Sophia. The Hidden Christ of Thomas Merton, by Christopher Pramuk. Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 2009. Pp. xxxii + 322. 9 b/w illustrations. ISBN 978-0-814-5390-6. Hbk. $29.95.
In the past I have read a good deal of Thomas Merton, but never really thought of him as a theologian. His life and voluminous writings—many autobiographical, not to mention the diaries, and compelling works, the later ones I seized upon as they came out in the 60s—trace an itinerary from a young convert to Catholicism, all too at home in the rather hot-house atmosphere of pre-Vatican II Catholicism (delighting in the gold edging and coloured ribbons of his new breviary), but quickly opening out: embracing the social concerns of the 60s, while remaining rooted in the contemplative prayer central to his life as a Trappist monk, and with serious ecumenical concerns, primarily with the contemplative traditions of the East—Buddhist, Taoist.
Throughout all his changes, he remained constantly popular (though also regarded by some with deep suspicion); it seemed that, right up to the moment of his death, he anticipated the changes—not too much, by just a little—Catholicism went through in the 50s and 60s. His death was sudden: electrocuted in a faulty shower in Bangkok on a trip to meet fellow contemplatives of the East, not least the Dalai Lama. His works, though mostly to be classified as ‘devotional’, were always intellectually serious and indeed challenging; they were marked by real learning, borne lightly.
Christopher Pramuk’s wonderful book, however, reveals Thomas Merton to be a real theologian. I suppose I should not be surprised: Evagrios’ much-quoted ‘A theologian is one who prays; one who prays will be a theologian’ should have led me to expect it. That saying, however, often suggests that theology should be radically reconsidered, in such a way that ‘professional’ theologians often are at a loss to make of what emerges, and sense a lack of rigour, a lack of intellectual seriousness.
Pramuk’s book falls into two parts: the former methodological, the latter directly concerned with the place of Sophia in Merton’s theology. The first part is concerned with what skills, sensitivities a theologian needs to develop. What is outlined is what has been called a ‘sapiential’ approach (by, for example, Yves Congar, not mentioned in this book; Congar, too, was interested in the Russians, and indeed could read Russian): an approach sensitive to symbolism, the kind of awareness that is fostered by contemplative prayer, a sacramental approach, linking the contemplative with the materiality and structures of the world.
The main figures pointed to by Pramuk as influences include Newman, Heschel, and David Tracy: Tracy’s term, ‘analogical imagination’, recurs throughout the book. The second part explores more directly Merton’s understanding of Sophia, in three chapters, of which the middle one is focused on his poem of 1962, ‘Hagia Sophia’ (which is printed in an appendix).
The picture that emerges is familiar to anyone who knows Bulgakov: Sophia opens up a cosmic dimension, focuses on a togetherness, or ‘in-betweenness’ (τὸ μεταξύ), explored and fashioned in prayer (and, with Bulgakov, the Liturgy), also, too, an eschatological dimension, as well as a sense of the place of the feminine (more evident in Merton, perhaps, than in Bulgakov) and the role of the Mother of God. Running throughout the book there are illustrations drawn from a series of paintings (in what looks like brush and ink), made by Merton, of a contemplative feminine face, evoking Sophia, the Virgin, maybe a particular feminine face.
Pramuk’s explores this aspect of Merton’s thought, which he suggests is the very heart of his thought, with great verve: it is a wonderfully exciting read. If I have any reservations, they amount to two: first of all, Pramuk quotes quite rarely from Bulgakov; as a rule, he refers to secondary literature, especially Paul Valliere’s Modern Russian Theology. I sensed a number of wrong notes, and wondered how accurate Pramuk’s picture of Bulgakov really was. In general terms, Pramuk has made excellent use of the secondary literature (especially Evtuhov’s book), but there were places that left me wondering—and wondering why there was so little recourse of Bulgakov himself. Related to this was a query in my mind about how Merton himself knew Bulgakov. In Merton’s lifetime, although very little was available in English, most of Bulgakov’s œuvre was already available in French (at one point, Pramuk says that Merton read Bulgakov’s The Wisdom of God in ‘the original French’: the French version was translated by Constantine Andronikoff and appeared about the same time as the English translation, 1937; the Russian original much later), but it is not clear how much of this Merton had availed himself of. It seems to me perfectly possible from what Pramuk reveals that this late, and apologetic, book on Sophia was Merton’s sole, or main, source for his knowledge of Bulgakov, and that the extensive parallels with Bulgakov are evidence more of some kind of elective affinity between Merton and Bulgakov than of Merton’s dependence on Bulgakov.
These are, however, small points. What is most important is the revelation of Thomas Merton as a major Sophianic theologian. For the exploration of this, and the revelation of Merton’s powerful theological voice, we are deeply indebted to Christopher Pramuk.
ANDREW LOUTH
Comments