Here is a guest post summarizing CW’s greatest work of Theology: THE DESCENT OF THE DOVE. This overview and analysis is written by the Rev. Dr. John Mabry, who is the owner and editor-in-chief of the Apocryphile Press, which specializes in Inklings studies, spirituality, and many other subjects. He has directed the interfaith spiritual direction program at the Chaplaincy Institute since 2003 and has taught world religions, comparative theology, and spiritual guidance at a variety of Bay Area universities. He holds a PhD in Philosophy and Religion, with special concentrations in Hinduism and Taoism. He served as pastor of Grace North Church in Berkeley for 27 years and is now a retired United Church of Christ minister. He is the author of more than forty books, ranging from theology and spirituality to science fiction and fantasy. His current projects include a daily devotional from Taoist sources and a collection of letters by Charles Williams. He currently lives in Upstate New York with his wife and three dogs. Find out more at johnrmabry.com.
Descent of the Dove
The opening paragraph of The Descent of the Dove is a masterpiece of opacity:
“The beginning of Christendom is, strictly, at a point out of time. A metaphysical trigonometry finds it among the spiritual Secrets, at the meeting of two heavenward lines, one drawn from Bethany along the Ascent of Messias, the other from Jerusalem against the Descent of the Paraclete. That measurement, the measurement of eternity in operation, of the bright cloud and the rushing wind, is, in effect, theology.”
This is an inauspicious start, surely. It is enough to put off casual readers and to make even fans of the novels hesitant to proceed. But fear not! What follows this shibbolethic inaugural is blessedly easier reading: a rollicking history of Christianity so novel in its presentation that it is almost like hearing the story for the first time. (This ability is one of Williams’ great gifts and one that he shares with C.S. Lewis.)
But before we dive into the text itself, let’s talk about that subtitle: A Short History of the Holy Spirit in the Church. Although I have no evidence to support this, I’m guessing this is not CW’s original subtitle—it smacks of a desperate book editor muttering, “How can we possibly sell this weird book?”
I say this because, if one expects the book to be about the subtitle, the whole book will seem off-kilter. Although it’s not as catchy, a more accurate subtitle would be A History of Co-inherence in the Church, the Agent of Which is the Holy Spirit. Oh, how he must have sent readers unfamiliar with his quirks scrambling for their dictionaries—“what the hell is co-inherence?”—and proceeding to take them on a very curious tour indeed.
Sørina has written elsewhere that one of CW’s most endearing traits is acting like his unique ideas are obvious, commonly accepted orthodoxy. The Descent of the Dove can be seen as a book-length attempt at showing just how centered the Christian church is and always has been in the doctrine of co-inherence.
Other fave CW themes abound as well. On pages 15–16, he writes: “In the first century…the first division between the Church and what has been called the Kingdom began to exist. The Kingdom—or, apocalyptically, the City—is the state into which Christendom is called; but, except in vision, she is not yet the City. The City is the state which the Church is to become.” This is classic CW theology, and it is thrilling to see him apply the ideas and themes he had been developing since The Chapel of the Thorn (1912) to a retrospective of Christian history.
It is true that it is a short history (236 pages in the Eerdman’s edition), so what CW includes is as fascinating as what he omits. It is, to say the least, an eccentric history of the church. Readers familiar with CW will not be surprised that he gives ample ink to Dante (with 49 mentions) but none to John Bunyan or William Blake and only one nod to John Donne. Likewise, Julian of Norwich receives fourteen mentions, but Meister Eckhart not a single one.
Perhaps this is because Julian is the medieval mystic most devoted to the Affirmative Way (although I would argue that Mechthild of Magdeburg could give her a run for her money), and CW saw himself as a contemporary prophet of that Way. Meister Eckhart, on the other hand, is without equal as the mystic of the Negative Way (at least in the West).
Williams does discuss St. John of the Cross, however, also a mystic of the Negative Way. After detailing his sufferings and deprivations, CW adds: “And even he, towards the end, was encouraged to remember that he liked asparagus; our Lord the Spirit is reluctant to allow either of the two great Ways to flourish without some courtesy to the other” (181).
Such humor abounds. Another example is CW’s discussion of the role of healthy skepticism in Christian life, how a balance between belief and unbelief is necessary for perspective and spiritual humility: “Such a method has the same dangers as any other; that is, it is quite sound when a master uses it, cheapens as it becomes popular, and is unendurable when it is merely fashionable. So Augustine’s predestination was safe with him, comprehensible in Calvin, tiresome in the English Puritans, and quite horrible in the Scottish presbyteries” (191).
More objective writers can omit themselves from their projects (or at least seem invisible), but those acquainted with CW’s neuroses will find ample evidence of them here. When CW goes out of his way to defend Origen’s orthodoxy, methinks he “doth protest too much.” I couldn’t help but think there might be some projection going on regarding CW’s own desire to be seen as orthodox.
This use of church history as a tool for self-justification is most glaring when CW discusses the third-century practice of unmarried Christian men and women sleeping together, but not having sexual intercourse. The two long paragraphs he devotes to these virgines subintroductae (on p. 13) is the first truly WTF moment for any reader not already familiar with CW’s … er, habits. CW calls the practice an early “attempt, encouraged by the Apostles, to ‘sublimate’” one’s sexual energies toward more “spiritual” ends. CW quotes St. Cyprian to support this claim as well as the testimony of two church councils. Whether or not the practice was exactly as CW describes it is far from clear, and I suspect he might be using an accident of history to rationalize his own magical workings (not to mention his own peccadillos).
Such ickiness aside, there are many joyous surprises to be found among these pages. I was delighted by his argument that Martin Luther and Ignatius of Loyola were, essentially, brothers-from-different-mothers (pps 171–2). My wife (moral theologian Lisa Fullam) has been saying the same for years, so it was fun to see that CW was of like mind in noting the unlikely kinship of these contemporaries who were on separate sides of the Reformation.
Critics might point out just how limited this book is, as far as presenting a comprehensive history of the Christian faith. They would not be wrong: CW omits much more than he includes. His choices for inclusion are often puzzling. He inserts a great deal of himself into the text. The history is relentlessly Eurocentric. But such criticism would be missing the point. This is less a standalone volume than it is an extended footnote to everything Williams has written so far (and everything he would write), pointing out how his ideas are not alien to the Christian faith, but essential to it. You may or may not be convinced, but it is an honest (and intriguing) effort.
The postscript alone is worth the price of admission. In a mere three pages, Williams provides the clearest, most concise, and most profound articulation of co-inherence in all of his body of work. The book begins in obscurity and befuddlement; it ends with clarity and epiphany.
For myself, when I look at Da Vinci’s famous painting of the Last Supper, I see a bunny. Just to Jesus’ left, St. Andrew looks like he’s reaching to squeeze St. John’s breast. His fingers are the ears, while John’s luscious brown locks form the head. Now that I’ve seen the bunny, I can’t unsee him. Others may see him, or they may not. But one has to wonder: did the artist intend the bunny? Is it so perverse to hope so? Seeing co-inherence in the history of the church is much the same. Having read the Descent of the Dove, you won’t be able to unsee it.
The Oddest Inkling 
