1. Liberating Paul: The Justice of God and the Politics of the Apostle by Neil Elliott.
If one begins to explore the topic of “Paul and politics,” as I have, this book becomes unavoidable. It is, to date, one of the first (and only) full-length and scholarly attempts to present a picture of a Paul who is, not only counter-cultural, but also explicitly counter-imperial. Thus, Elliott’s title, Liberating Paul, has a double meaning. It expresses Elliott’s desire to “liberate Paul” from the service of death (i.e. liberate Paul from readings that make him pro-patriarchy, pro-colonialism, pro-quietism, dejudaized, and so on and so forth), and it also expresses Elliott’s desire to paint a picture of a Paul who is truly “liberating.”
Thus, in the first part of the book, Elliott notes the way that Paul — and Paul especially of the New Testament voices — has been pressed into the service of death. Elliott’s sees two majors causes of this corruption of Paul: first, the pseudepigraphical books have been allowed to dictate who we read the genuine Pauline epistles (resulting in a so-called “Pauline Social Conservatism”) and, second, Paul has generally been “mystified” (i.e. seen as a “theologian” uninterested in “political” issues). Consequently, in the second part of the book, Elliott moves from criticisms to positive contributions, and looks at how three central elements — the centrality of the cross (an unavoidably political event) in Paul’s writings, the (political) apocalyptic mysticism of Paul and his conversion from “sacred violence,” and the apostolic praxis of Paul, living out the dying of Jesus in communities of discernment, resistance, solidarity, and confrontation — in Paul and his letters leads us to a liberated and liberating Paul.
Although I did not find all of Elliott’s arguments fully convincing, this books is an excellent read and a much needed blend of Pauline studies, liberation theology, and Western cultural criticism (I only wish that more authors were seeking to bring these strands together! Unfortunately, a recent post on Ben Witherington’s blog [http://benwitherington.blogspot.com/2007/05/future-of-liberation-theology.html] shows what happens when a NT scholar attempts to speak of liberation theology with hardly any understanding of liberation theology [let alone marxism! One wonders if Witherington has even read Marx, let alone Lukacs, Gramsci, Bloch, Marcuse, Adorno, and many others — like Derrida or Foucault, especially — who, although not marxist, had the horizon of their thinking set by marxism, and thus engaged in a creative dialogue with marxism]). Part of what I found so enjoyable about Elliott’s book is the way in which he retains the political insight of people like Horsley, while also holding onto the more “orthodox” elements of the Christian faith (something that those who present a “radical” Paul often seem to want to dispose of). Were I to teach a course on Paul, this would be required reading; it is an excellent book.
2. The First Urban Christians: The Social World of the Apostle Paul by Wayne A. Meeks.
This is a classic in the realm of New Testament studies and so, given my thesis topic, it was only a matter of time before I worked through it. As the title suggest, Meeks is exploring the social context of Pauline Christianity as we know of it through the New Testament. Thus, he examines six spheres: the urban environment of Pauline Christianity, the social level(s) of Pauline Christianity, the nature of the Ekklesia, governance within the community of faith, the role of ritual to the early Christians, and “patterns of belief and patterns of life” in the Pauline churches.
Although Meeks’ study is now a little dated (it was first published in 1983), and the socio-rhetorical study of the New Testament has exploded a lot since then, I found a great deal of valuable contextual information in this book. In part, I think that this book has become a classic precisely because Meeks is so hesitant to draw firm conclusions where no firm conclusions can be drawn. Unlike many, Meeks is willing to live with tensions and uncertainties, noting possibilities, rather than pushing a particular agenda. Thus, the Paul that Meeks’ presents is an interesting blend — in some ways he ends up being far more radical and explicitly counter-cultural than the Paul of “social conservatism,” and in other ways he ends up being far more conservative than the Paul that others like Elliott and Horsley (or even Crossan) present.
3. The Greco-Roman World of the New Testament Era: Exploring the Background of Early Christianity by James S. Jeffers.
Although this book is intended for a more general audience than other socio-rhetorical commentaries on the New Testament that I have recently read (cf. Meeks or deSilva), I found this book to be a very helpful (although somewhat dry) overview of the social, cultural, and political environment of the New Testament era. Jeffers doesn’t assume that his audience has much familiarity with the issues he presents and so he takes the time to explain all the basic categories and terms (as I was reading Jeffers, I found myself wishing that I had refreshed myself on these things before I read Suetonius last year). I think that Jeffers wants to be comprehensive without being overwhelming and, in my opinion, he accomplishes that task rather well. This book won’t be the most exciting thing you read, but it is useful for grasping the basic background of early Christianity.
4. New Tasks for a Renewed Church by Tom Wright.
First of all, if you’ve read Simply Christian and a few other books by Wright (say The Crown and the Fire and The Climax of the Covenant), then chances are that you’ve already heard most of what is said in this book (although this book was published, in 1992, before a lot of Wright’s other material. I really don’t know why it never caught on the way that Wright’s other stuff has; in fact, I think that it is out of print now). However, I don’t mind reading the same thing more than once when it comes from Wright. I actually like to keep him in my rotation so that he can increasingly impact the shape of the lenses through which I view the world.
Within this book, Wright examines (then) contemporary changes within both cultural (which Wright argues has been increasingly overrun by paganism) and the Church (which Wright argues has been experiencing a variety of renewal movements that need to be brought together — Wright identifies eight renewal movements: renewal of worship and spirituality, of Christian unity and ecumenicism, of social justice, of healing ministries, of critical thinking, of biblical study, of lay ministry, and of charismatic movements). Furthermore, Wright argues that the Church is now living in a post-Christendom era, and is deeply in need of some “spring cleaning,” as she has also become compromised by the paganisms of our culture.
Thus, Wright argues that the contemporary Church must do what the early church did: find out where the pagan gods and goddesses are being worshiped and find ways of worshiping Jesus on the same spot (he then explores how Christian today can do that in relation to Mars, Mammon, Aphrodite, Gaia, Pantheism, Bacchus, and “Idols of the Mind,” like the various dualisms that are prominent today). What I found especially important about Wright’s form of engagement in this part is the way in which he focuses upon holding together both cross and resurrection, and both “evangelism” and “social justice.”
Wright then concludes his argument with a meditation upon the Trinity, a doctrine that emerged when the early Church was battling with paganism, and a doctrine that must be re-explored if we are to confront paganism with a truthful vision of God today. He ends by asking these questions, which I believe are just as urgent today as they were in 1992:
The choice before the church must therefore also be made clear. Are we to compromise with paganism, to assimilate, to water down the distinctives of Christian faith in order to make it more palatable, to avoid the slur of being enemies of the human race? Are we to retreat into dualism, into the ghetto, into a private ‘spiritual’ religion which will assure us of an other-worldly salvation but which will leave the powers of the present world unchallenged by the Jesus who claims their allegiance? Or are we to worship the God who is Father, Son, and Spirit, and to find in that worship a renewed charge, a renewed sense of direction, and a renewed hope for the task?
5. Conscience and Obedience: The Politics of Romans 13 and Revelations 13 in Light of the Second Coming by William Stringfellow.
Having read Stringfellows’ An Ethic for Christians and Other Aliens in a Strange Land a few years ago, I came to this book with fairly high expectations.
What Stringfellow sets out to do in this book is “to affirm a biblical hope which comprehends politics and which transcends politics.” By doing this, he is exploring the “elementary link” between ethics and eschatology, because, Stringfellow argues, hope now “means the imminence of judgment.”
Now then, given the ways, in which much of Stringfellow’s other works on politics relied on the way the “State” is presented in Revelation (and Rev 13, in particular), he pays special attention here to Ro 13 but, rather than arguing that the two passages can be made to fit one binding principle, he argues that there is no coherence between the two passages. He writes: “Instead of proposition or principle, the biblical witness offers precedent and parable.” Thus, he concludes that any ethical system that is “settled and stereotyped” is both “dehumanizing and pagan—that is, literally, unbiblical.” In this way, Stringfellow allows for a real tension to exist between Rev 13 and Ro 13.
However, in order to negotiate this tension, Stringfellow raises the issue of “vocation,” and he argues that Ro 13 points to the proper vocation of human political authority, while Rev 13 describes the profound distortion of that vocation that has occurred since the fall. Thus, he concludes: “If ROMANS may be said to designate legitimate political authority, REVELATION may be said to describe illegitimate political authority.” However, before we go on to use the legitimacy described in Ro 13 to support contemporary powers, Stringfellow problematises the question of legitimacy, asking: legitimate to whom? legitimate when? legitimate in what way? by what standard? and so on and so forth. Consequently, he concludes that obedience to political authorities cannot be based upon appeals to legitimacy (or upon appeals to Ro 13). Unfortunately, when Ro 13 is used to make contemporary authorities legitimate, thereby inspiring Christian obedience, Stringfellow argues a “Constantinian comity” occurs that reverses the apostolic precedent of juxtaposing the Church and political authority.
Stringfellow then explores the idea that obedience to contemporary authorities is necessary in order to maintain a sort of Order that is better than anarchy. Unfortunately, Stringfellow argues, this argument fails because it is so conditioned. In actuality, no political authority has been able to achieve functional order, and prevent anarchy (“anarchy” is understood as “disorder, dysfunction, chaos, confusion”). Thus, when Stringfellow looks at America, he does not find order, he finds anarchy. Of course, Stringfellow concludes, calling such anarchy “Order” is precisely the “blasphemy” that is condemned in Rev 13.
Ultimately, Stringfellow argues, issues of conscience and obedience in relationship to political authorities, concern Jesus’ Lordship, and involve both his coming and his coming again. Thus, it is necessary to realise that both advents are political, and they are politically decisive for Christians. Thus, Stringfellow argues that: “The message which the life and witness of the church conveys to political authority… always, basically, concerns the political vigilance of the Word of God in judgment.” Therefore, Christians must recover the sense of the imminence of Jesus’ return if they are to live humanly in the world today — this is the vital role of hope in Christianity. Furthermore, Stringfellow argues that this “political vigilance” will lead the Church to be a political advocate for those who are victims of the rulers of this age, and this means that the Church must always be located “at the interstices of political tumult and controversy.” In this way, the Church can truly become a “holy nation… the exemplary nation juxtaposed to all the other nations.”
For the most part, I very much enjoyed this book (which is, perhaps, why I spent so much time reviewing it here). The only issue I had with Stringfellow is the way in which he reads Ro 13. I think that, within Ro in general, and Ro 13 in particular, there is room for a much more “subversive” understanding of that text.
6. Mythologies by Roland Barthes.
This book was a quick read, and was quite fun. Herein, Barthes explores various aspects of pop-culture, in order to reveal the ideology present in such seemingly apolitical events as advertisements for soap, the presentation of Romans in film, the world of wrestling, or the elements of a striptease. However, Barthes is not simply exploring events, he is interested, most of all, with language. Thus, he engages in semiological analysis of language in order to “account in detail for the mystification which transforms petit-bourgeois culture into a universal nature” (this mystification is why Barthes refers to these events as “Mythologies”).
The most interesting part of this book is the essay entitled “Myth Today,” which is something of a critical reflection upon the various cases that Barthes has examined in the rest of the book, and upon the methodology that he has employed. Myth, Barthes argues, is a type of speech, a mode of signification. Hence, myth is a blend of semiology — which is a science of forms, studying “significations” apart from their content — and ideology — which involves history and “ideas-in-forms.” Therefore, what is especially interesting about myth is that it is a “second-order” semiological system, it is not a language but a metalanguage. In this way myth transforms ideologies into the “natural” state of being in the world or, as Barthes says, the way in which myth “transforms history into nature” (for example, myths that propound the ontological/moral/intellectual/physical superiority of men over women make patriarchy the natural state of affairs in the world). Consequently, Barthes argues that myth is best described as “language robbery,” it takes our “first-order” semiological system, imposes another layer of meaning upon that system, and then makes that “second-order” appear natural.
From this rather technical study of myth, Barthes goes on to describe the way in which the bourgeois ideology (of capitalism) has become naturalised within the Western world (and Barthes’ France, in particular). The bourgeois, Barthes argues, have conquered precisely by become invisible (and, therefore, natural). Thus, Barthes writes, “flight from the name ‘bourgeois’ is not therefore an illusory, accidental, secondary, natural or insignificant phenomenon: it is bourgeois ideology itself, the process through which the bourgeoisie transforms the reality of the world into an image of the world” (of course, the fact that any of us — myself included — would feel at least a little embarrassed to use the term “bourgeoisie” in any discussion today, seems to strengthen Barthes’ conclusion — although see the quote from Eagleton, below, for a different perspective). Consequently, by making historical ideologies “natural,” myth “depoliticises” speech. Thus, to counter myth, Barthes argues that political language must be affirmed, and such language is found in the language of “man [sic] as producer” the language spoken “wherever man [sic] speaks in order to transform reality and no longer to preserve it as an image.” Of course, Barthes notes that this form of language is also open to appropriation by myth, but he argues that such myths are much more “poverty-stricken” than other forms. Actually, it is this part of Barthes’ argument that I find least convincing — I think Barthes’ Leftist views are just as susceptible to “mythological” criticisms as views from the Right. As Lyotard would say, every view is, inescapable, its own “small story,” and neither is less mythological, or more natural, than the other (at this point it may be worth while to recall Derrida’s comments on “logocentricism,” and the way in which it impacts both language and our critical study of language).
7. After Theory by Terry Eagleton.
This book was so good, Eagleton writes with such a wonderful, witty, and cutting voice, that I hardly know to write about his book in a way that does it any sort of justice. You’d be much better served reading this book yourself, I highly recommend it (in particular to people like Witherington — see the link above — who could learn a bit more about marxism from people like Eagleton).
In this book (and excellent book to read after Barthes, by the way), Eagleton argues that the socio-political concerns that dominated literary and postmodern theory in the last half century, have most come and gone. As Eagleton says:
Postmodernism seems at times to behave as though the classical bourgeoisie is alive and well, and thus finds itself living in the past. It spends much of its time assailing absolute truth, objectivity, timeless moral values, scientific inquiry and a belief in historical progress. It calls into question the autonomy of the individual, inflexible social and sexual norms, and the belief that there are firm foundations to the world. Since all of these values belong to a bourgeois world on the wane, this is rather like firing off irascible letters to the press about the horse-riding Huns or marauding Carthaginians who have taken over the Home Counties.
Consequently, given the rise of a new global narrative (that of capitalism, along with the “war on terror”), Eagleton argues that “the style of thinking known as postmodernism” may be coming to an end (after all, Eagleton notes, postmodern theory assured us that grand narratives were a thing of the past — further, he notes has cultural theory has mostly stagnated since the beginning of the 1980s, and “radical combat” has given way to “radical chic,” as the “dissident mind” has been “darkened”). Therefore, cultural theory faces a fresh challenge. Rather than sticking to tried and true issues, theory, says Eagleton, must “break out of a rather stifling orthodoxy and explore new topics, not least those of which it has so far been unreasonably shy.”
This, then, is what Eagleton does for most of the book as he explore the topics of truth, virtue, objectivity, morality, revolution, foundations, fundamentalism, death, evil, and non-being. Although cultural theory has become increasingly disenchanted and pessimistic, Eagleton urges theory to “think ambitiously once again,” not least because the powers of capitalism, and their wake of massive destruction, are certainly thinking ambitiously. Now, by exploring these topics, Eagleton does not leave the legacy of cultural theory behind (Lacan, Levi-Strauss, Althusser, Barthes, Foucault, Williams, Irigaray, Bourdieu, Kristva, Derida, Cixous, Habermas, Jameson, and Said, all appear on the first page, and many of the voices, and others, are continually engaged — both explicitly and implicitly — throughout this text). However, Eagleton has learned from these, and others, in such a way that allows him to go where they were often unwilling, or unable, to go.
Of course, by mentioning these topics, I have not said what Eagleton had to say about each of these things. Suffice to say that what is says is articulate, provocative and, I think, quite inspiring. Read this book.
8. Crossing to Safety by Wallace Stegner.
I still found some time to read a little fiction this month, and this book came to me highly recommended. It is a wonderful story of friendship, the dreams, passion, and self-absorbed nature of youth, the intervention of life, and the joys, sorrows, and endings that come with age. Really a story of everyday life, I found this book to be a wonderful read (perhaps because I am increasingly confronted with my own insignificance, and the everyday nature of all of our lives?). Highly recommended.
9. 5 People who Died During Sex: And 100 Other Terribly Tasteless Lists by Karl Shaw.
Ah yes, this book was a gift from my oh-so-lovely wife, and it made for some fascinating “toilet reading” (not for the faint of heart, I’m sure Chris Tilling will be rushing out to get this one!). One of my favourite sections was “Ten Thoughts on Shakespeare,” which begins with Voltaire (“This enormous dunghill”) and ends with King George III (“Is this not sad stuff, what what?”). I couldn’t agree more.
Interestingly enough, Jean Danielou, the noted Catholic Cardinal and theologian, was listed as one of the five who died during sex. Apparently he died in 1974 on the footsteps of a brothel in Clichy (the red-light district of Paris — a place I had the opportunity to visit a few years ago). The police explained that the 70 year-old Cardinal was on his way to (*ahem*) “comfort” a twenty-four year-old blond prostitute (“in an official capacity only”).
10. Batman: The Dark Knight Returns by Frank Miller (with Klaus Janson and Lynn Varley).
If one were to read only one Batman comic, this would be it. Of course, those that care already know that this book (along with Watchmen) pretty much revolutionised the genre of comics (and those that don’t care are thinking “who reads comics, anymore?”). Good fun (comics are best when they’re dark — which is why I didn’t enjoy any of the Spiderman movies), and a nice break from pretty much everything else.
Reflecting on Responses to the "What would you do?" Series
Over the last few months I’ve posted five different scenarios that I have (somewhat unexpectedly) encountered here in Vancouver, and I have asked my friends here what they would do if they were in those situations. Briefly restated, these were the scenarios I mentioned:
(1) sitting by drunken frat boys on the bus who were talking about raping women;
(2) giving a lighter to somebody, only to realise that he was using it to light a crack pipe;
(3) pursuing a street-involved fellow who assaulted a young woman on the bus;
(4) finding the unconscious body of a sex worker in the gutter on my way to work;
(5) being present when a man struck a woman in the face in an argument on the street.
As I was thinking about, and rereading, the various responses I have received, I was struck by two things.
First, I realised that almost all of us were operating with the assumption that something should be done. The reason why I found this so striking was because of the amount of encounters that we have where we assume that nothing should be done, where we don’t even think about doing anything. I mean, what if I changed the scenarios a little bit. What if I related these scenarios:
(A) I was walking downtown at night and I saw somebody sleeping in a doorway, slowly getting soaked by the rain;
(B) I was walking by the park and I saw a woman covered with sores, tweaking out, and yelling at nothing.
Ask the question, “What would you do?” in relation to these scenarios and the answer would be a resounding, “Nothing” (at least if we are being honest). We’ve all seen people sleeping on the street, we’ve all encountered junkies — they’re just part of life in North American urban centres. None of us would even think, “Hey, maybe I should be doing something about this.” Ani DiFranco, sums this point up rather well in her song “Subdivision”:
I remember the first time I saw someone lying on the cold street
I thought, “I can’t just walk past you, this can’t just be true.”
But I learned by example to just keep moving my feet.
It’s amazing the things that we all learn to do.
The only reason that we think, “Hey, maybe we should do something” in relation to the five scenarios I’ve presented is because we haven’t become accustomed to such encounters in the way that we’ve been accustomed to seeing somebody sleeping outside, or seeing somebody tweaking out.
I realised this when I was thinking about the last scenario I mentioned — the scenario where the fellow hit his partner in the face. You see, almost nobody from my neighbourhood would have done anything in that situation; that sort of sudden, brief, and not very extreme, violence is normal in my neighbourhood. People here walk by a smack the same way that us suburban folks walk by a fellow sleeping on a grate.
The challenge for us is how to avoid becoming accustomed to situations of violence and dehumanisation. The challenge isn’t just having the courage to take action in the scenarios that I encountered; the challenge is to begin to question things that we have become accustomed to, asking ourselves, “hey, wait a minute, why am I not doing anything here?”
The second thing that struck me about the answers people gave to the scenarios I presented, was the amount of people that said that they would respond by “praying.” The reason why this struck me was because, as I reflected back on how I had responded to each event, I don’t think I prayed in any of them. I know praying is the real good Christian answer to all things, but I’ll tell you this much: in my experience, I have yet to see such prayer-in-the-moment make any difference whatsoever. Such prayers are like the prayers that children pray when their grandparents are dying: “Dear God, please don’t let Grandpa die.” But, of course, Grandpa does die. If all we’re doing is offering up a quick prayer-in-the-moment then I’d almost be inclined to say don’t bother because such prayers are almost always meaningless, so let’s not fool ourselves into some sort of sense of false comfort — i.e. I’ve prayed, so I’ve doing something meaningful and can now move on feeling good about myself (note that my emphasis here is upon one time prayers-of-the-moment, and not upon ongoing intercession).
Speech, Silence, and Embodiment: Reflections on Proclamation
On or about “grace given by God,” deconstruction, as such, has nothing to say or to do. If it's given, let's say, to someone in a way that is absolutely improbable, that is, exceeding any proof, in a unique experience, then deconstruction has no lever on this… I am really Kierkegaardian: the experience of faith is something that exceeds language in a certain way, it exceeds ethics, politics, and society. In relation to this experience of faith, deconstruction is totally, totally useless and disarmed.
~ Jacques Derrida in conversation with members of AAR/SBL, as quoted in Derrida and Religion: Other Testaments.
Time and time again, I have found myself struggling with the limits of language as they relate to the verbal and written proclamation of the gospel. This struggle has led me to increasingly question the value of “traditional” apologetics (i.e. I think this type of apologetics only has value to those who already belong to the Christian community of faith), while simultaneously causing me to place increasing value upon the embodiment of proclamation (this, I think, has value, not only to those within the Christian community of faith, but also to those alongside of the Christian community of faith). In this process, I have come to the conclusion that there is no way that Christians can speak convincingly (or even sensibly) about the Christian faith to those who are not Christians.
What I find interesting about the quote I provide from Derrida, is that he takes all of this one step further and suggests that faith is something that we cannot honestly speak about at all — it is that which “exceeds language.”
Now, by making this claim, Derrida sounds very much like Wittgenstein, who reminds us that the language of faith (like the language of philosophy) is non-sensical. However, this is not reason enough to stop speaking of faith, as the later Wittgenstein also concluded. Although Wittgenstein had completed the Tractatus by asserting that “What we cannot speak about we must pass over in silence” (or, as he summarises the argument of the book in the preface, “what can be said at all can be said clearly, and what we cannot talk about we must pass over in silence”) he later wrote, “Don’t, for heaven’s sake, be afraid of talking nonsense! But you must pay attention to your nonsense” (as quoted in Culture and Value). Thus, as Christians we may continue speaking of the Christian faith, but it is important for us to realise that such speech is utterly nonsensical, lest we fall into the trap of trying to make our Christian speech more appealing or comprehensible to those who have not experienced Christian faith (and thereby end up with speech that is not Christian at all!).
Only those who have experienced Christian faith can view talk of Christian faith as convincing or as sensibly meaningful, as other-than-nonsense. Again, this is, I think, an assertion that Witgenstein (and Derrida?) would affirm. Wittgenstein draws the same conclusions about his own philosophical writings — only those who have experienced what he has experienced will likely find his writings comprehensible. Thus, he writes at the opening of his “Preface” to the Tractatus: “Perhaps this book will be understood by someone who has himself already had the thoughts that are expressed in it.”
However, we must also realise, with Derrida, that even when we speak of Christian faith to other Christians, we are speaking of the unspeakable — we are forever stuttering and striving after the Word that cannot be put into words. John's Gospel, however, reminds us that the Word became flesh, and so there is hope that we may be better equipped to embody the gospel proclamation. Perhaps it is the embodied proclamation of the gospel that will make the gospel more sensible (and, perhaps, even convincing) to those who have yet to experience Christian faith.
4. What would you do?
Last night I was walking to work (after dark) and I passed a couple (they were street-involved) sitting in a doorway on the other side of the street, arguing quite loudly. Shortly after I passed them, I heard a loud smack, and turned around and realised that the man had struck the woman in the face. She was crying holding her head, and he had gotten up and was walking away towards the alley.
It’s one of those situations that makes you realise how helpless you are. I could have called the cops but, after realising that they were dealing with a brief (and now finished) scuffle between two homeless addicts, they probably wouldn’t have even bothered responding to the call. Even if they had responded they probably would have taken so long getting there that nobody would be left at the scene by the time they showed up.
I could have gone after the fellow but, I hesitated to do so for two reasons — both of which are related to the embrace of nonviolence. Thus, the first reason I hesitated was because I knew going after the guy would escalate the situation and, given the opportunity, I wasn’t sure if I could trust myself to stay nonviolent. However, my second reason for hesitating was even stronger — there would be nothing meaningful to say to the fellow if I caught up to him. What would I say? Hey, buddy, don’t hit women! Yeah, that would do a lot of good — maybe even piss him off enough that he would beat the shit of the woman later on because of me.
So, I paused for a moment, and thought, “what, if anything, should I do right now?” And so I figured I’d ask y’all. If you were in my position last night, what would you do?
[You know, in retrospect, I don’t think that I did the right thing, but I’ll wait to hear how others might have responded before I say what I did, and what I think I should have done.]
Christianity and Capitalism Part XI: Dependence (Nonsensical Vulnerability)
What is immortal in the United States, what refuses to lie down and die, is precisely the will… It is a terrifying uncompromising drive, one which knows no faltering or bridling, irony or self-doubt…
The cult of the will disowns the truth of our dependency, which springs from our fleshly existence. To have a body is to live dependently… We are able to become self-determining, but only on the basis of a deeper dependency. This dependency is the condition of our freedom, not the infringement of it. Only those who feel supported can be secure enough to be free. Our identity and well-being are always in the keeping of the Other.
~ Terry Eagleton, After Theory, 183f.
Do not be afraid.
~ YHWH, Jesus, and God's messengers, as quoted in several passages.
When I began to explore the idea of a Christian political economics that embodies a genuine alternative to capitalism, I suggested that the Church — as a community of beggars — needed to pursue sharing and dependence. I have spent the last few posts in this series exploring some of the ways in which Christian sharing (as “nonsensical charity”) could (and should) counter capitalism, and I would now like to spend some time exploring the issue of dependence and what I like to call “nonsensical vulnerability.” I like to refer to dependence as “nonsensical vulnerability” because dependence is risky and, if you believe what the culture of capitalism teaches us, it is risk that is to be avoided at all costs. Indeed, if we are living rightly, according to capitalism, we are taught that dependence is a risk that is unnecessary. Hence, to chose to move into a lifestyle of dependence can only be described as the pursuit of nonsensical vulnerability.
It does not take much thought to realize that the political economics that I have been developing is one that makes those who seek to embody it dependent, and therefore vulnerable, in some rather ways. However, I would like to emphasise that such vulnerability-as-dependence is not a drawback to this political economics; rather, it is another essential way in which this approach offers a genuinely Christian alternative to capitalism.
Capitalism teaches us to be self-sufficient. Becoming independent is a rite a passage, a sign of maturity, and the more we embody “rugged individualism,” the more we are honoured within the culture of capitalism. However, the first thing to realise is that this “independence” is not any sort of independence at all. Sure, we learn to be independent of our parents, our friends, and our churches, we learn “not to be a burden to anybody,” but all the while we are still absolutely dependent upon our capital. We rely on our credit cards to pay our bills, we really on our RRSP, or GICs, or our other savings, to sustain us when we get old, just as we rely on our property increasing in value, and so on and so forth. Thus, capitalism teaches us to be independent of one another so that we will be absolutely dependent upon the structures of capitalism.
Therefore, if we are to truly embody an alternative to capitalism, we must become less dependent upon our capital. By saying this, I am not suggesting that we dive further into our pursuit of independence and rugged individualism (not least because the language of “independence” and “rugged individualism” are mythical fictions that, themselves, perpetuate ever-deepening cycles of consumption [as we, for example, spend more on more money crafting unique images for ourselves]). This is why I included the quote from Eagleton at the beginning of this entry — Eagleton reminds us that absolute independence isn't an option at all; rather, it is always a question of what we will be dependent upon. Consequently, I am suggesting that we must learn new forms of dependence — forms that fit more naturally with Christianity.
However, just as we find the reformation of desire to be unappealing, we find the reformation of dependencies to be rather scary. For some reason, we find that it is much easier to trust banks and credit companies, than it is to trust other Christians, let alone trusting the poor (or God, for that matter!). However, it is worth remembering that the command “Do not be afraid!” is one of the most frequent commands issued from God, and God's messengers, to God's people. The problem is that very few Christians actually take this command with any amount of seriousness. Therefore, in the next couple of entries I want to explore some ways in which we can stop being afraid and move towards vulnerability within the Christian community, vulnerability among the poor, and vulnerability before God.
Another Example of the Moral Superiority that Exists among the Poor
Last night I was walking to work shorty before 10pm and I decided that, rather than walking up the street, I would follow the alleyway most of the way to work. There is a major alley that runs parallel to my route (probably the most notorious alley in Vancouver) and I sometimes like to walk it at night. I do this for a few reasons: (1) I always figure there might be a chance of running into somebody I know who has been missing for awhile; (2) I figure it’s good to become a familiar face in such places; and (3) I like to walk in such places at night to make sure that I remain comfortable there — if I get away from such places for too long I notice to I find them more intimidating.
Anyway, I was just about to cut into this alleyway when two young guys, probably in their early twenties, stopped me because they thought they recognised me. Eventually we figured out that I actually did know one of the guys — he used to attend a drop-in I worked at in Toronto five years ago. We didn’t ever know each other well but we at least recognised each other. So we chatted a bit and then, as we were about to go our separate ways, he realised that I was going to go into the alley. He got pretty concerned:
“Yo man, why you want to go there for? It’s lookin’ real grimey tonight.”
So I told him that I was hoping to find a friend that wasn’t doing so hot. I told him not to worry, I’d be find. In response he said something that really touched me:
“Look man, how ’bout me and my boy here go with you. We’ll watch your back.”
Here’s what got to me about his offer: me and this guy, we hardly ever knew each other at all. But he was willing to put his neck out for me, he was willing to walk into who-knows-what, and if things got bad he was willing to jump in on my behalf, simply because we did have that one point of contact five years ago. And it wasn’t like this was no big deal for him — he was pretty scared by what was going on in the alley that night. But he was willing to put his fears aside for my sake. The reason why this touched me the way that it did was because I can’t imagine any of my acquaintances from the Christian community (outside of the intentional community that I am a part of) make anything close to a similar offer. The idea of even offering to join me in that alleyway at night probably wouldn’t even cross the mind of most of my Christian acquaintances.
And so, once again, I am humbled by the affection and solidarity that is continually embodied by those who are street-involved. I wonder how things would be different if anything close to a similar affection and solidarity existed within the Christian community. It’s about time that we also started putting our fears aside for the sake of one another.
Eagleton on Love's Objectivity
Objectivity can mean a selfless openness to the needs of others, one which lies very close to love… To try to see the other's situation as it really is is an essential condition of caring for them… The point, anyway, is that genuinely caring for someone is not what gets in the way of seeing their situation for what it is, but what makes it possible. Contrary to the adage that love is blind, it is because love involves a radical acceptance that it allows us to see others for what they are.
~Terry Eagleton, After Theory, 131.
I am often told that I am “biased” or “blinded” by love relationships that I have with people who are experiencing poverty and oppression. I like the way in which Eagleton's argument, quoted here and developed in more detail in After Theory, reverses the charge. According to Eagleton (and I am inclined to agree), those who do no love people who are experiencing poverty, cannot judge the situation of the poor with any sense of objectivity.
Of course, “loving” the poor, means actually caring for the poor, as Eagleton says later on:
Love for the Judaeo-Christian tradition means acting in certain material ways, not feeling a warm glow in your heart. It means, say, caring for the sick and imprisoned, not feeling Romantic about them (146).
Furthermore, Eagleton argues that this means that objectivity means taking sides. He writes:
Objectivity and partisanship are allies, not rivals… True judiciousness means taking sides (136f).
From this we can conclude that only those who take the side of the poor, concretely loving the poor in various ways, are in a situation where they can hope to speak objectively about the poor.
Lord, if you had been here…
And if God is great,
and God is good,
why can’t he change the hearts of men?
Maybe God himself is lost and needs help,
maybe God himself needs all of our help,
maybe God himself is lost and needs help,
out up on the road to peace.
~Waits/Brennan, “The Road to Peace”
The other night I ran into an old friend, let’s call him “Mike” — a young man imprisoned by the Powers of crack and alcohol and anger. Mike is one of those guys who grew-up fast, and gained a lot of wisdom with his brokenness, something that can’t be said of all of us. But the Powers that have a hold on Mike are stronger than he is, just as they’re stronger than me or the “help” some of us tried to give Mike half a year ago.
So Mike was not doing well when I ran into him the other night. He was high and hadn’t slept for six days. To top it all off, he had found a place for himself and his girlfriend that night, but another fellow had run him off. So, he paced up and down beside me on the sidewalk and waited to see if his girlfriend was going to come out to be with him, or stay in with another guy. Barely coherent, he was cursing and swearing and boxing the air.
Anyway, his girlfriend showed up but she brought another guy — and I knew there was going to be trouble. As soon as Mike saw this other guy, he jaw clenched, as did his fists, and sure enough, after a few words were thrown back and forth, I found myself jumping into the middle of things, bodily intervening to ensure that physical violence didn’t follow verbal violence. Mike’s girlfriend jumped in as well and, thankfully, the two of us were able to diffuse the situation.
I wasn’t able to do anything meaningful for Mike that night. He was bouncing from crisis to crisis, the Power that we call Addiction was stronger than anything I had to offer, and so after after helping Mike in a few trivial ways, after sharing a few affectionate words, he was gone back to “Hell’s Acre” to score some crack in “the belly of the beast” (his words, not mine).
More and more these days, I find myself praying the words of Mary (the sister of Lazarus) in Jn 11.32. Her brother had just died and Jesus, their friend and a great healer, had delayed in coming to them. So, when Jesus arrives, she kneels at his feet, weeping, and says:
Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.
Perhaps if a few more of us take up this cry, perhaps then our Lord will once again be “greatly disturbed in spirit and deeply moved.” Perhaps he will weep now, as he wept then, and perhaps he will set us free from the Powers that bind us, just as he once called Lazarus forth, out of the tomb. Perhaps then our Lord will greet people like Mike with the same words with which he greeted Lazarus:
Unbind him, and let him go.
Perhaps. Because it appears that my prayers, and my tears, are — by and large — unheeded. And so I pray, again and again, “Lord, if you had been here… Lord, if you had been here.. Lord, if you had been here…”
Christianity and Capitalism Part X: Sharing (a final appeal)
Give to everyone who begs from you; and if anyone takes away your goods, do not ask for them again… If you love those who love you, what credit is that to you? For even sinners love those who love them. If you do good to those who do good to you, what credit is that to you? For even sinners do the same? If you lend to those from whom you hope to receive, what credit is that to you? Even sinners lend to sinners to receive as much again. But love your enemies, do good, and lend, expecting nothing in return… Be merciful, just as your Father is merciful.
~ Lk 6.30, 32-35a, 36.
[C]apitalism is an impeccably inclusive creed: it really doesn't care who it exploits. It is admirably egalitarian in its readiness to do down just about anyone. It is prepared to rub shoulders with any old victim, however unappetizing.
~ Terry Eagleton, After Theory, 19.
I know that I had stated that I was going to move on in this series to exploring “dependence/nonsensical vulnerability” as a key element of a Christian political economics that offers a genuine alternative to capitalism, but I could not resist one final comment on sharing as nonsensical charity.
Of all the biblical passages about sharing, few verses have shaped my understanding as much as the passage I quoted from Lk 6 (see also Mt 5.38-48). Within this passage, I believe that Jesus is describing precisely the form of nonsensical charity for which I have been advocating in my last few entries. Furthermore, I believe that the form of giving Jesus describes here is consistent with the call to giving that runs throughout the rest of the biblical texts. Hence, Lk 6 serves as an appropriate summation and manifesto regarding the form of giving that is to define the community of those who follow Jesus. Christians are called to give to everyone who begs from us, and lend expecting nothing in return. Full stop.
Unfortunately, it is exactly this form of giving that strikes us as nonsensical within the structures of capitalism. Capitalism teaches us to be much more pragmatic about how we give. Thus, for example, we only give to charities that provide us with tax breaks (who among us would even consider giving to a charity that is unregistered and could not give us a tax receipt?). Furthermore, if there is one type of person we are consistently told not to give to, it is those who beg from us on the street corner (I have heard innumerable arguments from social workers, and Christians, as to why giving our change to beggars is a bad thing — but what all these arguments come down to, one way or another, is that giving to beggars is probably an absolutely wasted investment). Capitalism teaches (1) not to give to everyone who begs from us; and (2) to only give after considering what is to be gained from our giving — i.e. to give expecting something in return.
However, I find that I cannot shake the words of Jesus in Lk 6, and so I find myself participating in nonsensical (not only non-pragmatic but even anti-pragmatic!) forms of charity. Jesus makes it clear that we are not to have any motive for giving other than the act of giving itself, and the desire to be like God our Father, whose giving is shockingly and (wastefully!) merciful. That the form of charity for which I have been advocating is generally not the form of charity embodied with the Christian community, suggests to me that we rarely take Jesus' words seriously.
Thus, continuing with the examples provided above, I would encourage Christians to give to all beggars, and I would encourage Christians who donate to charities to refuse the offer of tax receipts. And, ultimately, if we can't entirely shake the pragmatic outlook of our culture, and we are disturbed by the (seeming) fact that our giving does not seem to be doing any good, then I would suggest that the solution is not to stop giving, but to give more.
Two final point: first, at the beginning of this post, I juxtaposed Jesus' words in Lk 6 with a quote from Terry Eagleton about the inclusivity of capitalism. I created this juxtaposition in order to suggest that, just as capitalism doesn't care who it exploits, so also Christians should not care to whom they give. Only this radically inclusive form of giving will provide us with a genuine Christian alternative to the radically inclusive form of exploitation of capitalism.
Second, by subtitling this post “a final appeal,” I am noting that this series is itself a part of the begging that I think is to define the Christian community. What else can we do but beg our brothers and sisters in Christ to reread the Scriptures, to reexamine the contemporary situation, and to rethink what it means to be a member of the body of Christ?
Christianity and Capitalism Part IX: Missional Sharing (Life Together with the Poor)
Is this not the fast which I choose:
To loosen the bonds of wickedness, to undo the bands of the yoke, and to let the oppressed go free and break every yoke? Is it not to divide your bread with the hungry and bring the homeless poor into the house; when you see the naked, to cover him; and not to hide yourself from your own flesh?
Then your light will break out like the dawn, and your recovery will speedily spring forth; and your righteousness will go before you; the glory of the LORD will be your rear guard. Then you will call, and the LORD will answer; you will cry, and He will say, “Here I am” if you remove the yoke from your midst, the pointing of the finger and speaking wickedness. And if you give yourself to the hungry and satisfy the desire of the afflicted, then your light will rise in darkness and your gloom will become like midday.
~ Is. 58.6-10.
Extra pauperes nulla salus.
~ Jon Sobrino [“Outside the poor, there is no salvation.”]
I concluded Part VIII by asserting that Christians, following the “preferential option” exercised by God, and the life-trajectory established by Jesus, must learn to share life together with the poor. In order to grasp just how much this differs from the charity that is affirmed by capitalism, we must come to recognise the ways in which the Christian community has, by and large, outsourced the practice of charity to “professionals” and “social workers.”
Unfortunately, just as the outsourcing of blue-collar jobs devastated life in many North American inner-cities, so the outsourcing of charity work has had a similarly devastating impact upon the life of the Church. Generally what we find are Christians who provide others with the material resources that those others need in order to engage in charitable actions. So, for example, instead of feeding the hungry, they make a financial donation to a soup kitchen; instead of clothing the naked, they give some used clothes to the Salvation Army; instead of inviting the homeless poor into their homes, they donate some money to a homeless shelter. Consequently in these (and other) ways, charity is outsourced. Christians have learned how to share material resources with the poor, while also ensuring that their actual lives are well separated from the poor. Therefore, if we are to learn to share our lives together with the poor, we must move beyond this approach to charity.
In particular, we must begin to explore the ways in which our faith communities can began to enact the form of sharing that is described in the passage that I quoted from Is 58. Is 58 — along with the rest of the prophetic tradition, including Jesus — does not call us to pay others to feed the hungry, it calls us to feed the hungry, just as it calls us to clothe the poor, us to loosen the bonds of wickedness and oppression, and us invite the homeless into our homes — and this call is addressed to all of the members of the people of God — it is not simply directed at social work professionals.
Consequently, we realise that, in order to do these things, we must actually personally encounter the hungry, the naked, the poor, the oppressed, and the homeless. And this is why it is so important for the Church to be rooted in the marginal places of our world, the “groaning places,” the places where the darkness of exile is still most strongly felt. When we pursue the life-trajectory encouraged by capitalism we end up in self-enclosed work places, churches, and neigbourhoods which leaves us scratching our heads thinking:
Clothe the naked? I've never run into any naked person…. hmmm, that must mean that I should understand this to refer more to my attitude than to my concrete actions… in fact, maybe all the commands — about eating, or taking in the homeless, or fighting oppression, or whatever — aren't actually literal commands, maybe they're actually trying to point to a more “spiritual” reality.
However, when we are situated in the groaning places of this world we discover that the prophetic call of Isaiah, and the other prophets, requires us to engage in a very literal response to that call (staying with the example of “clothing the naked,” I have had at least half a dozen opportunities to literally do this in the last seven months). Therefore, the first step to sharing life together with the poor is to choose to live where the poor live. The life-trajectory of “downward mobility” leads us to move to “dirtier,” “more dangerous,” and less comfortable neighbourhoods, not because we want to be “more radical” but because, if we are called to love the poor, and love our neighbours, then it is vital that the poor become our neighbours.
Consequently, I would like to envision a network of Christian community-homes that are rooted in such marginal places (see here for more details on this approach: Personal Calling and the Calling of the Church). In this way, we can learn how to journey alongside of the poor, treating them as friends and neighbours, rather than as clients, projects, or targets. Furthermore, by rooting ourselves among the poor we quickly learn that, in our professional approaches (through social service agencies, or through churches), we often try to share things with the poor that are completely useless (and perhaps even detrimental) to the poor. Our proximity to the poor provides us with the insight to engage in more appropriate and meaningful form of sharing.
At this point, I would like to pick up on one particular aspect of the passage in Is 58. I have continually been struck by these words: “bring the homeless poor into [your] house.” It is interesting to begin here by noting that Jesus and his disciples, as well as Paul and those who traveled with him, assumed that people would take this passage literally. Therefore, in order to build on the model of Christian community-homes that I described in Part VII, I would like to argue that each community home should have at least one (or more, depending on the size of the community-home) guest room set aside for guests like “the homeless poor” and those who are oppressed. Thus, a network of community-homes, each with a particular missional interest becomes quite important — one home could focus on bringing in sex workers, another home could focus on women with children leaving abusive relationships, another could focus on men with addictions, and so on and so forth (the reason why a network is important is that it is often a good idea to keep members of these various different groups apart — for example, mixing sex workers and battered single moms together isn't the best idea because the single moms often end up getting recruited into sex work because they are so desperate for money).
Finally, although “success” is not my motive for pursuing this vision (my motive is a desire to be faithful — the motive that I believe should be at the root of all Christian action), I also suspect that, if we begin to share our lives together with the poor in this way, then we will begin to see the transformation for which we long. Why do I believe this? For two reasons: first of all, because I have personally invited the poor into my home on a number of occasions — and I have seen wonderful transformation result from that action — the sort of transformation that almost never seems to come through social service agencies and Church outreach; the kind of transformation that is best described as new life (and not just harm reduction). Secondly, I believe this because Is 58 tells us that this is the case. When we share our food, our clothes, and even our homes, with the poor, then God promises to hear our prayers and be present among us; conversely, when we don't do these things then God promises to ignore us and depart from us. This is why Sobrino is correct to assert that extra pauperes nulla salus. Such assertions are bound to make us uncomfortable, but discomfort is no basis for discarding or ignoring Sobrino's assertion.
Now, it doesn't take a lot of thought to realise that this sort of charity seems utterly nonsensical to those whose lives are dominated by capitalism. Our priorities and life-trajectory are bad enough — but the idea of inviting the homeless into our homes (homeless people that are strangers to us!) would be (and has been) described as crazy (“fucking insane” is how one of my friend's put it). However, given the content of scripture, I can only conclude that Christians are called to make their home among the poor, while inviting the poor to make their home within the Christian community.
I realise that the idea of embodying this form of charity is scary to a lot of people and so, in my next few entries, I hope to finally address what I see as the second key component of a a Christian political economics: radical dependence/nonsensical vulnerability.