I have spent a good deal of time recently considering the ways in which capitalism disciplines our desire and those reflections are the spring-board for my thoughts here.
Because capitalism is based upon a system of ever-increasing consumption, it leads us into a world where everything can be consumed. Everything can now be sold and bought. Consequently, everything, if marketed properly, can become an object of desire (since it is some form of desire that undergirds all of our consumption).
Martin Heidegger once made similar comments about the impact of technology upon the world (cf. The Question Concerning Technology). Heidegger argued that technology is far more than a mere tool used by people to accomplish certain tasks. Technology is actually a means of revelation (an “enframing”) that shapes how we see and understand the world. And the problem with technology is that it causes us to see things only in terms of their usefulness as means to certain ends (everything becomes a “standing-reserve”). Consequently, George Grant concludes that it is now impossible for us to apprehend this world as other than a “field of objects considered as pragmata” (cf. In Defense of America). Similarly, Albert Borgmann concludes that we have transformed meaningful things into commodities (cf. Technology and the Character of Contemporary Life). Things do not have any sort of transcendent being or inherent meaning, they are only meaningful to the extent that they can be used or consumed.
Heidegger, Grant, and Borgmann all argue that usefulness, that functionality, becomes the all-determining factor in how we see the world of objects around us. Jean Baudrillard takes this way of thinking and pushes it to its necessary conclusion: not only objects but “things” like space, colour, time, forms, materials, and designs are all incorporated into the “functional system” that has come to dominate our world-view (cf. The System of Objects).
However, Baudrillard then goes on to diverge from Heidegger & Co. in a significant way. Rather than defining “functionality” as “usefulness” or as something “goal-oriented,” Baudrillard argues that “functionality” is simply the ability to become integrated into this functional system. Hence, he argues that:
An object's functionality is the ability to become integrated into an overall scheme. An object's functionality is the very thing that enables it to transcend its main 'function' in the direction of a secondary one, to play a part, to become a combining element, an adjustable item, within a universal system of signs.
This, then, leads us back to my initial comments on capitalism. How so? Because I believe that it is capitalism that governs the “functional” system that is envisioned by Heidegger, and most fully described by Baudrillard. To slightly revise Baudrillard's words: An object's functionality is the ability to become integrated into the scheme of capitalism. Therefore, it is the dollar-value that capitalism puts on everything that becomes the “secondary function” — which is really the most important function — of everything. Consequently, capitalism believes that everything is useful to the extent that it can be sold and bought. Functionality is all about consumability. And consumability, as I suggested at the beginning of this post, is all about desirability — which is why capitalism spends so much time teaching us how to desire (i.e. desire without end), and what to desire (i.e. anything that it wants to sell us).
That this way of thinking has become so ingrained within us becomes obvious when we consider the ways in which our attitudes towards ourselves, and other people, is dictated by desirability. That is to say: I am taught that I am only valuable to the extent that I am desirable. Consequently, the sort of functionality that is valued in me is either the ability to accumulate capital or the ability to become capital. I am desirable as either a consumer (just as we desire to be, or be with, the wealthy and successful businessman or woman) or as an object of consumption (just as we desire to be, or be with, the ruggedly handsome man or the beautiful woman).
Outside of that cycle of consumption I have little value — which is why our society relegates the old, the disabled, and the poor to the margins. Quite often they exist outside of this cycle and so they are considered to be without value. Furthermore, because they often participate within the same system, once they become old, disabled, or poor they also often undergo a crisis of meaning and are trapped living out lives that they feel are no longer significant.
Consequently, if we are to live Christianly in the presence of this system, we must reconsider things like functionality, desirability, capitalism, and self-worth. But more on that anon.
On Divine Vengeance
Never take your own revenge, beloved, but leave room for the wrath of God, for it is written, “Vengeance is mine, I will repay,” says the Lord. “But if your enemy is hungry, feed him, and if he is thirsty, give him a drink; for in doing so you will heap burning coals on his head.” Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.
~ Ro 12.19-21
For awhile now, I have suspected that God claims a monopoly on vengeance because the divine implementation of vengeance might look very different than we imagine it to be.
You see, we have tended to imagine vengeance as punitive, as retributive, and, usually, as some form of violence — “an eye for an eye,” and the sort of thing prescribed in the Lex Taliones. Such an understanding of vengeance declares that the punishment must be “equal in magnitude” to the crime. Hence, the more violent the crime, the more violent the punishment. Yet what is the result of this? An ever-expanding spiral of violence.
However, Ro 12 makes it clear that Christians are not to engage in any form of vengeance. Rather than “repaying” those who wrong them, Christians are to respond with acts of mercy. Instead of ensuring a form of punishment that is equal in magnitude to the crimes committed against them, Christians are to respond with a form of grace that matches the violence of the wrongdoing. Hence, the more violent the crime, the more gracious the response of the Christian community. And what is the result of this? Evil is overcome with good.
Indeed, where this begins to become intriguing is that this is precisely the way in which Jesus overcame evil. On the cross, God declared his judgment on sinners and, behold, it was a judgment of grace and of forgiveness. On the cross, Jesus suffered at the hands of violent men, crying out, “Father, forgive them!” and evil was overcome with good.
Hence, we come to see why God claims sole ownership over vengeance. We are too inclined to see grace and vengeance as opposites. On the cross, God reveals his vengeance as grace. We tend to think that vengeance means inflicting violence on others. On the cross, God shows us that vengeance means taking violence onto ourselves. We tend to think of wrath as a destructive force. On the cross, God's wrath is revealed as God's wounded, but life-giving, love.
Which leads me back to one of my favourite biblical passages, Is 35.3-4, which goes as follows:
Strengthen the feeble hands,
steady the knees that give way;
say to those with fearful hearts,
“Be strong, do not fear;
your God will come,
he will come with vengeance;
with divine retribution
he will come to save you.”
The vengeance of God is our salvation. It is salvation for “the oppressed” and it is salvation for “the oppressor.” This, I think, is good news.
Maranatha, come quickly and save us, Lord Jesus. Amen.
Longing for a Pure Event: Or, If you are the Son of God…
[W]hat does it mean “to believe?” That would mean maintaining some kind of subjectivity as a criterion of the validity of things… What interests me instead (but can you still call this history?) is the possibility of a pure event, an event that can no longer be manipulated, interpreted, or deciphered by any historical subjectivity.
~ Jean Baudrillard, Forget Foucault, 73.
[T]he chief priests, the teachers of the law and the elders mocked [Jesus]. “He saved others,” they said, “but he can't save himself! He's the King of Israel! Let him come down now from the cross, and we will believe in him. He trusts in God. Let God rescue him now if he wants him, for he said, 'I am the Son of God.'”
~ Mt 27.41-44.
It seems to me that a good many of the influential thinkers of the last one hundred years, when confronted with their own subjectivity, were incapable of moving beyond that subjectivity into the realm of “the real.” Granted, some felt that they could grasp the real as far as the real consisted of the elements of the natural sciences, but the reality of “truth” or “meaning” or “value” seems to be beyond their grasp. Although I am no philosopher, it seems to me that this “crisis of subjectivity” (if I can call it that) profoundly impacts the writings of many who have influenced, and continue to influence, “postmodern” thought — Wittgenstein (speaking of values is non-sensical), Lacan (Reality is always mediated by the Symbolic and the “Big Other”), Derrida (that which causes us to see is that which also blinds us), Foucault (power determines what is real), and Baudrillard (disenchantment and nihilism have led us into a world where “the name of the game remains a secret”) are all, in their own ways, caught in this crisis.
Those of us who are accustomed to assuming a less complicated and more direct access to “the real,” whether because of our removal from philosophical discussions or because of our ongoing attachment to the naivete of “enlightened” claims to objectivity, may be inclined to think that such writers are prime examples of the collapse or decline of Western thought.
However, we would be foolish to dismiss such thinkers so easily. Intelligent critiques must be confronted honestly. Furthermore, all these thinkers desire access to the real. They pursue the real, they pursue value and truth and objectivity, but, due to “the crisis of subjectivity,” they find that these things are continually beyond their grasp. Indeed, this crisis is so deep that many of them are convinced that any who now claim to have contact with the real, to have access to truth, value and objectivity, are to be treated with suspicion. All such claims are generally challenged and rather thoroughly refuted. Thus, in their longing for what Baudrillard calls “a pure event” they assail anything that claims such status and continually find that such claims are consistently “manipulated, interpreted, or deciphered” by historical subjectivities.
This pursuit of the real by attacking all those who claim direct contact with the real reminds me of the way in which the Jewish religious leaders of Jesus' day mocked him while he was being crucified. These leaders are not simply mocking Jesus because of their cold-heartedness. Rather, their “mockery” is also an appeal to Jesus (I forget who first introduced this idea to me, perhaps it was N. Elliott). In this regard, this “mockery” is the religious leaders' final appeal for “a sign” that will confirm his Messianic status (cf. Mt 12.38-45). Because, in actuality, they probably do want Jesus to save himself, they probably do want Jesus to come down from his cross, because they too are probably longing for a Messiah who can overcome the crucifying power of Rome. By crying, “He trusts in God! Let God now save him!” they are also saying, “We trust in God! Let God now save us!” And so, even as they crucify Jesus, they are disappointed that another so-called “Messiah” has come and gone and they are still not free.
It is interesting to juxtapose the position of these religious leaders with the position taken by the contemporary thinkers mentioned above. The religious thinkers long for “a sign” in the same way in which Baudrillard longs for a “pure event.” Further, just as the leaders' longing for that sign leads them to crucify Jesus, so also our thinkers' longing for the pure event leads them to attack all claims of truth, value, objectivity, and contact with the real. Both refuse to accept anything less than that which has been denied to us and so both become transformed into death-dealing forms of life-seeking.
So how are we Christians, as those who insist on some contact with reality, some sort of objectivity, and some understanding of truth and value, to respond to these things?
First of all, we cannot respond by arguing that any sort of irrefutable sign, or pure event, has occurred. If the advent and the resurrection of the Son of God was open to manipulation and interpretation even during Jesus' lifetime then we cannot claim revelation as the sort of universally binding pure event for which so many are longing. Of course, I would be inclined to believe that God's direct and unmediated revelations of Godself to small groups or individual persons — like Jesus' appearance to Thomas and the twelve after the resurrection, or his appearance to Paul on the road to Damascus — function as a “pure event” to those involved, but there is no way that that encounter can be offered, or reproduced, as a “pure event” to those who were not a part of that encounter as it occurred. Consequently, from a Christian perspective, only the parousia of Jesus and the final coming of God can function as the hoped for pure event of which we have been speaking here. Thus, such a universally applicable pure event really does not belong to the realm of “history” (Baudrillard is right to wonder about this). Rather, it belongs to the consummation of “history” as we know it.
Therefore, it really does appear as though we are trapped with a hold on reality that is subjectively influenced. However, rather than rejecting such a hold on reality (which I believe is at least some sort of tangible hold — even if it is a small one — and not simply a picture or simulacrum of reality) we must walk the path between objectivity and subjectivity. I think that critical realism shows us the way here. Critical realism reminds us that both those who claim total objectivity and those who claim total subjectivity tend to crucify others.
However, there is nothing about critical realism that makes it any more convincing (or any more of a “sign” or “pure event”) than that which is offered to us by nihilism or critical anti-realism. Consequently, we really do seem to be in the situation that Lyotard has described for us: we all belong to our small tribes, we all ascribe to our “small narratives” and our own understandings of truth, value, and meaning (or the lack thereof), and there is no way for us to posit one of these approaches as the approach for all of us. The quest for a system that will provide us with universal assent and certainty has failed, and we have awakened to the realization that we all live in the absence of total certainty. I have addressed this situation several times before on my blog, so now I will only mention that such a crisis of the word (which is both a crisis of the meaning of the word, and a crisis of the communication of the word) inexorably draws us to the issue of embodiment and performativity (an issue that has been well addressed by the likes of von Balthasar, Lindbeck, and, more recently, Vanhoozer). Of course, performance does not become the new means of producing certainty (as if our lives can be the pure event that Jesus' life never was!) but it can, perhaps, tip the scales. After all, it is worth remembering the following words from Dorothy Day:
We had a mad friend once, a Jewish worker from the East Side… He sat at the table with us once and held up the piece of dark bread which he was eating. “It is the black bread of the poor. It is Russian Jewish bread. It is the flesh of Lenin. Lenin held bread up to the people and he said, 'This is my body, broken for you.' So they worship Lenin. He brought them bread.”
Those of us who pray daily for bread, and who break bread together in communities where no one should have too much or too little, would do well to think on this.
Clothe the Naked
What the fuck are you laughing at? Hey? What the fuck? How about I cut those smiles off of your faces, then we'll see if you're still laughing.
This, or roughly this, was what a working girl was yelling at what appeared to be a group of Christian young people on some sort of tour of my neighbourhood. I know this because I was walking behind her when she was yelling at the group — and because I wanted to say the same thing to them.
Because they were laughing at a naked woman.
A naked woman at Main and Hastings, the busiest corner in the neighbourhood, trying to walk and cover herself by pressing a small piece of cloth to the front of her body. She wasn't even wearing shoes. I am sure of this because I was looking at the ground when I stopped and offered her my shirt. As I was in the process of giving it to her, the working girl caught up to us, stopped, gave her an outfit, a few encouraging words, and then moved on. And I moved on, too. It was then that we passed the Christian young people who were smiling and laughing awkwardly. I wanted to yell at them, too… but I didn't. What difference would it have made? So I just turned to my friend, a woman who was visiting from out of town, and said: “I'm sorry, I wanted you to see more of what my neighbourhood was like, but I didn't expect you to see this.” Then, later that night, I cried while saying grace at dinner.
How does a woman end up walking through that sort of nightmare? Was she stripped and dumped at the corner by a “bad date”? Stripped and turned out by a boyfriend? Stripped in the alley over some sort of debt? Who knows. All these things have happened before and will happen again. But how, how the fuck, does nobody offer her clothes? Everybody stops and stares, but nobody does anything. Unbelievable.
Sister, I'm so sorry. Sorry for all of this. Sorry for their apathy and for my powerlessness. You have come and you have gone, and I will almost certainly never see you again. I could not save you from this hell. But this much I do know: I would rather burn here with you than laugh with those whose apathy damns you to this place.
Fire on Babylon; Lord, have mercy. Amen.
Self-Care, Luxury, and Love
The spaces of this life, set over against eternity, are brief and poor.
~ St. Anthony
Where there is no love, put love and you will find love.
~ St. John of the Cross
I recently had the chance to talk with an old friend. As we were chatting, I mentioned that, as I move more and more into intentional Christian community and journeying alongside of those in exile, I suspect that I will have less and less time or freedom to spend doing some of the other things that I really love doing — things like reading, writing, camping, whatever. These are the things that I feel that I will have to continue to sacrifice — they are, after all, signs of luxury and of privilege, and proof of my own distance from the poor.
This concerned my friend a great deal and she tried to warn me that giving up such things might make me unable to minister to, or genuinely journey alongside of, others.
Now there is some truth in this. I do find that I am “recharged” through study, solitude, and prayer, and I do intend to practice these things, as spiritual disciplines, over the course of my life. However, I do not think that some of these things — study, in particular, and probably times of solitude as well — will continue to hold the space that they do in my life. And that's okay. If we are called to “lay down our lives for those we love” then surely this means we will be forced to sacrifice things we love in order to embrace people with love. If I desire to challenge others to surrender the luxuries that they cling to, then who am I to cling on to my books, and my leisure time?
In this regard, there is a scene at the end of Schindler's List that I often remember. Near the end of that story there is a moment, after the war has ended, when a group of factory workers present Herr Schindler with a gold ring. Schindler realises just how valuable this ring is and then comes to the realisation of the value of so many of the things he still has. He looks at the ring and seems to think: “For the price of this ring I could have saved another 10 lives.” Then he looks at his watch and seems to think: “and here, if I had given up my watch, are another 10 lives I could have saved;” and he looks at his car and seems to think: “Had I given up my car, I could have saved another 100 lives.” Thus, precisely at the moment when he is being praised as a hero and a saviour, he realises how much he did not do, and he breaks down and weeps. I wonder how many of us will make the same realisation at the end of our “brief and poor” lives. If I had not clung to my luxury, if I had not clung to my time, if I had not clung to my self and my privilege, then I could have done and been so much more — so much more for those who desperately need something more, so much more meaningful, so much more like Christ.
Further, as I thought about my friend's warning, I remained suspicious about many of our notions of the forms of “self-care” that we seem to find so necessary. It is worth remembering that most of the world does not wake up feeling comfortable and well-rested. Most of the world wakes up hungry. Most of the world wakes up tired. Most of the world wakes up sore. Who are we to think that we need to be full, and rested, and comfortable in order to minister to the needs of others? Eugene V. Debs once said that: “while there is a lower class, I am in it, and while there is a criminal element I am of it, and while there is a soul in prison, I am not free” and I wonder why such thinking should not apply here. While there are those who wake up tired, I will wake up tired; while there are those who wake of sore, I will wake up sore; and while there are those who force themselves to do what they must do simply in order to survive the day, I will force myself to do what I must do.
Besides, this is all a part of what it means to travel the road of love; it is all a part of what it means to go to where there is no love in order to put love and find love. Love is that which is focused on the other, on the beloved, and not on the self. That I find these sacrifices burdensome or difficult simply shows how little I know of love.
June Books (finally)
First of all, my apologies to Stephen for taking so long in answering the questions he asked me in his “interview meme.” I hope to get through the last few questions in the next few days. However, there has been a lot going on in my life these days and so the ol’ blog has been rather neglected.
So it goes.
Anyway, here are my June books. I thought most of my books for the next little while would relate to my thesis but my thesis reading isn’t leading me to much cover-to-cover reading these days. Apart from one book, these readings were mostly chosen for personal reasons.
1. Rome in the Bible and the Early Church edited by Peter Oakes.
This interesting little book contains six essays exploring the relationship between the early Church and Rome (Rome here is variously understood as empire, culture, and city). Several of these essays are little gems and I would recommend the book to any who are interested in this topic.
The first essay, by Steve Walton, explores Luke’s perspective on Rome as an empire. After exploring various, conflicting proposals about Luke’s perspective, Walton offers his own reading of Luke-Acts and draws three major conclusions: first, Luke writes purposively, not merely descriptively, about Rome; second, Luke offers a variety of perspectives on Christian relations with the empire; and third, Luke emphasises the supremacy of Jesus over Caesar. Consequently, Walton argues that Luke agrees with both “Romans 13 and Revelation 13” in various political contexts.
In the second essay, Conrad Gempf explores the ending of the book of Acts, and Paul’s arrival in Rome. Rather than arguing that Luke includes this chapter in order to show Paul as the “pioneer of Roman evangelism,” Gempf argues that Christians are already clearly present in Rome. Therefore, he concludes that Luke’s purpose in this passage is about the complex relationship that exists between Paul and the Jews. Gempf argues that this chapter shows initial connection and accommodation but ends in disconnect and rejection. What Gempf finds most significant is the observation that, before the Jews reject Christianity, they first initially concede that Christianity is a sect of Judaism. Therefore, Luke wants to highlight that, although Christians work among the Gentiles, they are not outside Judaism. Hence, any dispute between Christians and Jews must be viewed as an internal dispute.
In the third essay, Bruce Winter explores Roman culture. By examining Ro 12-15 as it relates to Roman law and society, Winter argues that Paul is “a radical critic of the prevailing culture of privilege.” Indeed, Paul argues that Christians should resist behaving according to the three prevalent patterns for social relationships — patron-client relations, relations between (unequal) friends, and relations in associations — and, instead, extends family language in order to describe relationships within the Christian community. Thus, Paul desires that the Roman Christians not be conformed to “the spirit of our age” (which is properly understood as the Golden Age established by Augustus) but should “put on the Lord Jesus” and make no room for the flesh to indulge in activities endorsed by Roman society.
In the fourth essay, Andrew Clarke argues that the greetings found in Ro 16 show how each dimension of the inclusiveness found in Gal 3.28 — ethnic (Jew/Gentile), social (slave/free), gender (fe/male) — is exemplified in Paul’s communities. Thus, Paul’s “theology of inclusion is mirrored closely in his practice.”
In the fifth essay, Peter Oakes explores the question of Roman authority and, in a thematic exploration of Philippians, he argues that God is sovereign over Roman authorities, and that Christ is continually presented in a way that relativises the emperor. Central to Oakes’ argument is the observation that both Paul — through the chains of his imprisonment — and the Philippians — through economic hardships, which would be the most prevalent form of hardship experienced by the early Christians — were suffering under the Roman authorities because of their faith. However, because Jesus, and not Caesar, is ultimately the Lord of all, the universe has been “remapped,” and Christians are encouraged to embrace their sufferings as badges of honour rather than marks of shame. As Oakes says, “Christ’s imperative for unity outweigh society’s imperatives of cautious status preservation.” Ultimately, the Christians are citizens of heaven, not Rome, and so they have a stronger saviour than that of Rome, and can stand firm because they are assured of Christ’s sovereignty.
Finally, in the sixth essay, Andrew Gregory explores the difficulties around dating 1 Clement and The Shepherd of Hermas and argues that, rather than seeing them in relation to the city of Rome specifically, they should be seen in terms of Roman culture more widely. This is probably the most technical and specialised essay and unless you are directly exploring 1 Clement or the Shepherd you can safely skip it.
2. The Disabled God: Toward a Liberatory Theology of Disability by Nancy L. Eiesland.
After stumbling onto this article (http://www.biblesociety.org.uk/exploratory/articles/eiesland04.pdf) I hastened out to buy Eiesland’s book. Given the richness of liberation theology and the many streams that have sprung out of it, I was intrigued to explore one of the ways in which liberation theology has been utilised by persons with disabilities within the Church.
Broken into six chapters, Eiesland begins with methodological questions (chpt 1) before opening the book proper with the testimony of two people with disabilities (chpt 2). She then traces both the history of the civil rights movement in America as it has related to persons with disabilities (chpt 3) and the history of the Church’s (in particular, the Lutheran Church of America) practice of injustice towards persons with disabilities (chpt 4). Finally, she develops a liberating Christology and some of its implications (chpt 5), and she also explores the practice of a sacramental theology — in relation to the Eucharist — that holds great(er) significance for persons with disabilities, and those who journey with them (chpt 6). I found chapters 1, 5, & 6, to be the most intriguing (in part because I was already fairly familiar with much of the content found in chapters 2-4).
In chapter one, in her exploration of methodology, Eiesland argues that the measure of the usefulness of a practical theological method is accessibility. In particular, she argues that (a) persons with disabilities must gain access to the social-symbolic life of the church and (b) the church must gain access to the social-symbolic lives of people with disabilities. Hence, Eiesland argues that such access recognises two agendas: (1) the primary agenda of enabling people with disabilities to participate fully in the life of the church — which probably requires a deconstruction of the contemporary notion of embodiment — and (2) the church must gain access to the social-symbolic life of persons with disabilities. In this section Eiesland also explores who “people with disabilities” are and concludes that “people with disabilities are distinguished not because of our shared physical, psychological, or emotional traits, but because ‘temporarily able-bodied’ persons single us out for differential treatment.”
Skipping over the biographical and historical material in chapters 2-4 (which really do deserve to be read, especially if one does not have a great deal of familiarity with this topic), we come to chapter five, wherein Eiesland develops her Christology of a “disabled God.” Motivated by an “epiphany” (a term Eiesland does not take lightly) wherein she saw God “in a sip-puff wheelchair” (a “sip-puff wheelchair” is a chair used by quadriplegics that enables them to maneuver by blowing or sucking on a straw-like device). This vision is what motivated her to explore a liberatory theology of disability that is both political and symbolic. A focus on the symbolic is crucial to the political process since symbols both reproduce and transform social status. Consequently, in her theology, Eiesland develops a new image of wholeness premised upon the symbol of Jesus as the disabled God who, even after the resurrection, “embodied both impaired hands and feet and pierced side and the imago Dei.” This disabled God is the revelation of true personhood, underscoring the fact that “full personhood is fully compatible with the experience of disability.” Such an understanding causes of to rethink the conception of disability as an impairment to our participation in the image of God and alters taboos around the physical avoidance of disability. Further, and this is, IMHO, a crucial point, Eiesland stresses that:
Jesus Christ the disabled God, is not a romanticised notion of ‘overcomer’ God. Instead here is God as survivor… the image of survivor here evoked is that of a simple, unself-pitying, honest body, for whom the limits of power are palpable but not tragic.
In addition to this, the disabled God also makes interdependence a necessary condition of life, debunking myths of independence, and calling the Church to be a communion of justice, living out liberating action in the world. Eiesland concludes: “This God enables both a struggle for justice among people with disabilities and an end to enstrangement from our own bodies.”
Finally, in chapter 6, Eisland develops a sacramental theology that is premised upon the remembrance, and presence, of the disabled God at the Eucharistic table. In this way, justice for people with disabilities shakes the ritual and theological foundations of the Church. Unfortunately, the practice of the Eucharist has too often been a practice that stigmatised and isolated people with disabilities, functioning as a “dreaded and humiliating remembrance that in the church we are trespassers in an able-bodied dominion.” Thus, if the Eucharist is to be the practice of justice we must remember “the physical reality of that body broken for a people broken” and our practice must be marked by access and inclusion.
I found Eiesland’s book to be intriguing, inspiring, and a catalyst for many other thoughts; I highly recommend it. Eiesland herself has a physical disability and, in this book, focuses primarily on issues related to people with physical disabilities. However, I found myself wondering about the ways in which Church practices relate to people with mental disabilities (people whom I encounter a great deal). In particular, I have found myself reflecting upon the ways in which certain Church practices — like the assurance of salvation, participation in the sacraments, Church membership, and clergy status — hinge upon a certain level of mental ability. I find this disturbing on a number of levels but I’ll say no more about that here.
3. The Long Loneliness: An Autobiography by Dorothy Day.
Judging by the recent quotes from Day that have appeared on my blog, it should come as no surprise to hear me say that I quite enjoyed this book. Day, a somewhat “late” comer to Catholicism, was nurtured in the soil of anarchism, communism, socialism, and radical action. Indeed, in the way in which she, and Peter Maurin, were able to combine much of what was good of all these things within the “Catholic Worker” movement and their community houses, the Catholic Workers anticipated Latin American liberation theology and the development of Base Ecclesial Communities. Both are interested in, to quote Peter Maurin, “making the kind of society where it is easier for people to be good.”
As an aside, I will say this: I continually find the Catholics to be both the most inspiring and the most frustrating when it comes to social action. People like Day, and the spirit in which she writes this book, make me want to rush into the Catholic church, but people like Ratzinger, and the spirit in which he wrote his recent book on Jesus, make me want to rush the other way.
Anyway, back to this book. It as what it claims to be: an autobiography. As the story of Day, it is marked by longings, by hungers (both spiritual and physical), by action, by prayer, and by (com)passion. There is much about these things, as Day experiences them, that resonates with me. In particular, Day’s life is marked by “the long loneliness” — and the lives of those around her are similarly marked. Thus, she concludes with these words:
We have all known the long loneliness and we have learned that the only solution is love and that love comes with community.
Yes, I too have known the long loneliness. And, yes, I too have found the love that leads me to community.
4. Derrida and Religion: Other Testaments edited by Yvonne Sherwood & Kevin Hart.
Like him or not, there is no denying that Derrida was brilliant and needs to be wrestled with seriously (although, to be honest, I need to wrestle seriously with Derrida simply in order to figure out what the hell he is talking about; it is one of the ironies related to Derrida: he writes so carefully in order to minimise our misunderstandings yet, precisely because of this care, his writings are often that much more difficult to understand!). Indeed, I believe that there is much that is good in Derrida’s reflections on the word, on the gift, on hospitality, on faith, and on revelation. The problem for me (apart from the struggle for comprehension) is that so many of those who have latched on to Derrida strike me as, well, obnoxious gits. Consequently, working through this series of essays from 27 contributors, I found that I was more often irritated than inspired (does that make me an obnoxious git?). Some sections, like the transcript of the meeting between members of AAR/SBL with Derrida in 2002, the chapter by Yvonne Sherwood and John Caputo on reading Amos with Derrida (“Otobiographies, Or How a Torn and Disembodied Ear Hears a Promise of Death”), and the chapter by Grace M. Jantzen that explores prayer, fasting, sex, and the “aporetical place” of the desert, especially through an exploration of the story of Mary of Egypt (“Touching (in) the Desert: Who Goes There?”) were wonderful and enlightening. Unfortunately, many of the other contributions made me want to rip the book apart and never read anything philosophical again.
5. Candide: Or, Optimism by Voltaire.
Fortunately, Voltaire came to the rescue of philosophy. Pleasurable and witty, I often found myself chuckling as I worked my way through this book. It is a really short read and, unlike many of the essays on “Derrida and religion,” it makes philosophy a great deal of fun. Recommended reading.
On the surface, Candide is Voltaire’s attack on the form of optimism that believes that “everything that happens is conducive to the good” in this world, which is “the best of all possible worlds.” This is the philosophical position that is taught to the protagonist — Candide — and is, for most of the rest of the novel, shown to be ludicrous as tragedy after tragedy befalls all the central characters (and many others besides). However, beneath the surface, Voltaire is also exploring the question of what leads to happiness, and is simultaneously praising human resilience. Ultimately, seeming to reject both optimism and absolute pessimism, Candide concludes that “we must go and work in the garden.” It is this work (without arguing!) that finally, and literally, bears some fruit.
6. Love is a Dog from Hell: Poems 1974-1977 by Charles Bukowski.
Well, I almost never read poetry but this book was a real steal so I thought I would pick it up. When I was younger, I really tried to get into poetry. I thought it would make me “cultured.” Unfortunately, I just couldn’t get into it and so this was the first book of poetry that I have read in years. I find that I enjoy Bukowski’s style of writing poetry more than most (or all?) of the other poets I have read. Further, he is often witty, and I laughed reading more than one of the poems contained here. Unfortunately, he is also quite lewd. Apart from that, I really enjoy reading about the slums, the prostitutes, the addictions, the drinking, and the gambling, from the perspective of one who represents many who will never have their voices heard. So, I continue to have mixed feelings about Bukowski. Consequently, I can’t recommend him.
On Guilt and Social Responsibility
Every one of us who was attracted to the poor had a sense of guilt, of responsibility, a feeling that in some way we were living on the labor of others…
Many left the work… because of their own shame. But enduring this shame is part of our penance.
~ Dorothy Day, The Long Loneliness, 204, 216.
Then I heard the voice of the Lord saying, “Whom shall I send? And who will go for us?”
And I said, “Here am I. Send me!”
He said, “Go and tell this people: 'Be ever hearing, but never understanding; be ever seeing, but never perceiving.' Make the heart of this people calloused; make their ears dull and close their eyes. Otherwise they might see with their eyes, hear with their ears, understand with their hearts, and turn and be healed.”
~ Isaiah 6.8-10.
Inevitably, when one speaks of social issues, of liberation, of exile, and of the poor, one is confronted with the issue of guilt. Specifically, when speaking of these things, one regularly encounters those who are quick to reassure themselves, and others, that they should feel no guilt.
I was reminded of this recently in an exchange on my younger brother's blog (he is a nurse at a health centre for street-involved people). In that exchange, one person wrote the following:
Adressing social issues doesnt always require you to turn you life upside down (although it might!) and those of us that dont shouldnt feel guilty for not doing so… I have noticed that people who tell me that I should feel guilty are usually trying to make themselves feel good, not cause real change. After all, me feeling guilty doesnt really do anything, the reality is that guilt isnt going to cause me to devote my life to poverty, however conviction that it is a valid issue will (hopefully) cause me to play my role, whatever that may be.
What I find so intriguing about this comment, is the way in which the commentator seems to assume, a priori, one should not feel guilty for not being more actively involved in “social issues.” Further, this commentator then goes on to create a distinction between “guilt” and “conviction,” the first, guilt, “doesn't really do anything” and the second, conviction, causes the commentator to play whatever role is appropriate to him. The commentator then goes on to explain that playing the role appropriate to him involves (a) paying taxes; (b) not being rude to the poor; and (c) not “looking away.” Thus, as long as s/he does does things, s/he, and I quote, “shouldnt feel guilty for not playing the same role as you [i.e. my brother and I] do”
(cf. http://nurseabe.blogspot.com/2007/06/always-with-us.html#comments).
I have heard arguments like this countless times from Christians. Christians tend to respect those who work with the poor in more “radical” ways, but they make no connection between that work and their Christian faith in general. Instead, they tend to turn it into an issue of “callings.” You see, they will explain to me, I really admire what you do, but I just couldn't do what you do; it's not my calling. Of course, the “respect” that is shown here, is often just a way of romanticising and/or glorifying those who live lives that are genuinely committed to the poor. However, because such people are “radicals” they are not the norm, and so the respect that is shown is a way of distancing oneself from a similar form of involvement.
But why is it, I wonder, that we are so eager to exculpate ourselves of all manifestations of social guilt and responsibility? How is it that guilt has become an individual, spiritual issue divorced from social realities?
How is it, for example, that an issue like pornography — wherein countless women and children are violently exploited — becomes about “every man's battle,” as though what is at stake is a struggle within the internal consciences of men, and not a struggle that wounds the physical bodies women and children? Do the Christian counselors who speak with men about pornography tell them about the streetkids that are forced into making pornographic videos so that they can have a place to sleep at night? Do they tell them about the women that are trafficked into the porn industry and raped in front of video cameras? Do they tell them about the women, like twenty-six women found in Vancouver, who are raped and then killed in the making of snuff films? When we think of these things, what role does guilt play in our understanding of “every man's battle”? Should one feel guilty because one struggles with inappropriate sexual thoughts? Okay. But should one feel even greater guilt because those thoughts reduce people to sexual objects and also contribute to structures that systematically kidnap, rape, and torture women and children? Absolutely. How dare we reduce such a profoundly social issue to an issue related to one's personal conscience. This battle is not only spiritual and taking place in the minds of men. It is physical, it is bodily, and I know girls (girls, mind you, not yet women) who have the scars to prove it.
But wait, I have gotten ahead of myself. I have mentioned guilt, and assumed that we should feel guilty about some things. True, I have chosen an analogy wherein most men I know actually do feel guilty, and I have argued that the issue is actually a social issue, but I have presupposed the appropriateness of guilt.
However, let me be clear about one thing. I want to talk about guilt, as it relates to social issues and social responsibility, not “in order to make [myself] feel good” (as the commentator on my brother's blog might suggest), but precisely because I know what it is to feel guilty. That is why I began this post with a quote from Dorothy Day: “Every one of us who was attracted to the poor had a sense of guilt,” yes, exactly. Do I feel as though I have participated in structures that “crush God's people” and “grind the faces of the poor” (cf. Is 3.15)? I do. Do I feel as though I have lived a lifestyle wherein both my sins of commission and my sins of omission have placed the blood of others on my hands (cf. Is 1.15; 59.3)? I do. Do I feel as though I have received that which has been taken from others (cf. Is 10.1-3)? I do. Even as I learn to live in new ways, and learn to journey alongside of those in exile, do I still feel guilty? Yes, I do. My shame has not been lifted, nor will it be lifted until the day when all things are made new. It is, as Day says, a part of my penance.
So, do I believe that others should feel guilty for living lives that are, in general, apathetic, self-absorbed, and damaging to others? Sure I do. I really do wonder about this aversion to guilt that we have — it is as though we believe that “accepting Jesus into our hearts” absolves us from all responsibility. But that is not the case. I am well aware of the fact that I am God's beloved, indeed, I have vividly experienced that love, but I am also aware of how complicit I am in corrupt social structures and lifestyles, just as I am aware of the responsibility I have towards my neighbour. Indeed, it is precisely the awareness of ourselves as God's beloved that empowers us to confront, and admit, how guilty we are. That so few Christians seem able to confront or admit their guilt, especially as it relates to social issues, suggests to me that very few Christians actually have been transformed by encounters with God's love.
This is why, when speaking of these things, I rarely mention guilt. Making those who do not know God's love feel guilty usually doesn't lead to significant social change (so, in this regard, I tend to agree with the commentator on my brother's blog). However, in recent reflections, I have come to the conclusion that we cannot, for this reason, refuse to speak of guilt. To refuse to speak of guilt because “it does not cause real change” is to allow our lives to be dictated by pragmatism, and not by faithfulness. Further, to speak faithfully as Christians today, is to speak of our guilt, and of our guilt as it relates to social concerns, as it relates to our neighbours, to the poor, to the dispossessed, to those in prison, and so on and so forth. However, by speaking in this way, we may very well be following the road laid out before Isaiah (the passage I quoted at the start of this post describes Isaiah's prophetic vocation) — we will speak and “make the heart of this people calloused; make their ears dull and close their eyes.” Now when people come to me and ask, “should I feel guilty?” I think that I will say this:
“Yes, you should feel guilty. But we, too, have felt, and often still feel, guilty. However, we have discovered something that enables us to walk a new path through our shame and if you come and journey with us, the community of the forgiving and the forgiven, you might also come to know that path.”
Guilt is a part of repentance, it is a part of the sort of conviction that leads us to turn our lives around, and to continue to live turned-around-lives (and if you want to tell me that you can experience “conviction” about social issues without feeling “guilt” then I would be inclined to think that your conviction is rather superficial — which is why the impact that “conviction” has on your life is also rather superficial).
However, as a final note, I should mention that this emphasis upon guilt is one that I usually reserve for those who benefit from, and perpetuate, exilic conditions. Those who suffer most under the conditions of exile are already well acquainted with guilt (after all, many of them are those who have, literally, been pronounced “GUILTY” in law courts, in society, and in the Church). When speaking with those who suffer most, the emphasis should fall on forgiveness.
However, all of us would do well to keep in mind these words from Augustine of Hippo:
He who says he has done enough has already perished.
Lord, have mercy. Amen.
this Something
I’m sure the T.V. sets will tell us when someone reinvents the wheel.
Till then I’ll have a million conversations about shit that isn’t real.
But I’ll try to breathe in meaning, dig deep through every gasp of air.
Cause I know you did the same thing, for as long as you could bear.
~ from “Reinvent the Wheel” by Conor Oberst
About a week ago, a young man that I knew obtained a day pass, a pass that permitted him to leave the psych ward of the hospital –- where he was being held and monitored –- and he went to visit a friend. While he was at that friend’s house, he hung himself and died.
This young man had been in “anguish” for a long time. I don’t know how else to describe what he was experiencing. Something in his mind was broken. Something was wrong; and, whatever that Something was, it tortured him. I don’t know when it first appeared -– maybe it came in and broke his mind when his family broke his heart, or maybe it came in and broke his mind when older men broke his body. Maybe that Something was always there and just got stronger and stronger with each new experience of brokenness, until it overwhelmed him.
I have encountered this Something before. I have seen it devour other lives. Indeed, tonight I sat and watched two other young people who are, literally, fighting for their lives against this Something.
What is this Something? It’s Plath’s “Bell Jar,” an invisible cage that suffocates whomever it surrounds. It is a darkness that enters through our wounds and fills us until all light, all hope, is lost. But it is also more than that. It is a Power in the service of Sin and of Death. It is one aspect of the demonic confronted by Jesus and by Paul (cf., for example, Mt 12.28; Eph 6.12).
And this Something is strong. It was stronger than this young man, and it was far stronger than anything we had to offer.
Supposedly such Powers were dethroned in the cross, resurrection, and ascension of Jesus, supposedly through the Spirit of New Life, we are equipped to proclaim the end of the reign of such Powers. But, as I watch my young friends sleep, I am far from confident that we will be victorious. The darkness is rising and they are suffocating.
Interview Meme: Part II
(2) I've always been intrigued by your url: “poserorprophet”. I'm sure it's a bit tongue-in-cheek, but I'm going to take it seriously for the purpose of this interview. Do you think of yourself as a prophet, in some sense? On the flip side, do you sometimes experience such self-doubt that you wonder if you're merely a poser?
Funny that you should mention this. I recently came across some old comments on my blog, wherein some readers were debating about whether the term “poser” or the term “prophet” best described me (good fun!). It got me to thinking about my own understanding of the url and, to be perfectly honest, I probably understand it differently now then when I first started this blog (just as my understanding of the title has also developed over time).
I should begin by making it clear that I do not think of myself as a “prophet” (regardless of what that “spiritual gift test” told me when I was a camp counselor. Have you seen those things? What a concept!). However, I do try to live within the trajectory established by the biblical prophets — from Moses, to Elijah, to Isaiah, to Jesus, to John the visionary. Furthermore, I have been quite inspired by contemporary people who, in word and deed, have highlighted the significance of the prophetic aspect of Christianity. Is Walter Brueggemann a prophet? Is Gustavo Gutierrez? Was Dorothy Day? I don’t think that any of these people would apply the word “prophet” to themselves (actually, outside of the charismatic tradition, who would?) but I think that there is much of the prophetic about what they say and do. I aspire to the same, and so I include the word “prophet” in my url. It is not up to me to determine whether or not I am a “prophet” but I hope to be faithful to the prophets.
However, because what one aspires to be, and what one actually is, are often two different things, I think that it is important to include the word “poser” in my url. This is also important because part of the purpose of my blog is to facilitate dialogue. This means both (a) being genuinely open to what others have to say and (b) creating the sort of environment wherein others feel able to voice perspectives that are different than mine. Further, by creating some ambiguity with my url, I am hoping that those who read my blog will think critically about what I have to say and come to their own conclusions. I highly doubt that blogs are capable of much persuasion (i.e. I don’t think I’m going to change any minds by writing what I write), but I do hope that blogs are capable of inspiring critical thinking (which might inspire a more lasting form of change). And, yes, the url is intended to be a little tongue-in-cheek. A bit of self-deprecating humour can also go a long way to facilitating dialogue (something I don't always remember).
But do I sometimes experience such self-doubt that I wonder if I’m “merely a poser”? Absolutely. Almost all the time. You see, all I have to do is state that (a) I work with those on the margins; (b) I live in an intentional Christian community in what has probably become the most notorious neighbourhood in Canada; and (c) my house has become especially focused on being an open place to sex trade workers and, voila, my life becomes some sort of romantic fiction for those who read about such things but have little first hand experiences of those things. Truth is, I feel like I am always too weak and too late. I feel like (a) my work is mostly unsuccessful; (b) my house has failed to connect meaningfully with our neighbourhood; and (c) we have yet to develop meaningful, lasting relationships with more than one sex trade worker. I resonate with the words of Dorothy Day: “I feel that I have done nothing well… I can see that I was not a good radical, not worthy of respect.” I am a poser who is still learning how to be faithful to the prophetic trajectory established by the biblical narrative.
Take this last week as an example. A week ago, a young man I know hung himself (and died). A few nights ago, a young woman I know intentionally overdosed on pills (but didn't die), and last night another young man I know cut his wrists and drank bleach (but didn't die). What have I done for these three young people? Not much. However, the fact that I even have these stories to tell makes me sound “radical” to some. Does that make me feel like a poser? You bet it does. But that doesn't stop me from telling the stories. They are like a word “in my heart like a fire, a fire shut up in my bones. I am weary of holding it in; indeed, I cannot.” (cf. Jer 20.9). In a way, my stories — like Jeremiah's stories — are my way of participating in the cry of those who are desperately awaiting a Saviour. Awaiting a Saviour that I, poser that I am, can never be.
Christianity and Marxism
[Y]es, there is a direct lineage from Christianity to Marxism; yes, Christianity and Marxism should fight on the same side of the barricade.
~ Slavoj Zizek, The Fragile Absolute, 2.
Two revolutionaries [Gk: lestes] were crucified with Jesus, one on his right and one on his left.
~ Mt 27.38 (cf. Mk 15.27; Lk 23.32-33).
It is interesting to note that, when the sons of Zebedee come to Jesus (with their mother!) and request to be seated at the places of honour next to Jesus — one on his right and one on his left — Jesus first asks them if they will be able to drink the cup that he is going to drink (cf. Mt 20). However, even after they answer in the affirmative, and even after Jesus affirms that they will drink of the same cup, Jesus refuses to grant their request. Now, where this gets interesting is that, in the Gospels, we do not see the sons of Zebedee, or any of the other disciples drinking from the same cup as Jesus (the “cup,” in this passage refers to Jesus' upcoming crucifixion, the climax of his “messianic woes”). Rather, when the time comes, the disciples all abandon Jesus. So who is it that we find situated at the places of honour and drinking from the same cup as Jesus? Two rebels, two revolutionaries, two terrorists(!), martyred for their opposition to Roman rule (the traditional translation of the word lestes as “robbers” in most English versions of the Gospels is something of a misleading translation, as several scholars have noted).
Further, some scholars have gone on to suggest that this is no mere coincidence; Jesus' placement in the middle of the rebels, highlights his sympathy and solidarity with the cause of those who would recognise no King but God alone. Although they differed on the use of violence (Jesus refused to engage in violence, while most — but, note, not all — of the rebels engaged in violence), both Jesus and the Jewish revolutionaries recognised that faithfulness to God led them into conflict with an empire that recognised no King but Caesar. Consequently, both Jesus and the rebels find themselves “on the same side of the barricade,” dying outside of the city walls together.
(If we accept what these scholars have to say then we might well conclude that the company we keep while dying is just as significant as the company we keep while living. What, I wonder, is the significance of the observation that most of us wish to die peacefully, in our sleep, in our comfortable beds, in our comfortable homes? On which side of the barricades does such thinking place us? Or rather, on which side of the barricades does such thinking reveal that we have been living this whole time?)
With these reflections in mind, it is easy to see the validity in Zizek's statement that Christians and Marxists should fight together, rather than fighting against one another. Indeed, I am fascinated by the ways in which Marxists — like Zizek, Agamden, and Badiou — have been exploring Jesus with Paul. Unlike those who have appropriated a “revolutionary” Jesus and discarded an “institutional” Paul, these scholars desire to maintain the integrity of the New Testament witness and find revolutionary potential in both Jesus and Paul. Therefore, where once Christian theologians were recognising the liberating potential in elements of Marxism, now Marxist scholars are recognising the liberating potential in elements of Christianity! Although the weapons of Christians and Marxist can be very different, they are united in a common cause. Christians and Marxist both voice a resounding “No!” to the Powers that perpetuate processes of oppression, dehumanisation, terror, enslavement, consumption, and so on and so forth. Furthermore, although the hope of Christians and the hope of Marxists are rather different, they are both hopes that subvert and challenge the current state of affairs while inspiring action against that state of affairs.
Unfortunately, the Christian perception of Marxism has been so warped in N. America that it is often impossible for N. Americans to recognise who their allies are. That we have so easily accepted such a caricatured picture of Marxism suggest to me that perhaps our sympathies aren't really with the oppressed, the enslaved, and the dehumanised. Perhaps we are on the wrong side of the barricade.
(This language of “allies” and “sides” may make some uncomfortable since it seems to suggest an “us” vs. “them” mentality. To say that we have “allies” suggests that we also have “enemies” and many of us are ill at ease with such language. However, it should be noted that Christianity never suggested that we do not have any enemies. Rather, Christianity says that we do have enemies, but we are to love those enemies and treat them as our friends — even if they continue to live as very real enemies.)