The Christian Shadow: Concluding Thoughts

Today this series on the intersections of Christianity and the Jungian idea of the shadow comes to an end. It’s been a bit disorganized and all over the place, but I do hope it’s been interesting and beneficial. The main idea is simply this: that the stories we tell, including and especially our religious stories, matter. They shape how we perceive the world, and how we engage with the world, in untold ways, both positive and negative. And this works on both a collective and personal level. On the collective level, the Christian story has inspired societies to found themselves on principles of equality and justice for all, to establish human rights, and to learn more about the world we believe God created; yet it has also been distorted, time and time again, to justify nations’ imperial ambitions, the displacement of Indigenous peoples, environmental degradation, patriarchy, and the slave trade. Likewise, on a personal level, Christianity should transform us ever more in to the likeness of Christ — strong and secure in our individuality and vocation, loving, gracious, and merciful — and yet it often seems to have the opposite effect, leading to a loss of self, to harshness and judgementalism.

What’s going on here? As Jungians would say, the brighter the light, the darker the shadow it casts. We need to be on our guard for this and constantly test our tellings and applications of our stories against the grand story of our faith. But what does this look like in practice?

Today I’d like to offer two main things I think are helpful in ensuring that our stories and lives bear the good fruit in the world that our Lord wants from us — and which is the whole point of the life of faith: 1. Ensuring we are telling a representatively diverse version of the Christian story; 2. Making use of the whole array of traditional practices to read our stories and ourselves against each other to ensure they bear good fruit.

Diverse & Representative Images

A constant refrain here over the years has been the need for us to ensure we use many, varied, and representative images and metaphors for God, sin and salvation — just as the Scriptures themselves do. Again: if our dominant image for sin is of committing a crime, we see ourselves primarily as criminals. But while the Scriptures definitely talk about sin in this way, they also speak of it, just as if not more often, in far different terms: being enslaved, ill, hungry, barren, or alienated, or, most often at all, simply missing the mark. Each of these images has something to contribute to our understanding of sin and its remedy. If we only use one of these images, we’re likely to come away with a distorted idea of both sin and ourselves. The same works for our images of God. As Wilkie Au and Noreen Cannon Au perfectly describe it in their wonderful book The Discerning Heart:

[W]hen our dominant image of God is that of a merciless tyrant, our corresponding response of obedience can only be servile. When our dominant image is that of resident policeman, then our response can only be fearful. When it is that of a judge, then our obedience can only be guilt-ridden. And when it is that of a demanding parent, obedience tends to be infantile or childish.

Again, all of these images are present in the Scriptures. But they are far from comprehensive. Even looking at the Old Testament, God is also portrayed as a walking companion, a house guest, as a wrestling partner, as a violent whirlwind, the sound of silence, a potter, a laundress, a hen, a mother-bear, and a human mother. In the teaching of Jesus, God is primarily a loving father, but also a good boss, a farmer, and a shepherd doing everything possible to rescue a single lost sheep. This is important because, as the Parable of the Talents reminds us, as a general rule, we experience the God we imagine.

As I wrote about all this a few years ago:

[I]t’s helpful for all of us to look at all of our most cherished symbols and images and ask ourselves if they are too narrow or limited, if they have become idols for us, if we are willing to unsay them. If we speak of God as our King, can we also speak of God as a Beggar? If we speak of God as being a Lover, can we also speak of God as a Warrior? If we speak of God as a Judge, can we also speak of God as a Defense Attorney? And, yes, if we speak of God as our Father, can we also speak of God as our Mother?

If the answer is ‘no’, then we don’t have the God of the Scriptures in mind, but an idol of our own making, and it’s time to go back to the drawing board and relearn what we think we already know about God.

Reading the Texts against Each Other

Sometimes, in a given situation, our images of God or sin, or particular pieces of the grand narrative of Scripture, may seem to be to conflict with each other rather than complement each other. After all, there are verses that exclude Gentiles from the community of faith and verses that welcome them, verses that reject eunuchs and verses that accept them, verses that centre the Law and verses that marginalize it, verses that treat women as full equals to men and verses that perpetuate patriarchy. This is to say nothing of those stories which can be read in different ways to very different effect.

What are we to do with situations like this? We have to read the stories against each other and try to come to either a consensus between them, or if this is not possible, discern which is the most appropriate story to apply to a given situation. The critical problem with this is that we then need to have criteria on which to judge them. In this, tradition and community are certainly wonderful helpers — we are never alone in the life of faith — but for me, the great question is “which story bears the better fruit?” In other words, which is the bigger, bolder story that does the most good in the world? I don’t choose this question just because I like it, but because it was the heart of John the Baptist’s message, the heart of Jesus’ message, and the heart of Paul’s message. We also see it in action throughout the Acts of the Apostles. So as a Christian, I feel on very firm ground to use this as my measure for discernment. (And if we choose the tell the smaller story, for example one that limits the roles of women or gives preferential treatment to the wealthy, or which focuses on excluding rather than welcoming, we really need to ask ourselves on what grounds we are preferring these stories over the bigger story that is also present in our Bibles!)

This is in a sense the same approach our sacred practices take to our own hearts and lives. In examination of conscience and confession we ask ourselves where we’ve missed the mark and where God might want more for and from us. In journaling we tell our own story and in the process see the extent to which it’s true and the extent to which it’s just a ‘shitty first draft.’ In practices of lectio divina or Gospel contemplation we look beyond the bare text and ask what else God might be trying to tell us.

The brighter the light, the greater the shadow it casts. Siblings in Christ, these are dark times, and far far too many people who claim to follow Christ are preferring the darkness of shadow to the light of the Gospel. This is not just a temptation for “them”, that mysterious ‘other’ against whom we always measure ourselves — it’s a temptation for all of us. And so it’s imperative for us to be intentional about it, to shine the light of Christ into the darkest, shadowiest parts of our hearts so we can bring our whole selves to God and into the world.

The good news about all this is that that’s precisely the spirit behind the season of Lent, which starts just next week.

And so, with fear and trembling, but also with love, hope, and all confidence in God’s goodness and grace, may we all embrace this season of reflection, challenge, and service to do just that.