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

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

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

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

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