“After everything first happened, I panicked, I locked myself in the bathroom and I called a friend, ‘I just got raped, you’ve got to come find me, you’ve gotta get me to the hospital.’
At first I tried to press charges, but I couldn’t go through with it. The cops — they made everything worse for me. They didn’t believe me, they didn’t believe it was rape. One of them thought I was a hooker and he kept asking me, ‘Are you sure you didn’t just have a bad date?’ and the other guy asked me, ‘Are you sure you didn’t want it?’ I wanted it?! Yes, Mr. Officer, I got up that morning and I said to myself, ‘by God, I sure feel like having the shit kicked out me while being raped; yep, that’s what I feel like doing today.’ So, I couldn’t deal with the cops, not on top of everything else.
Which makes it hard now, because the other day on the bus I ran into one of the guys who raped me. I started dissociating, like I was floating away from myself, but I made it home. I went to bed and I stayed there for three days, I hardly had the strength to get up. At one point I went to the kitchen and I ended up dropping, and accidentally smashing, a plate on the floor. Hearing the smash triggered me again — it was like I could feel them punching me in the mouth, it was like I could taste my blood again.
I don’t know, it’s all fucked up. Like the other day I heard a little girl in my building scream and start to cry and I just started sobbing uncontrollably. That’s not normal. If another counselor tells me that my reactions right now are ‘normal,’ I think I’m going to lose it. How can any of this be ‘normal’? It’s all so fucking messed-up and I don’t know if I’ll ever be ‘normal’ again.”
Three Angles on Slavery: Dorothy Day, Rudolph Bultmann, and Luke's Jesus
There was a great question in my mind. Why was so much done in remedying social evils instead of avoiding them in the first place? … Where were the saints to try to change the social order, not just to minister to the slaves but to do away with slavery?
~ Dorothy Day, The Long Loneliness, 45.
In the matter of slavery Paul's standpoint is maintained [by the early Church]… The fact that slavery exists is accepted as a part of the given world order which it is not the task of Christians to alter.
~ Rudolph Bultmann, Theology of the New Testament: Volume 2, 230.
He has sent me to proclaim freedom for the prisoners… to release the oppressed.
~ Jesus, quoted as quoting Isaiah, in Lk 4.18.
Dorothy Day asks herself about the whereabouts of the saints who confront slavery in order to do away with it. That she was unable to find such saints is, in part, due to the legacy of scholars like Rudolph Bultmann.
In his study of Paul, Bultmann makes two moves that result in a presentation of a Paul who is socially conservative in his approach to socio-economic and political issues.
The first move, which is apparent in the quotation that I provide, is the social introspection that Bultmann argues existed, and was encouraged, within the Pauline communities. Pauline Christians, Bultmann argues, were not concerned with the given world order, they were simply to be concerned with themselves. Thus, that slavery existed in the world, was irrelevant for Christians who were no longer to see the distinction between “slave” and “free” as operative within the Christian community.
Now this could be a promising way forward, but Bultmann takes away what he gives in his second move, wherein he spiritualizes the transformation that occurred within Pauline Christianity. Thus, he goes on to argue that, within the Christian community, there were still Christian masters with Christian slaves; the point was that, even though nothing physical was altered, the distinction between masters and slaves should not be considered of any significance at a spiritual level.
The result of both of these moves is a depoliticized, or apolitical, Paul. However, an apolitical Paul becomes, necessarily, a conservative Paul; to show no interest in politics is to perpetuate the reign of the powers that be.
Not surprisingly, I would take issue with both of the moves that Bultmann makes. The second move is simply, IMHO, a misreading of the texts (Bultmann quotes 1 Cor 7 and Philem). As far as I can tell, the abolition of distinctions, like those between “slave” and “free,” (or those between “male” and “female”) had significant concrete, physical outworkings in the Pauline churches. The first move, however, is more troubling because it is a much more common move to make. Bultmann argues that the Pauline churches were not concerned with the “given world order” because they believed that the world order was passing away, they believed that “The End” of the world order would come within the life-span of their generation. Thus, despite their many differences, this is one place in which Bultmann is in agreement with Schweitzer and Dibelius (not to mention the host of others who have followed these two in seeing Paul as socially conservative because he believed that the End of the world was just around the corner). I would object to this on two grounds: (1) I believe that socio-rhetorical criticism has shown that Paul is very interested in socio-economic and political issues; and (2) I am not convinced that Paul was so sure that the world was coming to “The End” as some of these scholars assert. We must remember that for Paul, as a faithful Jew, the “end” of the world was really about the remaking of the world. Therefore, if, after the resurrection and Pentecost, the Pauline churches found themselves living in a time when the future was invading the present, it seems to me that they would have had an express interest in beginning to embody the new creation as it applied to all areas of life. Consequently, far from encountering a conservative Paul, I am inclined to discover a “subversive” Paul.
Be that as it may, the legacy of Bultmann (and others) lives on. We read Bultmann on slavery and we substitute a whole host of other issues — from homelessness in N. American urban centres to the HIV/AIDS pandemic in Africa — and we conclude that it is “not the task of Christians to alter [these situations].” Thus, it comes as no surprise that Day was unable to find the saints for whom she searched — most saints never imagined that they were to do anything more than to minister to slaves, for as long as the world continued being the world (however, I wonder about the extent to which Bultmann would apply these words to anything beyond what he sees as the Pauline perspective on slavery. After all, he was a member of the Confessing Church in Germany during WWII, and his family was involved in sheltering Jews from the Nazi regime).
All this, then, leads me to my third quotation — the one from Lk. What I find intriguing about the passage is the way in which Jesus uses the language of slavery (when he speaks of “the prisoners” and “the oppressed”; this is, of course, exilic language, but exile itself is properly understood as a from of slavery) in a way that opens that language up to an application beyond the situation of slaves in the first-century. Jesus calls for the abolition of all forms of oppression, and for freedom from all forms of bondage. Thus, whereas Bultmann “spiritualises” talk of slavery in way that results in something less than the physical emancipation of slaves, Jesus employs the language of slavery to refer to much more than, and certainly nothing less than, the physical emancipation of slaves. Consequently, we see Jesus embodying this proclamation by freeing the sick from the bondage imposed by illness, freeing the wealthy from the bondage imposed by money, freeing the poor from the bondage imposed by the religious structures, freeing the possessed from the bondage of demons, freeing the outcasts from the bondage imposed by social structures, and freeing the exiles from the bondage imposed by godforsakenness.
In light of these things, my question is this: how do we begin, like Day, to follow Jesus and confront the slaveries, and slave-traders, of our day, in order to do away with all forms of slavery?
Longings of a Disabled Person
There are some longings that I have not been able to satisfy or abandon. In a way, I carry these longings as a wound within me; they are a thread of brokenness, of sadness, that runs through me and, increasingly, even at the best of times, they are never too far below the surface. I suppose that one can only encounter so much brokenness before one ends up broken-hearted, broken-hearted and longing for the day when all wounds will be healed, all tears will be wiped away, and all things will be made new.*
Until that day, it seems as though we live in the midst of an irresolvable tension.
On the one hand, having seen God intervene and reach into the depths of brokenness (both my own and that of others), we live with the hope that any one of us can be transformed. I have seen God break in and enable people to overcome unimaginably awful events (I say, “unimaginably” because, unless one has gone through such events, one literally cannot imagine what that event is like), and so, as I journey alongside of people overwhelmed by the Powers of Sin and Death, I persevere because one never knows when, or to whom, God will appear. I have seen survivors of brutally violent sexual assaults (although that’s a bit redundant since all sexual assaults are brutally violent) be not only healed but made new in unimaginably incredible ways (for some traumas are so deep that it is not enough to be healed, one must become a new person in order to be set free), and I have seen crack addicts, addicts that were going to “die on the street,” get freed from their addictions. There is no brokenness so deep that God cannot make us new, here and now.
On the other hand, I have more frequently seen God fail to intervene. Recently I had to bring a kid to the hospital, and the “hospital smell” vividly reminded me of all the times I spent with my oldest brother in the hospital when I was younger. I still remember the night that I was sitting beside him as he lay in a hospital bed, his six foot frame wasted away to under 100 pounds, he was writhing and groaning with pain; I remember then how I stopped praying for God to make him better and started praying for God to “take him home” (an emergency surgery later that night saved his life and, although he is not “healed,” his life is “liveable” now… at least until the disease flairs up again). However, there are others I know who carry a form of pain that cannot be cured or appeased by any medical procedure. I think again of the many I have known who carry the ongoing wounds of sexual trauma: the bodily scars they keep covered, the nightmares that wake them at night, and the way in which such events fracture the world and make it a foreign, dark, and threatening place. And I also remember those who never came to see any healing. Pain ended up overwhelming them — I remember Becky jumping in front of a subway train, I remember Ruckus bleeding to death on a street corner, I remember Shaun overdosing in an alley.
And so my life is marked by a longing that is rarely satisfied. I live as one who is too weak to accomplish that for which I long. I cannot overcome the power of Addiction any more than I can physically cure my brother, or anymore than I can piece Becky’s shattered body back together. I live, in places of godforsakenness, as one who is disabled.
That might be the reason why the following quotation resonated so deeply with me. It comes from an article by Nancy L. Eiesland, herself a person with a disability, the author of The Disabled God: Toward a Liberation Theology of Disability. She writes:
I was reading Luke 24.36–39… “While they were talking about this, Jesus himself stood among them… They were startled and terrified, and thought that they were seeing a ghost. He said to them, ‘Why are you frightened, and why do doubts arise in your hearts? Look at my hands and my feet; see that it is I myself. Touch me and see.’” …here was the resurrected Christ making good on the promise that God would be with us, embodied, as we are – disabled and divine… The foundation of Christian theology is the resurrection of Jesus Christ. Yet seldom is the resurrected Christ recognised as a deity whose hands, feet, and side bear the marks of profound physical impairment. The resurrected Christ of Christian tradition is a disabled God.
God with us, disabled and divine; the resurrected Christ, marked with a profound physical impairment. Strange that such a thought should be so comforting. Strange that, to many who are suffering, a God of weakness becomes so much more meaningful than of God of absolute power (strange, perhaps, until we remember what Power has done to those who suffer). Is it enough to know that God is broken when we are broken? Is it enough to know that God weeps when we weep, bleeds when we bleed, dies when we die? No, it is not enough, but it is something. It means that we are not forgotten, and we are not alone. And if it is God who remembers us, if it God who is with us, than perhaps there will yet be a day when our longings are fulfilled.
Until that day, I live as one disabled, following a disabled God. Christ’s hands pierced, and my hands too impaired to heal the brokenness I encounter. Christ’s feet pierced, and my feet too impaired and slow to prevent the brokenness that precedes me. I am always too weak and too late. I cannot do enough. But, perhaps, I can still do something. I can remember, and I can be with others.
Sadly, such remembering often means remembering against the Church (as a member of the Church). Until the Church begins to remember and journey with the broken, those whom I remember — those like Becky, Ruckus, and Shaun — are remembered as a charge against the Church. What did you do, O Church, for those like Becky, Ruckus, and Shaun? Nothing. You don’t even have any memory of them. Thus, even as I remember them on your behalf, I also remember them against you.
_________
*By speaking of these things, as I sometimes do on this blog, I am not seeking consolation or encouragement. I am simply recognising that this brokenness is a part of who I am and a part of the road laid out before me — and before any of us who are seeking to journey alongside of those who suffer in exile today.
Embracing Homelessness: Encountering Traditions along "The Way"
Ben Myers is currently going through a series called “Encounters with Tradition” on his blog (http://faith-theology.blogspot.com). Within this series he has had a number of guest bloggers speak of their transition from one tradition to another (“from Charismatic to Anglican?” or “from evangelical to post-evangelical” or “from Congregationalist to Reformed Baptist”). These posts have lead me to think a little about my own encounters (or lack thereof) with tradition, and so I thought that I would share a bit about that (pardon the introspection, I promise I will get back to writing about things more significant than myself some time soon).
Without going into too much detail about my younger years, I should emphasise that I grew up with a near total ignorance of the various Christian traditions. My parents were conservative, my mother a Christian, my father an agnostic who employed the rhetoric of Evangelicalism. I moved between four traditions while growing up — when I was very young my family attended a Mennonite church, then we moved to a Baptist church, which I continued to attend (for some reason, although I can't think of why) after my parents stopped going to church. Then, upon reaching high-school, I transferred to a Congregational church. However, I really wasn't aware of the differences between these traditions. As far as I was concerned the major differences were that the Mennonites had more farmers, the Baptists had more old people, and the Congregationalists had a kick-ass youth group.
Then, to complicate things further, after I hit my really rough years and was kicked-out by my parents, I ended up having my “road to Damascus” experience (Was it a call? Was it a conversion?) at a charismatic church. Not just any charismatic church, mind you. I had my life totally transformed at the church that birthed the “Toronto Blessing” — and my experience came in the mid-1990s, when things were going pretty crazy there (for example, I happened to be in attendance at that church when the whole “gold teeth/fillings” thing first happened — it was pretty hilarious, everybody staring into each others mouths to see if anything was happening. The whole idea seems totally nuts to me but, believe it or not, I actually did watch one person's fillings change colours). However, even after I got “jaded” off of the whole charismatic movement (a feeling I have since revisited and reevaluated in the last few years), I was still pretty blissfully unaware that there was any major difference between the Mennonite elder I knew who had experienced violent persecution in the Ukraine during the Russian revolution (and who had responded with nonviolent love and forgiveness), and the Baptist pastor who preached about moral issues in the news, and the Congregationalists who welcomed all sorts of people (including myself and some of my pretty messed-up and occasionally homeless friends), and the people at the Toronto Blessing who ran around playing “Holy Spirit paintball” (good fun, what what!).
So, still with a great deal of blissful ignorance, one thing led to another and I ended up applying to, and being accepted at, an evangelical bible college in Toronto (at the time, I didn't even know what “evangelical” meant). Whether by divine providence or by luck (I favour the former), it turned out that this bible college was viewed as something of a “black sheep” among evangelical colleges in Canada. It was considered by many to be “too ecumenical” and thus “too liberal.” However, if I had showed up to a number of other Canadian bible colleges, the way I showed up in Toronto, I learned later that I would have been turned away at the door (I was a bit of a punk rocker [I hadn't yet realised that the “punk movement” died years before], so I was wearing large torn boots, black nail polish, and I had my hair dyed and sculpted into large spikes)!
Anyway, my near total ignorance of the various Christian traditions certainly didn't prepare me for the debates that raged in dorm during my first year. Dutch Reformed kids were going on about this thing called “Calvinism,” Methodists were going on about “Arminianism,” the Baptists were attacking the one Roman Catholic guy about “infant baptism,” but he was being backed by the “high-church Anglicans,” whereas the Salvation Army folks were going at everybody about all the “sacraments,” plus they were throwing in this crazy talk about the poor, which was upsetting a lot of the Pentecostals, and so on and so forth.
Needless to say, I initially felt like I was at a disadvantage because I was so ignorant of all these things but, after the first year passed, I actually came to see my initial ignorance as an advantage. It seemed to me that most people had been “indoctrinated” into one particular tradition, and had only learned about the other traditions as examples of heresies, apostasies, misguided good intentions, or just plain nonsense. Thus, I think my ignorance allowed me to more easily appreciate the unique gifts and strengths that the various traditions bring to the Church. However, although I saw many things that were good and beautiful about each tradition, I also saw many things that I questioned or saw as flaws in each tradition. Couple that with some concluding negative experiences I had with the Congregational church I had left to attend college (to make a long story short, they basically dissolved the youth group after the original youth pastor moved on, and this had tragic and lasting results for some of my friends, for whom that youth group was their only life-line), and I made the decision to not root myself in any particular tradition. In fact, I dove into the community that existed at that college (and, for some reason, I managed to attend that college when the community was very vibrant), and I saw that as my participation in “church.” The rest of my years in Toronto, both during my undergrad and after, were spent questioning the whole idea of the “traditional” or “institutional” church, and exploring other ways of being or doing “church” (first, in the college community, then in the community agency I worked at that journeyed alongside of street youth).
However, after a few years on focusing on Christian “social service” agencies as “church,” I began to question most of the ways Christians engage with those on the margins of society. At the same time I began to read Hauerwas (and some of his students like Cavanaugh, and Bell Jr.), and my world was rocked. I decided it was time to continue Christian studies, and so I moved to Vancouver and began a Master's at Regent college, where I became increasingly convinced that the transformation of the world lies in the Church being the Church (although it should be noted that a number of my profs at Regent would strenuously disagree with this “Hauerwasian” way of thinking). Add to this some serious study of the sacraments and the role of liturgies and, for the first time in years, I found myself eager to attend a local church (indeed, I felt that I desperately needed to attend a local church!). Unfortunately, attending a local church demands particularity, and I was confronted with having to choose between various traditions — a decision I still found exceedingly difficult to make. Indeed, for two years I struggled with the idea of joining the Roman Catholic or Eastern Orthodox churches, but ended up being unable to do so — in part because of particular beliefs and practices found in those traditions, but mostly because choosing one tradition meant, to a certain extent, rejecting other traditions.
Consequently, the two main factors in deciding upon a local church ended up being: (1) a church that is actually a part of the community in which I live, a church within walking distance; and (2) a church that has some focus upon journeying alongside of those on the margins (the third factor I should mention would be a weekly celebration of the Eucharist). Consequently, I find myself attending an Alliance church that is very focused on being a church for those on the margins, and that also celebrates the Eucharist every week. However, I am not an official “member” of that church, nor would I ever describe myself as “Alliance.”
Therefore, I find myself to have undergone a transition from one form of ecclesial homelessness to another. Initially I was unrooted in any particular tradition because I was ignorant of the distinctions between the various traditions within Christianity. Now I find myself unrooted in any particular tradition because I am very aware of the distinctions between the various traditions within Christianity. Thus, the only title that I do apply to myself would be the title of “Christian,” and I would describe myself as a member of the “Church.” I know that the vague nature of this position aggravates some, just as I know how the trendiness of positions like this one aggravate others (myself included!), but I really cannot, with good conscience, get any more specific than that. Thus, I would not describe myself as “evangelical” (I am not evangelical), nor as “conservative” or “liberal” (I am neither), nor as “Alliance” (I am not Alliance), nor as any other denominational title.
In Acts (and, implicitly, in Mark's Gospel as well?), the Church is called “The Way.” I like this title because it reminds us that the Church has not yet arrived at her destination, she is not yet who she should be. It reminds us that being a Christian involves journeying from one place to another. Rather than being about simply affirming this or that doctrine or confession, the Church as “The Way” reminds us that our faith is about the active pursuit of a particular trajectory. Christianity is not about membership in any particular tradition, it is about being a member of the body of Christ and communally embodying the good news that has been shared with us.
Therefore, we must remember that all the various Christian traditions are but tracks along “The Way” of Jesus Christ. We must remember that we are never to become too comfortable or too “at home” within a particular tradition, for even our strongest, or oldest, or most appealing, traditions are themselves experiencing homelessness until the time when Christ returns, and God decides to make his home among us.
Responses to Reflections on Sharing
In my (unfortunately, still ongoing, but not recently updated) series on “Christianity and Capitalism,” I made an appeal for Christian to rethink the nature of sharing, and I encouraged Christians to think about charity in ways that would move charity outside of forms of economic exchanges that are encouraged within the structures of capitalism (cf. http://poserorprophet.livejournal.com/109249.html). Thus, I encouraged Christians to give to all who ask of them, for example, to those who ask for change on the street.
I would like to highlight two of the responses I received from that post.
The first was from a fellow, “Craig,” who saw my post as an opportunity to get something from me. If I saw it as my Christian duty to give to all who ask of me, Craig figured that he would ask me for $500. Consequently, if I didn't share with Craig, that would allow him (and others) to toss my argument out the window. Unfortunately (perhaps for both Craig and I?), I didn't have $500 to share with Craig, but I sent him $20, while noting that I could never remember any person on the street seriously asking me for such a sum of money (why is it, I wondered, that those who already are among the “haves” demand so much more than those among the “have-nots”?).
The second response I received was from a young woman who requested anonymity. Although my community house has never made requests for money (we are self-sustaining at the moment), this young woman decided that, rather than asking for money, she would share some of her money with us and, after some dialogue (both with her and within my community), this woman sent us a gift of $500 — ironically, the exact amount that Craig had requested. The money, she said, was to go towards our community dinners, or gifts for the working girls (she even used the example of buying them smokes! It's pretty rare to find Christians who think that giving out smokes is an act of love — but it certainly is a fantastic way of connecting with people in our neighbourhood). Needless to say, my housemates and I were all rather floored by her generosity. And so, I thought it best to publicly acknowledge her gift and say, “thank you!”
It is interesting putting these two examples alongside of each other. One person reads a reflection on sharing and thinks, “Hey, maybe I can get something in light of this argument,” and another person reads the same reflection and thinks, “Hey, maybe I can give something in light of this argument.”
However, I suspect that both responses are a bit exceptional. I tend to think that the majority of us read such reflections and arguments and think “Neato!” …and that's about it. I suspect that reflections on sharing generally don't impact what most of us do in any way at all.
Coming to Grips with Separation (Part 2)
Just over a year ago, and a few weeks before their thirty-third wedding anniversary, my parents separated (see this post: http://poserorprophet.livejournal.com/90167.html, for my first public effort to “come to grips” with this event). Neither my mother nor my father are seeking a legal divorce, but they no longer have any contact with one another and are well on their way to legalising their separation.
So it goes, as Vonnegut would say.
As I have sought to journey alongside both of them, albeit from across the country, the last twelve months have contained quite a swirl of emotions — there has been joy in seeing both of my parents experience various forms of liberation, and there has been sorrow in seeing the unveiled suffering, both old and new, of those whom I love — but mostly I have felt a lot of unknowing. Often I have not known how to feel, let alone what to say or do. However, this is an unknowing that, despite the discomfort that it brings, is one that I willingly embrace. I think that genuine empathy requires us to move into places of unknowing, for in those places we come to share the unknowing and the helplessness of those with whom we journey.
However, if there is one thought that I have found myself returning to, and emphasising to others, again and again, it is that we must think of emotional woundedness in exactly the same way as we think of physical woundedness.
It seems that this point is one that Christians (especially of the Conservative/Reformed/Evangelical variety) seem to have trouble grasping. Given the emphasis within Christianity upon forgiveness, reconciliation, and embracing suffering, many Christians refuse to take seriously the depth of emotional woundedness a person can experience. Thus, in the situation of my parents, where it was my mother who formalised the separation by leaving (I say “formalised” because I believe that the marriage had already been in the process of fracturing for years), and where my father has become a very different person over the last few months (i.e. before my mother formalised the separation my father was not a Christian. Miraculously, one of the wonderful things that have resulted from all this is a “road to Damascus” experience that has begun to transform my father in many ways), many Christians have said that it is my mother's “duty as a Christian” to now return to my father. To suggest that there may be a wound in my mother (or in her marriage) that makes it, literally, impossible for her to return sounds like a whole lot of “liberal” or “unbiblical” nonsense to those who provides this so-called “counsel.”
However, I believe that we can be emotionally wounded in ways that make some things impossible for us, just as we can be physically wounded in ways that make other things impossible for us. Think for example, of a young man, let's call him Mark, who breaks his spine, and becomes paralysed from the waist down. Of course, we all know that God's desired ideal is for us to be “whole” and unmarked by brokenness, but none of us would tell Mark that, because of this ideal, it is his “Christian duty” to learn to walk again. The idea of wagging our heads, and continually making Mark feel guilty if he isn't making walking-again his top priority, is totally absurd. Now, one of the things I can say with certainty after having spent a lot of time journeying alongside of people experiencing brokenness, is that emotional brokenness can be just as real, and lasting, as Mark's form of physical brokenness. Telling my mother that it is her duty to fix the brokenness in her marriage is just as stupid (and harmful) as telling Mark that he “god-damned better get up and walk already.”
Futhermore, I like to use the example of Mark, because it reminds us that the language of “woundedness” or “brokenness” doesn't have to carry derogatory implications. Sure, Mark's back is wounded, sure his spine is broken, but that doesn't mean he is any less virtuous, or any less human, than the rest of us. Sure, my mother may have a wound that means that her marriage will always remain broken, but that doesn't make her any less virtuous, or any less human, than the rest of us. I would never think of defining Mark by the fact that he can no longer walk, and I certainly would never think of defining my mom by the fact that she can no longer be married.
Of course, by making this argument, I'm not trying to deny the fact that God sometimes intervenes and works miracles. I'm just saying that the chances of that happening in my parents relationship are probably as likely as the chances of God healing Mark's spine and making him walk again.
The irony of all this is that, if the Church began to approach brokenness from this perspective, we might actually begin to see a lot more of the miraculous for which so many of us long.
May Books
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.]