Well, over the last two days I have had the privilege of attending a series of lectures presented by Miroslav Volf. The lecture series, offered as the 2006 Laing Lectures at my school, was called “A Voice of One's Own: Public Faith in a Pluralistic World.” The first lecture was entitled, “The Malfunctions of Faith: Idleness and Coerciveness,” the second lecture was called, “A Faith that Makes a Difference” and the final lecture was called “A Peaceable Faith.” Part of what made the lectures so interesting was the fact that a few profs from my school were able to respond to Volf's lectures and then engage in a panel discussion with him.
There was one exchange between Volf and my professor Hans Boersma that I find particularly interesting. Volf had concluded his first lecture by emphasizing that the Church must exist as a counter-culture for the common good. Boersma challenged the term “counter-culture” and argued that the Church should be understood as a complete and unique “culture.” Volf then expressed some discomfort with the notion of the Church as a culture and the example that he provided was intriguing. “For example,” he said, “I do not think that the Church speaks her own language.”
This caught my attention, given the fact that “postliberal” theologians, in light of Wittgenstein's notion of “language-games” and Lyotard's notion of “petit recits [small stories],” have been emphasizing the uniqueness of the language of the Church.
Consequently, at the end of the third lecture when I had an opportunity to speak with Volf I pressed him on this point. If the Church does not speak her own unique language, what language does she speak? Indeed, could it not be argued that a further “malfunction” of the contemporary Church in the West is precisely the fact that she has lost her own unique language and capitulated to other language-games, allowing her world to be shaped by words and meanings that are foreign to her?
Unfortunately, Volf did not have time to respond in full. He began by expressing his discomfort with any approach that understands language as strictly functional and then went on to affirm the argument that the Church is, inevitably, caught speaking the language of those around her — how can she not?
I then attempted to take the question from another angle and asked, taking Barth as a guide, whether or not the Word of God could be described as the truly unique Language of the Church; indeed, is it because the Church is ever only a witness to the Word, that the language of her proclamation is not unique?
Volf began by expressing his discomfort with Barth's approach to language (analogy in particular) and, alas, this is about as far as we got. He noted that this topic is one that is particularly important today, but also noted that such things were difficult to discuss briefly and the night was late and others were coming and going, getting books autographed and expressing their thanks.
So I am left hanging. Anybody want to pick up on these questions?
The Faith of Jesus Christ and the Righteousness of Believers
A few thoughts inspired by dialogue with the New Perspective on Paul.
Properly understood, it is not my faith in Jesus that saves me. Rather, it is the faithfulness of Jesus that saves me.
My faith does not defeat the power of sin, nor does it atone for my sins. Rather, it is the faithfulness of Jesus that has defeated sin and atoned for the sins of us all.
My faith does not recapitulate humanity, nor does it inaugurate the new age. Rather, it is the faithfulness of Jesus that recapitulated humanity and birthed the new age.
Therefore, it is the faith of Jesus that is salvific, not my faith in Jesus. My faith in Jesus simply shows that I have been saved by Jesus. My faith is not what gets me into the covenant people of God, it is that which shows that I am already in the covenant people of God. Faith in Jesus is not that which saves Christians, rather it is that which is an identity marker of those who have already (in the here-and-now) realized that they have been saved by Jesus. Faith simply sets apart those who have already realized that Jesus is Saviour and Lord of all, until the day when Jesus returns and God becomes “all in all.”
However, there are another dimension to Christian faith in Christ. Indeed, Christian faith is perhaps better described as in Christ faith. That is to say, it is the faith of those who are in Christ. Indeed, one of the the most central elements of Paul's writing is the notion of Christian existence “in Christ.” Christians are those who members of Christ's body, they are baptized into Christ's death so that they will be resurrected with Christ, they share in Christ's sufferings so that they may also share in his glory, therefore Christian living can be summed up as “Christ” (as Paul says in Phil 1.21: “For me, to live is Christ”). Therefore, because all that we are and do is now “in Christ” this means that our faith is “in Christ faith.” Understood in this way, it is possible to see our faith as participation in the faith of Christ.
Realizing this also opens the door to revisit the notion of type of righteousness possessed by Christians. Certain New Testament scholars have raised a significant critique of the Reformed doctrine of “imputed righteousness.” This doctrine asserts that God gives his own righteousness to believers and thus considers them innocent. However, the critics of this doctrine have argued that to suggest that believers are granted God's righteousness is to make a category mistake. What they mean is this: righteousness language in the New Testament is best understood against two backgrounds, the forensic (i.e. law court) and the covenantal. Now, in the law court there can be more than one type of righteousness. There is the righteousness of the judge, who judges impartially and justly, and there is the righteousness that is granted to the defendant when he or she is vindicated. Thus, when righteousness language refers to God as judge and to humanity as the defendant, one must not suggest that one can share in the other's righteousness for that would confuse the categories. The defendant is not declared righteous in the same way that the judge is righteous. Furthermore, the same distinction holds within the covenantal context. Here God's righteousness is understood has his faithfulness to the covenant he made, and to suggest that human's receive this righteousness is to confuse the covenant partners with one another. This critique, I think, is quite convincing.
However, there is a sense in which the notion of “imputed righteousness” still holds true, but it does so in a significantly reworked manner. Stated succinctly: because the in Christ faith of believers is participation in the faith of Christ, believers also participate in God's righteousness because they then become the agents by which God remains faithful to his covenant with humanity and the rest of creation. The notion of “imputed righteousness” is therefore all about vocation, commission, and mission, and not about some sort of static status. One can be said to share in God's righteousness to the extent that one shares in God's mission. Indeed, this is also then a participation in God's righteousness as judge over the world, and perhaps this view of imputed righteousness makes good sense of Paul's enigmatic statement that “the saints will judge the world” (cf. 1 Cor 5-6). Christian's share in God's righteousness as judge when they go into the world with the embodied announcement of the forgiveness of sins.
The Police
I would like not to have this job. It has cost me my dreams.
~ Oleksander Mazur, an officer in the UN's international police force (CIVPOL) who works with trafficked women and children
A short time ago a scandal surfaced within Canada's national police force (the RCMP). A fellow named David Ramsay, a provincial court judge in the province of British Columbia, had been accused of engaging in sexual activities with aboriginal teen female prostitutes (some of whom had appeared in his court) and the police had engaged in a lengthy investigation. After a couple years spent gathering evidence and building an airtight case, Judge Ramsay was charged and he pleaded guilty in 2004 to doing such things as having sex with girls as young as twelve, and, in one case, smashing a child's face into the dashboard of his car and then forcing her to hitchhike naked from a rural area back into the city. Ramsay was sentenced to 7 years (of course, this means he'll probably only actually serve a few years of hard time).
However, in the investigation of this judge, information had surfaced that suggested that nine RCMP officers had also engaged in sexual activities with underage prostitutes.
Of course, for those of who journey alongside of women and youth who are sexually exploited this sort of thing is old news. I have lost count of all the stories I have been told by girls (yes, girls, not yet women) about the times they have been picked up and sexually exploited by police officers. Time and time again these girls are picked up and given the option of being charged with working the stroll as a minor or engaging in sexual activities with the officers and thus avoiding all charges. And I've known girls who have been raped because they refused to bargain with the officers (of course, to balance out the stories I have been told by girls, I have also been told countless stories by boys about being violently beaten by police officers — and I have seen the proof on their bodies).
Therefore, as a follow-up of the Ramsay investigation, I was not surprised to hear that Constable Justin Harris of the RCMP was being charged with engaging in sexual activity with prostitutes under the age of 18. Harris was also being investigated for assaulting one of the girls because she asserted that, when she refused to have perform oral sex without a condom, he hit her in the face. Another girl also described Harris as a “bad date” — a term used for johns that act aggressively or violently. Such stories are nothing short of horrific but I found it encouraging that the ongoing corruption within Canada's national police force was finally getting some attention. Perhaps a conviction in the Harris case (which, given the evidence, seemed like a rather done deal) would open the door to prosecuting other officers (like the 8 other officers implicated in the Ramsay case). Further, a conviction in the Harris case would, perhaps, encourage others who are raped and beaten by police officers (and a pretty regular basis) to gain the courage to come forward and press charges.
But there's a catch. You see, it is the police who police the police. Constable Harris sat before a panel of three senior RCMP officers from other provinces. And his case was thrown out. Not because evidence was lacking. Not because the Constable was innocent. Harris' case was thrown out because of the questionable usage of a technicality. You see, when the RCMP does internal reviews they have one year to build the case and press charges against an officer. If that year expires without charges being pressed, then that officer cannot be charged with the content of that investigation. Consequently, the panel determined that, even though the official investigation of Constable Harris had followed the proper internal protocol, the RCMP did have evidence of Harris' activities much earlier when Judge Ramsay was first being investigated. Thus, the panel determined that Harris could not be charged (nor, by implication, could any other officer implicated in the Ramsay investigation).
Harris walks away a free man, and if you follow the mainstream media, this is a good thing. Over and over reporters have stressed how difficult this process has been for Harris, how depressed it has made him, and how it has put such a strain on his marriage. We are lead to believe that it is the investigation that makes things hard for Harris' wife — not the fact that he assaulted, beat and had sex with children. You see, Harris is the victim, and the girls that he abused, well, they never get mentioned, and their voices are never heard. And so, we all learn an important lesson — don't bring charges against the police. Suffer in silence.
Do I really need to go into why this is all so infuriating?
Who Said It?
Hollywood's a place where they'll pay you a thousand dollars for a kiss, and fifty cents for your soul. I know, because I turned down the first offer often enough and held out for the fifty cents.
Ten Propositions on Hell (an alternate proposal)
A short while ago, I read Kim Fabricius' “Ten propositions on hell” which is quoted in full on Ben Myer's blog (cf. http://faith-theology.blogspot.com/2006/09/ten-propositions-on-hell.html). I thought I would provide 10 alternate (but not necessarily contradictory) theses on hell.
Let us begin by asserting that:
(1) Jesus saves us from hell in the same way that he saves us from death.
This can then be rephrased in a more provocative manner:
(2) Jesus does not save us from hell any more than he saves us from death.
Yet:
(3) Our salvation from death does not prevent us from dying. Rather, our salvation from death is a salvation that leads us through death.
Consequently:
(4) Our salvation from hell does not prevent us from “descending into hell.” Rather, our salvation from hell is a salvation that leads us through hell.
If this is the case then:
(5) What we mean by the word “hell” must be reconsidered.
As we do this we must note that:
(6) The references to hell in the early creeds (the Apostles' Creed and the Athanasian Creed) occur within the domain of Christology (and they are not a part of the assertions about the final end state of humanity — which only speak of the “resurrection of the dead” and the “life everlasting”).
Therefore:
(7) “Hell” must be understood within the framework of Jesus' mission.
When this occurs:
(8) “Hell” is best understood as the place where Jesus' ultimate, and salvific, solidarity with “sinners,” with the god-forsaken, and with those who experience the utter extremes of exile comes to its fullest expression.
Furthermore, it must be remembered that:
(9) Christians are called to participate in the mission of Jesus, not because Jesus' victory was incomplete, but so that Jesus' victory can be implemented in the present.
Therefore:
(10) Christian's are not saved from hell, if that is taken to mean a complete escape from hell. Rather, Christians are saved so that they can participate in Jesus' descent into hell, and share in his mission of salvific solidarity with the god-forsaken.
Coming to Grips with Separation (Part 1?)
About four months ago my parents separated. My parents had been “married” for nearly thirty-three years, when I received a call from my mother informing me that she had left my father. A great variety of emotions passed through me in those first weeks.
After speaking with my mom, I sort of broke down and had a good hard cry. It's not that the separation was entirely unexpected, it's just that the inevitable can still knock the wind out of us when it arrives. It's like watching a cancer patient get more and more ill: we still cry when that patient dies. We cry because of the thread of brokenness that runs through creation; we cry because death, even when we know it is coming, is still something worth mourning because God desires a world where death no longer has any power. And we cry because separation, even when it is inevitable, is still something worth mourning because God desires a world in which all of us are reconciled with one another. (Note that in all of this I am not saying that the separation was the event which broke my parents' relationship, I think that the relationship was broken year before, and that's why I use the analogy of a terminal illness that results in death [and that's also why I put the word “married” in quotes in my first paragraph]). And so my first response was to mourn our communal brokenness.
My second reaction, which is still ongoing, and which is the focus of this post, was to try and think through these things Christianly. To begin with, I quite firmly believe that separation can be a genuinely Christian event. I very much believe that separation can be exercised within marriage in a way that is analogous to the way in which excommunication should function within the Church.
Excommunication is not an action that kicks people out of the corporate body of Christ, rather it is a (last, desperate) action that reveals that the excommunicated person, through his or her own ongoing activity, has already separated him or herself from the covenant people of God. Excommunication thus makes that fact clear to all the parties involved (and to all those who observe people who call themselves “Christians”). Furthermore, excommunication is practiced with the goal of reconciliation. A person's self-chosen separation from the body of Christ is made manifest so that that person can become a true member of God's covenant people. Stated in an overly simplistic manner, excommunication reveals that a person who thought that he or she was “in” the people of God is actually “out” and thus it simultaneously shows that person what he or she must do to be truly “in” — indeed, it encourages that person to do precisely what it necessary to be truly “in” (note that my use of “in” and “out” language here does not refer to the status of a person's “eternal salvation.” Rather I am simply speaking of a person's membership within the confessing body of Christ as it exists in the here and now).
Similarly, I believe that separation can be a (last, desperate) action through which one person in a marriage reveals that the other person in the marriage has already separated him or herself from the marriage covenant due to his or her ongoing actions. Therefore, separation makes this clear and, like excommunication, is also simultaneously a (last, desperate) attempt at genuine reconciliation.
This is, of course, the ideal.
In reality, things are, alas, much more messy and, yes, broken. The Christian ideal is for the reconciliation of all creation and all people but that ideal will never be fulfilled until Christ returns and makes all things new. Alas, even the Church, God's new creation body, God's forgiven and forgiving people, will never perfectly manifest this ideal. Therefore, another part of thinking through this topic Christianly is recognizing that some threads of brokenness will always remain within us, some wounds leave scars and others never fully heal. This is true of us physically (or are all Christians in perfect physical health?), and it is just as true of us relationally and emotionally. Thus, although our ideal is for reconciliation in all things, we also embrace those who are unable to be reconciled with all people (who among is is truly reconciled with all people?). Sure, our ideal is to see all of creation reconciled, but that doesn't mean we are encouraging lions and calves to lie down together, and it also doesn't mean we're encouraging our children to play with vipers (cf. Isaiah's vision of the new creation in Is 11). Of course, I'm not saying that either person in my parent's relationship was “a viper” or “a lion,” I'm simply pointing to the fact that sometimes our ideal of reconciliation is impossible in the here and now.
This means that living Christianly sometimes means accepting that threads of brokenness and separation will always be present even within the people of God, and it means that sometimes we must accept that brokenness and recognize our desperation for (and distance from) the time when God will be all in all.
This conclusion is a difficult one for me to draw. Indeed, I don't think I would have been able to draw this conclusion were it not for my study of Miroslav Volf's writings (cf. Exclusion and Embrace and Free of Charge: Giving and Forgiving in a Culture Stripped of Grace). It is a conclusion I draw with some regret and with some hesitation. With regret because, even though this is the reality, it is a sad reality. With hesitation because I think too often people use this sort of argument as a way to avoid engaging in necessary reconciliations. Arguments, like this one, which are premised upon “realism” and “practicality” are too often used by those who look for the “minimum requirements” of a self-serving discipleship. We should never be looking for the “minimum” but should rather be asking how we can go deeper into a God-and-other-focused discipleship. I worry that people could read this argument and think “see, I knew I didn't have to forgive or reconcile with so-and-so” when really that's not what I'm arguing for at all. Forgiveness and reconciliation should be the de facto position of all Christians. Yet there are situations of brokenness that challenge that position, and that must be taken seriously. Of course, the objection can be made that God can heal all brokenness, no matter how deep, and this is true. The response to this objection is simply that God does not, here and now, heal all brokenness, and we must create room within the people of God for those God does not fully heal. We must welcome such people with open arms until such a time as God chooses to heal them fully — even if that time does not come until after the resurrection.
Of course, in making these observations there is a line I am drawing between brokenness and obstinance. Some are incapable of reconciliation because their wounds never fully heal, and such people should be welcomed in the way that I suggest. Others are incapable of reconciliation because they are obstinate, and such people should be challenged. Hence the need for discernment, and hence the reason why it may seem like, in this post, I am giving with one hand what I take away with the other.
So, these thoughts on excommunication, separation, brokenness, and our distance from God being “all in all” lead me back to the situation of my parents and one final thought.
I have come to the conclusion that the Church must more fully embrace the notion of separation as a form of excommunication. Because the Church, especially the Conservative streams of the Church (of which my mother is a part) is so opposed to divorce, and also tends to see the woman as subservient to the man in marriage, separation is rarely practiced in the way that it should be practiced. Instead, women (and men) end up staying in relationships that are destructive and consequently, when separation occurs, they do not separate with the goal of reconciliation — they separate because they are so shattered that they cannot possibly stay within that relationship. When this occurs, full reconciliation often becomes a remote possibility, or a complete impossibility. Thus, if we are really to hope to see broken marriages reconciled, we must embrace the place of separation instead of continually counseling women (and men) to stay within destructive relationships.
Finally, because I began by speaking about my reactions to my parents' separation, I should note one other reaction — one that shames me, and reveals my deeply rooted selfishness. Early on I could not help feeling angry at my mom. I was not angry that my mom separated from my dad (for reasons that should now be obvious) — I was angry that she separated for the reasons that she did! As I have mentioned before, I was kicked out of my parents' house by my dad when I was 17. Thus, when I heard that my mom had left, and when I heard why she left I thought: “what? You leave because of that, but you never left because of what happened to me? You never left when I got thrown to the wolves, so why are you leaving now?” Of course, I knew that there were all sorts of things in my mom's life that enabled her/drove her to leave when she did but I still felt that knee-jerk selfish reaction for a little while. I am ashamed of that reaction and thank God that I never said anything about it to my mom. Lord Jesus Christ, son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.
And have mercy on all of us as we struggle to follow you, even as we discover old scars that still ache. And please, Lord, hasten the day when you will be “all in all” and we will live in shalom with one another. Amen.
Table Fellowship and Loving Recklessly
I was doing some work on the computer the other day when one of my housemates came in and announced:
“I just invited a murderer for dinner.”
My housemate volunteers at a drop-in for street-involved men and women in our neighbourhood (Vancouver’s oh so notorious downtown eastside) and he had decided to invite a certain fellow (let’s call him “Mike Smith”) to dinner at our place. Now Mike happens to be a man with a reputation for violence; he had just gotten out of jail, and he had previously spent a significant amount of time in jail for murdering somebody. Thus, when my housemate invited Mike over, he was reprimanded by a co-worker who essentially told him that he was too naive, and had acted too recklessly.
Consequently, when my housemate returned home and announced that he had invited Mike for dinner, he was worried a little and wondered if he had done the right thing.
Of course, inviting people from the neighbourhood for dinner is an essential part of the community house in which I live. Once a week we invite a random scattering of people into our home, we cook a big dinner, and we wait to see who shows up. Our dinners have been wonderful times of fellowship with all sorts of people from all sorts of backgrounds. One week we had a woman in the sex trade, a young homeless man, two first nations fellows who live in an SRO (Single Room Occupancy — basically cheap and dirty hotels that rent out tiny rooms for about $350/mo. There is one bathroom per floor and no kitchen included), and the pastor of my church along with his wife and two young children. It has been incredible to see the way the Spirit moves and brings everybody together. Consistently, week after week, we have found that total strangers have become close friends by the end of the night. And I feel like we are getting a tiny bit of a glimpse of what Jesus’ meals with “sinners” must have felt like. I feel like I’m glimpsing the kingdom of God breaking in around our dinner table, and I think we’re also getting a glimpse if what God’s final wedding banquet will look like. Opening our home to strangers, whoever that may be — the girl on the corner, the guy smoking crack in the alley, a fellow student at school, a new face at church — and inviting the Spirit to come and host the meal, well, this is probably one of the most exciting things I have experienced in my life. I feel like I’m finally starting to see the kingdom in the way that it was seen in Jesus’ day and I can’t wait to see where this trajectory leads us.
So, all of this leads me back to the invitation that my housemate extended to Mike. And I think my housemate did exactly the right thing. As far as I can tell, no “sinner” was so fearsome or so “evil” that he or she was excluded from eating with Jesus. As far as I can tell, Jesus ate with those who had not yet repented, Jesus ate with entrenched sinners — and by doing so he made new life possible for them. Therefore, if we are faithfully following Jesus, it seems that people like Mike are precisely the sort of people we should be inviting for dinner.
But isn’t that a little naive? After all, we still need to be at least a little safe and practical about how we go about this, right? Well, I’m not convinced. In fact, I would suggest that it is those who would not invite Mike who are being naive. This is so for three reasons. First of all, it is naive because those of us who live and work in this neighbourhood are constantly in the presence of violent people anyway. Going to work, walking the alleyways at night, these things are not any more safe than inviting a person like Mike over for dinner. We are being naive if we think that our daily routines are any more safe than doing something like inviting a murderer for dinner. Secondly, we are also being naive if we think that we faithfully follow Jesus while protecting ourselves from all forms of suffering. Following Jesus means taking risks, it means loving recklessly, and, if we do this for long enough, we will eventually get hurt. Indeed, Jesus tells us to expect suffering, it is almost as if suffering for Christ is one of the essential badges of discipleship. Thus, if we ever only act in ways that ensure that we will not suffer, then the chances are that we are not following Jesus faithfully. Thirdly, and finally, I think we are also being naive if we think that a person like Mike — or anybody else — can do anything to actually harm us. You see, the thing is that with Christ we are assured of victory one way or another. If Mike comes over, and if our meal goes the way that our meals have been going so far, then the Spirit will have come with power and triumphed. But if Mike comes over and something violent occurs then we will triumph through the cross. Sure we might get hurt but one way or another, whether in the power of the Spirit or the power of the cross, God’s kingdom will break in. It is not up to us to determine which way things will occur, it is up to us to be faithful.
Besides what’s with this thing about defining people by their actions? As far as I can tell Mike is a beloved, but broken, child of God, and he deserves to be treated as such. Indeed, if we only ever define Mike as a “MURDERER” then the chances are that we make his violent behaviour inevitable. If we treat him as a child of God we allow him the opportunity to live differently.
And so, if you think of it, you can pray for our house and our dinners. You can pray for Mike, you can pray for my housemate, and you can pray for those who are still naive and fearful. Lord knows, we all get afraid at times, but let us pray that God will raise up communities around us that permit us to travel through our fears so that we can be agents of God’s new creation, knowing both the death and resurrection of Jesus.
Oh, and if you’re ever passing through town, drop me a note and maybe we can have you over for dinner.
September Books
Well, I managed to finish of the last of my summer books at the start of the month and then I dove into Wittgenstein. Expect to see a lot more of him, as well as Barth and Paul, over the next little while. Sorry that some of these reviews are so obtuse and that most of them are altogether too brief. This is the best I can do for now.
1. Colossians Remixed: Subverting the Empire by Brian J. Walsh and Sylvia C. Keesmaat.
Within this book Walsh and Keesmaat read Colossians in light of postmodern philosophy and counter-cultural voices and practices. In essence they wrote a whole new kind of commentary. Consequently they focus on issues of empire (then and now), truth (and truth as it relates to imagination, improvisation, and performance), and ethics (in particulare the ethics of secession, community, liberation, and suffering). For those within the sphere of biblical studies who are unfamiliar with counter-cultural voices, well, this book is nothing short of explosive. And for those within the realm of biblical studies who are familiar with the counter-culture, well, we find ourselves thinking, “It’s about damn time.”
2. The Bible in Politics: How to Read the Bible Politically by Richard Bauckham.
Although a little more dated than the book by Walsh and Keesmaat (1989 vs. 2004), and although Bauckham’s perspective is quite different, this book is an important read because it gives the biblical voice priority over all other voices. Instead of reading the bible through the lenses of various other political paradigms, Bauckham tries to let the bible speak on its own terms (of course, the extent to which Bauckham succeeds in this effort will be left to the discerning mind of the reader). Because of his desire to give the biblical texts priority Bauckham ends up espousing positions that end up making both ends up the spectrum uncomfortable. Too radical to be wholeheartedly accepted by mainstream Christianity, and too conservative to be wholeheartedly accepted by the radicals, Bauckham’s is a voice that deserves to be heard.
3. Evil and the Justice of God by N. T. Wright.
Another work of biblical, political theology (or, better yet, theopolitical exegesis), this is Wright’s latest offering within which he begins to wrestle with issues of evil in light of the cross of Christ. Wright begins by critiquing the efforts that the Western philosophical tradition have made to resolve the problem of evil. Instead of treating evil as some sort of epistemological puzzle, Wright argues that it is better to examine what God does about evil. Thus, he traces the biblical narrative in light of this theme and settles on the cross as the point where evil (of all sorts) hits rock bottom. Thus, stressing the Christus Victor model of the atonement, Wright argues that God decisively defeats evil on the cross of Jesus (as the resurrection so powerfully reveals). Therefore, Christians are those called to be shaped by the cross of Christ and thereby “implement the victory of God in the world through suffering love.” This implementation is one that must take place at a corporate, political level and (somewhat secondarily) at an individual level. Consequently, Wright explores issues relating to empire, war, the criminal justice system, and art. Wright argues for a Christian approach rooted in prayer, holiness, reconciliation, restorative justice, and education of the imagination. Ultimately, Wright argues the people of God should be a people defined by forgiveness (and here he draws heavily from Miroslav Volf’s Exclusion and Embrace, L. Gregory Jones’ Embodying Forgiveness, and Desmond Tutu’s No Future Without Forgiveness — and, IMHO, these three books are exceptional, some of the best written on the topic of forgiveness).
4. Sex, Economy, Freedom & Community by Wendell Berry.
This is my first time actually reading Berry (I was lead to this book by some references made in Colossians Remixed) and I must say that I quite enjoyed him. There is a great blend of poetry and academics, gentleness and force, and humour and brokenheartedness in his writings. I especially enjoyed two essays: the first on the joys of sales resistance (his comments on education and the trajectory of Western culture were both hilarious and bang-on) and the last on sex and economics in which he argued that sex and economics are intimately related to one another and one cannot be discussed, or addressed, apart from the other.
5. Civilization and Its Discontents by Sigmund Freud.
This was Freud’s follow-up to The Future of an Illusion and this is the place where Freud’s reflections on agression and the opposition between the death drive and Eros really come to the fore. Really it’s a summary of Freud’s reflection on culture from his rather interesting psychoanalytical perspective. Freud continues to posit the opposition of the individual’s desires with the demands of civilization. This opposition leaves us all trapped in an unresolved (and unresolvable) tension. Hence the batle between the culturally influenced “superego” and the radically independent “id.” This battle is what occurs when the conflict between the individual and civilization is internalized. This book was quite fun to read and it is good to read Freud in light of his (lasting?) influence on Western civilization.
6. On Cosmopolitanism and Forgiveness by Jacques Derrida.
This book is composed of two separate essays by Derrida, the first on cosmopolitanism and the second on forgiveness (surprise, surprise). Within the first essay, Derrida wrestles with the immigrantion issues that France, along with much of Europe, faces. He explore the notion of establishing “cities of refuge” that are independent of nation-states, and thus he revisits the role that the city places within the (inter)national realm of politics. I found this essay to be interesting, although the topics explored were pretty much completely off my radar right now. The second essay, however, was one that I found quite interesting. Within the second essay, Derrida argues that forgiveness really only applies to that which is unforgivable. Over against corporate and political functions that cheapen forgiveness (i.e. Korea forgiving Japan for War Crimes… as if a State can forgive another State for crimes certain individuals committed against certain other individuals), and over against other (related) approaches to forgiveness that simply make forgiveness the appropriate and required response within an economic exchange (i.e. when a person repents and performs the appropriate penance they are said to merit forgiveness), Derrida argues that “forgiveness forgives only the unforgivable… It can only be possible in doing the impossible.” Thus true forgiveness must be unconditional, which really means that forgiveness is a form of “madness” (this is not a term that Derrida uses perjoratively, for he embraces this model of forgiveness) that cannot be reduced to any of these other forms or to “the therapy of reconciliation” (i.e. any way of expressing the approach that treats forgiveness as a means to an end). However, in the day to day reality of life one must deal seriously with issues of penance, repentance, and reconciliation and thus Derrida finds himself with two indissociable, irreconcilable poles: unconditional forgiveness, and conditional “forgiveness.”
7. Wittgenstein by G. H. von Wright.
This is a collection of essays that von Wright put together based upon his research and his friendship with Wittgenstein. I found his biographical reflections (“Ludwig Wittgenstein: A Biographical Sketch” and “Wittgenstein in Relation to his Times”) to be both useful and interesting, and I found his essay entitled “Wittgenstein on Certainty” to be the most useful academic essay within the book. The two essay tracing the origins of the Tractatus and the origins of the Philosophical Investigations (along with the essay that documents Wittgenstein’s papers) were extraordinarily boring, and I had a helluva time understanding the essay entitled “Wittgenstein on Probability.” So this book was a real mix, but when it was good it was really good.
8. Wittgenstein’s Tractatus: An Introduction by Alfred Nordmann.
Nordmann’s purpose in writing this book is to resolve the most basic and lasting problem of the TLP: how can it be both nonsensical and persuasive? If philosophy is nonsense, and if the TLP is nonsense (which it admits to being) then why should we be persuaded by its argument? Well, we should be convinced because the TLP actually identifies four types of language. Over against those who only see three types of language in the TLP (descriptive language that is both grammatical and significant [Sinnvoll]; logical language that is grammatical but senseless [Sinnlos]; and philosophical language [ungrammatical/nonsensical and senseless]), Nordmann adds a fourth type: language that is ungrammatical/nonsensical but significant. It is this fourth type of language that is used by the TLP. Thus, employing the subjunctive mood (which is the definitive form of this fourth type of language since it uses hypothetical terms [i.e. “if this is the case then this…”) the TLP follows a reductio ad absurdum argument (which is itself a form of argumentation that is nonsensical and yet not senseless). Of course, in order to make this claim Nordmann must posit an hypothesis that must exist before the first statement of the TLP. This hypothesis is that “anything whatsoever is expressible in speech” and this is precisely what is denied at the end of the reductio ad absurdum argument when Wittgenstein concludes that “there is indeed the inexpressible in speech.” Along the way, Wittgenstein limits language to the descriptive mode — language is a contingent picture of contingent reality, and it is true or false if its various elements align with one another in the same way in which the various elements of reality align with one another — any attempt to do anything else with language is nonsense (although there is useful, and un-useful nonsense, as should now be clear). Because the TLP is a useful form of nonsense (i.e. because it makes sense) it is best to undestand it as a thought experiment which is itself a gesture — precisely like the other gestures which cause other nonsensical expressions like “I love you” to make sense. In this way we prompt expressions to show what they cannot say. Consequently the final words of the TLP are not a command to say nothing, rather they require us to speak acknowledged nonsense, realizing that speaking nonsense it a way of staying silent. This, then, is how Nordmann reads the TLP. I find his reading to be quite intriguing.
9. Wittgenstein’s Philosophical Investigations: An Introduction by David G. Stern.
Well, I knew reading some secondary lit on the PI would be useful… but I didn’t realize how much of the PI I really didn’t get (at all) until I got into this book. Stern basically deals with the first 268 sections of the PI and argues that Wittgenstein’s argument traces a number of paradoxes: the paradox of ostension (an ostensive definition can be variously interpreted in every case) which reveals that ostension presupposes knowledge of how language games work, and it thus cannot be the foundation for learning a first language, although it is quite useful for learning any second or third languages; the paradox of explanation (an explanation can be variously interpreted in every case) which reveals itself because every explanation requires another explanation; the rule-following paradox (a rule can be variously interpreted in every case) which is basically the sum of the first two paradoxes; the paradox of intentionality (a sign can be variously interpreted in every case) which follows from the previous paradox; the paradox of rule-following (which argues that a rule, taken in isolation, can never determine all its future applications because a change in the context in which the rule is given will create a change in the application) which then leads one to examine the circumstances within which the experience of “understanding” occurs, and not examine the experience itself, in order to say whether or not a person understands how to follow a rule or system — this then makes Wittgenstein a “holist” about rule-following: rules can only be understood aright if we place them within their proper whole; in particular this is a “pratical holism” which argues that understanding “involves explicit beliefs and hypotheses [that] can only be meaningful in specific contexts and against a background of shared practices”; and the paradox of private ostension (a private ostensive definition can be variously interpreted in every case) that Wittgenstein uses to deconstruct the notion of a “private language” because there is no such thing as a truly “private” language. As Wittgenstein traces these paradoxes he also refuses to allow the reader to escape by “subliming” names, logic, or rules (this fits well with what Wittgenstein does with the linguistic limits set by the Tractatus). Thus, throughout all of this, Wittgenstein develops his theory of “language games” which are the interweaving of human life and language — the term highlights the fact that speaking itself is an activity, a part of a form of life. What is especially interesting about Stern’s reading of the PI is that he refuses to identify Wittgenstein’s position with the position of any of the voices found within the text (the PI exists as a dialogue between [at least] two voices: the narrator and the interlocutor). Commentators have traditionally identified Wittgenstein with the narrator but Stern urges the reader not to do so, and thus argues that the tension between the Pyrrhonian approach to philosophy (which argues that all philosophy is nonsense) and the non-Phyrrhonian approach to philosophy (which argues that much of traditional philosophy is nonsense but philosophy itself can be saved) must remain [holy hell, writing some if these reviews is draining… does this make sense to anybody?].
10. The First to Throw The Stone: Take Responsibility for Prostitution a Policy Paper by Samaritana Transformation Ministries, Inc.
Samaritana is an agency that works with prostitutes in the Philippines. Within this policy paper its members (very briefly) sketch out the situation of prostitutes in the Philippines, the conditions of women in prostitution, the factors the reinforce prostitution, and then they provide their own perspective along with some recommendations. Although the situation may seem rather different from the North American context (for example, the airing of public ads that search for GROs [Guest Relation Officers!]) I am struck not by the differences but by the similarities. Perhaps prostitution is “the world’s oldest profession” because many of the conditions for prostitution are universal (i.e. the vulnerability of women and children, the vulnerability of the poor, the stigmatization of prostitutes which adds to the economic exploitation and psychological distress they experience [by the way, post-traumatic stress is more common in prostitutes than in Vietnam war veterans!], the inadequte government response, and the corruption that exists within governments, businesses, and law enforcement agencies).
God Beyond Language?
In the Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus, Ludwig Wittgenstein argues that there are significant limitations as to what language can actually say. Language, Wittgenstein argues, is only meaningful when it is used descriptively, as a model of reality. Any attempt to say anything beyond such things is nonsensical (i.e. lacking in meaning, having no sense). Consequently most of philosophy and theology is revealed as just that sort of nonsensical language. What we say when we speak theologically cannot be described as true or false, it simply lacks meaning altogether.
Naturally, this seems to strike the Christian reader as a disturbing conclusion. Surely we want to be able to say something meaningful about God, or about ethics, or about metaphysics, or whatever. However, just as we must wrestle with Wittgenstein's argument, and his conclusion (part of which is: “whereof one cannot speak, about that one must remain silent”), we must not also be too hasty to suggest that Wittgenstein intends his argument to be an assault on Christianity or on faith. Wittgenstein actually has no desire to limit human imagination, yearning, feeling, or thinking, he is simply suggesting that there are limits on the meaningful expression of thought.
In this way, it could be argued (indeed, it is argued by Alfred Nordmann in his introduction to the Tractatus) that Wittgenstein is following the trajectory of critical philosophy established by Kant in his Critique of Pure Reason. Kant argues against the ability to gain certain knowledge about God because knowledge is always knowledge of objects or appearances. Thus, to attempt to gain knowledge about God would transform God into just another object. Consequently, Kant draws the limits of knowledge so narrowly that God is beyond them. Kant concludes: “I had to deny knowledge to make room for faith.”
Wittgenstein does not deny knowledge of God per se, but he does deny that any such knowledge could be expressed meaningfully. Nordmann aptly summarizes Wittgenstein's position when he writes: “Those who believe that they can talk just as sensibly about absolute or ethical value as they can about cars an cookies are actually conflating them.” The problem, according to Wittgenstein, with taking an absolute (whether that be an Absolute Being, or an absolute Value) and making it “just a fact like other facts” is that everything absolute is then drained from that Being or Value, because all facts are necessarily contingent. Therefore, Wittgenstein denies meaningful expressions of the absolute, not in order to deny faith, but in order to make room for faith. Therefore, by drawing a line which language cannot cross, Wittgenstein situates God beyond language, and allows God to exists as God.
Of course, the notion of situating God beyond human speech should cause the reader to think of another major influence on 20th century thought — Karl Barth. Writing at the same time as Wittgenstein, Barth described God as God who is “distinguished from men and from everything human, and [who] must never be identified with anything we name, or experience, or conceive, or worship, as God.” God, he went on to say, “is that which lies upon the other side.” Consequently, when God is encountered, he is always encountered in his hiddenness, breaking forth like “a flash of lightening, impossibility and invisibility.”
Of course, there are some significant differences between Barth and Wittgenstein but it is interesting to begin by exploring where they overlap. Indeed, the differences only gain their proper significance once we understand the similarities (actually, it's pretty interesting to note the biographical similarities of these two men, but I'll save that for another time).
The Dying Seeds
Recently I have found myself returning again and again to the parable of the sower and the seed in Mt 13 and Lk 8. I have been struck by how the odds are stacked against being the sort of seed that bears fruit. The seed that falls on the road (lacks understanding), the seed that falls on the rocky soil (too afraid of suffering), and the seed that falls among the thorns (too much money and worldly concerns), all of these seeds die. It is only the seed that falls on the good soil that bears fruit. It worries me that the absence of understanding, the fear of suffering, and an overabundance of money and worldly concerns seems to define much of the contemporary Western church. No wonder our churches are dying. However, this is a tangent to the point that has recently struck me, so I'll turn to that point now.
For the longest time I read this parable as though it contrasted abundant life (the seed that falls on the good soil) with the sort of life that is destroyed by the powers that are pressed into the service of death (all the other seeds). I have only just realized that this is a false dichotomy. I began to understand the parable differently when I began to read it in light of Jesus' words in Jn 12.24:
Unless a kernel of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains only a single seed. But if it dies, it produces many seeds.
The seed that falls on the good soil has not escaped death. It too will die, just like the other seeds! The contrast between the seeds in Mt and Lk is not a contrast between life and death, it is a contrast between fruitful dying and fruitless dying!
Of course, as the context of Jn 12 makes clear, Jesus himself is the good seed, and his death produces many more seeds, it produces the crop that is “a hundred times what was sown.”
If we, then, are to live as those rooted in the good soil, we too must live a life that is oriented towards death. We too must set our faces towards Jerusalem. This orientation has nothing to do with morbidity, rather it is the inevitable outworking of the love commandment. Because we are so committed to loving God, and loving our neighbour, we choose to die to ourselves. Furthermore, this orientation is normative for Christians because those who are “in Christ” share in his death. To be in Christ is to be crucified with Christ (Gal 2.20). As Jimmy Dunn says, “[Paul's] gospel is not that the trusting sinners escape death, but rather that they share in Christ's death.” Naturally, the only way we can live with this orientation towards death is in the power of the holy Spirit that provides us with hearing, understanding, a true heart, and the ability to persevere (the characteristics of the seed that fell on the good soil).
Thus, the supposed contrast between abundant living and suffering death, that I first imagined existed in the parable of the sower, is revealed as a false dichotomy. All seeds will die. All of us will die. The question is what sort of dying we will experience. And we must remember that our type of dying determines whether or not we will bear fruit or remain fruitless.