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The Word and the Cross
The Word and the Cross by Stanislas Breton Fordham Univ. Press, 2002 165 pp.; $20, paper |
Not only is Stanislas Breton's The Word and the Cross about a fundamental contradiction that lies at the heart of the gospel, but Breton himself seems a kind of contradiction, at least when juxtaposed with the usual American image of "le philosophe français." Born in 1912 and orphaned as a child, Breton was educated in the Thomistic tradition as a novice in the Passionist order. During World War II he found himself in a German prison camp with three beloved texts: Bochenski's Elements of Mathematical Logic, Brunschwig's Modality of Judgment, and Hamelin's The Principle Elements of Representation—hardly the sort of stuff American philosophers associate with contemporary "French philosophy." Although Breton moved away from a strict Thomism—becoming influenced by phenomenology, Neoplatonism, and Marxism—even his later philosophy bears a Thomistic influence and a continuing concern with logical relations, such as the "being-in" and "being-towards" of the persons of the Trinity. As he so charmingly puts it (in an interview appended to the text), such prepositions and conjunctions are "little servants of the Lord." Much of the fascinating history of Breton's intellectual development can be found in that appendix and the fine introduction by the translator, Jacquelyn Porter, to whom we can be grateful for a beautiful, flowing translation.
Of course, there is another at least seeming contradiction here. With the notable exception of Paul Ricœur and (more recently) Emmanuel Levinas, phenomenology has never been particularly associated with religious reflection. Not that phenomenology ever ruled that out in principle (as Husserl's assistant Edith Stein made clear). But, at least in France, phenomenology was more associated with the atheism of, say, Jean-Paul Sartre. All that has significantly changed in the past few decades. As Dominique Janicaud points out in his "report" on the state of French philosophy from 1975 to 1990, phenomenology in France has become almost dominated by religious and ethical concerns.1 Although many Americans are now acquainted with the likes of Levinas and perhaps Jean-Luc Marion, they are only just discovering thinkers such as Breton, Jean-Louis Chrétien, Jean-François Courtine, Jean Greisch, and Michel Henry. Needless to say, these are exciting times for Christians working in the Continental tradition.
As to the contradiction in Breton's text, it centers on the juxtaposition of logos, moria, dunamis—word, folly, power. In 1 Cor. 1:18, Paul writes, "For the word of the cross is folly to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved it is the power of God." How can the phrase "ho logos gar ho staurou" ["For the logos of the Cross"] make sense? After all, the Greek notion of logos is all about order and rational explanation. In contrast, to the Greek mind the Cross was perhaps the ultimate symbol of the irrational, not to mention the immoral. If Aristotle is right that being virtuous is synonymous with acting rationally, then the crucified seems not merely an outlaw but insane. There is good reason, then, for Paul to describe this logos staurou as folly. It can't make sense to the Greek mind—at least to that which is perishing.
Yet the problem goes even further. Breton connects this verse with what Paul goes on to say (in verse 22) regarding the Jews, who seek signs, and the Greeks, who seek wisdom. The logic of the Cross transcends both Jerusalem and Athens, both the demand of a sign and the demand of giving reasons. Says Breton: "We have left the home of Israel just as we have left the home of Greece. We feel homesick for both." Leaving those homes, though, is not the same as forgetting them. Indeed, for us in the 21st century, being in the world but not of it means that our present state of mind is framed by demands for empirical evidence (signs) and plausible reasons (rationality). But, thinks Breton, the Cross simply doesn't give us either.
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