Christians: neither Pagans, nor Jews: “Badges of Membership” in Paul’s Epistles
I. INTRODUCTION
One of the most provocative arguments generated by members of “the New Perspective on Paul” (NPP) is that which asserts that the phrases “works of the law” and “justification by faith,” as they appear in Paul’s epistles, generally refer to “badges of membership” and do not refer to the opposition of a (supposedly Jewish) merit theology to a (supposedly Christian) theology of grace.[1] Those who make this assertion, like James Dunn and Tom Wright, tend to adopt a more nuanced version of Ed Sanders’ proposal that first-century Judaism is best described as “covenantal nomism.”[2] Hence, “badges of membership” are those things which reveal a person’s membership within a particular community.
While this article accepts the basic conclusions of Dunn and Wright (and others), it also asks whether or not this thought has been carried far enough. This article will argue that the language of “badges” is far more prevalent in Paul’s letters, and goes well beyond the (rather narrow) boundaries of the justification discussion between neo/Lutherans and members of the NPP.
That the language of “badges” should be found to be more prevalent in Paul’s epistles should not be a surprise. After all, Paul is emphatic that it is his vocation to be God’s apostle to the Gentiles.[3] Therefore, if in Galatians and Romans, Paul is speaking of badges that define Christian communities over against Jewish communities, the reader should also expect other passages where Paul defines Christian communities over against pagan communities. Those who have sought to recover the essential Jewishness of Paul, over against nineteenth century voices who sought to root Paul exclusively within Hellenism, have tended to neglect this point. When one thinks of Paul strictly within Jewish categories, then it seems natural to elevate the discussion of “justification by faith” and “works of the law” to a place of near total dominance. However, it must be recalled that Paul (the Jew) was thoroughly defined by his mission to and among the Gentiles. Thus, Wright is quite correct in arguing that “Paul’s main polemical target is not Judaism, as has so often been thought… but paganism.”[4] Therefore, it becomes necessary to place the discussion of “badges of membership” within a more comprehensive context.
This article will explore what Paul identifies as the badges of membership of his Christian communities over against the badges that Paul ascribes to pagan communities and Jewish communities. We will begin by exploring the fundamental badge of worship and will then move to exploring inspirational badges, ontological badges and, finally, relational badges, wherein Paul’s discussion of this topic reaches its appropriate climax and summation.
________
[1] Cf. James D. G. Dunn, The Theology of Paul the Apostle (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1998), 635-39; N. T. Wright, What Saint Paul Really Said: Was Saul of Tarsus the Real Founder of Christianity (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1997), 113-33.
[2] E. P. Sanders, Paul and Palestinian Judaism: A Comparison of Patterns of Religion (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1977), 419-28.
[3] Cf. Ro 1.1-6; 11.13; 15.15-17; Gal 1.11-16a; 2.7-9; Eph 3.1-8. Cf. Ro 1.13; 1 Cor 1.1-2; 9.1-2; 15.9-11; 2 Cor 1.1; 11.4-7; Gal 1.1-2; 2.2; Eph 1.1; Col 1.1-2.
[4] N. T. Wright, Paul: in Fresh Perspective (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2005), 85; cf. What Saint Paul Really Said, 78-79; L. H. Marshall, The Challenge of New Testament Ethics (New York: The MacMillan Co., 1947), 278.

What is to give light must endure burning.
~ Victor Frankl
On November 11, 1983, Sebastian Acevedo, a fifty year old construction worker and father of two, doused himself in gasoline at the foot of the cross in front of the cathedral in Concepcion, Chile. His children had been “disappeared” by Pinochet's torture squads and, despite his desperate pleas, he was unable to gain any information as to their whereabouts. Covered in gasoline, he cried “Give me back my children!” but instead of receiving his kids back, a policeman responded by challenging him to carry through on his threat. Acevedo struck a match, ignited “like a torch” and died later that day — after learning that one of his children had been released. A priest gave him his last rites and captured his final words on a tape recorder:
I want the CNI [Central Nacional de Informaciones] to return my children. Lord, forgive them, and forgive me too for this sacrifice.
And that was the end of Sebastian Acevedo. A father with no record of his children, but with a certainty of what the State did to those it “disappeared,” he burned to death at the foot of a cross. But then something new happened. A movement was launched — The Sebastian Acevedo Movement against Torture was born, and became Chile's first well-orchestrated mass movement of public resistance against torture. They publicly named victims, they revealed clandestine torture centers and the complicity of other sectors of government, and they shattered the veil of silence and invisibility that gave the torturers so much of their power.
Sebastian did not know that his death would launch such a movement. All he knew was that his children had been disappeared and were being tortured, and that there was nothing, absolutely nothing, that he could do about that situation. Except, perhaps, take his own life in such a horrible way that his voice might be heard (this, of course, is the same form of protest that was taken by some Buddhist monks during the Vietnam war — I think we all remember the pictures).
A few days ago, I wrote a few theses on non/violence and argued that, if we accept the criteria that some Christians have historically accepted for the justification of violence, then we would be obligated to take up arms against our governments and various multinational corporations.
However, the notion of acting violently against others, does not sit well with a religion founded upon the proclamation of forgiveness and the command to love one's enemies (notice, even as Sebastian dies, he asks God to forgive even the torturers!). But there is another option, one that is much less discussed. This is the option taken by Sebastian Acevedo, and by the Buddhist monks in Vietnam. There is the option of taking that violence onto one's self, and publicly showing the Powers, and the apathetic classes, the extent of what is going on around them. When all our peaceful avenues for change have been exhausted and revealed as impotent, when our voices will not be heard, and when we constantly see our children, and the children of others, disappeared and tortured, then perhaps we must begin to think seriously about this other option.
Of course, the Powers have grown wise and they have learned that “the blood of the martyrs is the seed of the Church” and so they will not martyr us. They will let us grow old, they will let us “burn-out”, they will let us fade into impotence and anonymity. Perhaps, then, it is our duty to say, “No!” to this form of burn-out, perhaps it is our duty to say, “You have already martyred us by torturing and killing our loved ones, you have created a world that we are incapable of living in, you have already killed us” and then, perhaps, it is our duty to strike a match and burn-out in an entirely different way.
Because sometimes I wonder — sometimes I wonder if I will spend my whole life fighting a battle that I will always lose. And sometimes I wonder if the single act of self-immolation will do more good than a whole life spent losing to the Powers.
Because I too have seen the marks of torture on the bodies of children whom I love. And I too remember children that our society has disappeared and murdered. And all this that I have seen and touched is in our own backyards. When you increase your scope of vision to try and gain a global perspective on these things the degree of violence, torture, disappearances, and murders, is unthinkable.
In The Myth of Sisyphus, Albert Camus explores the topic of suicide. He considers suicide to be the “one true serious philosophical problem” because facing this issue forces us to face the fundamental philosophical issue of whether or not life is worth living. He argues that suicide amounts to a confession, a confession that “life is too much for you or that you do not understand it… that it 'is not worth the trouble'.” Despite his embrace of nihilism, and the total absence of hope, despite his “certainty of a crushing fate”, Camus argues that one still should live without resignation (such living, of course, is well exemplified in the life of Camus' protagonist in La Peste). To commit suicide is, according to Camus, to accept all of these things; to continue to live is to embrace the “absurd” revolt of defiance. This is why Sisyphus becomes the “absurd hero.” He knows the extent of his wretched condition and he scorns it. Thus, even as he carries his burden, he is happy.
In his embrace of nihilism, Camus is able to find that which allows him to keep on living. I wonder: does our embrace of Christianity ever lead us to a place where we are called to die? Perhaps the question is not: “Why should I remain alive?” but rather “Why should I not die?” Can suicide, rather than being an act of total acceptance of things as they are, be a cry of protest against the way things are — perhaps even the only cry that is now left to us? And can it be, as in the case of Sebastian Acevedo, a cry that changes that which used to be unchangeable? If it can be such an efficacious cry, should we embrace it?

Last December, I wrote a post on my materialism (cf. http://poserorprophet.livejournal.com/97365.html) and the convictions that I mentioned then have only further developed over the last year (especially given recent readings which have focused both on the simplicity and generosity of the early Christian churches, and the ravages imposed by contemporary consumption).
Now, I don't really buy a lot of things. I rarely buy clothes (about one item per year — usually socks), I don't really buy music (although, over the years, I built up a collection of approximately 100 CDs), I don't buy DVDs or any of those technological gadgets that people love to have (iPods, iPhones, whatever), but I do buy a helluva lot of books. In fact, on my last count, I had about 1100 books in my collection. Most I have read in full, others I have read in part and continue to refer to in my research, and some I have yet to read.
Now here's the thing: I like being the guy who has a lot of books. People can come to our house and, yep, be impressed by the scope and breadth of my reading. In fact, as I have continued to confront my materialism, I have realized that part of the attraction of building a personal library is building a brand-image for myself. Look at my fiction collection and you will see the great classics — Hugo, Dickens, Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, Cervantes, Joyce, Camus, etc. — alongside of more contemporary greats — Sinclair, Steinbeck, DeLillo, Pynchon, Eco, Atwood, etc. Look at my non-fiction and you will see theology, philosophy, psychology, literary criticism, biblical studies, social commentary, and counter-cultural voices, all represented.
Of course, a great deal of this ends up providing me with subtle (or not so subtle) opportunities to boost my ego. Hence you get a scenario like this:
Guest: “Oh, wow, you've read Joyce's Ulysses?”
Dan: “I read it but, man, what a terrible book [hence, I posit that I have a greater grasp on what counts as quality literature than most of the English departments in the world]. If you really want to read a book that will change the way you think about the world, then I suggest… [here I'll pull some lesser known title from the shelf, one my guest probably does not know, and in this why I will continue to impress them with the scope of my reading and my knowledge of lesser known gems].
Of course, I have been able to rationalize my book consumption in all sorts of other ways. Maybe my wife and I will have kids one day, and all my fiction (including the collection of children's literature that I own) would be a great resource for them. As for all my nonfiction, who knows what I'll be researching in the future, so I better hold on to all of those books. Indeed, if I'm going to teach in the future (because, who knows, maybe I will), then isn't owning thousands of books a prerequisite for teaching? Have you ever been in a professor's office that wasn't covered, wall to wall, with books?
Well, I no longer accept these rationalizations. Hoarding books, because of some potential future use, is no longer justified in my mind. Indeed, it was only after these rationalizations collapsed that I was able to discern just how much my ego was caught up in this. When I concluded that I needed to begin down-sizing my collection, and giving books to those who would read them now, it was the image thing that prevented me from acting. Sure, I'm not going to read Ulysses again (thank goodness), but it's nice to have it on my bookshelf. How stupid is that? Sure, I have enjoyed some of Hugo's stories (like Les Miserables and Notre Dame de Paris) but other works of his that I own (like Toilers of the Sea) I like to have on my shelf just so that I can demonstrate that I have read other, more obscure, works of Hugo, than the general crowd. Ridiculous, eh?
Consequently, I have finally started my book giveaway. Over the last few weeks I have given away approximately 150 books (mostly to family members — like giving my children's literature to my brothers' who have kids [what a concept!] — and to peers at my school). Mostly I just ask, “would you be interested in reading this book in the near future?” and if the answer is in the affirmative then the book has been given away. Other books, that were not taken by peers or family members, I have given to homeless fellows to resell at used book stores (oh, and I also gave them about 20 of my CDs).
It has been difficult process, but it has also been liberating. Along the way I have learned that one of the greatest challenges we face when confronting consumption, is the way in which consumption feeds our pride. The issue isn't so much that we are attached to our possessions; rather, the issue is that we become attached to the image that our possessions provide for us (is this what it means to be “possessed”?). It is this image that is the most difficult thing to sacrifice. But it is precisely this image that we must sacrifice as Christians.
Richard (of http://subrationedei.com/) has recently confronted his personal book consumption by formulating this rule: he can buy as many books as he wants, so long as the net total of books waiting to be read decreases every month (if he breaks this rule, he has provided himself with a rather hilarious form of punishment). My current plan is to continue to give away more books than I buy (and the same goes for CDs).
Consumerism will get us any way that it can — if we're not buying clothes, we're buying music; if we're not buying music we're buying gadgets; if we're not buying gadgets, we're buying books. It really doesn't care what we're buying, so long as we continue to buy. And not only buy, but hoard. This is my clothes collection, my music collection, my collection of gadgets, my collection of books. As Christians, I believe that we should be pursuing a trajectory that leads us to hold our things in common, both with those in the community of faith, and with those who have need. This (hopefully ongoing) book giveaway, is but one small step on that road. We can break the hold of consumerism over our lives, but that means that we must sacrifice the images we have constructed of ourselves, and be transformed into the image of the crucified Christ.

For the last few months, the topic of violence, and the justification thereof, has been on my mind with increasing frequency. My thoughts have not come together with much clarity — and, by and large, they are stemming from my overwhelming sense of helplessness, anger, and sorrow, related not only to the injustices that I see around me on a day to day basis, but to the massive injustices that are sweeping across the world (on this note, I highly recommend Naomi Klein's latest book, The Shock Doctrine: The Rise of Disaster Capitalism, which may be the best book I have read this year). Here, then, are a few of my scattered thoughts (and I would be very interested to hear what others think about these things).
1. If violence can be justified, or if violence can ever be considered a Christian act (that is to say, if a Christian could ever accept 'just war' theory), then Christians today would be obligated to take up arms against both their governments and many national, and multinational corporations. Never, in the whole course of history, have so few done so much harm to so many. If violence can be justified from a Christian perspective, then it the duty of contemporary Christians to become 'terrorists'.
[Of this point, I am absolutely convinced.]
2. I say that Christians would be obligated to take up arms, because all other (peaceful) methods of enacting social transformation, of countering rapacious corporate and governmental interests, have been overpowered, subverted, or revealed as impotent.
[The objection to this point would be threefold: one could assert that (1) all avenues of peaceful resistance have not yet been exhausted; (2) even if all the avenues that we currently can think of have been exhausted, our 'Christian imagination' requires us to imagine new peaceful options; (3) even if there is nothing we can to to create change peacefully, we must continue to do what does not work because violence is not an option for us — and because we hope for the time when God will, once again, 'come down' and create the change for which we long.]
3. Indeed, not only have all peaceful avenues been exhausted, but, precisely because of this, the Powers that be (powers of government and corporate business) are satisfied when Christians embrace notions of nonviolence — for the language of nonviolence is easily employed to shatter any resistance to the pursuit of their (ironically, violent) agendas. Put another way, the language of nonviolence, although often considered 'counter-cultural', often simply ends up supporting the status quo. Thus, although the Powers are inherently violent, they are more than happy to allow their opposition to embrace nonviolence — for that embrace quite often ensures that the rich will continue to accumulate more wealth, and the poor will continue to lose the little that they have.
[It is this point, that must be engaged in detail by Christians who wish to remain nonviolent — and it is this point that I find increasingly frustrating in my own personal embrace of nonviolence.]
4. Some will say that violence only breeds more violence, and to respond to the Powers violently is to only further enmesh ourselves in the 'cycle of violence', but others will say that the deepening of violence is what is needed in order to spark an awakening, a conversion, and an uprising. That is to say, precisely because most of the violence in our world occurs in places where we do not see, hear, feel, or smell it, we do not care (in any meaningful way) about it. To bring violence home, is to open the eyes of those around us.
[Of course, the objection here is that we have drifted into the realm of 'playing God' when we begin to treat people (and their lives) as pawns in the service of a greater plan — indeed, as a one who is committed to nonviolence, I am inclined to believe that any time that we kill, we are 'playing God' and engaging in an activity that is denied to us, but this relates back to the first point I raised.]
5. Others, following Niebuhr's hypothesis, will argue that our contemporary situation is one that forces us to compromise our Christian beliefs in one way or another, and so we must choose the least of the evils. If this is the case, then surely it is better to be guilty of killing a few (for the sake of the many), rather then sitting quietly by while the many are killed (and thereby being guilty of the deaths of many).
[The objection here is raised by those who altogether reject Niebuhr's hypothesis and argue that we should not choose the least of the evils but can always, somehow, choose good. Of course, it remains for those who raise this objection to show how good can, then, be served in our contemporary situation.]
Such are my thoughts these days. At the end of the day, I am still fairly convinced that an abandonment of nonviolence is, in actuality, an abandonment of faith in God. Therefore, I continue to pursue justice with peace, although I suspect that almost everything that I do will amount to nothing (indeed, to use an analogy, I suspect I will spend most of my life throwing myself against a wall and, at the end of it all, it will be me, and not the wall, that breaks). So it goes when we find ourselves in a time and space of reciprocal abandonment — a time and space where the Church has abandoned God, and God has, consequently, forsaken us.

Well, just over seven months ago, I was married. However, before the marriage, there was the bachelor party. So, what do a bunch of Christian pacifists do at a bachelor party? Simple: beat the living hell out of each other (people were, literally, knocked out, had body bruises, split lips, and I'm pretty sure I fractured a bone in my foot kicking my good buddy Oli).
So, for your entertainment, I offer you this clip of my fight with my younger brother. I am, of course, the one who dominates the fight (I'm wearing the red headgear, dark blue shirt, and black gloves).
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MjGR2AZpVz8.

As actually lived, a religion may be pictured as a single gigantic proposition. It is a true proposition to the extent that its objectivities are interiorized and exercised by groups and individuals in such a way as to conform them in some measure in the various dimensions of their existence to the ultimate reality and goodness that lies at the heart of things. It is a false proposition to the extent that this does not happen.
~ George Lindbeck, The Nature of Doctrine, 51.
If Lindbeck's assertion is correct (and it very well might be), then the conclusion that we are compelled to draw is that very few of those around us could be accused of genuinely rejecting Christianity. By and large, those around us have encountered a purely propositional form of Christianity, a form that has hardly (if at all) been “interiorized and exercised” in such a way that conformity to “ultimate reality and goodness” has resulted. Therefore, it is more often the case that what those around us reject is Christianity exhibited as a false proposition. Indeed, despite our reputation as the “Christian” or “post-Christian” West, I suspect that most of our neighbours have never even heard the truth of the gospel proclaimed truly. In a sense, we are living in a society that is still waiting for the good news, because it is still waiting for coming of the “Word made flesh” — only this time it is not waiting for the advent of Christ, it is waiting for the embodiment of the gospel by the Church.
Therefore, instead of looking on our society and seeing a mass of people who have rejected Christianity, I look upon our society and see a mass of people who have never encountered Christianity. The fault is not their sinfulness, but ours. It is not that they have failed to accept the good news of Jesus Christ, it is that we have failed to proclaim it.

About a year ago, one of my roommates and I decided to compose a list of “God's lesser known preferential options.” She recently posted some of those ideas on her blog (audreymo.blogspot.com) and I thought I would carry the idea over to here to see what others might come up with. The idea, of course, is premised upon the argument made by the liberation theologians that God, in Scripture, exhibits a “preferential option” for the poor. Therefore, after carefully searching the Scriptures ourselves, we came up with these other, lesser known, preferential options (and hope that you will add to the list).
1. Diet Coke
2. Boxers
3. Gay Marriage
4. The Serial Comma
5. Palestinians
6. Rich People Who Feel Kinda, Sorta Guilty About Being Rich
7. PCs
8. Militant Islam

There is a Bohemianism in the labor movement, and it smacks of sentimentality. The gesture of being dirty because the outcast is dirty, of drinking because he drinks, of staying up all night and talking, because that is what one's guests from the streets want to do, in participating in his sin from a prideful humility, this is self-deception indeed!
~ Dorothy Day, The Long Loneliness, 255 (slightly edited).
I want to relate this quotation from Day to some recent conversations that have occurred on the topic of humour and playfulness. Some time ago, Peter and I had some discussion on the topic of Baudrillard and Christianity, wherein Peter argued that one should not pursue a method of “analyze-resist” in one's approach to political powers (a method that he sees as far too compromising, reductionistic, and, in the end, legitimising); rather, one should embody an “aesthetic Christianity” wherein one is “free not to take things too seriously, free to play and be joyful” (cf. http://coprinus.blogspot.com/2007/08/baudrillard-christianity.html). More recently, David W. Congdon wrote a post entitled “What Would Jesus Drive?” which included a poll, by the same title, that was meant to be humourous (although it appears that many, to David's apparent frustration, took the poll more seriously than intended; cf. http://fireandrose.blogspot.com/2007/09/what-would-jesus-drive-what-would-jesus.html).
Both of these conversations caused me to reflect about the role of humour and play in Christian thinking and living, and that is what caused me to think of the above quotation from Dorothy Day. You see, Day's quotation reminds us that there are things we incorporate from our surroundings, things that we think are noble and liberating, that actually end up having a negative influence upon us. Perhaps those mentioned by Day think that they are exhibiting a radical form of solidarity with the marginalised when they stay up all night drinking, talking, and stinking, but Day suggests that they actually aren't doing anybody any good and have only deceived themselves.
It is my suspicion that much of the same thing is going on in recent Christian reflections on humour and playfulness (certainly I wouldn't want to suggest that Peter or David fall into this camp — they were the springboards for my thinking, not the targets of it). After all, this recent focus on humour and playfulness did not, by and large, originate within the Christian Academy. Rather, it became one of the major emphases within what has come to be known as “postmodern thought.” However, we must make two important, and disconcerting, observations about the role of these themes in postmodern thought. In particular, we must examine the location of those who make this assertion, and we must examine the foundation of this assertion. First, when we look at the location of those who make this assertion, we quickly realise that, despite their reputation as “radical thinkers,” those who make this assertion tend to be comfortably situated in the upper classes and have come to be well-established within academic and cultural centres of power. It is, perhaps, a little too easy to talk about humour and playfulness while sitting in a lounge, nursing a glass of Romanée Conti, and smoking French cigarettes. Secondly, when we look at the the foundation of these themes, we come to see that they are premised upon a form of nihilism that denies, and attacks, all meaning and significance. Essentially, when everything means nothing, we might as well laugh and play.
Consequently, when we explore how these themes of humour and play are utilised by Christians what do we find? A largely acritical appropriation performed mostly by (surprise, surprise) Christians well situated in the middle and upper classes — in places of comfort, privilege and power. Such themes are all too easily embraced (and consumed) by those of us who would rather not deal (in too much detail, anyway) with the sufferings of others. In this way, humour and play become a part of the therapy and sensibilities of the Christian middle-class.
Of course, there is an important place for humour and playfulness, but how we understand and engage in those things, might end up being rather different once we move into the lower classes and places where suffering is most evident. For example, I am journeying alongside of many people who have been raped, and many more who will continue to be raped. I have yet to hear a single good rape joke (although, it should be noted, that while in various Christian social settings, I have actually heard more than one rape joke). Of course, most everybody understands this example, but it seems to me that much of the humour and playfulness that is found within much of the mainstream Christian community (including the Academy) expresses a similar apathy to issues that are, literally, life and death issues to others. Simply put, there are some things that are not funny. Of course, this is not to suggest that humour cannot be a powerful weapon, it simply means that we have not spent nearly enough time thinking about how to use humour, lest we end up accomplishing the reverse of what we had hoped, and end up paralleling those “Bohemians of the labour movement” that Day described.
Perhaps a better place to begin thinking about these things is suggested by Paul's command in Ro 12.15: Rejoice with those who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn (Brueggemann, by the way, has done an excellent job of exploring this topic). After all, isn't our focus on humour and playfulness, also another proof of our corporate inability to mourn? Yes, humour and play can be powerful, but just as powerful are tears and “hard words from broken hearts” (Wallis' description of the prophetic, in The Call to Conversion). We need to be able to discern how and when to engage in either. How do we learn this discernment? The best solution I know is found by journeying into places of suffering. Those who have known great suffering are the best equipped to teach us great joy (conversely, I think we should be suspicious of the joy of those who know little of suffering). Never have I encountered such joy, play, and laughter, as the joy, play, and laughter, I have encountered in a group of low-track prostitutes sitting down for dinner together, or in a group of homeless kids sharing a smoke on the sidewalk, or in a group of homeless men playing cards together in a drop-in (I have also known great sorrow and pain in those places, but such is the life abundant). It is here, in these places, in these relationships, that one discover the forms and expressions of humour and play that are capable of shaking the foundations of empire.
If you don't believe me, I invite you to come and see for yourself.

Several OT scholars have highlighted the observation that the vision of neighborliness that is found in the tradition of Deuteronomy is premised upon the experience of the exodus of the Hebrew slaves from Egypt. Hence we see several passages where concern for the vulnerable, the oppressed, and the poor is premised upon this memory (these examples gain added emphasis when read in context):
You shall love the stranger, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.
~Deut 10.19
Open your hand to the poor and needy neighbor in your land… Remember that you were a slave in the land of Egypt, and the LORD your God redeemed you; for this reason I lay this command upon you today.
~Deut 15.11, 15
You shall not deprive a a resident alien or an orphan of justice; you shall not take a widow's garment in pledge. Remember that you were a slave in Egypt and the LORD your God redeemed you from there; therefore I command you to do this… When you gather the grapes of your vineyard, do not glean what is left; it shall be for the alien, the orphan, and the widow. Remember that you were a slave in the land of Egypt; therefore I am commanding you to do this.
~Deut 24.17-18, 21-22
Walter Brueggemann, in commenting on these things, concludes by arguing that:
The memory of the exodus that leads to neighborly generosity is the primary mark of the covenantal society. That memory in practice issues in a subordination of the economy to the social fabric with focal attention to the marginated who are without social access, social power, or social advocacy. The covenant is an assertion of interdependence that flies in the face of acquisitiveness that regards everyone else as a competitor for the same commodity or as threat to my self-securing.
~ cf. “A Welcome for Others” in Mandate to Difference.
This observation has a great deal of potential explanatory power within our contemporary situation.
By and large, I believe that the Church in the West has failed to live up to the sort of neighborliness that is commanded in Deuteronomy. By and large, we like to engage in token acts of charity (which are also signs of good citizenship), but which mostly leave our lives untouched, and free us to live like those around us, pursue that which they are pursuing, and enjoy that which they are enjoying. Indeed, when one suggests that our churches should, perhaps, engage in a form of neighborliness that is closer to the model set by Deuteronomy (and further established by the likes of Isaiah and Jesus), one can expect to encounter a great deal of resistance from those same churches.
How can this be?
I believe that one of the central reasons why this is the case is because we have lost our ability to meaningfully remember the Exodus. Sure, we know the story but it does not register with us an any meaningful sort of way because, by and large, we have never experienced anything comparable to that event.
What Brueggemann calls the “counterintuitive economic practice” of the community of faith in Deuteronomy is premised upon a recent encounter with YHWH who has been revealed as the “counterintuitive economist.” This encounter is still fresh in the mind of the Hebrews and this is why (when the Law is given) they embrace the form of neighborliness that it requires. The commands of Deut 23.15-16, commands that essentially make slavery an untenable institution, make a good deal of sense to a community of recently liberated slaves. Unfortunately, they make less and less sense to, and hold less and less persuasive power over, those who have never experienced slavery, and those who have no memory of being slaves in Egypt. Thus, the Israelites become more and more like the nations around them and forget the form of neighborliness that the God of Deuteronomy (the Father of Jesus) requires.
And what of us? We have not experienced slavery in Egypt. What sort of experiences have we had that parallel the Exodus? Few, if any. After all, are we not a people who now live with the memory of the failure of all recent attempts at liberation? Around the world we have seen movements of liberation that have self-destructed (like Marxism in Eastern Europe), and movements of liberation that have been crushed by other forces (like Socialism in Latin America). Even, or perhaps especially, in our own nations we have seen the near total failure of all the major movements of liberation and resistance that arose in the '60s and '70s (and which were briefly resurrected in the late '90s).
What is the lesson that we have learned? That those who cannot be co-opted or bought are tortured and destroyed, and probably aren't even trustworthy anyway. Therefore, we arrive, in the words of Deleuze and Guattari (who made this point before Fukuyama) at “the end of history.”
So what, then, does our memory tell us? That any form of “Exodus” today is impossible. Consequently, we must resign ourselves to making our homes here, and doing the best with what we've been given.
And what of liberation? Liberation is simply the offer of the forgiveness of sins that frees us from the guilt that we feel for living in such a compromised state. “I have invested in oil.” Lord, have mercy. “My clothes were made by children.” Christ, have mercy. “I hoard.” Lord, have mercy. “I consume.” Christ, have mercy. “I am wealthy, and healthy, and satisfied.” Mea Culpa; Lord, have mercy. “I participate in structures of oppression and crucifixion.” Mea Maxima Culpa; Christ, have mercy. Our consciences having been (somewhat uneasily) appeased, we find freedom in our slavery, and in our enslavement of others.
Thus, we are held in bondage by a fatal, and fatalistic, memory. What hope do what have, us cynics and realists of the twenty-first century, of recovering our memory of the Exodus? How can we begin to remember the Exodus in such a way that we are able to begin to recover the neighborliness that is required of us?
I know of one way, and in order to explore that way it is worth looking at the example of Moses. In particular, I am struck by what we find in Ex 2.11:
Now it came about in those days, when Moses had grown up, that he went out to his brethren and looked on their hard labors; and he saw an Egyptian beating a Hebrew, one of his brethren.
Here, we have Moses, raised and educated as a child of one of Pharaoh's daughters, engaging in a marvelous activity. First, note the double emphasis within the passage on the Hebrew slaves as Moses' “brethren.” Moses, although close to the royal family and Egyptian power, chooses to identify with the slaves as his own brothers and sisters. But he also does more than this. He goes out to them, and he looks upon their hardship. Leaving the comforts of his upbringing, he goes to where the slaves are, and he sees, and hears, and smells, what they are experiencing. The result? Moses is converted. He will never again be situated in places of Egyptian power, nor will he embrace the “gifts” that he has been given in order to institute whatever sort of reform he can hope for realistically. Instead, Moses will go on to be used by God to bring about the Exodus, and to offer the Hebrews the tradition of neighborliness that one finds in Deuteronomy.
So how does remembering Moses before the Exodus help us to remember the Exodus itself? Because the first step to remembering the Exodus is to remember slavery. Moses remembers slavery, not in some sort of hypothetical manner, but by going to the places where slavery is the worst. Furthermore, he remembers slavery by identifying himself in and with those slaves; he sees their torn skin and wasted bodies, he hears the noise of their cries, and the silence of their hopelessness, and he smells the odour of death rising from their sweat and their sores — and in this seeing, hearing, and smelling, he discovers the same thing in himself. He comes to know himself as a slave among slaves (is this not the same trajectory that was followed by Archbishop Romero? A conservative, comfortably situated in a place of power, it was not until Romero experienced slavery through the assassination of his friend Rutilio Grande that he became capable of remembering the Exodus and pursuing Deuteronomic neighborliness).
So we too, if we are to remember the Exodus, must begin by remembering slavery by going to the places where bondage is the worst. We must “go out,” we must “look upon,” and we must identify as our “brothers and sisters,” those who suffer the most today if we are to become capable of remembering the Exodus and engaging in the form of neighborliness established by Deuteronomy.