These are the Names

In the first weekday Mass that I celebrated, a chalice with hosts (a ciborium) stood on the altar. However, I had forgotten to place it on the small white linen cloth that is spread out halfway during the Mass (the corporal). I had also forgotten to remove the lid from the ciborium. As the time came to distribute Communion, I was suddenly faced with a major problem: could I distribute these hosts as the “Body of Christ”, because they had been on the altar? Or was it still only ordinary bread, because it had not been placed on the corporal, and would I commit idolatry by calling it the “Body of Christ”?

I have become rather a fan of the book These are the Names by Tommy Wieringa. It is more exciting than the story above, but to my mind, there is a connection. Spoilers alert!

These are the Names has two main storylines. The first one concerns a band of refugees in the former Soviet Union, no friends of each other but clinging together for a greater chance at survival, making their way across a barren wasteland, hoping to find a habitable place to live. They remember being in the back of a truck, and a moment of tense silence at a border crossing – which would presumably make them ‘illegal aliens’.
Because of the harsh conditions, some of them fall sick or die. But in the end, the remaining five struggle into the town of Mikhailopol.

The second storyline concerns the police chief of Mikhailopol, Pontus Beg. He is part of a corrupt system and has made his peace with the occasional indulgence of dishonesty or violence, though he is not a bad man in general. He has been in love once, a relationship that did not last a year, and since then has been relatively successful in ignoring his grief and settling into a convenient life. He has a sexual relationship with his cleaning lady, which could be considered an abuse of power and a boundary violation; but while she is dependent on him economically, she holds the power in the relationship, as she decides the time and frequency of their sexual encounters (only during infertile periods).

Near the beginning of the book, the Jewish rabbi of Mikhailopol dies, and there are no other Jews in town. The responsibility of organizing the funeral falls on Pontus, who finds himself confronting the puzzling question: how does one bury a Jew? At a loss, he visits the rabbi of a neighbouring town, Zalman Eder. As Pontus learns more about Judaism, he becomes intrigued by it, and eventually he finds out that his mother had a name of Jewish origin. Was she a Jew? And if so, has Pontus always been a Jew without realizing it? Is he accidentally within the boundaries of the community chosen by God?

The title of the book, These are the Names, corresponds to וְאֵלֶּה שְׁמוֺת, the opening words of the book of Exodus (of which the Hebrew name is Shemot, ‘Names’). Exodus is about a chosen community leaving behind their old life of enslavement, oppression and scarcity. Through the agency of Moses, they are liberated by God from the Egyptians while passing through the Red Sea. At Mount Sinai, God gives them directions about how to live, and promises that He will lead them to a good land. But while the book looks forward to the Promised Land, they never actually get there.
In fact, we learn from the other Books of Moses that most of the people who set out from Egypt die on the desert journey. Even Moses himself dies in the desert; he sees the Land but does not enter it. That is the task of his successor, Joshua / Yehoshua.
Christians believe that a certain Jew named Yeshua (a variant of Yehoshua) has crossed the boundary of the spiritual Promised Land and that everyone who believes in Him already lives there with Him. Jews are sceptical of this claim and argue that no such boundary has been crossed.

Some of the refugees are Christian, including a man from Ethiopia. He does not speak the others’ language, but he is seen kissing a cross. Another refugee from Ashgabat considers this insulting, because to him Black men are on the level of animals, and so they do not belong within the community that honors God.

Pontus is probably Christian in a vague cultural way. From the Jewish perspective, however, he is a goy. He learns that while it is possible for a goy to embrace the Jewish customs and to study the faith, he will always lack something. If he is not biologically related to the patriarchs, he will always lack something undefinable that is passed down in Jewish heredity. The rabbi tells him, ‘The goy can cross the bridge but never reach the other side.’
Pontus reads in an old Jewish book (all translations are mine):

The Jews are not bound to the Torah because God has created us, but the Torah was given to us because God brought us out of Egypt, because He has bound himself to us and because we have been chosen. If this were otherwise, Blacks and Whites would be equal as well, because God has created all people.

Of course, there is an indication that Pontus is possibly Jewish. In that case he would be able to live as a complete Jew. But perhaps he does not want to become a Jew. For one, his cleaning lady would not understand and probably disapprove of his being circumcised.
However, he is fascinated by the ritual bath of Judaism:

He was not sure if it was allowed, but sometimes he longed, even more than for the Eternal One, for submersion in the mikve, the stone niche deep in the earth, where the living water would cleanse his soul.

But Pontus will always be Pontus: a ‘bridge’ hovering over the water, connecting two shores. You start with the Baptist, you end up with a Pontifex – that is what history does.

The longing to start a new life is mirrored in a more fear-filled conversation with one of the refugees:
‘Where are you from? Is there someone we can inform that you are here? Wife, children, family? Someone will want to know where you are?’
‘No family.’
‘And where are you from?’
‘The hedge… The hedge of terrors.’
‘What is that?’
‘The poacher says…he says we should cross it, in order to be at home.’

Near the end of the book, we discover that the refugees have been deceived. The people who took their money to get them across the border did not want to run any risks. The border crossing that the refugees remember was artificial, fake: in reality, there was no border. They are in their own country after all, even if they cannot prove it. However, that does not matter – there are also Chinese immigrants, and as long as they are harmless, no one investigates too closely.

Likewise Pontus does not know which country is his home: the Promised Land, or the lands of the goyim. He is invited to cleanse himself in the mikve, but hesitates and refuses. He finds consolation in participating in Jewish rituals with the rabbi in the other town, without choosing on which side of the boundary he wants to live. The rabbi does not have that liberty: he is clearly a Jew living in a foreign land, but he is alone, old and tired, he does not have prayer services and does not observe all the commandments.

In the final chapter, Little Moses, Pontus takes a young boy, one of the refugees, to the border of his own country. The border is heavily guarded from the other side. The other side offers a better life, so obviously the government there has an interest in limiting the influx of migrants. It would be very unlikely that the boy could cross that border, given the technology they have to hunt down trespassers.
Pontus offers the boy to become his adoptive father, to give him a chance of acquiring an Israeli passport, permission to enter the Promised Land.
Pontus, who is perhaps a Jew, will perhaps become the legal father of someone who will perhaps have better opportunities after crossing the borders of the Promised Land. Within those boundaries is life, outside of the boundaries is struggle.
The boy gazes into the distance. What he thinks or what he chooses, we do not know.

In my first weekday Mass, rather than repeating the long Eucharistic Prayer and upsetting the congregation, I distributed the hosts from the ciborium that had escaped my attention, and proclaimed them to be the “Body of Christ”. After Mass, I went to the tabernacle as secretly as possible and whispered the words of the consecration of the bread once again, under my breath. Consecrated hosts and unconsecrated hosts should always be kept clearly apart.
Sometime after that experience, I talked to a young colleague who asked with some surprise, ‘Did you not form an intention before your ordination either to consecrate only the bread and wine on the corporal, or all the bread and wine on the altar?’
I never did.

Space for the Imperfect

I do not read Italian easily. When I read Fratelli tutti, I read it in English. Some time afterwards, I was invited to give a talk about it for a Dutch group. To my surprise, in almost every memorable phrase I wanted to quote, I found the Dutch translation lacking. This surprised me, as it had been produced by the Flemish, who tend to combine accuracy with readability.

(For some reason, the Netherlands insist on producing their own Dutch translations in addition to the Flemish ones; these are usually well-intentioned but overly literal and rather clunky as a result.)

Some examples of nuances that got lost in the Flemish translation:

Sapore

(1) il gusto e il sapore della realtà (FT 33) has been translated as de smaak en geur van de realiteit (the taste and smell of reality). English: “the taste and flavour of the truly real”. Flavour is more than smell. As far as I know, gusto and sapore both mean “taste”, but gusto is the taste you have for something (appetite), whereas sapore is the taste something has of itself.

In the first paragraph Pope Francis refers to il sapore del Vangelo “the flavour of the Gospel”. His choice of words connects the Gospel and reality, in the sense that both have a “taste” that can be appreciated. This fits squarely into the Ignatian spiritual tradition.

Also, the use of sapore makes it possible to point out that sapiens, the Latin word for “wise”, literally means “tasting”. Wise discernment, then, is only possible when one knows the flavour of the Gospel and of reality. And flavour is more than smell, because it is connected to nourishment, to that which feeds us, becomes part of us and gives us life.

(The Kantian adage Sapere aude! “Dare to know!” could also be translated as “Dare to taste!” Although this maxim might not be universally approved of, certainly not by Kant.)

Per questo

(2) About the Samaritan in the parable, Pope Francis writes: La dedizione al servizio era la grande soddisfazione davanti al suo Dio e alla sua vita, e per questo un dovere. (FT 79)

This has been translated: Zijn poging om iemand anders te helpen, gaf hem grote voldoening in het leven en tegenover zijn God, en betekende voor hem gewoon zijn plicht doen. (His attempt to help someone else gave him great satisfaction in life and before his God, and meant for him simply doing his duty.)

English: “His effort to assist another person gave him great satisfaction in life and before his God, and thus became a duty.”

In this case, I think both translations fall short. They refer to an isolated incident, an “attempt” or “effort”, whereas the original speaks of dedizione al servizio (dedication to service) as a character trait. But later in the sentence, the English gets something right which the Dutch doesn’t, because the Dutch simply juxtaposes “satisfaction” and “duty”. In both the Italian and the English, it is quite clear that duty is causally subordinate to satisfaction: service gave the Samaritan great satisfaction, and per questo “thus” it was a duty.

This, too, is part of Ignatian spirituality: your heart’s joy indicates your appointed path.

Nessuno si salva

(3) Repetition is a form of emphasis. There is a phrase that occurs three times: nessuno si salva “no one is saved”. Obviously this verb, while it could refer to any threat, has a strong theological connotation: being saved from sin to live in nearness to God.

These are the three times it is used in Fratelli tutti:

- ci siamo ricordati che nessuno si salva da solo, che ci si può salvare unicamente insieme (FT 32). English: “Once more we realized that no one is saved alone; we can only be saved together.”

- hanno capito che nessuno si salva da solo (FT 54). English: “They [viz. the people who provided essential services during the pandemic] understood that no one is saved alone.”

And then the clincher:

- Abbiamo bisogno di far crescere la consapevolezza che oggi o ci salviamo tutti o nessuno si salva (FT 137). English: “We need to develop the awareness that nowadays we are either all saved together or no one is saved.”

A bold statement that could give any traditional systematic theologian an outbreak of rashes. I don’t know if they were on the Flemish translation committee, but this translation certainly neutralizes the impact:

We moeten het bewustzijn ontwikkelen dat we de problemen van onze tijd alleen samen of helemaal niet zullen oplossen (We need to develop the awareness that we will solve the problems of our time either together or not at all).

Come on – “solving” is not “saving”, let alone “being saved”! I suppose the Flemish decided on a more optimistic translation of ci salviamo, “we are saved” which can also be translated “we save ourselves”. But still!

(Side note: it is interesting that the statement “no one is saved alone” is always prefaced by a verb of mental activity: ci siamo ricordati “we remembered”, hanno capito “they understood”, far crescere la consapevolezza “make the awareness grow”.)

Focolare

(4) When discussing the importance of the State as a safeguard of tranquil family life, un caldo focolare domestico (“a warm domestic hearth”, FT 164) has been translated: een huis (a house). No comment.

A tense situation

These were sentences I wanted to quote to my Dutch audience, and at every turn I had to correct the translation. I knew something was off because I remembered it was different in the English translation. But while I was referring back to the Italian original, I noticed something else, a revolutionary point that has been erased in both the English and the Dutch translations.

You see, Pope Francis makes an unprecedented move in the last chapter on interreligious dialogue. He omits any reference to the Christian religion as the ultimate revelation which everyone is called to adhere to. But he does not minimize his own commitment to faith in Jesus Christ. In fact he says – and here I will quote the official English translation first:

“We Christians are very much aware that “if the music of the Gospel ceases to resonate in our very being, we will lose the joy born of compassion, the tender love born of trust, the capacity for reconciliation that has its source in our knowledge that we have been forgiven and sent forth. If the music of the Gospel ceases to sound in our homes, our public squares, our workplaces, our political and financial life, then we will no longer hear the strains that challenge us to defend the dignity of every man and woman”. Others drink from other sources.”

When I first read it, I thought the Pope went pretty far already with the concluding sentence, dropping this fact of life on his readers so casually and without any hint of regret or concern. Then I read the preceding quote in Italian, and my appreciation deepened.

Se la musica del Vangelo smette di suonare nelle nostre case, nelle nostre piazze, nei luoghi di lavoro, nella politica e nell’economia, avremo spento la melodia che ci provocava a lottare per la dignità di ogni uomo e donna.

Two letters made all the difference.

The English translation speaks of “the strains that challenge us”. This is the present tense, which may be used to indicate a general and abstract truth. Beavers build dams. Lampposts increase visibility and safety. The Gospel challenges us to fight for dignity. The present tense gently encourages us to include generally everyone in ‘us’, just as Red Bull’s slogan “It gives you wings” is not aimed at a specific ‘you’. And so, “The Gospel challenges us” becomes a statement about the Gospel, not about us.

(The Dutch translation suffers from the same problem: de melodie die ons oproept te vechten “the melody that summons us to fight” – also present tense.)

But this is different in the Italian. The tense is imperfect: not provoca, but provocava. The imperfect tense describes things that went on for a while, or habitually. The melody of the Gospel provoked us, or rather kept on provoking us to fight for dignity.

The imperfect tense gives the reader space to compare his own experience with the experience described. Perhaps he feels an allegiance to the Gospel, but does not remember it challenging him to fight for someone else’s dignity; in that case, perhaps it is not too late to make the experience his own. Perhaps the Gospel does not form part of his life story; in that case, he will have heard not a religious advertisement, but the sediment of an old man’s personal experiences and encounters. Which does not call for affirmation or rejection, but only asks to be taken seriously.

So much is lost when we do not give space to the imperfect.

(As I write this, I notice another discrepancy. If the music of the Gospel ceases to sound, then what? According to the English translation, we will no longer hear the strains that challenge us. This is a simple future tense: we will (not) hear. But the Italian uses a more complex tense, the futuro anteriore, a tense that takes a future vantage point in order to look back: avremo spento, “we will have turned off”.

If the melody of the Gospel ceases to sound, we will have turned it off.)