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.
God's Lesser Known Preferential Options
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
On Humour and Playfulness
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.
Church and Government: The Pragmatic Angle
Stated simply this is what I would like to propose:
If we were to invest the same amount of time and energy into pursuing change through the Church that we invest into pursuing change through the government, then the payoff would be exponentially greater.
Sure, I won't deny that positive change can come through the government (or through the rather limited avenues for change that the government allows). However, it takes a great deal of time and energy to create even a little change, and big changes only occur very rarely.
I suspect that when we work through the Church we will be able to create much larger changes with much less time and much less energy.
Let me provide an example of what I'm talking about.
Homelessness is obviously a major problem in Canadian urban centres. Affordable housing might very well be the greatest need right now in places like Vancouver and Toronto. Pursuing change through the government requires a great deal of lobbying, of protesting, of capturing (and holding) the attention of the media, of rationalising, and of imposing constant pressure upon politicians, corporations, and policy-makers. Engaging in that process requires a great deal of time and energy and the end result is always minimal. The government creates 50 more units of affordable housing, or offers to open up 40 more shelter beds (in the winter only), that sort of thing. Given that a city like Toronto has 50,000+ homeless people, this is akin to putting a band-aid on a severed artery.
So, what is the alternative to this that the Church offers? Really, it's quite simple. We take the words of Isaiah 58 seriously and “bring the homeless poor into our homes.” Rather than begging and pleading with the government, we simply become the change we seek elsewhere. Rather than wasting a great deal of time and energy asking the government to open new homes, we simply open our homes to the homeless.
And so on and so forth. Rather than waiting for the government to eradicate poverty (something that it will never do), we can become the sort of community that is described in Acts wherein a form of sharing exists that leads to the observation that “there were no needy persons among them” (Acts 4). It's all rather simple (which isn't to say that it is easy). All we need is a little imagination and a little courage; a little hope, a little faith, a little love.
Why waste all that time and energy elsewhere? Really, I can't help but think of something Jesus once said (brace yourself, Stephen & Co.!) in the Sermon on the Mount:
Do not give what is holy to dogs, and do not throw your pearls before swine, or they will trample them under their feet, and turn and tear you to pieces.
Of course, the “dogs” and the “swine” are the institutional Powers — Businesses, Parties, and Laws involved (not the people, like Stephen & Co., whom I respect a great deal).
[I will now run for cover, and convince myself that I am right regardless of what is written in the comments.]
Understandings of Power (why Christians should avoid being in the government)
[Update: After adding some consideration of the term 'power-as-appeal', I have substituted the term 'power-as-invitation' for the previously used term 'power-as-persuasion'.]
Thesis 1. Following the examples of Jesus and Paul, Christians should not seek to wield 'power-as-force' over those who are not members of the Church.
This thesis requires some explanation.
(1a) What do I mean by the expression 'power-as-force'? By using that expression I am referring to power that is exercised in such a way that it leaves those on whom it acts no alternative but to comply or be punished — it forces compliance. Power-as-force is the form of power that is exercised by the State through the military, the police, the courts, the prisons, the hospitals, and all the other institutions that discipline and punish the general population (I am, of course, indebted to Foucault in this regard). Power-as-force says to a person: “You must do this,” or “You cannot do that” and “If you do 'this', then we will imprison you” or “If you do 'that', then we will hospitalize you.” Significantly, power-as-force operates on people regardless of their belief-systems. You do not need to ascribe to the fundamental beliefs of the system of power-as-force, you simply must obey or face the consequences.
(1b) When we look to the example of Jesus, we discover that this is precisely the form of power that he rejected. Of course, Jesus did exercise power-as-force over some things:
-nature
-sickness
-demons
-death
-some property, including animals (the Temple incident!)
However, the key thing to realise is that Jesus never exercised power-as-force over any people outside of the community of discipleship. It is only within the community of disciples that Jesus exercises a minimal form of power-as-force (by issuing commands that require obedience).
(1c) We see the same thing in the letters of Paul. Paul is willing to issue commands, and expects obedience from his churches. But he thinks it is a mistake to try and extend that power-as-force outside of the community of faith. Thus, he writes:
I have written you in my letter not to associate with sexually immoral people — not at all meaning the people of this world who are immoral… What business is it of mine to judge those outside the church? Are you not to judge those inside? God will judge those outside (cf. 1 Cor 5).
Paul is not interested in judging those outside of the Church, nor is he interested in holding them to certain standards of behaviour. He is, however, very much interested in engaging in those practices within the community of faith.
Thesis 2. Therefore, Christians should seek change within the world through the Church, which practices 'power-as-invitation', not through the government which practices power-as-force.
Again some explanation is required.
(2a) What do I mean by the expression 'power-as-invitation'? I do not mean the pursuit of 'seeker-sensitive' church models, nor do I mean the ongoing fascination with presenting a 'relevant' form of Christianity. Rather, I understand power-as-invitation to be what comes when the Church models an alternate way of sharing life together. The Johannine material captures this well — we will be known, within the world, by the love that we have for one another (this emphasis also appears in the Synoptics and in the Pauline material). Of course, that love is to be an overflowing love, and just as we are to be known for how we love one another, we are also to be known for how we love the 'poor', and even for how we love our 'enemies'. Such a way of sharing life together does not exercise power-as-force, but it does exercise power-as-invitation, because it is open to others and will appeal to many. Indeed, the term 'power-as-appeal' might be an even better term for this sort of power, as the word 'appeal' implies attractiveness (i.e. “I find that way of life to be very appealing”) but also implies the sort of weakness that is found in begging (i.e. “I appeal to you as Christians”).
(2b) Therefore, rather than imposing demands upon those outside the community of faith (which is precisely what the government does when, for example, it demands that pacifist pay taxes — taxes that will help to fund the war effort), the Church issues an invitation to those outside. Governments demand, the Church invites.
(2c) Thus, we see why Christian involvement in the government is, despite good intentions, and despite whatever positive impact it might have, largely a mistake — a mistake that, IMHO, results from a misunderstanding of how Christians are to relate to power. Simply stated: the government operates by using a form of power that is denied to Christian engagement with those outside the Church, and it is impossible to participate within government without accepting this underlying power structure.
Remember the Exodus
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.
Summer Books (July & August)
Well, I had intended to write more detailed reviews of some of the books that I read in July. Unfortunately, I have had little time for reviews (or blogging) over the last month and now I find myself at a place where August has come and gone and I am only just finishing July’s reviews. Therefore, I am posting my reading list in an incomplete state as I don’t know when I’ll have time to get to writing my “reviews” of the books I read in August. I might try to poke away at them, but if there is one book in particular that appears on August’s list that folks would like me to review, then I would be willing to do that. Anyway, these are the books that I read this summer (most of which were read in preparation for a seminar I am taking on “Christianity and Capitalism” — say what you want about “postmodern” philosophy and theory, it is still an important tool for answering the question: “What time is it?”).
July Books
1. Jesus of Nazareth: From the Baptism in the Jordan to the Transfiguration by Joseph Ratzinger.
I have already reviewed this book in some detail in a separate post (cf. http://poserorprophet.livejournal.com/117003.html) so I’ll say no more about it here.
2. Man on His Own: Essays in the Philosophy of Religion by Ernst Bloch.
This book is a collection of pieces selected from Bloch’s oeuvre. By and large, the essays were incredibly stimulating and provocative. Despite the fact that Bloch is an atheist and (gasp!) a Marxist, I think that he has an excellent grasp on some of the major themes within the biblical narrative (his reflections on the exodus, on the prophets, and on Jesus and the kingdom of God reminded my of both Walter Brueggemann and N. T. Wright) although he does seem to go wrong with Paul (i.e. he sets Paul over and against Jesus). In fact, having read their books together, I almost wonder if Bloch has a better understanding of Christianity than Ratzinger! With that in mind, let me quote from what Moltmann says in the introduction to this collection:
God’s defenders are not necessarily closer to God than God’s accusers. It is not Job’s theological friends who are justified, but Job is. In the Psalms, protest and jubilation ring out in the same voice. Wherever in history the combination ceased to work, the theologians would learn as much about God from atheists as the atheists could perhaps learn from the theologians.
3. Forget Foucault by Jean Baudrillard.
Because I think so highly of Foucault, I thought it might be worthwhile to read what some of his detractors have to say. Consequently, I thought I would pick up this piece by Baudrillard (which also includes an interview Sylvere Lotringer conducted with Baudrillard entitled “Forget Baudrillard”). To be honest, I have some rather mixed feelings about this book.
Essentially Baudrillard argues that Foucault, far from engaging in a “discourse of truth,” is actually engaging in a “mythic discourse” that simply mirrors the power Foucault describes. Furthermore, Baudrillard goes on to argue that Foucault is able to speak so compelling of power, only because power is dead. Baudrillard pushes Foucault’s thinking “over the edge” and argues that power hasn’t simply been disseminated, rather, it has completely dissolved. He then spends the bulk of this essay making the same argument in relation to what Foucault has to say about sexuality. Essentially, according to Baudrillard, Foucault’s work is “magisterial but obsolete.”
Over against Foucault, Baudrillard (at least as far as I can tell — I’ll admit that I found this essay somewhat dense) argues that it is better to think through the contemporary situation through the lenses of production and seduction. He argues that “production” should be understood not as material manufacture but as a “rendering visible” or a causing to appear (pro-ducere). “Seduction,” therefore, “withdraws something from the visible order and so runs counter to production.” Furthermore, Baudrillard understands reality as essentially fluid and devoid of meaning and so Foucault’s discourse on sex and power is then understood as a form of seduction (and the mirror of the powers Foucault assaults). Thus, because he understands reality as “the locus of simulacrum of accumulation against death,” and “no more than a stockpile of dead matter, dead bodies, and dead language,” Baudrillard argues that it is seduction that is stronger than both power and sexuality (which are caught up in illusions about the real and, consequently, fall into the realm of the imaginary).
Thus, the true secret of power, and sexuality, is that they don’t exist (indeed, the secret of the great politicians was knowing that power did not exist). Consequently, Baudrillard argues that the way to respond to power is not to resist it but to “dare” those who hold power to push it to its limit. He writes:
A challenge to power to be power, power of the sort that is total, irreversible, without scruple, and with no limit to its violence. No form of power dares to go that far… And so it is in facing this unanswerable challenge that power starts to break up.
What does Baudrillard mean by this sort of challenge? I’m not entirely sure, but I think that he means that, rather than acknowledging power and struggling with it, we should simply choose to disregard it… and in this way we force its hand. This form of action, perhaps, can be seen in the early Christians who said, “Caesar may tell us not to call Jesus ‘Lord,’ and he may threaten to kill us if we do, but we will continue to call Jesus ‘Lord,’ regardless.” In this way power was pushed to its limit, and broken up.
So, what is one to do with all this? To begin with, I don’t entirely buy Baudrillard’s critique of Foucault, rooted as it is in nihilism. If our discourse is somehow related to truth (and not simply to myth), if our concepts and structures are somehow related to reality (and are not just simulacra) then I think that Baudrillard’s case is undermined. Indeed, part of the reason why I am so attracted to Foucault is because of the way in which his discourse on power parallels what the Pauline (and deutero-Pauline) literature has to say about the Powers (cf. Walter Wink’s trilogy).
Furthermore, I think that I was being rather gracious to Baudrillard when I used the example of the early Christians to illustrate his case. Rather than leading to that sort of “radical” lifestyle, Baudrillard seems to live a life that says, “Look, none of this is worth anything anyway, so why waste your time fighting anything.” Ultimately, Baudrillard engages in philosophy because he finds it amusing. And so he lives a rather comfortable life, plays with words, and waits for death.
4. The System of Objects by Jean Baudrillard.
I found this book to be so exciting that I immediately went out and picked up two more by Baudrillard (who, in this work anyway, reminded my a great deal of both Barthes and McLuhan — indeed, unless one is not at least a little familiar with these authors, adjusting to Baudrillard’s topics of discussion may take some work).
This book, as the title suggests, is Baudrillard’s attempt to provide a “system of objects” — i.e. to classify objects the same way that we have classified flora or fauna. However, rather than simply classifying objects by their function, Baudrillard is especially concerned to provide a system of meanings, thereby exploring the process whereby people relate to objects, and the ways in which those objects impact human behaviour and relationships. “In sum,” Baudrillard argues, “the description of the system of objects cannot be divorced from a critique of that system’s practical ideology.”
Consequently, Baudrillard goes on to explore the system of objects in four ways — he explores the “functional” system, the “non-functional” system, the “metafunctional and dysfunctional” system, and the “socio-ideological” system.
In his exploration of the “functional” system (also called “objective discourse”), Baudrillard examines things like interior design, furniture arrangements and materials, colours, lighting, clocks, mirrors, wood, glass, and atmosphere. In the premodern period, Baudrillard argues that the arrangement and use of these things perpetuate a certain ideology. That is to say: “[t]he real dimension they occupy is captive to the moral dimension which it is their job to signify.” Consequently, in the modern period, with the increasing drive for “mobility, flexibility and convenience,” what we see is a form of liberation of the object, as the object is no longer required to signify old moral categories. However, Baudrillard emphasises that what is liberated is the function of the object, and not the object itself. As he says: “[Objects] are thus indeed free as functional objects — that is they have the freedom to function and… that is practically the only freedom they have.” Of course, the corollary of this is that “just so long as the object is liberated only in its function, man equally is liberated only as user of that object.” Consequently, whereas the premodern obsession was moral, the obsession today is functional. People have become “interior designers” living in a world that is no longer given; it is a world that they themselves construct.
If this is the case, if there is a technical need for design, then Baudrillard argues that the functional system is only completed when a cultural need for “atmosphere” is also considered. In particular, in his study of colours, “hot” and “cold” tones, “natural” and “cultural” wood, and other objects, Baudrillard examines the way in which atmosphere is created by a nostalgic echoing of the state of nature, resulting in a (contradictory, and therefore illusory) “naturalness.” What we end up with is “simulacrum of nature… thriving not on nature but on the Idea of Nature.” Of course, the key thing to realise is that all the values being ascribed here (from the way in which we value “warm” colours, to the way in which we value a wooden table more than a synthetic table) are all entirely abstract. Consequently, Baudrillard concludes that “the consistency here is not the natural consistency of a unified taste but the consistency of a cultural system of signs.” Therefore, “‘man the interior designer’ is always coupled with ‘man of relationship and atmosphere’, and the two together give us ‘functional man’.”
Consequently, in concluding this section, Baudrillard argues that the key thing to realise is that functionality has ceased to be about attaining a certain end or goal and is not about the ability to be integrated into an overall scheme. This leaves us with a fundamentally ambiguous system that is, one the one hand, about organization and calculation, and, on the other hand, about connotation and disavowal.
From discussing the “functional” system, Baudrillard turns to discussing the “nonfunctional” system (subjective discourse”) by focusing on “marginal objects” that seem to fall outside of the system he has just described — objects like antiques, for example. However, the central point Baudrillard makes here is that these marginal objects are not an anomaly relative to this system because “the functionality of modern objects becomes historicalness in teh case of the antique object… without this implying that the object ceases to function as a sign within the system.” Thus, the role of the antique is to signify — specifically, to signify time. Just as with “naturalness,” so also with time: history is simultaneously invoked and denied. Essentially, the antique provides the functional system with its myth of origins, for whereas the functional object is efficient, the mythical antique is fully realised — it is “authentic.” Thus, Baudrillard concludes: “Fundamentally, the imperialism that subjugates nature with technical objects and the one that domesticates cultures with antiques are one and the same.”
This signification of time and authenticity within marginal objects also explains the passion that many people have for collecting. Objects that are collected exist, not to function, but to be possessed. Such collections are endowed with the abstraction that is necessary for possession (i.e. they are abstracted from their function and brought into a direct relationship with the collecting subject). Of course, “rare” or “unique” objects are especially prized in collections and the possession of an absolutely singular object is prized because it allows to possessor to recognise herself in the object as an absolutely singular being. This is so because, Baudrillard argues, “what you really collect is always yourself.” However, this form of possession is a tempered mode of perversion: rather than apprehending the object qua object, one transforms the object into the paradigm of various other things which are then seen as referring back to the perverting subject. Ultimately, Baudrillard concludes, “the collector strives to reoconstitute a discourse that is transparent to him, a discourse whose signifiers he controls and whose reference par excellence is himself.”
Having now considered objects from the point of view of their “objective systematization” and their “subjective systematization,” Baudrillard now turns to the “metafunctional and dysfunctional” system and the issue of connotation. In particular, Baudrillard argues that technical connotation is epitomised by the notion of automatism — which grants the object, in its function, “the connotation of an absolute.” Now there is some irony here: because the degree of perfection in a machine is considered to be proportional to its automatism, functionality is increasingly sacrificed and, consequently, risking the arrest of technical advance. The reason why we are so interested in automatism relates back to the ways in which we relate to objects as images of ourselves and objects are increasingly invested with the autonomy of human consciousness, power, control, and personhood (which is why this section is subtitled, “Gadgets and Robots”). Furthermore, this pursuit of automatism explains the category of objects that Baudrillard calls “gadgets,” “gizmos,” and “thingummyjigs.” These are objects that exist without any operational value — they simply function in an automated way. Thus, functionality with this objects is not merely their function, but also their mystery, a mystery that “mystifies man by submerging him in a functional dream, but it equally well mystifies the object.” All of this, then, leads to the “superobject” of science fiction: the (metafunctional) robot. Baudrillard writes: “The robot is the symbolic microcosm of both man and the world… it simultaneously replaces both man and the world, synthesizing absolute functionality and absolute anthropomorphism.” Consequently, we can see a concomitant dysfunctionality running throughout this system of projection which refers all real conflicts to the technical sphere. It appears as though a “short circuit” has occurred wherein, automatism and projection, threaten to end any actual functionality.
This finally leads Baudrillard to reflect upon the socio-ideological system of objects, which relates to consumption. Here Baudrillard notes the use of a “model/series” scheme (wherein the privileged few enjoy the “models” and the less privileged majority consume from “series” that reference the “models”) that is not premised upon an object’s practical functionality but is premised upon the ways in which an object can be “personalized.” Through a proliferation of choices, the consumer is able to transcend the “strict necessity” of a purchase in order to be personally committed the object that is purchased. However, the elements that personalize an object are what Baudrillard calls “inessential differences” (differences in colour, in cut, etc.). Consequently, because these differences are inessential, personalization and integration end up going hand in hand, as our choosing places us squarely within the socio-economic order. This combination is “the miracle of the system” — a miracle that causes people, in their insistence on being subjects, success only be becoming objects of economic demand.
Further, these differences aren’t only inessential, they can also become parasitic as they begin to proliferate in ways that run counter to an object’s technical purpose. For example, Baudrillard mentions how objects are deliberately manufactured in order to become obsolescent. This occurs in three ways: an object can be made obsolescent because a better object replaces it (“obsolescence of function”); an object can be made obsolescent because it is designed to break down or wear out (“obsolescence of quality”); or an other object can be marketed in such a way that the previous object is no longer desirable (“obsolescence of desirability”). Consequently, Baudrillard asserts that: “In a world of (relative) affluence, the shoddiness of objects replaces the scarcity of objects as the expression of poverty.”
Baudrillard then turns to the idea of “credit” and asserts that credit causes a new system of ethics to arise. Because credit allows for the precedence of consumption over accumulation, because it allows for us to possess that which we have not earned, society is returned to a sort of complicit feudalism, wherein consumers embrace an allocation of their labour in advance to the feudal lord (the lords of credit). Hence, that which is taken as a “right” and a basic “freedom” (i.e. credit) is actually form of social colonization.
Finally, Baudrillard concludes his discourse of objects, by exploring discourse about objects — advertising. Advertising, he argues, is not only about objects, but it has, itself, become an object of consumption. Thus, although we may become better at resisting advertising in the imperative, we tend to miss this point and become more susceptible to consuming advertising in the indicative. Hence, it is our ceaseless consumption of advertising that forcibly socially conditions us. Hence Baudrillard writes that advertising ensures “the spontaneous absorption of ambient social values and the regression of the individual into the social consensus…. advertising tells you, in effect, that ‘society adapts itself totally to you, so integrate yourself totally into society’.” But this is a scam because, whereas it is only an imaginary agency that adapts to you, you adapt to an agency that is distinctly real. In this way, advertising creates a “reign of a freedom of desire,” but it is a desire that is co-opted by social controls. Therefore, the message that we are “free to be ourselves” really means that we are “free to project our desires onto commodities.”
Therefore, in his conclusion, Baudrillard provides this definition of consumption: “consumption is an active form of relationship (not only to objects, but also to the world)… consumption is the virtual totality of all objects and messages ready-constituted as a more or less coherent discourse… consumption means an activity consisting of the systematic manipulation of signs.” Hence, the reason why consumption has no limits is because it no longer has anything to do with the satisfaction of needs or with reality.
An intriguing read, no? This book certainly had my wheels turning in all sorts of different directions. It was my favourite book of the summer.
5. Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows by J. K. Rowlings.
To be honest, I’m sort of glad that this series is over. A few years ago, I decided to see what the hype was about, so I picked up the first few books of this series and, because I’m rather obsessive about finishing what I start reading, I’ve stuck with Harry right until the end. All in all, I found the books to be mostly fun, but neither especially well-written (in fact, Rowling’s presentation of Harry’s character often annoyed me a great deal), nor nearly as “profound” as people seem to want to make them out to be. Unfortunately, in commenting on this final volume, several people seem to be eager to point out “Christian” themes and motifs that run through the story but I fail to see why those things should catapult a fairly average piece of children’s literature into something great. We can find Christian themes in most everything, if we look hard enough.
Granted, due to the brisk pace of the plot, I read the book rapidly (and wanted to do so) but I think that most pulp fiction is written in a similar manner. Reality television is also capable of drawing me in like this (“I just couldn’t put the book down!” and “I just couldn’t change the channel!”), but I’m not about to suggest that this makes reality television great. However, watching reality television sure is good for letting a person “space out” and have a little fun at the end of a hard day, and this, too, is what Harry Potter is good for.
Ultimately, at the end of the day, I’m a little concerned that this is what popular reading amounts to these days. Similarly, I’m a little bothered by the observation that, even for those who are given to more academic reading, this is all the fiction that a lot of them are reading these days. How about, instead of going on about the “Christian” undertones in Harry Potter, we simply start reading something else? How about Hardy, or Dostoevsky? Steinbeck, or Hugo?
So, please, have fun with Harry, but if you want substance, look elsewhere.
August Books
1. A Better Hope: Resources for a Church Confronting Capitalism, Democracy, and Postmodernity by Stanley Hauerwas.
2. Anti-Oedipus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia (Vol 1), by Gilles Deleuze and Felix Guattari.
3. A user’s guide to Capitalism and Schizophrenia: Deviations from Deleuze and Guatarri by Brian Massumi.
4. Power/Knowledge: Selected Interviews & Other Writings, 1972-1977 by Michel Foucault (edited by Colin Gordon).
5. The Puppet and the Dwarf: The Perverse Core of Christianity by Slavoj Zizek.
6. Fragments: Cool Memories III, 1990-1995 by Jean Baudrillard.
Change
“Politicians are 'like' that—all crooked. Nothing ever changes” (read: “I refuse to think the world can change so I myself won't have to”).
~ Brian Massumi, A user's guide to Capitalism and Schizophrenia: Deviations from Deleuze and Guattari, 97.
It is interesting to place this quote in the context of other hopes for social change.
For example, while I am quite certain that politicians will not bring us the change that we desire, I remain adamant that change can, and must, come from the Church. Consequently, following Massumi, my belief that “when the Church is the Church, the World is made new” can be read in the following way: “because the Church changes things, I must change.”
Of course, most everybody (Christian or not) tells me that the Church is just as hopeless — just as “crooked” — as the World. Christians, and the clergy, are said to be “'like' that” just as much as the politicians. Does Massumi's reading also apply here? “I refuse to think the Church can change so I myself won't have to”? I wonder.
The view that I hold to says this: “change is coming, so we will begin changing now.” Thus, those who share this view with me, tend to do things like move into inner-city neighbourhoods, and move into deeper levels of intimacy with those for whom change is most desperately needed.
The other view that I have described says this: “nothing really changes, so I'll just keep doing what I've always done.” Consequently, when those who hold this view encounter those who hold the view that I do, they ultimately only ever respond in one way. Whether they admire us or despise us is irrelevant, in both cases they respond from a distance. And that, as far as I can tell, is a problem (for everybody involved).
Oops
A funny sort of thing happened to me recently (you’ll see why it’s funny in a minute).
I was about to start my shift at work last night when, looking across the street, I saw two youngish men (20s-30s) grab an old homeless looking guy, throw him into the doorway of a hostel and start beating on him. “Holy hell,” I thought, “a fight just broke out” (yep, my wheels were turning pretty quickly last night). As I was realizing what was happening, another young guy ran up with a video camera and started filming everything (he appeared to be with the guys who were beating up the homeless looking fellow).
Instantly I went from surprised to angry. In fact, I was furious. I’d heard about the internet craze of filming homeless guys getting beat up (or paying homeless guys to beat each other up while being filmed) and that really makes my blood boil. So, I jumped into my workplace, grabbed a radio, told them that I might need them to call the cops, and ran back out. At first it looked like everything had broken up, but then the same thing happened — the two younger guys, followed by the cameraman, rushed the old guy and laid him out. Of course, by this time I had been able to assess those guys and had realised that they were actually pretty big and would have no problem kicking my ass. However, I was too angry to care.
I ran across the street yelling, “Hey! What’s going on here?” I was planning on grabbing the two younger guys from behind in order to try to pull them off of the old guy, but before I could do that two women with clipboards stepped in front of me: “No, hey, wait! We’re making a movie!” This threw me off for a second. “Oh,” I said, “you mean those are actors?” (Now that I was closer I noticed that the punches being thrown weren’t actually doing any damage.) “Yeah,” one of the women responded, “you know, a movie.” “Oh,” I sort of stammered, “I thought these guys were filming themselves beating up a homeless fellow.” “No, no,” she replied, “no ‘bumfights’ here.” “Oh, um, that’s good,” I said, “because, um, that would have made me pretty angry.” Apparently they had already figured this out, so I decided to bow out, stick my tail between my legs, and slink back to work.
For Nathan (on "leadership")
Hey Nathan,
Thanks for the email (regarding the conversation that was happening on your blog — http://www.nathancolquhoun.com/blog/index.php/2007/08/19/drawing_someone_else_s_line#comments). I hope you don't mind me taking the time to write all this out here, truth be told, I'm curious to hear what others might have to say about all this.
Like you, I was raised in a family and a church that pushed the notion of “leadership” — and pushed it onto me, specifically. I've been encouraged to situate myself in places of “leadership” since way back, and my situation in those places took my through highschool and my undergrad (with, I will admit, a great deal of pride). I imagine that our stories are fairly similar in this regard (although maybe you weren't as arrogant as I was).
However, a number of factors have caused me to rethink and question all this in the last four or five years, as I have pursued alternate models of Christian living (after all, questioning, and rethinking, don't mean much apart from a new form of embodiment or praxis).
In particular, much of the Christian discourse about leadership seems to be flawed, and fatally so, in two regards: (1) in its focus on the individual; and (2) in its understanding of power. This, I think, is largely due to churches looking to outside models when it comes down to issues of polity and structure. By and large, a business paradigm has come to dominate the church (and, I might add, the social services — think of the pervasiveness of the role of the “manager” as that is described in MacIntyre's After Virtue). Consequently, leaders, Christian or otherwise, are understood as powerful and influential individuals who can “get results.” A successful Christian leader is the sort who has a full church, heck, a growing church, and, perhaps most importantly, a tithing church… blah, blah, blah (in social work, a successful Christian leader is the sort who can produce glowing stats and has the connections and voice necessary to bring in abundant donations).
It is interesting to compare this focus on (1) power, (2) influence, and (3) success with Jesus and the prophets. Jesus and the prophets were mostly powerless, mostly insignificant, and mostly failures when judged by the criteria established by the business paradigm.
However, I'm drifting off topic. I should get back to the issues of individualism and power.
Over against, the radical individualism of our culture — that finds particularly strong expression in the discourse on leadership — Christians are called to prioritise the corporate aspect of their identity as members of the people of God. Example: I am not, first and foremost, Dan, the individual; rather, I am, first and foremost, Dan, a member of the body of Christ.
Some time ago on my blog, I asked people to summarise, in one sentence, how they defined themselves (cf. http://poserorprophet.livejournal.com/59156.html) and I then responded by arguing that I (and all of us) should be defined in this way: “I am a Spirit-filled member of the body of Christ and a beloved child of God” (cf. http://poserorprophet.livejournal.com/59792.html). Some of my commentators responded that such a way of defining myself was far too vague (it could be applied to anybody!), but that was precisely my point: let's get beyond defining ourselves over and against everybody else, and let's begin by defining ourselves alongside of everybody else.
Consequently, when we bring this corporate understanding of self to the issue of “leadership” the question shifts from “How am I to lead?” to “How are we, as God's people, to live missionally within God's world?” Note that another shift has also taken place: I have moved from the language of leadership to the language of mission. This, I think, is a crucial shift. After all, as Christians, our goal is, ultimately, not to wield power and influence in order to create the results that we desire; rather, as Christians our goal is to live as a part of a community that is an agent of God's new creation within a world that is groaning under the sway of powers that refuse to acknowledge that they have been defeated (that, after all, is the point of Rev 12: the devil, the dragon, has been defeated and thrown down from heaven. Therefore, the especial violence, and the violence against the saints, that we see now is not because the dragon is so powerful but because the dragon is doomed). Therefore, our model for living missionally is not the model that is found within the business paradigm, it is the model that we find in Jesus.
This, then, leads quite naturally to the issue of power. It is the way in which the discourse on “leadership” is intrinsically linked to a form of power that, more than anything else, leads me to pursue alternate models. As far as I can tell, leadership is inextricably linked to notions of influence and power that are defined by the ability to forcefully impact the bodies, minds, and lives of others. Essentially, the leader is at the peak of a particular hierarchy and power flows from the top down Of course, those who have spoken of “servant leadership” have tried to reverse this flow but, IMHO, they have failed to the extent that they have retained the language of “leadership.” Time after time, I have observed the language of “servant leadership” employed as a mask over fiercely hierarchical, top-down, flows of power.
So, rather than attempting to be servant leaders, I would like to suggest that it is better for us to simply define ourselves as servants. This is, after all, one of the primary ways in which Paul defines the people of God: slaves of Christ (Douloi Christou), and slaves of one another. In this way, we begin to realise the truly “radical” nature of our call to follow Jesus on the road of the cross. Rather than exerting force on others, we are those who are willing to have force exerted upon us. We do this with the hope that, as on the cross, so also in our lives, that force will be exhausted and shattered even as it overwhelms us.
Think, in this regard, of how Paul describes the apostles in 1 Cor 4.8-13:
Already you have all you want! Already you have become rich! You have become kings — and that without us! How I wish that you really had become kings so that we might be kings with you! For it seems to me that God has put us apostles on display at the end of the procession, like men condemned to die in the arena. We have been made a spectacle to the whole universe, to angels as well as to men. We are fools for Christ, but you are so wise in Christ! We are weak, but you are strong! You are honored, we are dishonored! To this very hour we go hungry and thirsty, we are in rags, we are brutally treated, we are homeless. We work hard with our own hands. When we are cursed, we bless; when we are persecuted, we endure it; when we are slandered, we answer kindly. Up to this moment we have become the scum of the earth, the refuse of the world.
This, I think, is an appropriate Christian response to the contemporary discourse on “leadership.” Mostly the contemporary models of Christian leadership are akin to the model established by the “Super-Apostles” in Corinth (the Super-Apostles who, by the way, were leading the church astray). Like Paul, I think we need to be adamant that our focus should be upon a missional crucifomity and it should not be upon leading with power.
At the end of the day, I think it is best that we focus less on being “teachers” and “lords,” and focus more on washing one another's feet (cf. Jn 13.1-14; notice how, when washing the disciples' feet, Jesus claims the titles “Teacher” and “Lord” and does not suggest that his disciples will also become “teachers” and “lords” [i.e. “servant leaders”] if they go on to wash each other's feet. Rather, he simply tells them that they should follow his example. The disciples remain only “servants”; Jesus alone is the “master”).