In a faltering effort to start a ‘meme’, I asked the following question: “when confronted with ‘the Poor’ of our day, how do you justify your own academic endeavours?”
I had only a few people take me up on this question — mostly in the comments section, although Patrik responded on his blog (http://shrinkinguni.blogspot.com/2008/06/meme-academy-and-poor.html). To be honest, I’m not that surprised that few theo or biblio bloggers picked up this meme. I reckon the lack of response is due, in part, to at least two things: (1) the fact that this is a difficult question to answer, and one that most academics prefer to avoid dwelling on in detail (or, perhaps, have never bothered to dwell on in detail); and (2) the fact that most memes operate as a means of self-branding, wherein we increase our own personal brand status by demonstrating our knowledge and diversity of reading or experience in various realms of life and culture. Consequently, memes about things like our favourite books, or movies, or twentieth century theologians, or whatever else, are (1) easy to write; and (2) increase our own brand-status by showing others the depth and (surprising!) diversity of our tastes.
If that’s not bad enough, these memes also operate well within a culture of consumption, and can be an effective means of advertising goods to other consumers. We read these memes and think, ‘I should go buy that book!’ or ‘I should go rent that movie!’ and so on and so forth. The same thing goes for other links we often provide on our blogs — things like amazon wish lists come to mind — a convenient ways of self-branding that also perpetuates cycles of consumption.
Hence, my usual hesitation to take part in these activities (my monthly reading lists being the notable exception). It’s true, taking part in memes is a good way to increase the traffic that your blog gets — it lets you tag others, who then tag you, resulting in new readers coming to your blog, and so on and so forth — but this is why I deliberately chose not to tag anybody in my previous post. Honestly, if we’re writing on our blogs simply in order to draw readers — if we’re writing simply because we desire an (ever increasing) audience — then I reckon we’re writing for the wrong reasons.
That said, I really should get around to responding to the question that I posed regarding the Academy and the Poor…

In the final chapter of Until Justice & Peace Embrace, Nicholas Wolterstorff argues that theory must be praxis-oriented (especially given our recognition of the injustices that are rampant within the world, and our recognition of our own responsibilities, and abilities, to effect change). The scholar, Wolterstorff argues, cannot claim a form of rationality that is detached from the struggle, for a “seesaw battle is taking place in history between the forces that advance and the forces that retard shalom” and neutrality is not an option. Hence, Wolterstorff asks: “Is it not the calling of scholars, and certainly of Christian scholars, to participate in that battle?”
Wolterstorff believes that it is indeed the calling of Christian scholars to participate in that struggle by making a commitment to justice as the governing interest of their theorizing. This is theorizing “in the service of the cause of struggling for justice.”
Further, following the insights of both Kuyper and Marx, Wolterstorff argues that one must learn to listen to those who are in very different geographical, social, and economic locations than our own, for socially produced malformations and ideologies will significantly influence one's own religious beliefs and moral convictions.
In all of this, Wolterstorff mirrors much that has been said by liberation theologians, and other political theologians (like Moltmann). And I am convinced by these arguments. I believe that, confronted as we are with the massive brokenness of the world, and the suffering of our neighbours, our academic endeavours must be shaped by certain commitments. We are not free to pursue every little rabbit-trail that we find captivating. Rather, our scholarship is to be part of our participation in the embodied proclamation of the Lordship of Jesus and ongoing his mission of forgiveness, liberation, and new creation. Further, I also believe that, to more fully understand this proclamation and its implications, we must move into the company of the poor, and listen to what they have to tell us.
This, then, is the question I would like to ask, as I attempt to start a meme: when confronted with 'the Poor' of our day, how do you justify your own academic endeavours? I invite any and all readers of this blog to respond to this question on their own blogs (or in the comments section) and to invite others to respond.
I have my own response to this question — my own way of understanding my academic endeavours in light of my commitment to the poor — but I would like to hear what others have to say, before I present my own thoughts.

And I am not frightened of dying, any time will do.
I don't mind.
Why should I be frightened of dying? There's no reason for it.
All of us have got to go sometime.
~ Pink Floyd, The Great Gig in the Sky
The other night, I watched The Orphanage by Guillermo del Toro. While I didn't enjoy this film nearly as much as Pan's Labyrinth, there was one similarity between the two movies which I found to be quite striking (but be warned, I'm talking about the endings of these movies, so if you intend to watch them, don't read what follows!).
I'm thinking of the way in which death is presented in these films. Death, although something feared by the protagonists of each film (and, by extension, feared by the viewers who become invested in the fate of these characters), is actually portrayed as the moment of triumph. Death is, to put it simply, the happy ending. Thus, in The Orphanage, Laura is finally united with her son, is united with her childhood friends and is granted her wish of caring for 'special children' — Laura is like Wendy returning to Neverland. Similarly, in Pan's Labyrinth, Ofelia overcomes her final test by laying down her life for her brother and returns, triumphantly, to the Underworld where she is a Princess.
Yet both of these films are not simple fairy tales, nor are they traditional 'feel-good' movies. There is a great deal of the horrible, the violent, and the grotesque in both. Yet these elements belong within the realm of the living. In these films the death the threatens, haunts, and hangs over us, ends up reversing all our fears and comes to us as victory, as joy, and as relief from the violence and horrors we experience in life.
This, I think, is part of the reason why del Toro's films have resonated with me. In a way, it captures something I was trying to express in an earlier post (cf. http://poserorprophet.livejournal.com/137015.html): death is a burden borne by the living, not by the dead.
There is something of a mix of irony, mystery, and awe in such an assertion. After all, according to Scripture, death is the great enemy (cf. 1 Cor 15.26; Rev 20.14; 21.4). Yet, at the same time, given Christ's triumph over death, death is utterly impotent — it fails to wound us, destroy us, or separate us from the Lord of Life and the world s/he created. Thus, with Paul we can now proclaim: “to live is Christ and to die is gain” (Phil 1.21).
Similarly, I can't help but wonder if the same is true of all other things that we fear and experience as insurmountably destructive. Perhaps, on the day that our Lord comes for us, these things will also be revealed as utterly impotent, and will pass away in the blink of an eye.

[This is just a brief sketch — a few incomplete thoughts — regarding something I've been thinking lately.]
(1) It seems to me that the comparatively recent philosophical and theological focus upon ontological issues, is, in part, a response to the collapse of prior metaphysical endeavours. This collapse has left a vacuum in the realm of 'meaning', and so I wonder if our ontological efforts are, in actuality, efforts to restore meaning to a world wherein everything appears to be meaningless, and wherein we no longer even know how to make sense.
(2) However, it also seems to me that any exploration of the question of meaning is inextricably linked to the experience of death. That is to say, it is the profound rupture of death the creates the crisis of meaning in the first place (recall Camus' challenge at the beginning of The Myth of Sisyphus). Hence, ontology becomes a part of our pursuit of meaning, because our current being is a being-unto-death.
(3) This is not to say that all being ceases with death, but it does impose death as a limit of our ontological endeavours. As soon as we begin to speak of that which lies within or beyond death, we are, in my opinion, moving outside of the realm of ontology and into the realm of eschatology.
(4) Indeed, death itself, rather than being understood as a factor in our ontological reasoning, is better understood as an historical experience — an event within time. Hence, even life lived-unto-death is better interpreted through historical categories, rather than through ontological categories.
(5) Of course, the biblical approach to history and time, is one that is thoroughly eschatological. Now, by 'eschatology' I mean something closer to a 'philosophy (or theology) of history' than to the traditional understanding of eschatology as 'last things.' Eschatology is a way of remembering the past (especially the life, death and resurrection of Jesus) and anticipating the future (especially the parousia of Christ) in order to live meaningfully in the present.
(6) Therefore, it is eschatology, and not ontology, that provides us with the proper framework for approaching the question of meaning today. Indeed, by making this assertion, I suspect that I am simply recovering a biblical way of thinking, for I believe that the ontological paradigm is a later (Greek and Latin) imposition upon biblical modes of thought.
(7) Further, I can't help but wonder if our ontological efforts actually contribute to the problem of meaninglessness that we are experiencing. For, it seems to me, our ontological efforts appear to be a part of our flight from history — from lived experienced — into the realm of timeless abstract truths. When truth is made abstract, then our concrete experiences become dissociated from meaning.
(8) Our post-marxist friends have often recognized this, and so they attempt to live life fully within the 'plane of imminence' upon the 'body without organs'. However, this, too, strikes me as a flight from history (understood as eschatology) for imminence is highlighted to such a degree that all teleology is abandoned. Hence, they are also incapable of overcoming the contemporary crisis of meaning. Rather, they (all too frequently) embrace meaninglessness (recall Deleuze's ultimate answer to the challenge Camus raised in The Myth of Sisyphus — he threw himself from his own apartment window).
(9) Thus, I simply reassert my point that, if we are to recover a sense of meaning today, the way forward lies within an eschatological paradigm. We must rediscover a biblical theology of history if we are to hope to live meaningfully.

Normally I try to avoid writing posts that just link to other things, but for some reason I found this — http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20080611/ap_on_fe_st/italy_unicorn — to be one of the most incredible things I've seen. I'm not sure why I find this to be so exciting… maybe it's because I spend most days longing for the impossible (you know, longing for people to overcome crack addictions, escape sexual exploitation, defeat mental illnessess, and longing for Christians to actually love their neighbours…) and a story like this one reminds me, hell, anything is possible.

As something of an afterthought, most closely related to Parts One and Three of this series, I thought I would make two further points about violence.
First of all, I wish to emphasise that the violence that we must resist most adamantly is precisely just violence. Other forms of violence — those forms that are oppressive or unjust — are already transparent. We can see that these forms of violence are abhorrent and should be resisted. However, this is not so clear for the violence that we call “just”. Consequently, it is precisely the violence that appears to be necessary, or justified, or moral, that must be resisted most strongly.
In this regard, a parable told by Winston Churchill (and repeated by Hardt and Negri in Multitude) may be an helpful illustration. Allow me to quote it in full:
Once upon a time all the animals in the zoo decided they would disarm and renounce violence. The rhinoceros proclaimed that the use of teeth was barbaric and ought to be prohibited but that the use of horns was mainly defensive and should be allowed. The stag and porcupine agreed. The tiger, however, spoke against horns and defeneded teeth and even claws as honorable and peaceful. Finally the bear spoke up against teeth, claws, and horns. The beer proposed instead that whenever animals disagreed all that was necessary was a good hug. Each animal, Churchill concludes, believes its own use of violence to be strictly an instrument of peace and justice.
And so, Hardt and Negri go on to argue:
Morality can only provide a solid basis to legitimate violence, authority, and domination when it refuses to admit different perspectives and judgments.
This, then, is most obviously illustrated in the discourse of just war against terror. Precisely whom is the terrorist? Is America the terrorist because of the violence and oppression it propogates around the world? In this case, is Al Qaeda justified in attacking American business interests, occupying forces, and even civilians? Or is the violence of America justified against Al Qaeda because it is they who are the terrorists? It all depends on who you ask — an American businessman may tell you one thing — a Muslim farmer, driven to poverty by external powers, may tell you another. Of course we could multiply examples (is Palestinian violence justified against the occupying forces of Israel? Is Israeli violence justified against the Palestinian population?) but I think the point is made.
So what is the point that is made? That any form of violence can be justified, depending on whose perspective is operative. Consequently, we must be skeptical of all justifications of violence, and must be especially wary of the forms of violence that appear to be justified from our own limited perspective(s). That which is said to justify violence is actually far more subjective than we may have first imagined, and so we must not risk imposing the death-dealing consequences of violence due to such a subjective decision (another reason why vengeance belongs to the Lord, as Paul says in Ro 12).
Indeed, I think that this observation can only lead us in one of two directions. Either we recognize all violence as just (i.e. America is justified in fighting a global war on “terror”, and Al Qaeda is justified in going to war against American business, and American occupying forces) or we renounce all violence. The result of going the first direction is an unending cycle of violence. Furthermore, given that we as Christians are called to be peacemakers, we cannot offer such a wide-open acceptance of violence. Consequently, we must choose the latter of these two options.
So much for my first point. On to the second.
When discussing violence, and our refusal thereof, it would be useful to first come up with an operative definition of “violence.” This is trickier than one first might imagine. For example, while violence has more traditionally been understood as using physical force against another person, more recent social theory has noted how the use of words, the imposition of limitations, and other things, can be a form of violence. Consequently, our understanding of violence has been expanded… but now it appears that the pendulum has swung too far in the opposite direction and anything can be described as violence.
The reason why this is so important is because it relates to our understanding of crafting creative alternatives to violence. For example, in Part 3 of this series, I argued that a good way to diffuse a violent situation is to physically place one's body between the violent person and the person being attacked (or between two violent people!). Some might argue that this itself is an act of violence — i.e. I am forcefully using my body as a shield between two people. Indeed, the use of restraints — from trying to hold a person back, to imprisoning a sociopathic killer — could also be described as a form of violence. So, for the moment, I still have no clear definition of what violence is, and I fear that I am drifting into a casuistic form of reasoning. This troubles me because it, too, is uncomfortably subjective (i.e. it is premised upon the belief that I can recognize what is, or is not, “violence” in any given situation).
So, I end with a question. How should we define “violence”?

So when you spread out your hands in prayer,
I will hide My eyes from you;
Yes, even though you multiply prayers,
I will not listen
Your hands are covered with blood.
Wash yourselves, make yourselves clean;
Remove the evil of your deeds from My sight
Cease to do evil,
Learn to do good;
Seek justice,
Reprove the ruthless,
Defend the orphan,
Plead for the widow.
~ Is 1.15-17
Do you really think the only way
to bring about the peace,
is to sacrifice your children
and kill all your enemies?
~ Larry Norman, The Great American Novel.
And [Jesus] went a little beyond them, and fell on His face and prayed, saying, “My Father, if it is possible, let this cup pass from Me; yet not as I will, but as You will.”
~ Mt 26.39.
I come, then, to the conclusion of my small series on loving our enemies. In my first post, I sought to counter the mythic discourse of 'protective violence' by removing that artificial distinction that this discourse creates between my enemy, the enemy of my loved ones and then enemy those who are vulnerable. Thus, I argued that those who are enemies of my loved ones, and of the vulnerable, are also my enemies. Consequently, given that this is the enemy whom we are called to love, I argued that the language of love prohibits us from engaging in any violence.
Then, in my second post, I continued to explore our understanding of the enemy, and argued that we are called to know our enemies as friends. Thus, the language of 'enemies' does not reflect our antagonism to these people; rather, that language signifies that, by treating us violently, by abusing us, by exploiting us, etc., these people view themselves as our enemies. Hence, I argued that we come to know our enemies as friends by praying for them, by actively loving them, and by expressing interest in their lives.
In this post, I intend to respond to a few questions that hang over this discussion. That is to say, in light of these things, how do we care for our loved ones, and for those who are vulnerable? Specifically, if loving our enemies as friends requires us to abandon the use of violence are we simply resigning ourselves to passively accepting whatever violence might be inflicted upon ourselves, our loved ones, and the vulnerable?
To be clear from the outset, I believe that Christians are called to seek out the vulnerable, to come alongside the marginalized, and to pursue the liberation of all those who are being put to death by the sociopolitical, economic, and other Powers who act in the service of Sin and Death. This I think is cleary stated throughout Scripture — it is found in the Deuteronomic Law, in the Prophets, in the Gospels, in the Epistles, and in the other OT and NT narratives. Thus, by eschewing the use of violence I am certainly not counselling any sort of passivity (indeed, I trust that those who know me will be able to testify that my life, and the trajectory which I am personally pursuing, is anything but passive when it comes to these things).
Consequently, I have four points I wish to make on how we go about pursuing the liberation, and well-being, of our loved ones, and of the vulnerable.
First, we seek the liberation and well-being of these people, by confronting the Powers and the systems that undergird, and justify, the actions of those who wish to harm or enslave our loved ones, and the vulnerable. In is not enough to assert that we would seek to defend our wives if a violent person broke into our home by doing x, y, and z; rather we must ask why we live in a society that sexualizes violence, and we must explore the systemic structures that produce statistics like these: 1 in 3 women in North America have been sexually assaulted; in North America a woman is raped every six minutes, and so on and so forth. To assert that one is dedicated to the defense of one's wife, while blindly ignoring the systemic sources and problems, is misguided at best (for it confuses symptoms with causes) and contradictory and irresponsible at worst. If we are genuinely commited to the liberation and well-being of our loved ones, and of the vulnerable, we must confront the Powers who ensure that more loved ones, and more vulnerable people, will be exploited, abused, and handed over to death, with each passing generation.
Second, when confronted with crisis situations — discovering an armed intruder in our home, witnessing a robbery on the street, or whatever — we must learn to act with a little more courage, and a little more creativity. Eschewing violence does not mean that we refuse to engage with these situations. Rather, we learn non-violent ways of de-escalating, delaying,and preventing, any violence that the other parties might intend. For example, the easiest way to prevent another person from being hurt in a fight, is to place yourself between the attacker, and the one being attacked. This is a physical action — you physically intervene and use your own body as a barrier — but it is not a violent action. Time after time, I have seen this method used effectively and I myself have used this method in many situations — from bare knuckle fights between drunks, to fights involving box cutters, knives, and brass knuckles, to one situation wherein I ended up standing between a gunman and the young man he had been hired to shoot. Granted, I have had my eyes blackened a few times (mostly from wild swings — it happens when you jump between two fellas who are intent on beating the shit out of each other), but I have consistently seen nonviolent means triumph in violent situations — and, dare I say, even in situations that appeared to be hopelessly violent. Consequently, I am consistently puzzled by those who automatically wish to appeal to force, to guns, or to other violent means, in order to intervene in these crisis situations. People, let's use a little imagination, have a little faith (i.e. don't be so afraid — whichy, by the way, is the most repeated command in the bible) and see what can be accomplished when we act peaceably.
This, then, leads to my third point. Acting peaceably means taking risks, and I am under no illusion that risk-taking can end rather poorly (although not as poorly as we might first imagine — cf. the story of Twinkle Rudberg, who founded Leave Out ViolencE [LOVE], after her husband was killed when he tried to prevent a young man from robbing an old woman [http://www.giraffe.org/hero_Rudberg.html]; perhaps Paul is correct when, in Ro 8, he suggests that we are victorious in both our living and our dying!). Furthermore, this risk-taking can end poorly both for ourselves, and for our loved ones, and the vulnerable person whom we are trying to assist. So be it; this should come as no surprise to those who are called to shoulder crosses as they follow their crucified Lord, who is, himself, the fullest revelation of God. Thus, just as the Father eschewed violence, and suffered the loss of his Beloved Son — who, in turn, drank the bitter cup, rather than calling the angels to his own defence — we, too, must sometimes drink that cup and, other times, suffer the loss of our loved ones, because we, too, must eschew violence.
The fourth point, is that our enemy, and the enemy of our loved ones and of the vulnerable, whom we have now come to know as our friend, is sometimes the vulnerable person we are called to protect. Let me return, for one last time, to the example that has run through this series — that of pedophiles. Members of all levels of society feel justified in inflicting violence and death upon those who sexually abuse children. However, because we, as Christians, have come to know such people as friends, we realise that these people are also those whom we must seek to liberate from violence. Indeed, in street-culture, it is a common observation that many of those who are street-involved are simultaneously 'victims' and 'offenders' — at one moment they are being exploited, at another moment they are exploiting others (such is life when one's very survival is at stake). Consequently, we must resist anybody when they attack others, but we must also defend anybody when they are being attacked.
I could, or perhaps should, add a fifth point — that of the systemic and ubiquituous corruption that exists within the institutions that are responsbile for exercising violence in or society (the police force, the penal system, international peacekeeping forces, armies, and so on) but these things have been so well documented elsewhere that I trust that this observation can function as a given in this discussion. Indeed, this point alone should be reason for us to distrust, and abandon, violence in all its forms.
So, I come to the end of my of my series. As a final point, I will say this. In crisis situations — seeing a woman being robbed, encountering an intruder in my home — none of his can be certain of how we will act. Many who say they would violently defend others would, in actuality, freeze or turn away. Many others, who say they would eschew voilence, would strike out before they had a chance to think. Let us hope, then, that we are practicing the disciplines that are necessary to build a foundation that will stand firm when the flood comes — disciplines like praying for our enemies, exploring creative ways of living peaceably, and learning to exhibit faith by genuinely taking risks. After all, until the rubber meets the road, how can we truly know that we have any sort of faith in God?

N. T. Wright and Bart Ehrman recently completed a three part on-line exchange on the theme of faith and suffering (cf. http://blog.beliefnet.com/blogalogue/). In this post, I will briefly summarise the key points of their exchange (while avoiding some of the tantalizing rabbit trails and side points — which you can always go and read for yourselves) and then offer a few of my own thoughts.
Debate Summary
Round One
In his first entry, “How the Problem of Pain Ruined My Faith”, Ehrman initiates the conversation with some autobiographical comments about his own movement away from faith, and how he gradually progressed from believing in an actively suffering God, to believing that God is not active in the world. It was largely his confrontation with the magnitude and ongoing nature of suffering that led Ehrman to this transition. Thus, he writes: “We live in a world in which a child dies every five seconds of starvation. Every five seconds. Every minute there are twenty-five people who die because they do not have clean water to drink. Every hour 700 people die of malaria. Where is God in all this?”
Ehrman then concludes this by pointing to his recent book, God's Problem: How the Bible Fails to Answer our Most Important Question–Why We Suffer, and argues that the biblical authors offer many, sometimes contradictory, and generally unsatisficatory, answers to this question (i.e. we suffer as punishment for sin, as a test of faith, as a result of the influence of evil cosmic powers; suffering is a mystery; suffering is redemptive, etc.). Ehrman emphasizes that, in this book, he is not attempting to “convert” people to his form of agnosticism; rather, he is encouraging people to think.
In his first response, “God's Plan to Rescue Us”, Wright gratefully accepts this encouragement to think, and then presses Ehrman on two general elements found both within God's Problem, and within Ehrman's post.
First of all, Wright questions the rhetoric employed by Ehrman, and wonders if Ehrman is simply engaging in an appeal to emotion. He writes: “I'm not sure what logical or moral (as opposed to rhetorical) force you add to your case by describing in such detail the horrors of the world.”
Secondly, and not surprisingly, Wright takes issue with Ehrman's analysis of the biblical material. He points to three main places where he thinks Ehrman gets things wrong, but the key point — and the one that remains dominant in the rest of the discussion — is that Wright thinks that Ehrman fails to account for the trajectory of the biblical narrative as a whole. In particular, Wright reads Scripture as the story of how God is going about responding to the problem of evil and suffering, and wants Ehrman to do the same.
Round Two
In his second post, “What About the Actual Suffering?”, Ehrman responds to the two central challenges Wright raises.
First of all, he argues that Wright demonstrates an inappropriate and “uniquely post-enlightenment position” by trying to exclude emotions from this debate (it's rather humourous to note that, from here on out, Ehrman and Wright go back and forth on referring to the other person's position as a “post-enlightenment position”!). Thus, Ehrman concludes: “The issue of human suffering is not a logical problem to be solved… It is a human problem that requires empathy, sympathy, emotional involvement, and action.” Consequently, he is “dead set against an approach to suffernig that thinks that human agony is to be seen from the distance of intellectual engagement with the 'issues'”.
Then, turning to the issue of how one reads the biblical material, Ehrman emphasise the diverse voices and perspectives found in Scripture and notes that many of these perspectives are “completely at odds with one another.” Indeed, he finds Wright's synthesis of the biblical material to be rather strange, for, given that Wright knows of the plurality of voices within Scripture, Ehrman is puzzled as to why Wright “act[s], speak[s] and write[s] as if it were otherwise”.
Finally, and most importantly, Ehrman points out that Wright has yet to deal with the problem of suffering. He writes: “You hint at the idea that you have some theological explanation for it all. But you don't indicate what that explanation is. I would like to hear it. My view is that it is impossible to reconcile the pain and misery all about us… if there is a good and all powerful God in charge of the world.”
In his second response, “What it Looks Like When God Runs the World”, Wright finally jumps in on the issue of suffering.
After an initial aside on the topic of the importance of emotions within a debate (while not wanting to reduce the discussion to “cold logic”, Wright fails to see how multiplying examples of the problem adds to the force of the discussion), Wright turns to the public career of Jesus in order to respond to, or, rather, redirect, Ehrman's question about suffering. Wright argues that Jesus' public career was “the inauguration of 'God being in charge of the world' in a new way.” As such, all our expectations about God, and how God should run the world, are challenged for Jesus offers us a “striking redefinition of power” and reveals that “What 'we would want God to do'… seems to be the very thing that Jesus was calling into question.”
Thus, Wright argues that Jesus does not provide us with an answer to Ehrman's question; rather, he provides us with “the matrix of thought and life within which God's people are called to continue to grapple with the problem. A living relationship with God through Jesus transforms the “dark mystery of suffering” so that Christians can continue to have faith in God in the midst of a world shaken by horrible occurences (here Wright points out how the Christians who lived before modern medicine knew more about pain and suffering than most of us — yet their faith was not seriously shaken; thus, he concludes that 'the problem of evil' is largely a “post-Enlightenment construct [I told you they throw this post-Enlightenment thing back and forth at each other!]).
Finally, Wright also argues that the problem of suffering is one which requires an active response, and he argues that the life of the church should be the Christian response to evil today.
Round Three
In his final post, “God's Kingdom Has Not Come”, Ehrman continues to challenge Wright on the question of emotions, and on his reading of Scripture.
Beginning with “that ole emotion issue”, Ehrman argues that multiplying examples does add to the force of his argument. He writes: “My view is that numbers matter because people matter. They all matter and they are all that matter. If the Nazis had killed only one Jew, we would not be having this conversation (we probably should be, but we wouldn't be). They killed six million. Each is an example, and multiple examples matter, logicians (please, one might add) be damned.”
Then, turning to the biblical vview of suffering, Ehrman argues that Wright's summary “overlook[s] virtually everything the Bible actually says about the subject.” He then spends some time detailing some of the various views held by Scripture arguing that the dominant view is that suffering is the result of God actively punishing us for sinning, while also pointing to contradictory positions (like Job's view that there is no answer for suffering because “God is almight and not accountable to us peons”, and Ecclesiastes view that life is short, there is often no justice, things go wrong, and there is no afterlife to sort things out). Thus, he asks Wright, “how can you leave out of the equation most of what the Bible actually says about the subject?”
Secondly, and in the same way, Ehrman argues that Wright's overarching synthesis of the Gospel (and Pauline) message is one that “undercuts what each individual author actually has to say.” Ehrman continues to stress difference, and contradiction, over against Wright's emphasis upon unity and continuity, and wonders if Wright has simply created another arbitrary “canon within the canon.”
Furthermore, Ehrman challenges Wright's understanding of the inauguration of the kingdom, and argues that the imminence of the kingdom is central to the Gospels' understanding of the kingdom of God. However, “The kingdom never did come… The view that the kingdom is already beginning to be manifest in the life and ministry of Jesus hinges on its actual appearance in the (imminent) days to come. If that actual appearance is jettisoned, everything is changed.” Jesus, Ehrman argues, was talking about God breaking in now, but nothing has really changed, and the world goes on as it always has.
In his final response, “The Bible Does Answer the Problem–Here's How”, Wright continues to press these same points.
First, on the issue of rhetoric and emotion, Wright wonders if Ehrman's book wasn not “making a case” but rather “expressing an emotion.” Thus, he wonders about the relationship between the rhetoric Ehrman uses, and the “actual substance” of the case he is making.
Turning, then, to the “more substantial” issue of the biblical view of suffering, Wright finally realizes that he and Ehrman have been talking about two rather different things: Ehrman, Wright argues, wants to know why suffering happens, but Scripture, Wright argues, doesn't ask this question. Rather, Scripture assumes suffering and asks “what is God doing about it and/or with it”. Thus, turing to his overarching narrative framework (which Wright argues is not a “canon within the canon” but rather “the narrative offered by the canon itself!”), Wright argues that Scripture tells us that God began to address the issue of suffering by calling Abraham, and continued to address that issue through Abraham's descendants, through Christ, and, now, through the Church.
Wright then challenges Ehrman's kingdom theology, and argues that the resurrection (which Ehrman rejects) was actually seens as that which inaugurated the kingdom of God. Thus, following a resurrected Lord, the early Christians continue to challenge evil and suffering, by continuing Jesus' kingdom work: “Things did change. The early Christian did make a difference.” Indeed, Wright asserts that Christians must continue to actively work in this way (interestingly enough, Wright states that it was this line of thought that led him to leave the academy in order to try to energise the church to work more in this way).
Next, although Wright is glad that he and Ehrman want to stress the idea that people — Christians or otherwise — should be actively responding to evil and suffering, Wright concludes by questioning the reason why Ehrman thinks this way. Basically, he argues that, without faith in a good God, we have no real reason to pursue justice and mercy (nor he argues, can deeply rooted impulse to do justice and mercy be explained without the existence of a good God).
Finally, I should note that, although Wright does spend some time responding to the issue of plurality that Ehrman sees in Scripture (he challenges Ehrman's understanding of what the prophets are saying, as well as Ehrman's interpretation of Ecclesiastes), he mostly doesn't respond to the point that Ehrman presses. Ehrman had concluded his final post by arguing that Scripture has many, sometimes contradictory, mostly unsastisfactory, views on this subject, and Wright mostly neglects this point. One is almost left with the impression that Wright denies the suggestion that Scripture contains a plurality of voices.
Reflection
To be honest (and to my own surprise), I found Ehrman to be the more compelling of the two in this discussion. While I agree that Ehrman and Wright were talking at cross-purposes for much of the discussion, Wright never goes on to address Ehrman's question. That is to say, even if the bible never adequately addresses the question of why we suffer, because it is focused on a response to suffering, the question of why we suffer should still be seen as a valid (albeit extra-biblical?) question. While I grant Wright the point about the focus of the biblical narrative, I wish that he had recognised that Ehrman, and others, will continue to ask this why question anyway.
Furthermore, I thought that Ehrman was right to “multiply examples” and I felt that Wright's argument, despite Wright's assertions to the contrary, was one that failed to account for the perspectives that come from the lived experience of suffering. Ehrman seems to experience suffering as a trauma, whereas Wright seems to experience suffering as a “dark mystery”. I think that Ehrman multiplies examples because he thinks we should also be traumatised by suffering, and Wright seems to fail to see why suffering should be seen as traumatic. “Okay, I get it,” he seems to say. “People suffer. No need to go on about it in so much detail.” To which Ehrman seems to respond, “If that's what you think, then you really don't get it at all.” On this point, I'm with Ehrman. In my opinion suffering is the great challenge to faith; it should traumatise us, and it should jeopardize the things we hold dear. This place of trauma — i.e. this place where our world is fundamentally disoriented and made unrecognisable — should be where we start (but, thankfully, it is not where we end, and it is here where I diverge from Ehrman). Now whether or not Wright has struggled with suffering to this degree, and has since developed on from that place, is hard to say, since he really refuses to engage suffering from this perspective (which, when coupled with what Wright actually says, leads me to suspect that Wright has never struggled with suffering at this depth).
Of course, there is more to be said about the way in which an active relationship with God through Jesus Christ transforms how we understand the “dark mystery” of suffering, but Wright never really develops this thought in much detail. This is really too bad because the way in which we relate to that “mystery” varies a great deal depending on whether or not we have encountered suffering as trauma. If we have not been traumatised by suffering, then the mystery thereof is sort of like a regretable, mind-bending riddle; if we have been traumatised by suffering, then the mystery thereof is something deeper, something aw(e)ful, something that throbs. Thus, in response to Ehrman's question, “Why do we suffer?”, I wish Wright had responded, “I don't know. But I continue to believe in God, and here's why…”. Of course, I don't believe that others will find the “here's why…” to be compelling, because I think that the only reason why we continue to believe in God, when confronted with the magnitude of suffering, is because we have met God. The reason why I find faith to be compelling is because God has chosen to come out to meet me, and I suspect that the only reason why a person like Ehrman would believe in God would be because God comes out to meet him as well. Now I can't help but wonder if Wright, in his efforts to engage in a substantial and reasonable dialogue, deliberately avoids this track, and where it leads, because it seems entirely too subjective and experiential.
Furthermore, sometimes our most powerful witness to faith in God in a suffering world, is found in silence. Remember Job's friends? They only truly exhibited their wisdom when they they first met Job and sat and mourned silently with him for seven days and seven nights (cf. Job 2.11-13). They became fools, and only deepened Job's sufferings, when they began to defend God. We would do well to learn from their example. We demonstrate our faith in God, not by answering the cry of forsakenness raised by those who suffer, but by sharing in their cry and refusing to stop crying until God answers.
And so, you see, Ehrman's form of agnosticism is a faith that I respect (and even admire) a great deal. Essentially, he appears to be a 'protest agnostic' — an 'agnostic for God's sake.' This, I think, is the same faith that Camus held, and portrayed so powerfully in The Plague. Furthermore, just like Tarrou in The Plague, Ehrman sees no reason why agnosticism should lead him away from a life of loving service for others. Thus, I was a little disappointed to see Wright trotting out the tired old argument that agnostics have no grounds for living sacrificial lives. Obviously a good many agnostics have lived sacrifical lives of love, so Christians should give up on saying, “Hey, you have no reason to do that!” For the agnostic simply responds, “What do you mean? I need some deeper justification to love others? Good Lord, I'm terrified to think of how you would act if you didn't believe in God!”
Were it not for my own encounters with God, I believe that this for of agnosticism would be the position that I would take. I'm not sure if Wright would concede this point. He seems to think that there is more to be said for an objective apologetics (although he does stress the significance of a relationship with God for our exploration of these things, so, as I said, I'm not sure what Wright would concede, or why he approaches the issue the way he does).
As for the hermeneutical points that both Wright and Ehrman were trying to make, there isn't a lot that one can say in response. Due to the limitations of the chosen form of dialogue (something both Wright and Ehrman lament), the hermeneutical debate doesn't progress much beyond making assertions (Ehrman: “It doesn't fit together; biblical authors contradict each other”; Wright: “It does fit together, and your contradictions are more apparent than actual”). However, Ehrman does (implicitly) raise a good question: “What are the criteria that we use to understand the way(s) in which the various elements of Scripture relate to one another?” Indeed, Ehrman implies that there really are no good criteria for relating the various elements of Scripture to one another in any sort of coherent “synthesizing” manner. Unfortunately, while Wright presents an attractive synthesis (and one that I, personally, find compelling), he never explains the reason why his synthesis is justified. Here, I think, we are at a confessional impasse. I suspect that Wright believes that Scripture can be synthesised because God was at work in the process of producing Scripture, and offering us Scripture as a life-guiding narrative, whereas Ehrman, as an agnostic, sees no good criteria for tying together such an eclectic collection of ancient manuscripts. Apart from faith in Scripture as a witness to the revelation of God, I can't think of a reason why one should try to synthesize Scripture, and it is quite possible that, apart from this faith, one would be unable to see why certain passages are more central to the ongoing narrative than others.
Of course, at this point we arrive at an hermeneutical issue that is an ongoing contraversy within intra-Christian dialogue. That is to say, although I find Wright's metanarrative to be compelling, there are many other Christians who see it as flawed, and so they argue that the texts Wright chooses to highlight, as excellent “short-hand” illustrations of the broader story, are either misinterpreted or are poor choices. Ultimately, I don't think that this issue can be objectively resolved. At the end of the day, I think that all of us are (more or less) open to the criticism of having arbitrarily selected what passages we highlight, what passages we reject, and what coherence we find in Scripture (of course, the “more or less” is an important proviso here!).
So, in conclusion, let me say that I enjoyed the thinking stimulated by this discussion and, although I believe that Wright wins the point concerning what Scripture says and does not say, I believe that Ehrman wins the point concerning our own existential confrontation with suffering. Wright, I believe, is the better exegete, but, in my opinion, Ehrman appears to have more honestly and openly confronted the pain of the world in which he finds himself. Thus, I return to a point I made about Wright in my reviews of two of his recent books (cf. http://poserorprophet.livejournal.com/137308.html). Although I am inspired by his move from the academia to the Church (in order to encourage the Church to be an agent of new creation within the broken places of the world), I cannot help but wonder if his efforts in this regard are stifled by his rootedness in places of privilege and power (not to say that such places necessarily stifle our efforts or our understanding — Ehrman, after all, is comfortably situated at UNC — but I suspect that they go a long way to stifling the efforts of many).

I decided to go online and figure out what my “carbon footprint” is (cf. http://www.carbonfootprint.com/). To my surprise, I discovered that I release approximately 4.196-4.206 tonnes of carbon dioxide into the air every year. Dear me.
Naturally, I was concerned about this, and I explored some of the ways in which I could “offset” this carbon footprint. It turns out that planting six (6) trees a year is all I need to do.
Now then, seeing as I planted about 200,000 trees when I was working up north (to pay for my undergrad), I discovered that I'm set for about 33,333 and 1/3 years. Dear me.
Naturally, I was appalled to discover that I've overdone things by about 33,253 and 1/3 years, so I'll have to find some ways to release a lot more carbon dioxide. If anybody would like to help me purchase a few SUVs, fly around the world, or set fire to a few oil wells, I'd be deeply grateful.