In my recent comments on homosexuality, I attempted to demonstrate that arguments based upon the ‘naturalness’, or lack thereof, of homosexuality cannot be based upon Gen 1-2, when we take those texts at face value. Rather, those who read Gen 1-2 as a condemnation of gay unions, tend to filter the text at hand through the lens of a particular (and rather simplistic) reading of Ro 1. According to these exegetes, Ro 1 suggests that homosexuality is unnatural, and therefore immoral.
Now here is an interesting idea.
Paul’s comments about the ‘unnatural’ nature of homosexuality are based upon his experiences as an observant Jew, living within the diaspora, during the first century CE. From this perspective, I suspect that a case could be made that Paul’s comments about what is ‘natural’ or ‘unnatural’ are based upon his observations of nature. That homosexuality would be considered ‘unnatural’ is just as obvious as, oh, the fact the men should have short hair and women should have long hair (1 Cor 11.14-15: “Does not the very nature of things teach you that if a man has long hair, it is a disgrace to him, but that if a woman has long hair, it is her glory?”).
This leads to two further ideas.
(1) Those who wish to cling to the ‘natural’ argument in Ro 1, need to demonstrate how this ‘natural’ argument is more significant, long-lasting, useful, or whatever, than the ‘natural’ argument Paul makes in 1 Cor 11. (Good luck with that!)
(2) Those who wish to cling to the ‘natural’ argument in Ro 1, now do so against what we have observed in nature. Now this is interesting because, if I am correct that Paul believed that the unnaturalness of homosexuality was actually easily observable in nature, then this position risks contradicting itself. You see, it is now clear that (for many people) homosexuality is not a choice, and homosexuality has also been well documented within nature, and within the actions of other species. In response to these observations, those who wish to assert that homosexuality is ‘unnatural’ simply assert that these things are signs of the truly pervasive nature of the fall. But note what then occurs: (a) that which is ‘natural’ is increasingly defined by that which exists outside of the realm of nature — and so talk of the ‘natural’ is increasingly supranatural (i.e. there is essentially no proof from nature — say the discovery of a ‘gay gene’ or whatever — which would then be convincing to those who hold this position); and (b) Paul’s method of argumentation is reversed and, seemingly, discounted. Paul makes an argument based upon his observations of what appears to be obvious in nature, and now some Christians wish to affirm Paul’s argument while simultaneously arguing that we should not make arguments based upon our observations of what appears to be obvious in nature!
Without Excuse
One more than one occasion on this blog, I’ve expressed some of the dis-ease I feel about sharing stories from my encounters with those who are marginalized and exploited (most recently here: http://poserorprophet.livejournal.com/137015.html). Given the way in which we have learned to be entertained, rather than transformed, by stories of disaster, I have often wondered if I am simply further exploiting those who are vulnerable.
Still, I continue to tell many of their stories. Even though transformation seems rare, I have clung to the hope that it still comes for some. Mostly this is the sentiment that I have expressed when writing about these things on my blog.
However, there is another side to this. For those who learn these things — those who discover the evils that are performed in their own backyards, and perpetuated by the structures in which they participate — even for those people I continue to tell my stories. At least, I think, now they are without excuse. Now they cannot claim ignorance. Now, when Jesus says to them, “I was hungry and you gave me nothing to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me nothing to drink, I was a stranger and you did not invite me in, I needed clothes and you did not clothe me, I was sick and in prison and you did not look after me”, they will not be able to say, “Lord, when did we see you hungry or thirsty or a stranger or needing clothes or sick or in prison, and did not help you?” (cf. Mt 25). Because now, at least, they know that their Lord is hungry, naked, sick, and oppressed here in their own cities, here where they live work and breath, here where it is not so hard to do something about these things.
Because of this, the enigmatic commission that Isaiah receives (cf. Is 6) seems less troubling to me. Behold: an “ever hearing, but never understanding” people! An “ever seeing, but never perceiving” people! So be it. Now, at least, they are without excuse.
Re-presenting Death with Guillermo del Toro
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.
On Genuinely Encountering Scripture
I recently came across this line: “Always make time to read authors with whom you know you will profoundly disagree.” This, I think, is a good dictum, and one I have attempted to follow in my so-called scholarly pursuits.
However, I think that this dictum is especially apropos within contemporary Christian circles. In particular, I would suggest that Christians should spend a little more time carefully reading the bible; for they might find that this book, more than most others, contains that which they will find profoundly disagreeable. More often than not, this book doesn’t say what we think it says, and it doesn’t confirm what we want it to say.
Thus, to genuinely encounter this text is to be confronted with the necessity of conversion. And conversion, well, that’s frequently a messy and painful (but oh-so-glorious!) thing.
In many ways the conversion that this text offers us, is like the salvation Aslan offers to Eustace-the-dragon. In The Voyage of the Dawn Treader Eustace is converted into a dragon and Aslan comes to him to change him back into a human. In order to accomplish this transformation, Aslan tells Eustace to undress and get into a pool of water. This is how Eustace describes the event:
I was just going to say that I couldn’t undress because I hadn’t any clothes on when I suddenly thought that dragons are snaky sort of things and snakes can cast their skins. Oh, of course, thought I, that’s what the lion means. So I started scratching myself and my scales began coming off all over the place. And then I scratched a little deeper and, instead of just scales coming off here and there, my whole skin started peeling off beautifully… But just as I was going to put my feet into the water I looked down and saw that they were all hard and rough and wrinkled and scaly just as they had been before. Oh, that’s all right, said I, it only means I had another smaller suit on underneath the first one, and I’ll have to get out of it too. So I scratched and tore again and this under skin peeled off beautifully and out I stepped… But the same thing happened again… [and then again]… Then the lion said — but I don’t know if it spoke — “you will have to let me undress you.” I was afraid of his claws, I can tell you, but I was pretty nearly desperate now. So I just lay flat down on my back to let him do it. The very first tear he made was so deep that I thought it had gone right into my heart. And when he began pulling the skin off, it hurt worse than anything I’ve ever felt.”
I imagine we must go through a similar process to truly encounter this text. It takes many readings to strip away all that we have imposed upon it and, although the first few readings might not be all that painful, the deeper we go, the more we feel the claws — “sharper than any double-edged sword” (Heb 4.12).
Let the reader be so warned.
Eschatology, Ontology, and Meaning: A Rough Sketch
[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.
Unicorns Exist
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.
Jumper
Yesterday evening I spent about half an hour watching a woman struggling with life and death.
I was working an evening shift, and was summoned to the rooftop patio of our (residential) building. From there, one of my co-workers said, “Jumper,” and pointed up to the Vancouver Harbour Centre (pictured here: http://www.vancouverlookout.com/lookout-photos/tower/11_hi.jpg). Looking up, I saw a woman standing on a ledge on the outside of the building, about 43 floors from the ground (130 metres/430 feet). Apparently she had broken one of the windows on the viewing floor and climbed outside before anybody had time to react (here is a picture of the viewing floor: http://www.vancouverlookout.com/lookout-photos/high/272.JPG; and here is the view facing towards my work — the view that the woman would have had: http://www.vancouverlookout.com/lookout-photos/high/269.JPG).
It was an extremely odd experience to just stand there and watch this woman in the sky. Part way through, one of the residents in the building showed up with a camera with a telephoto lens, and we watched the woman’s movement in detail. She would sit on the broken window sill, then she would stand for long periods of time, facing out, with her arms outstretched as if she were preparing to fly… or being nailed to a cross. At other times, she would grab onto the edge with one hand and lean out looking down towards the ground.
It’s strange what goes through your mind when you witness this sort of thing. How can I think, “Lord, have mercy, save that woman’s life!” at the same time as “Wow, I’m going to be able to say I was there when that woman jumps!”? Shame on me.
The funny thing was, I think that everybody watching from my work was feeling the same thing — everyone was expressing dismay or horror, but it felt as though everybody was secretly hoping that the woman would jump. This, I think, is the voyeurism I referred to in my last post. It’s the sort of thing we end up feeling when things like the nightly news are presented as a tantalizing form of entertainment (“Ooooo! Did you see those pictures from Myanmar?” “Aaaaah! Did you see that video from China’s earthquake zone?”).
I think that these (voyeuristic) feelings are also an expression of the emptiness, or meaninglessness, we feel when we think about our own lives. We want to be part of something bigger, we want to be part of some event, that will take us beyond the confines of our day-to-day living. That’s why we ask each other: “Where were you when you first heard about 9/11?” and are able to provide answers to that question. Our answers affirms that we, in our own ways, were a part of that event. I think we find some sort of meaning or significance in that. Consequently, it’s almost as if we thrive on disaster. We claim to be horrified when we hear of things like cyclones, earthquakes, jumpers, school shootings, but I can’t help but wonder if we’re really thinking, “Ooooo! Let me see that!” or “Aaaah! I wish I was there to see that!”
That’s why we find disasters that aren’t caught on camera to be so much more boring. And that’s why we want to see the footage of kids jumping from school windows, of towers falling to the ground, of dead bodies littering beaches, and of towns reduced to rubble. Such footage provides us both with entertainment and with a sense of significance, a sense of being a part of something larger-than-life. Welcome to the Society of the Spectacle!
I was thinking all these things last night, as I watched that woman stand on the ledge. She stood there for a long time. The sky got dark. It got cold. It was raining intermittently. And still she stood there.
I spent a lot of that time praying for her (perhaps in an effort to do penance for the part of me that actually wanted to see her jump?). But the longer she stood there, and the longer I prayed, the more other questions began to run through my mind. I wondered: what is the point of praying these prayers? After all, aren’t there thousands of people around the world raising equally desparate prayers on a daily basis, and finding that those prayers go unanswered? Why would God intervene to save this woman, when God regularly chooses not to intervene in so many other equally horrible, or even more horrible, situations? Furthermore, people everywhere are suffering and dying and that never seems to bother any of us too much. Why were we suddenly so keen to see this woman live? How can we suddenly claim to care for the fate of this stranger, when mostly we live our lives with total disregard of the death and suffering that is all around us? Isn’t that a bit hypocritical? Isn’t it a bit theatrical? Are we just playing the part that we think we are required to play in this event?
No, I replied to myself, I don’t think that it is quite as bad as all that. Rather than being a sign of hypocrisy, it is possible that nearness to death (briefly?) awakens us to the significance of life, and of every life. So we pray our prayers, even in light of God’s silence and absence, because we are committed to life, and because we have seen those rare and wondrous moments when new life has overcome death. Then, hopefully, we walk away from such nearness to death with a renewed commitment to life, and to sharing life with others. This, I think, is the true litmus test as to whether or not such an event is genuinely encountered or if it simply experienced as a form of entertainment, and an exciting story to tell at parties (or on blogs!).
The woman stood on that ledge for about an hour and a half. I only watched for about half an hour. At one point it looked as though she was jumping, and I thought I was going to throw up. Instead, I went back down to my office to do some work. Later on, a co-worker radioed me to let me know that the woman was safe. She had changed her mind and climbed back inside the broken window.
Why I am Drawn to the Places and People with Whom I Journey
Recently, I was speaking with a computer programmer who works for a large multinational marketing firm. We both got talking about our respective jobs, and I spoke a little about working with street-involved youth and survival sex workers. In response, this fellow expressed puzzlement as to what leads people like me to do what we do. Granted, he respects the work, but he couldn’t help wondering what in the world is it that makes a person think, “Hey, I’d really like to work with survival sex workers! That would be… fun!”
In my own way, I’ve been thinking that question over for a long time. What is it, I’ve wondered, that continually draws me to the places and people that most others would rather avoid at all costs? There are a few options that anybody in my position must consider.
(1) Perhaps there is an element of voyeurism at work here. Am I simply searching for an adventure (I did read a lot of adventure stories as a kid), and seeking out these places and people because of the adrenaline rush I can get, or because of the larger than life stories I can gather? Am I some sort of leech that feeds off of the sufferings of others? After all, don’t our entertainment and news media (and there’s thin line between the two!) train us to be voyeurs in this way? Have I simply been less satisfied than others with the high that the evening news offers? You see, after awhile, even watching live broadcasts of school shootings can get boring… maybe I’ve had to go and seek out greater voyeuristic highs elsewhere. Maybe I’m just ‘chasing the dragon’ but the dragon isn’t heroin, it’s the trauma of others.
(2) Perhaps there is an element of machismo at work here. I was always an extremely quiet and frightened child — I was terrified of going to Sunday School classes, never mind hanging out with misfits in alleyways and rundown bars! Granted, I started confronting those fears in my second year of highschool, but how much of what I am doing is motivated by the desire to prove that I am not afraid? Further, it isn’t enough to just prove this to myself, so maybe I need to prove this to others — hence I share stories of encounters I have had with violence, if walking alleyways at night, of bringing fugitives into my home — but there’s always a wonderful pastoral, ethical, or theological twist I can put on these stories; I can hide my own insecurities, and my own image-building (i.e. self-branding) behind a wonderful screen of ‘radical piety’ or whatever else you want to call it.
As I am trying to be honest, I must confess that I expect that there are elements of both of these things within me. I hate to admit it, but the fact that I despise these things so much when I see them in others, is a sure sign that they likely exist within myself (i.e. I often find that I most despise those who manifest things I try to hide about myself, and I suspect that many of us are this way). Indeed, when I recognise these things within myself, I sometimes think about leaving the work, the places, and the people, and fleeing to some anonymous locale.
But I don’t.
And this is why: by far, the single greatest thing that draws me to these places and people, the thing that draws me inexorably, is the presence of our crucified Lord, who resides therein. To my own amazement I have discovered that such places, and such people, are often overflowing with the presence of God. What else can explain the existence of vibrant communities within neighbourhoods that stand condemned? What else can explain the existence of radical acts of sacrifice, sharing, love, and solidarity, amongst those who are used, despised, and forsaken by the vast majority of us? What else can explain the joy that bursts forth with such freedom from those who, by all of our standards, should be completely miserable? It is all of these things, all of these sacraments of God’s presence with, and within, ‘the least of these’ that draws me most forcefully to places and people of exile.
And so, with fear and trembling, I walk amongst these places and people — afraid that I, too, will use them in some sick voyeuristic or self-affirming manner, and yet unable to turn back because my salvation is only to be found here. It is not flight, but immersion, that will reshape my desires, and my identity.
Indeed, the places and people of exile grant me a full immersion into the wounded side of Christ — Thomas was told to thrust his hand into Christ’s side, and he discovered his salvation in that invitation; I have jumped over my head into Christ’s torn and bloodied side, and walk within it, eat and sleep it, and huddle close to the others who reside therein; and together we await the day when all wounds — even the wounds of Christ that still throb and bleed — are healed.
I invite any and all to join us, for I believe that the salvation of all of us is caught up in that invitation.
For its part, theology also asked in radical fashion about the locus for finding God. Porfirio Miranda responded, “The question is not whether or not someone looks for God, but whether he looks for God where God himself said he was.”
~ Jon Sobrino, quoting Miranda’s Marx and the Bible, in No Salvation Outside the Poor.
Some (brief) Follow-Up Regarding the Blessing of Gay Unions
Well, I’ve been out of town for awhile, but hope to return to writing soon. Until then, I thought I should mention the extended discussion I’ve been having with a couple of Evangelical fellows on another blog, wherein one fellow wrote a response to the thoughts that I recently recorded about Gen 1-2.
Here’s the link: http://civitatedei.wordpress.com/2008/05/04/poser-or-prophet-and-gay-marriage/.
Be warned — if you support gay unions, or are gay yourself, you might end up being rather offended but what some of these other fellows have to say, so read at your own risk. That said, feel free to jump into the trenches with me!
On Loving Our Enemies: A Postscript on Violence
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”?