The other day, I had a particular encounter that surprised me — not because of how I responded, but because of how everybody else responded. I was walking down the alley behind my house, heading to the bus stop, when I thought I heard somebody yelling. As I turned the corner out of the alley and onto the sidewalk, I saw an elderly woman holding her neck, slumped over in a bus shelter. She appeared to be street-involved, and was yelling: “Help me! Help me! I'm having a medical emergency!”
However, the thing that really surprised me, was that I observed people walking by her, completely ignoring her — and the other people waiting for the bus were all backing up, and moving away from her. There must have been about 6-8 people within earshot of her, and all of them were keeping the hell away from her.
I'd like to say that I responded to the situation by doing what anybody else would do — i.e. I ran over to the woman, found out what was wrong, called an ambulance, and waited with her until help arrived — but it turns out that nobody else responded in this way.
Actually, that's not entirely true. Shortly after I started talking to the woman, a homeless man came over to help as well. So, I guess you could say that I responded to the situation like any other homeless person would.
Thinking about this scenario, made me remember another event that happened several years ago, when I was living in downtown Toronto. It was the middle of winter, night was falling, and I came across an homeless man who was semi-conscious, lying in a puddle of slush. I didn't have a cell phone, but I knew the number for the Street Help Line, so if I could get ahold of them, I knew that they would come and look after this man. The problem was, I didn't have a quarter to call the Street Help Line from the payphone across the street. No big deal, I thought. There was a crowd of people a few feet away waiting for the street car. I turned and said to them, “Excuse me, there is a man lying here who needs help. Can somebody give me a quarter so I can call the Street Help Line?” To my amazement, every single person in that crowd ignored me (just like they were ignoring the man lying in the slush). This made me angry, and instead of asking nicely, I became aggressive and, in no uncertain terms, I told the people what I thought of them. That worked much better, somebody gave me a quarter, and everything worked out.
Now, I understand that middle-class people are scared of pretty much everything and everybody, but I cannot understand how one can allow such irrational fears to override any loving or helpful actions. I mean, in both of these situations, nobody had even taken out a cell phone and called 911. Bloody hell. Besides, it's not like I never get scared. I do get scared. It's just that I try not to let my fear overpower my identity in Christ.

A good many New Testament (NT) scholars have demonstrated the value of reading the NT in light of extra biblical sources — be those sources literary, epigraphic, numismatic, or archaeological. Hence, the NT scholar finds it necessary to explore the Old Testament Pseudepigrapha, Greek and Latin classics, public inscriptions, images on coins, and the city plans and buildings found within the NT era. All of this leads us to a fuller, and more accurate, understanding of the content of the NT scriptures.
However, where this becomes curious (at least in my own particular area of study) is the way in which the genuine Pauline letters are still, by and large, studied without serious regard given to The Acts of the Apostles or, more especially, the Deutero-Pauline epistles. Why is it, for example, authors like Virgil, Tacitus, and Suetonius are given so much weight in our readings of Paul, while Luke's narrative account of parts of Paul's life is given less weight? Or, to take another example, why is an author like Juvenal considered an useful resource (even though he wrote after Paul did) when the Deutero-Pauline epistles are not (even though they were likely written earlier than much of Juvenal)? Or, to mention an even later work, on what basis can we refer to The Acts of Paul and Thecla while simultaneously ignoring 1 & 2 Timothy?
It seems to me that, given the tensions (and, perhaps, even contradictions) that exist between the genuine letters of Paul and the Deutero-Pauline epistles (especially the later pastorals), it is easier for us to ignore the epistles and find extra-biblical sources that verify what we want to find in Paul. The problem is that the Deutero-Pauline epistles might be closer to Paul than a good many of these other sources.
Perhaps another reason to ignore these epistles is the bulk of material a person would have to address. Academic specialisation leads to narrow foci within scholarship, and it is probably easier to, for example, read Paul in light of Virgil (a relatively unexplored realm, which also makes this more excited work — and work that is more likely to gain recognition) than it is to read Paul in light of the Deutero-Pauline letters.
Of course, there are scholars who continue to view these Deutero-Pauline epistles as genuine letters of Paul, but, IMO, this is an oversimplification. Rather, what I think we should be asking is 'how was it that these epistles developed out of Pauline communities, and in what ways are they faithful and unfaithful to Paul?'
Consequently, given all the appeals currently being made to extra-biblical sources, I am somewhat baffled that The Acts of the Apostles and, more particularly, the Deutero-Pauline letters are still largely neglected in Pauline scholarship. Indeed, those scholars who engage in 'counter-imperial' readings of Paul (i.e. the scholars I have been reading a lot) should be especially ocncerned with addressing the questions listed above. Rather than brushing aside Acts and the Deutero-Pauline epistles simply because they were not authored by Paul, they need to explore how communities that begin with such a radical founder can devolve into communities that embrace the dominant sensibilities of the empire (if, indeed, the Acts and the Deutero-Pauline epistles do this).

You know, it's all well and good that Jesus saves us from the consequences of our own sins, but I'd much rather he spent more time saving us from the consequences of the sins of others — or, for that matter, saving others from the consequences of our own sins. In particular, it would be nice if he spent a little more time saving the dis-empowered and vulnerable from the sins of the powerful and predatory. Yep. That would be really great.

Just a quick note to say that I have been out of town and away from any computers, for the last little while. However, I fly home tomorrow, and hope to continue the conversation with Halden, Eric, Jonas, et al., in the very near future (oh, and I also need to write my “Response Part 2: The Need for Academic Endeavours”).
For now, I'll point out that Eric has written his own three part series, in response to my question (cf. http://ericdarylmeyer.wordpress.com/) and Ben has also written a response on his blog (cf. http://benbyerly.wordpress.com/2008/07/02/the-academy-and-the-poor/).
As I said, I hope to respond in more detail soon, but for now let me say that I really am interested in hearing what any and all have to say on this subject. This includes those outside of the realm of academia, for I really do believe that the question posed is one that people in all areas of life should consider. My thanks to Heather and Kelley for speaking from their own experiences and from other areas of expertise. I reckon jumping into a discussion full of people who like to throw around technical words might be a little off-putting, but I'm glad that both of you did.

During the last nine years more than enough ideas for the salvation of the world have been developed by the International (if the world can be saved by ideas) and I defy anyone to come up with a new one. This is the time not for ideas but for action, for deeds.
So said Mikhail Bakunin when he quit the Jura Federation in 1873. Yet one could easily say the same today. Surely, confronted as we are with the monumental evils and injustices of our world, now is also “the time not for ideas but for action”. Now, perhaps more than any other moment in history, we are aware of the great harm that is resulting both from our actions — be that the harm that we cause to the environment because of our dependence upon things like oil and plastics, or the harm that we cause others through our dependence upon cheap goods, produced by foreign children, or any other number of things — and from our inactivity — be that the apathy we exhibit towards the AIDS pandemic, or our apathy towards the plight of the urban poor in our own cities, or any other number of things.
Furthermore, not only are we aware of the the ways in which we are causing harm to the earth and to others, we are also aware of any number of solutions to these problems. It's just that we choose not to inconvenience ourselves and pursue those solutions. Thus, although we know that it is possible to live without an automobile, we choose to continue to drive; although we know how to reduce our dependence on plastics, we can't really be bothered to follow through; although we are aware of how we can help reduce the impact of AIDS (we've all seen the World Vision commercials, haven't we?), we choose to change the channel; although we know that we can “invite the homeless poor into our homes” (as the Lord, in Isaiah, tells us we should), we choose not to.
Thus, just as there are a great multitude of problems of which we are aware, there is also a great multitude of causes — a host of people already working on implementing solutions — to which we could dedicate ourselves.
Likewise, the Scripture appears to call us inexorably, to simple, straightforward action. Thus Deut 15:
If there is a poor man with you, one of your brothers, in any of your towns in your land which the Lord your God is giving you, you shall not harden your heart, nor close your hand from your poor brother; but you shall freely open your hand to him, and shall generously lend him sufficient for his need in whatever he lacks… You shall generously give to him, and your heart shall not be grieved when you give to him, because for this thing the Lord your God will bless you in all your work and in all your undertakings. For the poor will never cease to be in the land; therefore I command you, saying, 'You shall freely open your hand to your brother, to your needy and poor in your land.'
And Is 35:
Strengthen the feeble hands, steady the knee that gives way. Say to those with fearful hearts, 'Be strong; do no fear. Your God will come. He will come with vengeance; with divine retribution. He will come and save you.'
And Micah 6:
He has told you, O you people, what is good; and what does the Lord require of you, but to do justice, to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God?
And so on and so forth, right through Jesus' embodied proclamation of holistic liberation, the Pauline and Johannine ethics of cruciform love, and James' definition of true religion. All of this is unavoidably straight-forward. If we are to be like our Father in heaven, we must love like our Father in heaven (Mt 5). And, just as we know God's love because of the actions God has taken with, for, and amongst us, so also our love of others must be demonstrated in our actions with, for, and amongst others. Furthermore, just as God descended to seek and save those who were lost, sick, and damned (Lk 19; Mt 9; Ro 5), so also must we priortise thoe who are abandoned, those who are sick, and those who are damned today. All of this is summarised quite well by the author of 1 Jn 3:
This is how we know what love is: Jesus Christ laid down his life for us. And we ought to lay down our lives for our brothers. If anyone has material possessions and sees his brother in need but has no pity on him, how can the love of God be in him? Dear children, let us not love with words or tongue but with actions and in truth.
Thus, I believe that the onus genuinely does rest upon the shoulder of the Academic. In light of these things — and the observations of Wolterstorff, Moltmann, and the liberation theologians, which I mentioned in my last post on this topic — the Academic must justify his or her study, and must justify that study in a way deemed satisfactory by the poor.
After all, it is the poor who will judge us. It is the poor person we encounter in the crucified and risen Christ who calls us to account for our actions, and it is the poor person of Jesus Christ who says to us, “whatever you did or did not do for 'the least of these' you did or did not do for me.” Hence, if the poor will one day judge us, we would do well to be concerned as to whether or not we find them currently accepting the justifications we offer for our Academic endeavours.
Consequently, if in this post I have made the case for the need for justification of Academic efforts, in my next post in this series, I hope to present what I consider to be some worthwhile justifications thereof.

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.