The Life We Claim. James C. Howell
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father saw him, and was filled with compassion. (Luke 15:20, AP)
Two famous paintings can help us probe deeply into the Creed's first sentence. The Hermitage in St. Petersburg houses Rembrandt's final effort (among many) to capture the return of the prodigal son on canvas. Rembrandt knew personally the acute agony of loss, having lived long enough to see three sons, two daughters, and his wife die. Henri Nouwen wrote a lovely devotional reflection (The Return of the Prodigal Son: A Story of Homecoming) on this painting, asking, "Had I really ever dared to step into the center, kneel down, and let myself be held by a forgiving God?" instead of "choosing over and over again the position of the outsider looking in." In the world, we strive feverishly for meaning, ignorant of God's firm, tender embrace. Studying the hands Rembrandt painted of the father holding his son come home, Nouwen wrote,
In them mercy becomes flesh; upon them forgiveness and healing come together. . . . I felt drawn to those hands; I have come to know those hands. They have held me from the hour of my conception, they welcomed me at birth, they held me close to my mother's breast, fed me, kept me warm. They have protected me in times of danger, they have waved me goodbye and always welcomed me back. Those hands are God's hands. . . . They are also the hands of my parents, teachers, friends, all God has given me to remind me how safely I am held.7
Nothing sexist here, as Nouwen observes how the hands are painted differently. "The father's left hand touching the son's shoulder is strong and muscular. I see a certain pressure, especially in the thumb. That hand seems not only to touch, but, with its strength, also to hold. How different is the father's right hand! This hand does not hold or grasp. It is refined, soft, and very tender. It wants to caress, to stroke, and to offer consolation and comfort. It is a mother's hand. The Father is not simply a great patriarch. He is mother as well as father. He holds, and she caresses. He confirms and she consoles." Rembrandt was near death when he painted this in 1668, and as it turns out, Nouwen himself died in 1996 while working on a documentary film about this painting.
Around the year 1300, Giotto devised a series of frescoes that narrate pictorially the life of St. Francis. In the third bay of the upper basilica of the cathedral in Assisi, we see the dramatic moment when Francis, being sued by his father Pietro Bernardone, abandoned his worldly goods, and even all ties with his father. His nakedness shielded by the cloak of the Bishop Guido, Francis lifts a hand toward heaven, where God's hand of blessing gestures toward him. It was at this moment that Francis solemnly announced, "Pietro Bernardone is no longer my father; my father from now on is 'Our Father, who art in heaven.'" For Francis, to call God "Father" was a declaration of allegiance, choosing to serve God even if it elicited his earthly father's wrath. Perhaps we may be pressed to make a similar choice, remembering what Jesus said: "If anyone comes to me and does not hate his own father . . . he cannot be my disciple" (Luke 14:26). To call God "Father" is not all warm and fuzzy, but exacts a radical obedience from us.
A DEEPER REFLECTION
I Wish My Father Had Done That
To plunge into the Apostles' Creed may seem as foolish as jumping into an old cement pool that hasn't held water for years. People say to me, "I've got to figure out my faith for myself. Nobody else can tell me what and how to believe." And we do need to figure it out for ourselves. But I don't know about you: if somebody says to me, "James, you've got to figure out your faith for yourself," I begin to feel lonely, boxed in. Even though I had the privilege of studying and earning degrees in theology, I have no wish to be a soloist; I prefer joining the choir. If I think of myself as a solitary mountain climber on my way toward God, I'm not sure I would risk the journey: who will catch me when I make a mistake? The odds that my thoughts about God happen to be the ultimate truth for all reality are embarrassingly small. We need one another. We need ancestors, friends from distant lands, saints of old, little children. The image for believing is not the solitary mountain climber, but rather friends and family sitting around a table breaking bread, having extended after-dinner conversation together. We help one another believe. We help one another grow into our faith. We help one another correct those places where we have misunderstandings of God. We help one another believe when it is hard for us to believe.
I want to believe in something that is bigger than me and my thoughts about God. Sometimes I talk to people who don't believe in God, or those who are not sure they believe in God. They do have awfully good questions, and however valiantly I may try to resolve them, my regiment of pro-God arguments can never decisively win the day. Yes, we use our brains, we rally our ideas, firm in a faith that is far from irrational, proud of a faith that thrives on intellectual rigor. But at the end of the day, the only compelling case to be made for God would be the dramatically changed lives of those who believe in God. Exhibits A, B, and C as proofs for God would be the lawyer abandoning his career to serve the poorest who have no other advocate, the stone-cold marriage revived, the woman divulging remarkable traces of joy in the face of adversity. The only logic on which we might rely is deeply personal. To say "I believe in God" is never reduced to "I believe that there is a God." Instead, the grammar is equivalent to what I did at the altar on March 1, 1986, when I looked at Lisa and made promises to her. "I promise that I will love you in sickness and in health, forsaking all others, 'til death do us part." This is what we mean when we say "I believe in God, the Father Almighty."
Power and Love
If belief is about love, if a "god" is what we give our heart to, then we may be puzzled by the Creed's seemingly incompatible pair, "Father" and "Almighty." How could a God who is all-mighty also be like a Father, and vice versa? I am in the middle of taking a stab at being a father myself; and although I cannot remember the rosy scenario I presumed parenting would be before I got into it, I am certain I assumed I was going to be more almighty than I am. If there is anything a father is not nowadays, it is "almighty."
How shall we say it? God is almighty. We know that God is almighty, but God can't bear to be known only as almighty. Because, were a father or any person to be truly almighty, it would scare the daylights out of everyone, and especially the children. Almighty is intimidating, squashing, fearsome. Before almightiness, we shiver. So how can you love someone who is all-powerful? Perhaps this is why fathers aren't all mighty—because if you're almighty, a despot in your household, then you can't be loved, and fathers want so very much to be loved. Isn't this why God says, "I shall be not just almighty, but I shall be your father"? When Jesus prayed, he did not call God "Almighty." Instead he spoke to God as "Abba," the Aramaic word Jesus beautifully spoke as one of his very first words—not his first words in his teaching ministry, but his first words as an infant groping after the wonder of speech. Jesus, held lovingly in Joseph's arms, looked up into his eyes and called him "Abba," delighting Mary's husband. As a grown man, Jesus had that kind of intimate, tender relationship with Almighty God. The disciples got a glimpse of the grown man Jesus as a little child, sitting on God's lap, looking up tenderly and calling on his Abba. The disciples envied this of him, and they wanted in on it. They said, "We want to have that kind of relationship with God."
The Elusive Father
But wasn't Jesus just as intimate (or more intimate) with Mary, his mother? How much do we really want to invest in the very opening of the Creed, "I believe in God the Father"? We wonder about using a gender image for God that excludes half of humanity—or worse, one that includes half that isn't so godlike. I see this in counseling all the time: people harbor confusion about God, and a lot of it is because they do believe that God is like their own father. You see, if you had a father who is cold or distant, harsh or sophomoric, then you get confused about what God ought to be. If God is like that kind of father, then I don't want to have anything to do with him, or we stumble into a dysfunctional faith. I want to plead that God is the best father imaginable, but aren't our imaginations on this subject a little clouded?
I thought all this past week about being a father myself. When I am a guest speaker, the hosts request a résumé so I can be properly introduced. I really do mean it when I say the only thing worth mentioning is that I have the privilege of being father to these three children. I am continually