place. One is chosen in order to leave one's family, kill one's son, or go to a new country given by God. One is chosen in order to be a sign of contradiction, to be persecuted and deemed a disgrace to one's own people. Abraham, Moses, Jeremiah, Ezekiel, John the Baptist—and many others—all were transgressors of the status quo. Jesus was condemned for breaking the law concerning the sabbath. Despite being a Pharisee, Paul became a traitor to the tradition he received at the feet of Gamaliel. So, chosenness implies a call to transgress, to break something. God does not need a prophet, a spokesperson, merely to repeat what is already known or done.

One is chosen to do something one does not necessarily like to do. Viewed from the outside, it is simply a transgression, though we tend to justify it from within. "Novus in vetere latet, vetus in novo patet," said the Christian scholastics in reference to the covenants. Yet, the Jews certainly would not agree, for they see a rupture. This tension between the prophet and the status quo appears not only in the Hebrew Bible. Francis of Assisi, Dominic of Guzman, Joan of Arc, Ignatius of Loyola, Teresa of Avila, Don Bosco—to mention only canonized saints in one tradition—are classic examples of persons who went against the status quo of their times. Today, conscientious objectors, worker-priests, married monks, liberation theologians, and feminist rebels could be viewed as enlightened prophets, deceived victims, or both. They are authentic if they take the risk.

B. One Is Chosen but Not Justified

Chosenness represents a danger and the possibility of failure. One can understand the reluctance of the prophets and their aversion to a divine call. We are called to exercise our freedom, to enter upon a struggle—not to act automatically in blind obedience, with success guaranteed. It is a call to guerrilla-style action, where the initiative and responsibility are our own. Those who are truly chosen do not execute orders but follow the dictates of their free consciences, where the divine dwells. Hence, the moment we take chosenness as self-justification, we are no longer chosen. We are called to do something out of the ordinary, but to defend or justify ourselves because we are chosen is to disown that very chosenness. Jesus did not invoke the angels of his realm to rescue him from Pilate (Jn. 10:36). Chosenness is always a call to exercise freedom of conscience; we cannot take refuge in our being chosen. When we no longer hear this calling, which consists in a constant relationship with the Chooser, we are no longer chosen. One who thinks one is justified should beware (1 Cor. 4:4, 10:12, etc.)!


The idea of being a "chosen people" does not allow us to speculate upon or manipulate it. It has an affinity with other notions that, if we try to verbalize or apprehend them consciously, cause us to betray and accuse ourselves. For example, if one inadvertently transgresses a traffic regulation and has a dozen reasons to prove one's good faith, one only makes the police suspicious of that good faith. Some actions by their very nature do not allow for any previous knowledge. Any prior reflection on certain acts kills the authenticity of those acts. We may want to be spontaneous, but spontaneity occurs prior to reflection on the act (Mt. 10:19). I am not suggesting that there are no chosen people, but I am saying that any justification of our actions because of such chosenness destroys that chosenness. We cannot have it both ways.

We can put it differently. The moment we claim a privilege because we are chosen we rely on power, not authority, to fulfill our mission. Authority is bestowed upon us; we assume power. We are invested with authority; we possess power. The relation is delicate and the difference subtle. They can never be severed. The moment that we cling to the authority given to us and do not put it at stake on every occasion we rely on our own power and not on the conferred authority. Democracy confers authority on the chosen ones, who are representatives. The moment they seize power themselves it becomes the tyranny of sheer power. "Goir mit uns" can become blasphemy; "in God we trust," cowardice; "Dieu le veult," an aberration. We can understand Germany, the United States, and the Crusades represented in these slogans. The sense of being chosen is a powerful experience. Vocation—another way of saying one is chosen—is a reality. However, when we manipulate these vocations, attempting to justify the very thing that is inherently a risk and for which we cannot offer any defense, we invalidate ourselves just as one caught in a traffic infraction offers no excuse if one is acting in good faith. The essence of being chosen entails not using one's chosenness to justify that for which one has been chosen.

C. Chosenness Enhances Subjectivity

Being chosen is so powerful an experience that without it, very fundamentally, we would not rise to the consciousness of being what we are. Our individual personality is the fruit of a series of relationships of which the most important are those in which we are recipients. Without nurture, a child dies. We discover ourselves when someone calls us, when we experience that we are a "thou" for someone. Our "I" emerges in relationship with a "thou." We feel that we are somebody when we have responsibility for someone else; we learn to love when we are loved. All this is well known, but it also applies to our individual and collective relationships with transcendent reality—however we may interpret it. Prayer is more listening than talking. Theologically speaking, human relations are a reflection of our constitutive relationship with transcendence. We are because we are known and loved—by God, the earth, the nation, the party, the tribe, the family, friends.

When chosen, in whatever sense, even merely sociologically or anthropologi-


cally, one experiences the rise of one's own personality, acquires self-confidence, feels responsibility, takes courage, senses oneself to be endowed with a mission that gives meaning to one's life. One is no longer a forlorn nonentity, lost in the anonymous mass of the faceless crowd. History shows that the very sense of peoplehood usually emerges out of a myth narrating how a particular people has been chosen by a transcendent power in order that they may fulfill a certain role among the other peoples of the world. Transcendence, here, is a philosophical notion, not a monotheistic concept.

These sketchy considerations are inserted in order to show that our critique does not refer to chosenness per se but, rather, to its connection with universality.

///. Some Philosophical Considerations

A. Two Mentalities

To be chosen entails that one is special, separated, set apart, sacred, holy, different, hagios. All these words betray a certain mentality. The "woman of distinction" seems to be a great woman precisely because she is distinct from others; thus, the more one is different, the better: Sanctus, separated, "chosen especially for you, sir!"

All the Abrahamic religions have a central idea of being chosen, different, set apart. They accord a high positive value to this specialness: chosen because special, rare. Not everyone is chosen; otherwise, what would be its meaning? There is a dialectical mentality here that is based ultimately on the principle of noncontradiction. This means that something is all the more itself, the more it is-not something else. We apply the primacy of the principle of noncontradiction in order to understand what a thing is, by differentiating this thing from what it is-not. This leads to a mentality that affirms the sacred to be distinct, the holy to be set apart, the chosen ones to be unlike others. Difference connotes the highest value. I am not saying this is right or wrong, but this is one way the human mind works. To oversimplify, this is a deeply ingrained feature common to the three Abrahamic religions.

Perhaps the classic example is the very concept of God in the three "monotheistic" religions. In order to know what this God is or is not, these traditions put God outside all possible categories. Because God is the highest Being, God has to be the most different, the most special, the most "set-apart," transcendent, totally Other, absolutely holy. The concept of God in the Abrahamic religions is of God the Other, the Holy. Any other idea of the divine is deemed pantheism, wishy-washy thinking in which everything is the same as every other thing.

However, there are other traditions that show another type of thinking—as is observed in the Indie mentality, for example—a kind of thinking characterized by the primacy of the principle of identity instead of noncontradiction. In India,


as in Greece and elsewhere, both principles are known and applied. "Primacy" indicates that the upper hand is given to the principle of identity, so that, in order to know what a thing is, these traditions do not look at what a thing is not but at what it is. The more a thing is itself, the more it is, and the more it has selfhood. So, when classical India is struggling to say what "Ultimate Reality" is, it is not saying that it is something that is apart or different. India does the opposite: it tries to discover that which is most common, most present everywhere, most immanent, most identical to itself and to everything to which identity can be applied and affirmed—brahman. According to this mentality, what the Abrahamic traditions call the "holy" is not the different but the basic. "Ultimate Reality" is not so much transcendent as it is immanent.

In order to deal with these issues across cultural and religious boundaries, I have introduced the idea of homeomorphic equivalents, lest we fall victim to grave misunderstandings. Cross-cultural criteria of comparison are different from criteria within a given culture. A culture is a full-fledged one when it segregates its own criteria of discernment. To be chosen may thus be meaningfully positive within a certain worldview, but it may be seen as irritatingly negative, if interpreted from the outside. I will give one example to illustrate this double mentality. It has been written in Hindu, Buddhist, and Chinese scriptures, long before the Christian era, "Love your neighbor as yourself." The way I understand this principle, which for me is not only a moral but also an ontological one, is almost the reverse of what some readers might think when they quote the same text from the Hebrew and Christian scriptures. They understand it to mean to love your neighbor as another self who has the same rights as they do and who, because this is an equal self to themselves, they must treat as they would like to be treated themselves. Equality here is not understood as identity but as noncontradiction. The other is not incompatible, not an enemy, but is equal to oneself as a second self. Hence, love your neighbor as (another) yourself.

In the Hindu, Buddhist and Chinese scriptures, however, it means "'Love your neighbor as your self," and unless you reach that kind of identity all your love for the other person is make-believe, artificial, for the sake of possessing. Loving your neighbor as your self amounts to knowing, discovering, and realizing your neighbor as your self, because, as long as this saving knowledge of the self has not dawned upon you, you cannot truly love the neighbor as your self. True love entails knowledge, which leads me to love and know both my neighbor as myself as the self or at least as sharing in selfhood. I cannot love my neighbor as my self as long as I have not exploded the ego. "By conceiving of (others as) I, their suffering becomes mine," wrote the seventh-century Buddhist saint, Santi-deva, in his Bodhicäryänatära. In fact, the other person is myself inasmuch as the self does not belong to me. I do not want you to thank me if I love you, because I do not love you as another self who has to thank me because I am going out of myself in order to reach you. I do not welcome any thanks as if you were paying the bill by thanking me. I love a neighbor as myself because I love the "other" individual as self—and I thereby love the neighbor for what the


neighbor really is. Incidentally, this is why the word "thanks" in most languages of the Indian subcontinent does not have the same connotation it has in Western languages.

B. Singularity and Individuality

In short, the experience of chosenness is valid and lofty, but it is also partial and not a universally human way of entering into contact with some of the greatest mysteries of life. The common feature of the three great Abrahamic traditions is precisely the sense of chosenness. Yet, this is counterbalanced by another type of mentality in which this sense of chosenness either does not appear or is interpreted in a way that defeats the purpose of the other tradition. You are "chosen" when you are not chosen; you are "chosen" when no exception is made with you. You are loved by me when I do not love your little differences but precisely that substratum that makes you exist, when I love your self, rather than just your different nose and face (ßrhadäranyaka Upanishad II, 4,5). This constitutes another mentality that we could exemplify by reference to one of the most universal metaphors of both East and West. This metaphor is found not only in the Upanishads but also in sGam-po-pa, St. Francis de Sales, and elsewhere, namely, the drop of water falling into the ocean as the symbol of the human's destiny, which is to be united with the divine or the infinite.2

The question amounts to understanding what a drop of water is—the drop of the water, or the water of the drop. If the drop of water is the (differentiating) drop of the water, then, when the drop falls into the ocean, it certainly disappears. We are then anguished, since we feel that we are found to disappear. If the drop of water is the drop of the water, that is, the surface tension that maintains the drop, then it is annihilated when it drops into the ocean. However, if the drop is not a drop of the water but the (common, plain) water of the drop, the water of the drop certainly does not disappear when it enters the ocean; the water is not gone but is there more than ever. The water of the drop of water is totally there in the ocean, such that this water of the drop, if it were too small (it all depends on the temperature), would not be visible, let alone important, whereas in the ocean it overcomes all separateness and merges with the entire ocean. Yet, all the water of the particular drop remains in the ocean.

Is it not possible that many a misunderstanding comes from the fact that some believe themselves to be the drop of the water, while others believe they are the water of the drop? Do we need to be chosen to be water, or do we need to be chosen only to be drop! Which are we—water or drop? In fact, the drop of water is both drop and water. Without the drop, we would not be aware of the water; without the water, there would be no drop. Perhaps some drops are chosen precisely to disappear consciously as drops, in order to reveal the water.

2I have dealt with this problematic in "L'eau et la mont: Réflexion interculturelle sur une métaphore," in Filosofia e religione di fronte alla monte. Archivo di Filosofia (Padua: CEDAM, 1981), pp. 481-502.


Is not the salt asked to lose its separate identity as salt in order to enhance the taste of everything else?

We could formulate the same idea more philosophically, as I have done elsewhere.3 Every human being is an individual, has individuality, is a definite particle of water. Our singularity is only apparent for a certain period of time and is only superficial; it is the surface tension that makes the drop of water by which we also differentiate the waters. Divine calling confers on us individuality, not singularity. Individuality is uniqueness; singularity, separatedness. A whole Chris-tology stems from this insight. The identity of Christ is not our identification of Christ.

C. The Concept of Universality Is Not Universal

It goes without saying that the universality that we are considering is not a factual consensus of opinion at any given time and place, like the present-day conviction that cannibalism is normally to be repudiated, as is slavery, even though it was accepted ethically for millennia. Further, it should be noted that our universality refers to value statements, not to a posteriori statements of a factual nature, "All terrestrial bodies are somewhat heavy" is a statement of the latter type. On the contrary, "All weight is due to the 'law' of gravitation" is a statement that needs to be proved universally valid. Nor do I refer to merely formal statements, such as "Two plus five equals seven," which could be said to be universally true, but not the moment they are given a material meaning. They then lose their universal validity. Two of my rocks and five of my stones are not equal to your seven pebbles, for obvious reasons of nonhomogeneity—which cannot be reached till we arrive at pure formalism. The question of universality is a highly debated philosophical problem.

Now we come to the claim of Christianity not only to have a universal validity but also to be to katholon, that is, to contain a message valid and suitable for any human beings of any time or place. Here, I argue that the original notion of the catholicity of the church was not that of its being universal in the above-mentioned and more geographical sense but of its being complete or perfect in the sense of offering its followers all they needed to attain salvation. I would like to refer here to Yves Congar's profound pages on the "Catholicity of the Church" in Mysterium Salutisi showing the double sense of that self-understanding that maintains a kind of balance between meaning "open and directed to the whole world" on the one hand and "authentic and true" on the other. I take Congar's interpretation as a valid starting point. I begin from the deep insights of classical theology, especially in its cosmic understanding of the universality of Christ and

3Raimundo Panikkar, "Singularity and Individuality: The Double Principle of Individuation," Revue internationale de philosophie, vol. 29/1-2, no. 111-112 (1975), pp. 141-166.

4Yves Congar, "Die Katholizität der Kirche," in Johannes Feiner and Magnus Löhrer, eds., Mysterium salutis: Grundriss heilsgeschichtlicher Dogmatik, vol. IV/1 (Einsiedeln, Zurich, Cologne: Benziger, 1972), pp. 478-502.


of the trinitarian process through which the entire universe goes in order to reach its goal, so that "God may be all in all." It is a fascinating and coherent view, authentically expressed in the Christian language of the last twenty centuries, as it seeks to convey the mystery of the sum-total of reality.

I pointed out at the beginning the widely accepted idea that we are now at a turning point in history and that the encounter of contemporary Christian consciousness with other cultures and religions can no longer follow the homogeneous and evolutionary pattern of what is called "fulfillment theology." Reflection on universality today can no longer follow the admonition of Benedict XV, who, in his encyclical on Catholic missions, Maximum illud, presented the goal of the Church's missionary activity as "rescuing that mass of souls from the savage tyranny of the devils."5 We are discussing here the contemporary problem of a universal doctrine (of truth and salvation) enshrined in the Christian church. In this context I submit that this claim to universality cannot be maintained convincingly for two reasons.

The first is because any claim of universality is bound to be identified with our understanding of it; otherwise, the sentence has no meaning. If we claim that "A is C" has universal value, it means that we claim "A is C" in the sense that we understand "A," "is," and "C," namely, "A to be C." No claim to universality can be separated from our understanding of this claim, that is, from our concept of this universality. This implies that our understanding of universality is also elevated to the status of being universal.

Let me elaborate. If I were to affirm that the universality of the church implies that its sacraments are the means of salvation for everybody, this might be regarded as a possible—because noncontradictory—statement. However, the language used implies that the notions of sacrament and salvation are universal, which is not the case. Furthermore, these two notions are imbued with assumptions and presuppositions that entail a very definite cosmology. This means that, simply in order to understand what the sentence says, one must adopt one particular form of thinking. Thus, we arrive at an alternative conclusion: either any other form of thinking is insufficient, even false, and the Christian terminology is alone universal; or the Christian affirmation is one particular way of formulating a more general problematic that may not even have a univocal articulation.

Could we not, however, translate, accommodate, proceed toward a profound "inculturation"? Certainly, we could, but one must then inquire—leaving all other problems aside—to what extent the translation is a Christian one. Would it be correct to affirm by dint of "translation" that samskäras are the means to moksal Would Christians admit the notion of samskäras without Christ, of moksa without God? Further, does moksa postulate samskäras! Such formal concepts as "means of liberation" and "final stage" could be a posteriori universal, but we would then have formal, not Christian, universality.

sActa Apostolicae Sedis XI (1919): 453.


We may revert to the defense of one particular language with a universal meaning, saying that it is the language used by "God." However, even accepting God's claim as universal, the meaning for us of these "revelations of God" depends on our notion of "God" and our understanding of what God is saying. Any statement affirming that God's revelation is universal is meaningful only if we fill these words with some meaning. This means that God's alleged universal language cannot be disengaged totally from our understanding of it. Faith is a prerequisite for theology, as Christian scholasticism stoutly affirmed. Thus, unless we say that our understanding of things is a universal understanding, the claim of universality cannot meaningfully be raised.

The second reason that no claim of universality can be raised meaningfully is because no human group or mind can claim to exhaust the totality of human experience. No human group can claim to have access to the whole of the human race. Even if we had the totality of human experience today, we could not know in this temporal world whether it would change tomorrow. This temporal fragmentation of the real makes it impossible for us, in any kind of critical way, to put forward a claim to universality. "How can we know the knower?" as one Upanishad puts it.6 Yet, the human mind can work only if it assumes that what we consider to be the case is, in fact, the case for others as well as for ourselves, at least to some extent. If it were not so, that is, if it did not postulate that what we are saying is also valid for others in equivalent conditions, no sentence could be meaningful. We require an intentional universality within a certain myth—a certain cosmology—as a universe of discourse.

Today, with theologians and philosophers increasingly critical regarding any claim to unrestricted universality, the scientific and political worlds seem to be putting forward the confessionalist claims of days philosophically past. Universal theological doctrines are on the wane. A certain religious pluralism is making inroads into theology. Yet, ironically, scientific and political thinkers today seem to have inherited the colonialistic features of "one God, one pope, one religion," as they defend with the same zeal "one science, one technology, one democracy." One concrete example is the "Universal Declaration of Human Rights." There has been serious debate and much talk on this concern, which proves that these human rights are not universal. The universal validity of the Declaration is, in fact, only relative, in that it uses nonuniversal language, concepts, and assumptions. Yet, there are homeomorphic equivalents, so the negation of universality does not mean condoning abuses against human dignity. However, there is no universal notion of human rights.7 The theoretical sum-total of such equivalents would yield only a purely formal universality.

6Brhadäranyaka UpanishadΊΙ, 4, 14. 7See Raimundo Panikkar, "Is the Notion of Human Rights a Western Concept?" Dioge

nes, no. 120 (Winter, 1982), pp. 75-102.


IV. Some Provisional Conclusions

A. The Chosen People

Christians today—and Roman Catholics in particular—like to use a Hebrew Bible expression, calling themselves "people of God." Even if some "envisage the possibility of calling humanity itself the people of God,"8 the phrase is a continuation of the Jewish consciousness of being a chosen people. How are we to understand this idea of being a chosen people, be it Israel or the Catholic Church or Christianity in general? How are we to understand the impulse that incites these groups to such a universal proclamation? The concept of being chosen is vital and important for the three Abrahamic religions. It would not be desirable for them to dispense altogether with it, since the belief gives them a sense of self-identity and enables them to fulfill in the larger world the important task they feel commissioned to perform. The world needs this push and enthusiasm. However, let me make two points.

First, I would ask for a certain ingredient of collective humility that recognizes that this chosenness is neither a right nor a justification but simply a certain way of understanding one's own identity and risking one's own Ufe to pursue an ideal and adhere to a certain belief.

Second, I would warn against extrapolating the conclusion that, if we are chosen, then by implication others are not chosen. If Israel is chosen, if Christians are chosen, if Islam constitutes one of the most monumental historical proofs of the belief that God chooses people—this does not in any way mean that other people may not also be chosen for other tasks, although this is neither the language nor the self-understanding of those other traditions. However, our problem still remains.

B. The Dialectic between Chosenness and Universality

Here is one of the greatest challenges to Christian self-understanding today. Israel offers the paradigm for chosenness, but it does not aspire to the type of universality that Christians claim. Islam lays special emphasis on universality: each person is born a Muslim inasmuch as all are creatures of Allah; however, Islam has a qualified concept of chosenness in that all are called to share in the most perfect of monotheistic faiths. However, Islam will not thematically consider adaptation or inculturation into other cultures. It will preach conversion but will not give validity to other cultures. They are to be tolerated, but eventually they need to be converted. The Qur'an is indivisible, the literal word of God, which as such does not allow translation—though the interpretation of this is not necessarily fundamentalist. Islam has validity in itself. One could say, "Love

8Karl Rahner, "People of God," in Karl Rahner, et al., eds., Sacramentum mundi: An Encyclopedia of Theology, vol. 4 (New York and London: Herder and Herder, 1969), p. 401.


it or leave it." This is why it has generally been more tolerant than Christianity has been.

The primitive Christian church had a sort of transcendental relation to cultures and religions. It inspired and transformed them by a kind of continuation of the Incarnation dynamic. However, it did not claim to be a religion. In fact, the church crystallized as a full-fledged religion by adapting and adopting the religiousness of the peoples that converted to Christianity. It then took definite shape and became a religion. For at least the last millennium, Christians have wanted to have it both ways: to be chosen, yet universal, people. This creates a tension that needs fundamental rethinking today.

I would like to put forward only one very concrete aspect of this complex and delicate situation.

C. Communicatio in Sacris

If the Christian church represents one single chosen people, it is understandable that it should keep its way of worship, its doctrine and lifestyle, even its culture, as closely linked as possible with the concreteness of the chosen people and the likeness of the Founder. Anyone wanting to join the flock is welcome, provided the candidate abjures all the "errors" or imperfections of the former way of life. The Christian church is the concrete way provided by God to save people. All are called to join in accepting its particular ways as being sanctioned by God. However, if the Christian church puts forward at the same time a claim to universality, different from the Jewish one that implies identity by differentiation and the Muslim one that entails a specific Muslim culture—that is to say, if the Christian church claims to be ready to accept every culture, language, and way of life because its message is allegedly not tied to any particular human phylum and so aspires to be at home in Africa, Asia, and the rest of the world — then such a chosenness demands the renunciation of any claim to be a particular religion.

Of course, there has been a standard answer to this that the church can accept any culture and adopt any way of life because it belongs to a supernatural order above any created structure. This is hardly compatible with the often-asserted historical claim of Christianity, unless we accept Hegel's divinization of a particular history, that of those Western peoples who accepted Christianity. In that case, conversion means entering into the mainstream of this particular world history, and this implies a linear and evolutionary conception of history. The mysterium salutis is Heilsgeschichte. Despite Marxism and liberal Christianity, Hegel is still the towering figure of modern times. History is still seen as the place of the unfolding of the Spirit.

Is it possible to have it both ways—chosen with a particular, though unique, mission, and universal with a mission that is also unique but exclusive? Both options are open, but not simultaneously, unless Christianity claims to be the exclusive and perfect way of realizing the humanum or, to use Christian vocabulary, the divinization of humankind, relegating all other religions to mere approx-


imations of the "Christian fullness." The church may understand itself to be either the remnant of Israel, the pusittux grex, the selected and elected few who reach the goal, the only fully true religion, or a symbol of the invisible mystery transcendentally present in any religion, people, and ideology. Two ecclesiologies are at work here: first, the church as a visible human society and, thus, a sociological construct, although with a divine mission; second, the church as a mystic reality, a cosmos within the cosmos, as some church Fathers expressed it, as the inner light latent in everyone coming into the world. Both options are legitimate; both have a long Christian pedigree; and both could offer an orthodox understanding of the Christian "fact." However, they cannot be held simultaneously, without subscribing to a Christian totalitarian imperialism.

In the first case, the church is either the societas perfecta, visible, though perhaps with invisible boundaries, the most perfect religion; or it is a particular religion contributing in its own unique way to the ultimate human welfare along with many other institutions striving toward their respective homeomorphic equivalents of Christian salvation. In the second case, it is either the leaven that disappears into the fermenting mass, or it is a kenotic principle indistinguishable as a separate entity. Two main ecclesiologies are discernible here with a respective subdivision: church as the only true religion; church as one religion; church as a distinguishable community performing a unique service to the most diverse religions; church as an invisible bond uniting all those who seek the Reign of God and its justice, to use gospel terminology. This tension has been present in Christian history for twenty centuries. The great challenge of the religions and traditions of Asia today is the awareness that this tension may now become destructive. Innocence is lost. Perhaps a momentous decision has to be taken. This is the ecclesial translation of the "turning-point" to which many contemporary thinkers refer. What is Christian identity today? This decision has to be taken ecclesially. It should be possible to say that "it appears to the Holy Spirit and us" that circumcision or baptism is no longer needed. Thus, I am asking for a Council of Jerusalem II, in order that all humankind may discern the signs of the times.

In conclusion, I shall put very concretely the question of the communicatio in sacris. When Christians celebrate the eucharist or when they pray to the Father through the Son in the Spirit, they are performing the ritual not only for themselves but also vicariously for everybody else. Are they also ready to perform it with everybody, insofar as there is good intention, respect, and the desire to share in that trustful thrust? Is the Christian equally ready to share in the rituals of other religious traditions, provided there is no scandal or apostasy involved? If, on the one hand, Christianity is one religion among others, we should keep distinctions, jurisdictions, and boundaries as clear as possible. If, on the other hand, Christians believe in their commitment to a universal mystery—revealed to them in Christ—they will also share in the manifestation of the Sacred of other religions without imagining that they are betraying their own beliefs or despising those of others.


Let me offer one example of the above-mentioned ambiguity, which accounts for the acute divergencies at the very heart of Christian theology. It is the issue of "inculturation." For most civilizations, the separation of religion from culture appears insurmountable. Both are knit together. Some modern Christians may have a different opinion, but by all accounts, seen from the other side, inculturation amounts to communicatio in sacris. To accept cultural forms of Hinduism, for example, amounts to appropriating religious symbols and even to participating in the religious world of Hinduism. One cannot have it both ways: either this is a nonlegitimate intrusion, or the third Christian millennium has to undergo a radical metanoia.

Here, again, we have at a very concrete level the play of the two above-described mentalities. The Abrahamic mentality will prefer distinction and separation; the Indie will prefer to show the same respect for sharing. There are two anthropologies at work. Should there also be two existential ecclesiologies? Most probably, at least for the time being, we shall have the more-or-less-peaceful coexistence of Christianity reforming its self-understanding and Christianness striving toward one. But, the Spirit "has knowledge of every voice" (gnösin echei phones, Wis. 1:7).

Epilogue

The literary genre of an "epi-logue" may permit one to transcend the logos by saying an after-word, not just another set of words. This literary genus may be a caricature. I beg the reader's indulgence for the cartoons that follow. The reader will set me right, while perhaps smiling condescending at my straw-creatures.

There is a hidden ghost lurking behind many efforts at "wrestling with uniqueness and universality." The ghost is a subject-object epistemology, with ontological pretensions at that. The "scientific" study of religion is bound to distort religion into a modern science, and the rational approach to religion will find only a historical corpse. While neither method can be ignored, both need to be integrated into a more comprehensive philosophy that is open to the pisteuma and not only to the noëma.

If universality means a set of univocal propositions valid for every time and place, we are enthroning these propositions, along with the collection of assumptions that makes them meaningful, into a universal standard capable of enticing, once again, all the universalists in a holy crusade against the unenlightened par-ticularists. Of course, we can become scrupulously moralistic and preach patience and tolerance to the "fanatics," "primitives," and/or undeveloped peoples who still stick to their particular ways. However, if universality can mean almost anything a particular group means by it, we should drop the concept. Otherwise, we reduce universality only to the nonuniversal enclosure of one single religion or way of thinking. If the walls are not high enough, we may be tempted to look


beyond or perhaps even to jump over them. I am not falling into the dialectical trap of giving universal validity to my statement that nothing is universal. I am only saying that the very notion of universality is universal within a particular myth that confers meaning to that concept. We need to play the keyboard of the mythos as well as that of the logos.

If "uniqueness" means different at the level of Meaning (there is nothing like "it"), then, in order to preserve that uniqueness one will have to point out differences. A unique thing is different from all the rest. In that case, a rift is established in the human community: "we" and "they." However, if uniqueness means only an existential differentiation, also on the level of the logos, if it means just a different number or specimen of a common genus with only accidental differentiations—one will then have to affirm that all religions are essentially the same. We thereby establish a rift in common sense and history.

In other words, to affirm that all religions go their different ways and affirm incompatible doctrines leads to a continuation of the old divergences and, ultimately, to wars. However, to affirm that all religions are just the same and all divergences secondary leads to lumping everything together; ultimately, it leads to abandonment of any religious or even human tradition.

Is there a way out? Yes, but not on the level of the logos. Yes, if we do not play the score of the logos alone as the decisive factor to tell us what Reality is all about. Here is the place of the ta mystika besides, but not disconnected from, the ta aisthèta and ta noèta, that is, from the sensual or aesthetic and the intellectual or noetic experiences. Here is also the realm of the myth. Suffice it to say that we are endowed not only with logos but also with mythos, that Reality cannot be reduced to what the logos says or sees. Being is more than consciousness, human life more than "visìo beatificar

In regard to the problem at hand, we may say that both uniqueness and universality belong to the order of the mythos, not the logos. If we play only with rationality, we shall end either with exclusivisms of various types or with more-or-less-imperialistic inclusivisms. Neither the religious phenomenon nor human reality can be reduced to what the logos discloses, yet the logos is a fellow-traveler in our excursion through Reality. To eliminate or even supersede it would be worse. The mythos is not in competition with the logos. The relation is advaitic, but to spell that out would require more than a simple afterword. The need for an epi-logos makes room for the mythos. To combine them harmoniously demands an artist, and art requires inspiration—the work of the Spirit.

^ s

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crux of ecumenism - universality and chosennes

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