How to account for Christianity’s success without belief in the Resurrection

This Easter, I spent more time than usual thinking about its meaning. If only because of the restrictions on social life, I suspect that I was not alone. Parsifal was a good place to start. Profoundly moved by Good Friday, Christ’s sacrifice, His suffering, His love, did Wagner surrender to the Cross? Nietzsche thought so, and moved from discipleship to condemnation. He accused Wagner of perfidy, self-abasement: a repudiation of all the artistic values which he had once so magnificently upheld. One might have thought that Nietzsche’s response would have led Christians to overlook the theological ambiguities in Parsifal – it is hardly an orthodox work – and welcome the new devotee. “Joy shall be in heaven over one sinner that repenteth”. Christ compares this to the shepherd’s delight in recovering a lost sheep. But one can understand why a lot of Christians wanted to see the colour of Wagner’s repentance before they lowered their guard.  Of all the beasts in the animal kingdom, the sheep is surely the least Wagnerian.

Some missionaries once arrived at the court of a savage ruler far into the jungle. Given his reputation, they feared martyrdom. But when they expounded the Gospel, he listened attentively. They went to sleep believing that they had made a convert. In the morning, they were awakened by cries of pain, and soon realised why. Their host had adopted crucifixion as his new method of inflicting capital punishment. Many of the faithful might wonder what strange message Wagner would learn from Christianity.

Despite all the faults in a complex personality, this is a shallow assessment which focuses on the flaws and ignores the grandeur. The deep calls unto the deep. Psycho-spiritually, it is not too far from the God-haunted woods of the Ring to Parsifal and the Grail: from Siegfried and Wotan to Christ and Jehovah. For a Christian, Easter and Christmas are the two still points in the turning world; the two moments in which history is remade, in which grace triumphs over sin. The journey to Calvary is the route to Heaven. Wagner’s genius was in the consecration of music and drama. This required great themes. It is hardly surprising that he was drawn to Good Friday. He would have understood Eliot’s approach in East Coker, wrestling with anguish, until: “In spite of that, we call this Friday Good”.

To appreciate all this, it is not necessary to be a Christian (this writer is deeply religious, but cannot believe). If God did not create man, then man created God. God sent His only begotten Son to save His creation. Man has poured all his aesthetic and cultural energies into worshipping his creation. Leaving Wagner on one side, most of us would agree that there is no greater music than the St Matthew Passion and the B Minor Mass. Handel said that when he was composing the Hallelujah Chorus: “I did think I saw Heaven open and saw the very face of God.” Did Bach feel something similar about “Et resurrexit tertia die” In the B Minor? Easter has inspired composers even more than Christmas has. Douglas Murray has a useful list in a recent article for Unherd.

The inspiration has been shared by artists. Easter is at the heart of Western iconography. Grunewald’s Crucifixion, Tintoretto’s Crucifixion in the Scuola di San Rocco, Piero’s Resurrection – his finest work – Mantegna, Donatello, Antonello da Messina, Zurbaran’s Crucifixion, also his finest work: the list is endless. Oh, when will we be able to revisit them?

But these works are more than artistic exercises. There is a depth of piety, a strong sense of Ad Maiorem Dei Gloriam. One feels that the artists believed. Were they right? What did happen at Easter? 

There is certainly something that demands an interpretation. In the days before Golgotha – a place-name worthy of Tolkien’s Mordor – we can assume that Jerusalem was in a state of tension and turbulence. Although Christ insisted that His Kingdom was not of this world, many of his followers did not believe him. They hoped that this charismatic leader would overthrow the Romans and their Jewish lackeys. They were excited; the Romans were alarmed. The portrait of Pilate in the Gospels is wholly unconvincing; an obvious attempt by the early Christians to suck up to Rome and put all the blame on the Jewish authorities. The real Pilate was a tough governor, not an indecisive wimp. 

Back to the followers. They had hoped to join in a miracle. The day ended with a hideous death. It is hard to believe that there was not widespread demoralisation. Christ’s movement must have seemed to be disintegrating, with a loss of nerve all round. Peter would not have been the only man in Jerusalem who was tearing out pages from his address book. Christianity appeared to have died on the Cross. 

That did not happen. Christians can explain why: the Resurrection. I am impressed by the ease with which some Christian friends adopt an à la carte approach to their faith. It seems to me that if you do not believe in the literal truth of the Resurrection, you are not a Christian. But that is not the end of the matter. Those who do not believe in the Resurrection have some explaining to do. How do they account for Christianity’s success? How did it recover its momentum? How did it transform the Cross from an instrument of torture to a symbol of love? How on earth or in Heaven did it achieve the transfiguration in which that Friday became Good?