If a student had a year to read just theological works, what would you tell them to read?
Criteria (necessarily artificial of course!):
Genre: “the treatise”, rather than imaginative or mystical or devotional works or commentary.
Orthodoxy: broadly defined by creeds
Perspective: 21st Century Protestant (evangelical) - so a Western bias probably...
‘Classic’ Author: some authors demand inclusion (a la epistles of Paul in the NT)
‘Classic’ Work: some works demand inclusion (a la Hebrews!).
'Classic-to-be': the books of the last 20-30 years that are must-reads in the sense that they will be read in years to come!
ERAS:
PATRISTIC
MEDIEVAL
REFORMATION (16th-17th C.)
18th - 19th C.
20th C.
CONTEMPORARY
Saturday, February 25, 2006
Thursday, February 23, 2006
Is the church a family?
Frequently we say that the best metaphor to describe the church is 'family'. That is, I think, we are saying that the private/public distinction which we observe in the rest of the world doesn't hold here. When I go to church I am still at home, if you like. Israel is kinda the model for this because they were a nation but all related genetically- ie they could say (really) that they were a giant household.
Anyhow, the question is: how do you apply this family idea? I think there is obviously good warrant in the Bible for it: calling each other "brethren", the adoption of sons etc. In which case, what of my biological family? What place do they have in the scheme of things then?
This matters especially when it comes to ministry. Are ministers mothers and fathers of their congregation? And if so, what is the scriptural/theological backing for this?
The analogy has been especially used when it comes to gender difference to explain why it is that we can vote for a female prime minister or work for a female boss and yet not have a female chief minister or preacher: that is, the church is a family, and so husband is to wife so male minister is to female (is that the logic?)...
Anyhow come on you who read and never comment: what do you think?
Anyhow, the question is: how do you apply this family idea? I think there is obviously good warrant in the Bible for it: calling each other "brethren", the adoption of sons etc. In which case, what of my biological family? What place do they have in the scheme of things then?
This matters especially when it comes to ministry. Are ministers mothers and fathers of their congregation? And if so, what is the scriptural/theological backing for this?
The analogy has been especially used when it comes to gender difference to explain why it is that we can vote for a female prime minister or work for a female boss and yet not have a female chief minister or preacher: that is, the church is a family, and so husband is to wife so male minister is to female (is that the logic?)...
Anyhow come on you who read and never comment: what do you think?
Thursday, February 16, 2006
1 Peter 1:13
The NRSV’s translation of 1 Peter 1:13 as ‘[T]herefore prepare your minds for action’ in my view strikes entirely the wrong exegetical and theological note with its emphasis on action. Literally, the verse reads ‘Therefore gird up the loins of your mind’. The girding of the loins signifies preparedness; but the reference to the mind suggests that something other than action is what the person is to be prepared for. What the rest of the verse (and indeed the rest of the epistle) commands is rather a posture of patient and hopeful waiting for the final revelation of their salvation. Whatever actions are commanded in the letter as such, they are ordered to this more passive stance. They are invited to a "passive action": submitting, accepting, enduring, waiting, answering. The particular theme of holiness in the letter points towards a disciplined, purificatory activity in the same preparatory key (see 1:13-21)...
"Passive action": is that enough to characterise the Christian life? (Reinhard Hutter calls it pathos...)
"Passive action": is that enough to characterise the Christian life? (Reinhard Hutter calls it pathos...)
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
Responsibility!
I have been reading in Bonhoeffer's Ethics. What we have is really a series of unpublished papers written under the pressure of the years just before his arrest when he was involved in the plot against Hitler.
Bonhoeffer argues that responsible action is that which is most in accordance with reality. That reality is ‘the reality of the God who became human’. This action, however, is neither an endorsement of the status quo nor a blessing of revolution. It begins with the action of God in Christ ‘reconciling the world to himself’ (2 Cor 5:18).
Responsible action is grounded and circumscribed in Jesus Christ. Bonhoeffer is clear that this is not merely an ideology which carries all before it. ‘The task is not to turn the world upside down but in a given place to do what, from the perspective of reality, is necessary objectively and to really carry it out’ – that is, to do what is possible within the human domain. God becoming human means that responsible actions likewise have to occur within that domain. The ultimate evaluation of these actions is only for God. Responsible action ‘must completely surrender to God both the judgment on this action and its consequences’.
Bonhoeffer turns to the Sermon on the Mount, where he finds a powerful picture of suffering action:
"The Sermon on the Mount confronts those who are compelled to act within history with the event of the reconciliation of the world with God in Jesus Christ, thus placing them into genuine Christian responsibility."
The Sermon on the Mount is not a manifesto of withdrawal from the historical-political sphere, contrary to the way in which it has been read for much of Christian history. Historical-political action and Christian action have been seen as opposites – statehood without self-assertion or force is thought impossible. ‘Turning the other cheek’ or ‘love your enemies’ are not plans for kings to rule by, as ordinarily conceived. Bonhoeffer also points out that even the most cynical uses of power in the west ‘always need a mask of Christian concepts in order to succeed’.
Again the response is christologically framed: the action of God in taking human flesh and inserting himself into the world of real human beings, in its very particularity shows that he is concerned for real human beings in the concreteness of their existence and not merely for the idea of them. The Sermon on the Mount is the voice of the incarnate love of God calling people to love one another and to a renunciation of everything that gets in the way of that possibility. This must include action in the sphere of the political, because God’s love for the world is not partitioned. To act in accordance with Christ is to recognize that ‘the world is loved, judged and reconciled in Jesus Christ by God’, which is the true reality of things.
Responsibility’ (Verantwornung) is a key notion for Bonhoeffer, and includes the sense of ‘answering’ not perhaps captured in the English word. Bonhoeffer expounds responsibility in terms of Stellevertretung, or ‘vicarious representative action’. Jesus was the model of this type of action in becoming human, in dying as crucified and in the resurrection; and ‘all of life through him is destined to be vicarious representative action’ - to act as a representative of his people, in their stead and for their good. However, Bonhoeffer differentiates Stellevertretung from a self-appointed representation by claiming that only the selfless person is able to act responsibly – as parent, as pastor, as citizen.
Bonhoeffer argues that responsible action is that which is most in accordance with reality. That reality is ‘the reality of the God who became human’. This action, however, is neither an endorsement of the status quo nor a blessing of revolution. It begins with the action of God in Christ ‘reconciling the world to himself’ (2 Cor 5:18).
Responsible action is grounded and circumscribed in Jesus Christ. Bonhoeffer is clear that this is not merely an ideology which carries all before it. ‘The task is not to turn the world upside down but in a given place to do what, from the perspective of reality, is necessary objectively and to really carry it out’ – that is, to do what is possible within the human domain. God becoming human means that responsible actions likewise have to occur within that domain. The ultimate evaluation of these actions is only for God. Responsible action ‘must completely surrender to God both the judgment on this action and its consequences’.
Bonhoeffer turns to the Sermon on the Mount, where he finds a powerful picture of suffering action:
"The Sermon on the Mount confronts those who are compelled to act within history with the event of the reconciliation of the world with God in Jesus Christ, thus placing them into genuine Christian responsibility."
The Sermon on the Mount is not a manifesto of withdrawal from the historical-political sphere, contrary to the way in which it has been read for much of Christian history. Historical-political action and Christian action have been seen as opposites – statehood without self-assertion or force is thought impossible. ‘Turning the other cheek’ or ‘love your enemies’ are not plans for kings to rule by, as ordinarily conceived. Bonhoeffer also points out that even the most cynical uses of power in the west ‘always need a mask of Christian concepts in order to succeed’.
Again the response is christologically framed: the action of God in taking human flesh and inserting himself into the world of real human beings, in its very particularity shows that he is concerned for real human beings in the concreteness of their existence and not merely for the idea of them. The Sermon on the Mount is the voice of the incarnate love of God calling people to love one another and to a renunciation of everything that gets in the way of that possibility. This must include action in the sphere of the political, because God’s love for the world is not partitioned. To act in accordance with Christ is to recognize that ‘the world is loved, judged and reconciled in Jesus Christ by God’, which is the true reality of things.
Responsibility’ (Verantwornung) is a key notion for Bonhoeffer, and includes the sense of ‘answering’ not perhaps captured in the English word. Bonhoeffer expounds responsibility in terms of Stellevertretung, or ‘vicarious representative action’. Jesus was the model of this type of action in becoming human, in dying as crucified and in the resurrection; and ‘all of life through him is destined to be vicarious representative action’ - to act as a representative of his people, in their stead and for their good. However, Bonhoeffer differentiates Stellevertretung from a self-appointed representation by claiming that only the selfless person is able to act responsibly – as parent, as pastor, as citizen.
Friday, February 10, 2006
more on friends and ... others...
It might be protested that the references to friendship as such in the scriptures are few, especially in the NT. The ecclesio-relational metaphors that are most prominent are organic or filial ones – the Vine, the Body, the Brotherhood. This certainly helps protect the church from becoming a community of people I like, or of people like me: in that friends are typically freely chosen for friendship, whereas ecclesial relationships are established on an entirely different basis – namely by the choice of God.
On the other hand, the church is not a biological entity either, in the sense that it is not composed only of people who have a particular genetic or racial identity in common. The NRSV’s decision to render the Greek 'adelfoi' as ‘friends’ rather than ‘brethren’ would completely change the grammar of ecclesial relationships (if accepted). What is perhaps most overlooked in this discussion is that material in the NT which is actually most relevant – the actual ecclesial experience of Paul and the others that we glimpse in the greetings and farewells of the epistles (e.g. Phil 4:1; Romans 16). Here we see that there is apparently a genuine and heartfelt experience of ‘friendship’, touchingly and lovingly recorded in these incidentals. These are those who Paul addresses 'agapetai', 'dearly loved ones' (2 Cor 12:19). But this of course is given to us alongside the experience of a painful enmity, too, from within the ecclesial sphere. The apostle does not always count his enmity as outside the church and his experience of friendship as inside. Rather, he actually encounters both in the present reality of church. There is a reminder in this that Judas was one of the Twelve; and that opposition to and treachery against Jesus came from within the small band of apostles who were with him from the very start.
On the other hand, the church is not a biological entity either, in the sense that it is not composed only of people who have a particular genetic or racial identity in common. The NRSV’s decision to render the Greek 'adelfoi' as ‘friends’ rather than ‘brethren’ would completely change the grammar of ecclesial relationships (if accepted). What is perhaps most overlooked in this discussion is that material in the NT which is actually most relevant – the actual ecclesial experience of Paul and the others that we glimpse in the greetings and farewells of the epistles (e.g. Phil 4:1; Romans 16). Here we see that there is apparently a genuine and heartfelt experience of ‘friendship’, touchingly and lovingly recorded in these incidentals. These are those who Paul addresses 'agapetai', 'dearly loved ones' (2 Cor 12:19). But this of course is given to us alongside the experience of a painful enmity, too, from within the ecclesial sphere. The apostle does not always count his enmity as outside the church and his experience of friendship as inside. Rather, he actually encounters both in the present reality of church. There is a reminder in this that Judas was one of the Twelve; and that opposition to and treachery against Jesus came from within the small band of apostles who were with him from the very start.
Thursday, February 09, 2006
Friendship - how to conceive of it Christianly?
Related to a previous post: something i wrote on friendship.
Jesus speaks of the love of one ‘laying down his life for his friends’ (Jn 15:13): that is the greatest love. It is love that he exemplifies; but it is the kind of love that will also be at the heart of discipleship. His public life was a life lived amongst his friends over and against even his own family (Luke 8:17-19). Friendship with him was a matter of performing his words (Jn 15:14); which elevates the status of disciple from servant to friend. However, the fickleness of human friendship was of course something Jesus himself experienced. Not only did he count among his friends Judas, who betrayed him; but at the crucial moment of testing, his disciples fled and left him alone. He went to cross solo; watched only from distance. Unsurprisingly, then, part of his teaching to his friends was that they were risking the possibility of this affliction themselves. In Luke 21, he prophesies their betrayal by family and friends (21:16-17). ‘You will be hated by all because of my name.’ The experience of martyrdom is clearly on view here. Archbishop Thomas the disciple does not count the experience of friendship with the King as a matter of expedience – even though it is now over. However, Christian discipleship is promised by Jesus to have a destabilizing effect on these earthly relationships, which may even result in violent rejection. Perhaps laying down one’s life for one’s friend may mean dying at his hand.
But the connection of love with friendship by Jesus is the key here. The divine love of Jesus for real human beings represents a turning toward human beings in friendship despite and even through their violent enmity towards him. In death, Jesus alone stands in the place of his fellow human beings, bearing their implacable hatred towards God on his shoulders. And yet, the point at which he suffers betrayal, rejection, torture and death becomes the point of greatest divine love for human beings and human love for God. (See Romans 5:1-11). In turn, this great realized and actual love of God for human beings and of one human being for God becomes the great example of love for the disciples of Christ (John 15:13-15; 1 John 4:1ff; see also the language of sacrifice in Rom 12:1-2). That such a love will involve concrete, actual bodily sacrifice is unmistakable in the language of the NT. This love is shot through with pain – possibly the pain of unreciprococity. This means for the Archbishop that he cannot abandon the King altogether, though there may be violent consequences. Though Thomas has been offered the chance to shut the door on Henry by the Third Tempter, this is not ultimately for him a Christian possibility. Rather, he calls out ‘Open the door!’ (II.??); and, with this, calls down on himself his own murder.
Jesus speaks of the love of one ‘laying down his life for his friends’ (Jn 15:13): that is the greatest love. It is love that he exemplifies; but it is the kind of love that will also be at the heart of discipleship. His public life was a life lived amongst his friends over and against even his own family (Luke 8:17-19). Friendship with him was a matter of performing his words (Jn 15:14); which elevates the status of disciple from servant to friend. However, the fickleness of human friendship was of course something Jesus himself experienced. Not only did he count among his friends Judas, who betrayed him; but at the crucial moment of testing, his disciples fled and left him alone. He went to cross solo; watched only from distance. Unsurprisingly, then, part of his teaching to his friends was that they were risking the possibility of this affliction themselves. In Luke 21, he prophesies their betrayal by family and friends (21:16-17). ‘You will be hated by all because of my name.’ The experience of martyrdom is clearly on view here. Archbishop Thomas the disciple does not count the experience of friendship with the King as a matter of expedience – even though it is now over. However, Christian discipleship is promised by Jesus to have a destabilizing effect on these earthly relationships, which may even result in violent rejection. Perhaps laying down one’s life for one’s friend may mean dying at his hand.
But the connection of love with friendship by Jesus is the key here. The divine love of Jesus for real human beings represents a turning toward human beings in friendship despite and even through their violent enmity towards him. In death, Jesus alone stands in the place of his fellow human beings, bearing their implacable hatred towards God on his shoulders. And yet, the point at which he suffers betrayal, rejection, torture and death becomes the point of greatest divine love for human beings and human love for God. (See Romans 5:1-11). In turn, this great realized and actual love of God for human beings and of one human being for God becomes the great example of love for the disciples of Christ (John 15:13-15; 1 John 4:1ff; see also the language of sacrifice in Rom 12:1-2). That such a love will involve concrete, actual bodily sacrifice is unmistakable in the language of the NT. This love is shot through with pain – possibly the pain of unreciprococity. This means for the Archbishop that he cannot abandon the King altogether, though there may be violent consequences. Though Thomas has been offered the chance to shut the door on Henry by the Third Tempter, this is not ultimately for him a Christian possibility. Rather, he calls out ‘Open the door!’ (II.??); and, with this, calls down on himself his own murder.
Friday, February 03, 2006
Mission and theology
“What would happen if theology took the mission of the church seriously?
In his (in my opinion very poor) book Recovering the Scandal of the Cross Joel Green asks what I think is very good question: what would happen if theology took the mission of the church seriously?
It’s a good question because it inverts our expectations. We ordinarily imagine that mission ought to take theology seriously: if only we get our thinking about mission right, we say, then we will mission more effectively. We believe I guess in a priority of theory over praxis. The problem with this view is ineffectiveness: revivals are not usually begun in the academy, you may have noticed. There is a tendency for theory to be closed to the questions people are actually asking.
On the other hand, I guess there are some of you who can already sense the artificiality of this: you have already been out there presenting the gospel and living it, and seeing lives changed and people won for Christ. Having to come and sit and think about it seems quite futile: it’s already going on! The problem with this view, I suggest respectfully, is pragmatism. Pragmatism means that we become like advertisers hawking products: we will do anything for a sale, including distort the message out of shape, perhaps casting aside or hiding uncomfortable parts of the scriptural teaching in order to fit in with the culture of context.
This is why Green’s question is a good one: because theology needs to realize the urgency of mission! Theology must not be indulgent or merely speculative. And on the hand, those engaged in mission have the weighty responsibility of speaking and acting in and with truth. Mission must remain faithful to its source in scripture or it will be unable to address cultures - it will only reflect them. If theology took the mission seriously, not only could theology be forced to rediscover its own deep scriptural resources, but also mission could be reinvigorated by the work done in the thinking about it.
In his (in my opinion very poor) book Recovering the Scandal of the Cross Joel Green asks what I think is very good question: what would happen if theology took the mission of the church seriously?
It’s a good question because it inverts our expectations. We ordinarily imagine that mission ought to take theology seriously: if only we get our thinking about mission right, we say, then we will mission more effectively. We believe I guess in a priority of theory over praxis. The problem with this view is ineffectiveness: revivals are not usually begun in the academy, you may have noticed. There is a tendency for theory to be closed to the questions people are actually asking.
On the other hand, I guess there are some of you who can already sense the artificiality of this: you have already been out there presenting the gospel and living it, and seeing lives changed and people won for Christ. Having to come and sit and think about it seems quite futile: it’s already going on! The problem with this view, I suggest respectfully, is pragmatism. Pragmatism means that we become like advertisers hawking products: we will do anything for a sale, including distort the message out of shape, perhaps casting aside or hiding uncomfortable parts of the scriptural teaching in order to fit in with the culture of context.
This is why Green’s question is a good one: because theology needs to realize the urgency of mission! Theology must not be indulgent or merely speculative. And on the hand, those engaged in mission have the weighty responsibility of speaking and acting in and with truth. Mission must remain faithful to its source in scripture or it will be unable to address cultures - it will only reflect them. If theology took the mission seriously, not only could theology be forced to rediscover its own deep scriptural resources, but also mission could be reinvigorated by the work done in the thinking about it.
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
When I don't like people
Ok, I know blogs can get this awful confessional tone sometimes. But here goes!
I think at present my most difficult struggle in the Christian life is with other Christians I just don't like personally. Don't worry, there aren't that many of you! The trouble with being a person who works and lives among Christians all the time is that you are bound to encounter these troublesome individuals. Somehow it feels easier to not 'click' with a non-Christian person, doesn't it? Personally, I found my years at theological college (as a student) very difficult spiritually for this reason. There were people there who I just didn't like that much.
I am amazed at the pettiness and jealousy that I so easily feel when I hear of others' success sometimes; or the inward smile at their failures. Usually, it is somehow that they are a threat; or perhaps there is the perception of a personal slight. There is a person who slighted me once in a private email some time ago now - and forgiving that person has been very hard, partly because of the triviality of the incident (I am sure they did it inadvertently). This is how trivial it is: they took a patronising tone with me.
Is there a type of person that I just don't like? I know I find ridiculous and strident dogmatism very hard to bear (believe it or not). Sometimes, if I am honest, a person I don't like has a flaw that I fear in myself: arrogance, or pomposity perhaps. I am always tempted to play down the other person in conversation with others.
How should we deal wisely with this? I think not liking everybody is ok. But we may be called upon to work together in partnership for the gospel - and what then? How do you get to a place where not liking someone doesn't spill over into terrible inner bitterness - or even turns into regard, even perhaps affection?
I have to say that there are some Christians - saintly ones in my view - who never have a bad word to say about anyone. They seem naturally to be able to cope with people's difference in a very God-like way... How did they get there?
I think at present my most difficult struggle in the Christian life is with other Christians I just don't like personally. Don't worry, there aren't that many of you! The trouble with being a person who works and lives among Christians all the time is that you are bound to encounter these troublesome individuals. Somehow it feels easier to not 'click' with a non-Christian person, doesn't it? Personally, I found my years at theological college (as a student) very difficult spiritually for this reason. There were people there who I just didn't like that much.
I am amazed at the pettiness and jealousy that I so easily feel when I hear of others' success sometimes; or the inward smile at their failures. Usually, it is somehow that they are a threat; or perhaps there is the perception of a personal slight. There is a person who slighted me once in a private email some time ago now - and forgiving that person has been very hard, partly because of the triviality of the incident (I am sure they did it inadvertently). This is how trivial it is: they took a patronising tone with me.
Is there a type of person that I just don't like? I know I find ridiculous and strident dogmatism very hard to bear (believe it or not). Sometimes, if I am honest, a person I don't like has a flaw that I fear in myself: arrogance, or pomposity perhaps. I am always tempted to play down the other person in conversation with others.
How should we deal wisely with this? I think not liking everybody is ok. But we may be called upon to work together in partnership for the gospel - and what then? How do you get to a place where not liking someone doesn't spill over into terrible inner bitterness - or even turns into regard, even perhaps affection?
I have to say that there are some Christians - saintly ones in my view - who never have a bad word to say about anyone. They seem naturally to be able to cope with people's difference in a very God-like way... How did they get there?
Thursday, January 26, 2006
Narrative...
OK, go with me here.
I wrote this in an attempt to get a methodological section going the other day. The question I would like to discuss (if this makes no sense) is: "is narrative the best way to approach theology"?
Or, perhaps:
"Narrative has the capacity to be generative of meaning rather than reducible to a kernel of truth."
What I wrote:
"What we have in narrative is a binding together of word and event: the event is described and given coherence by the application of the shape and categories of narrative. Narrative applies a causal and teleological form to events as we experience them; though this is not altogether arbitrary. The sequentiality of events invites the search for causal links between them. This is something we recognize even in our own bodies: as they change over time, collecting scars and wrinkles, we experience in ourselves the results and effects of our experiences. Our memories, also, tend to make sense of our past by narrating it to us (as we have seen). This is not to say that our narrating of the events of our experience is the final truth about them; or, that every account that we give of events we have experienced is absolutely comprehensive. It is the tracing of a path through a forest as best we can: though we do no see every tree in the forest, and though at times the going is rough, and we lose our bearings, we still are able to make our way. Though there is difficulty, there is not incoherence, necessarily.
The advantage of an emphasis on narrative is the ability that narratives have to present, simply and irreducibly, a complex account of reality. This again accords to human experience and adds to the explanatory power and intrigue of narrative. Narrative has the capacity to be generative of meaning rather than reducible to a kernel of truth. Joseph Conrad’s minor narrator in Heart of Darkness says of the great story-teller Marlow: “…to him the meaning of an episode was not inside like a kernel but outside, enveloping the tale which brought it out only as a glow brings out a haze…” We need not, perhaps, be as pessimistic as to speak of a “haze”; but still, this is a good description of how meaning clings to narrative and is generated by it. Readers do not read them well if they attempt to strip away the narrative husk to reveal the meaning lying dormant within."
I wrote this in an attempt to get a methodological section going the other day. The question I would like to discuss (if this makes no sense) is: "is narrative the best way to approach theology"?
Or, perhaps:
"Narrative has the capacity to be generative of meaning rather than reducible to a kernel of truth."
What I wrote:
"What we have in narrative is a binding together of word and event: the event is described and given coherence by the application of the shape and categories of narrative. Narrative applies a causal and teleological form to events as we experience them; though this is not altogether arbitrary. The sequentiality of events invites the search for causal links between them. This is something we recognize even in our own bodies: as they change over time, collecting scars and wrinkles, we experience in ourselves the results and effects of our experiences. Our memories, also, tend to make sense of our past by narrating it to us (as we have seen). This is not to say that our narrating of the events of our experience is the final truth about them; or, that every account that we give of events we have experienced is absolutely comprehensive. It is the tracing of a path through a forest as best we can: though we do no see every tree in the forest, and though at times the going is rough, and we lose our bearings, we still are able to make our way. Though there is difficulty, there is not incoherence, necessarily.
The advantage of an emphasis on narrative is the ability that narratives have to present, simply and irreducibly, a complex account of reality. This again accords to human experience and adds to the explanatory power and intrigue of narrative. Narrative has the capacity to be generative of meaning rather than reducible to a kernel of truth. Joseph Conrad’s minor narrator in Heart of Darkness says of the great story-teller Marlow: “…to him the meaning of an episode was not inside like a kernel but outside, enveloping the tale which brought it out only as a glow brings out a haze…” We need not, perhaps, be as pessimistic as to speak of a “haze”; but still, this is a good description of how meaning clings to narrative and is generated by it. Readers do not read them well if they attempt to strip away the narrative husk to reveal the meaning lying dormant within."
Saturday, January 21, 2006
Patriotism
can a Christian be patriotic?
I am a proud Aussie: however, my recent study has given my cause to rethink this nationalistic pride.
Is nationalism and patriotism really something that the followers of Jesus have any truck with?
Isn't patriotism one of the uglier things we see around?
Example: why should you buy Australian or British given that the citizens of other countries are my neighbours also?
I am a proud Aussie: however, my recent study has given my cause to rethink this nationalistic pride.
Is nationalism and patriotism really something that the followers of Jesus have any truck with?
Isn't patriotism one of the uglier things we see around?
Example: why should you buy Australian or British given that the citizens of other countries are my neighbours also?
Wednesday, January 18, 2006
sacraments
Karen wrote asking about the sacraments: so some thoughts!
Part of the heritage of living in a society where the Protestant-Catholic divide used to be more prominent in our consciousness than it now is is an extreme jitteriness about the sacraments. In evangelical Anglican churches, we have been so afraid of appearing Catholic, or of appearing to say that the sacraments actually do something, that we have denuded the sacraments of any significance in our church life entirely. It was also part of a reductionistic and rationalistic turn in Sydney Anglican theology (in my opinion) of which Broughton Knox was the father.
This was an unfortunate and unnecessary overreaction which has robbed a generation of hearing the power of the Word of God preached in this way. The sacraments are powerful precisely because they are the enacted word of God - and the word of God is powerful indeed! It is a shame, because by focussing on controversy, we became afraid of doing something wrong and so missed out on something that is so very good. Of course you don't have to be baptised, if it is understood as a work that achieves your salvation. But you do have to do it as a command of the Lord Jesus. The logic here is the same as saying "you don't need to have sex to be married - sex is only the symbolic physical enactment of your marriage, and we are beyond it and also, people often mistake the symbolic physical enactment for the real thing so we should avoid confusion by making sure we never even appear to have sex."
I think there is an important principle BEHIND the issue for evangelicals however. Do we do only that which is ordained in the Bible? Or, given that the Bible does not speak about many matters, do we listen to and give heed to tradition in its stead? For example, the Bible tells us not very much about how the Lord's Supper was celebrated. But since the earliest times (and I mean the very earliest times) it has been celebrated in a particular form. Isn't that worth something? I am not saying that it has an absolute authority, but surely it allows that this was the way in which early Christians understood this matter and so we would not be wrong to do the same.
Part of the heritage of living in a society where the Protestant-Catholic divide used to be more prominent in our consciousness than it now is is an extreme jitteriness about the sacraments. In evangelical Anglican churches, we have been so afraid of appearing Catholic, or of appearing to say that the sacraments actually do something, that we have denuded the sacraments of any significance in our church life entirely. It was also part of a reductionistic and rationalistic turn in Sydney Anglican theology (in my opinion) of which Broughton Knox was the father.
This was an unfortunate and unnecessary overreaction which has robbed a generation of hearing the power of the Word of God preached in this way. The sacraments are powerful precisely because they are the enacted word of God - and the word of God is powerful indeed! It is a shame, because by focussing on controversy, we became afraid of doing something wrong and so missed out on something that is so very good. Of course you don't have to be baptised, if it is understood as a work that achieves your salvation. But you do have to do it as a command of the Lord Jesus. The logic here is the same as saying "you don't need to have sex to be married - sex is only the symbolic physical enactment of your marriage, and we are beyond it and also, people often mistake the symbolic physical enactment for the real thing so we should avoid confusion by making sure we never even appear to have sex."
I think there is an important principle BEHIND the issue for evangelicals however. Do we do only that which is ordained in the Bible? Or, given that the Bible does not speak about many matters, do we listen to and give heed to tradition in its stead? For example, the Bible tells us not very much about how the Lord's Supper was celebrated. But since the earliest times (and I mean the very earliest times) it has been celebrated in a particular form. Isn't that worth something? I am not saying that it has an absolute authority, but surely it allows that this was the way in which early Christians understood this matter and so we would not be wrong to do the same.
Saturday, January 14, 2006
The Third Temptation
In Eliot's Murder in the Cathedral, Thomas is visited by four mysterious "tempters". Each has a different path to offer him.
The first offers to him the path of sensuality and the good life.
The second points out to Thomas the possibilities of political power that lay before him in returning to the king’s side – even the good he may do by means of this power. After all, as he puts it: ‘Power is present. Holiness hereafter.’
The third Tempter, though similarly a tempter to power, conversely offers him the chance of an allegiance of church authority with the barons, in the name of the people and true patriotism, in open defiance of the king.
It is this third temptation that interests me today.
It is a nice alternative to the violent death of the martyr, isn't it? It is the possibility of a neat power-sharing arrangement. And it is possible to rationalise it, too, because the church can in this temptation (apparently) remain the church and be itself but do so in coalition with earthly powers in a revolution. Think what good could be achieved by this mighty conjoining of the two! Think what new possibilities emerge from the uniting of the temporal and the spiritual!
Thomas of course renounces this path on his way to martyr's death. Which leads to a question: How exactly is it that martyrdom is found in renouncing a patriotic and possibily democratic sharing of power? Why is the martyr's path different to this one?
Thomas' answer is a good one:
If the Archbishop cannot trust the Throne,
He has good cause to trust none but God alone.
In other words, though the monarch may be corrupt and monarchy as a system of power undesireable, there is no alternative type of human political system to which a Christian may give absolute trust. Democracy, for example, for all its virtues, is not to be trusted any more than monarchy is; if you can't trust Sadam, how can you trust those who work for his undoing? (we might say). (an interesting question to put to Dietrich Bonhoeffer perhaps?) I think sometimes that US rhetoric about democracy posits democracy as an absolute and rational good, negelecting the nature of practices of government as embedded historically in a people-group or nation. That is to say, you can't make Iraq a democracy by declaring it so: it has no tradition of democracy.
The martyr witnesses to the power and trustworthiness of God alone. He or she does not court open rebellion against the ruling authority, or seek to engineer regime-change in the idealistic hope that the alternative government will be any better. The martyr is not swayed by nationalist fervour.
That is not to say that martyrdom does not bring about regime-change, or radically alter the shape of governments. The Constantinian revolution - perhaps the most remarkable transformation of a political landscape history has ever seen - was the great victory of the army of martyrs, who fought against the Emperor while remaining loyal to him as God's ordained ruler. This they did by dying in the arenas. They publically witnessed to a greater power than the absolute power of Rome itself - can you imagine it? - and in doing so exposed the facade of Rome's power.
The first offers to him the path of sensuality and the good life.
The second points out to Thomas the possibilities of political power that lay before him in returning to the king’s side – even the good he may do by means of this power. After all, as he puts it: ‘Power is present. Holiness hereafter.’
The third Tempter, though similarly a tempter to power, conversely offers him the chance of an allegiance of church authority with the barons, in the name of the people and true patriotism, in open defiance of the king.
It is this third temptation that interests me today.
It is a nice alternative to the violent death of the martyr, isn't it? It is the possibility of a neat power-sharing arrangement. And it is possible to rationalise it, too, because the church can in this temptation (apparently) remain the church and be itself but do so in coalition with earthly powers in a revolution. Think what good could be achieved by this mighty conjoining of the two! Think what new possibilities emerge from the uniting of the temporal and the spiritual!
Thomas of course renounces this path on his way to martyr's death. Which leads to a question: How exactly is it that martyrdom is found in renouncing a patriotic and possibily democratic sharing of power? Why is the martyr's path different to this one?
Thomas' answer is a good one:
If the Archbishop cannot trust the Throne,
He has good cause to trust none but God alone.
In other words, though the monarch may be corrupt and monarchy as a system of power undesireable, there is no alternative type of human political system to which a Christian may give absolute trust. Democracy, for example, for all its virtues, is not to be trusted any more than monarchy is; if you can't trust Sadam, how can you trust those who work for his undoing? (we might say). (an interesting question to put to Dietrich Bonhoeffer perhaps?) I think sometimes that US rhetoric about democracy posits democracy as an absolute and rational good, negelecting the nature of practices of government as embedded historically in a people-group or nation. That is to say, you can't make Iraq a democracy by declaring it so: it has no tradition of democracy.
The martyr witnesses to the power and trustworthiness of God alone. He or she does not court open rebellion against the ruling authority, or seek to engineer regime-change in the idealistic hope that the alternative government will be any better. The martyr is not swayed by nationalist fervour.
That is not to say that martyrdom does not bring about regime-change, or radically alter the shape of governments. The Constantinian revolution - perhaps the most remarkable transformation of a political landscape history has ever seen - was the great victory of the army of martyrs, who fought against the Emperor while remaining loyal to him as God's ordained ruler. This they did by dying in the arenas. They publically witnessed to a greater power than the absolute power of Rome itself - can you imagine it? - and in doing so exposed the facade of Rome's power.
Wednesday, January 11, 2006
inner/outer
Well, and I thought the anonymity issue would spark off some real HEAT...
I watch a lot of bad tv. It is an addiction I am trying to break. HOWEVER, one observation I make of a lot of what I call "makeover shows" is that they assume a particular relationship between an inner self and an outer self.
What inevitable happens is that they get you a new outer self - wardrobe, weightloss, plastic surgery, makeover, organise your house, whatever - and then make all these claims about the inner self having changed. "I am a totally new person" - because I have had a haircut.
Now, at first I laughed at this. How silly. Of course the inner self is the same self - changing the outer is merely window-dressing, merely surface level change that doesn't effect the "real" me.
But then, I thought, "actually, there is something true about this. The outer self is not a lesser self or merely a means by which we experience the world. It IS ourself in the world. So change it, and there are at least inner effects...."
or something like that...
I watch a lot of bad tv. It is an addiction I am trying to break. HOWEVER, one observation I make of a lot of what I call "makeover shows" is that they assume a particular relationship between an inner self and an outer self.
What inevitable happens is that they get you a new outer self - wardrobe, weightloss, plastic surgery, makeover, organise your house, whatever - and then make all these claims about the inner self having changed. "I am a totally new person" - because I have had a haircut.
Now, at first I laughed at this. How silly. Of course the inner self is the same self - changing the outer is merely window-dressing, merely surface level change that doesn't effect the "real" me.
But then, I thought, "actually, there is something true about this. The outer self is not a lesser self or merely a means by which we experience the world. It IS ourself in the world. So change it, and there are at least inner effects...."
or something like that...
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
Anonymity
Well here's an issue:
It strikes me that the web affords you the possibility of acting in an entirely anonymous way in all sorts of areas. I have had several experiences of people on message boards speaking anonymously in a way that is extremely offensive and would be unacceptable if they were a face and/or a name. Check out "ship of fools" if you want to see what I mean.
It feels kinda wrong to me. I just think that you should be accountable for your words as well as your actions. And online, you aren't a character in a story - you are a real actor, no matter how virtual your identity. Your words and deeds still attach to you in some way (I believe). There isn't a suspension of the ethical in the virtual realm - or is there?
There are of course people who use pseudonyms more like nicknames, and their identities are easily traceable if anyone should care.
So, what ethical parameters could there be for using anonymity? If any?
(a thought: virtual interaction has the same moral temptation as overseas travel - if you go somewhere where no-one knows you, then you can behave in a way that those who know you wouldn't recognise as true to you as they know you... it feels like a place without consequences.)
It strikes me that the web affords you the possibility of acting in an entirely anonymous way in all sorts of areas. I have had several experiences of people on message boards speaking anonymously in a way that is extremely offensive and would be unacceptable if they were a face and/or a name. Check out "ship of fools" if you want to see what I mean.
It feels kinda wrong to me. I just think that you should be accountable for your words as well as your actions. And online, you aren't a character in a story - you are a real actor, no matter how virtual your identity. Your words and deeds still attach to you in some way (I believe). There isn't a suspension of the ethical in the virtual realm - or is there?
There are of course people who use pseudonyms more like nicknames, and their identities are easily traceable if anyone should care.
So, what ethical parameters could there be for using anonymity? If any?
(a thought: virtual interaction has the same moral temptation as overseas travel - if you go somewhere where no-one knows you, then you can behave in a way that those who know you wouldn't recognise as true to you as they know you... it feels like a place without consequences.)
Pragmatism
Here's a ministry issue.
It's particularly relevant to the diocese of Sydney, where I am from, but also to evangelicalism around the world.
It seems that the attitude of "whatever works" (to promote the gospel of course) is prevalent in our churches. That is, we have a principled end, but are entirely pragmatic about the means to get there.
So, whatever structural or political means are necessary to achieve the ends we will do. We will concede everything to our culture in order to get them into church: marketing the church and even Jesus like a product, making Christianity fit with the lifestyle of our suburb, and so on.
It takes different forms wherever you go. Sydney Anglicans for example will treat the political process of the denomination as a means to an end and do whatever it takes no matter how tough it seems, because of the ends in view.
TS Eliot says:
This last temptation is the greatest treason
To do the right deed for the wrong reason.
I think we tend to do the opposite: The wrong deed for the right reason...
In my view, pragmatism is a vile creeping poison. But what do others think?
It's particularly relevant to the diocese of Sydney, where I am from, but also to evangelicalism around the world.
It seems that the attitude of "whatever works" (to promote the gospel of course) is prevalent in our churches. That is, we have a principled end, but are entirely pragmatic about the means to get there.
So, whatever structural or political means are necessary to achieve the ends we will do. We will concede everything to our culture in order to get them into church: marketing the church and even Jesus like a product, making Christianity fit with the lifestyle of our suburb, and so on.
It takes different forms wherever you go. Sydney Anglicans for example will treat the political process of the denomination as a means to an end and do whatever it takes no matter how tough it seems, because of the ends in view.
TS Eliot says:
This last temptation is the greatest treason
To do the right deed for the wrong reason.
I think we tend to do the opposite: The wrong deed for the right reason...
In my view, pragmatism is a vile creeping poison. But what do others think?
The Art of Blogging
Ok, I have just realised some things about blogging.
Firstly, you have to keep your entries SHORT in order that people can have a quick look and get something. Fair enough!
Second, you have to be regular in adding to your blog, or regular users give up looking.
Third, you have to keep monitoring and engaging with discussions.
Have I got it?
Firstly, you have to keep your entries SHORT in order that people can have a quick look and get something. Fair enough!
Second, you have to be regular in adding to your blog, or regular users give up looking.
Third, you have to keep monitoring and engaging with discussions.
Have I got it?
Thursday, December 15, 2005
Murder in the Cathedral
Hey any help with this little speech by Thomas in Eliot's Murder in the Cathedral?
"They know and do not know, what it is to act or suffer.
They know and do not know, that action is suffering
And suffering action. Neither does the agent suffer
Nor the patient act. But both are fixed
In an eternal action, an eternal patience
To which all must consent that it may be willed
And which all must suffer that they may will it,
That the pattern may subsist, for the pattern is the action
And the suffering, that the wheel may turn and still
Be forever still".
"They know and do not know, what it is to act or suffer.
They know and do not know, that action is suffering
And suffering action. Neither does the agent suffer
Nor the patient act. But both are fixed
In an eternal action, an eternal patience
To which all must consent that it may be willed
And which all must suffer that they may will it,
That the pattern may subsist, for the pattern is the action
And the suffering, that the wheel may turn and still
Be forever still".
In Thomas Becket’s sermon on martyrdom in T.S. Eliot’s drama Murder in the Cathedral the audience hears these words:
Consider also one thing of which you have probably never thought. Not only do we at the feast of Christmas celebrate the martyrdom of His first martyr, the blessed Stephen. Is it an accident, do you think, that the day of the first martyr follows immediately the day of the Birth of Christ? By no means. Just as we rejoice and mourn at once, in the Birth and Passion of Our Lord; so also, in a smaller figure, we both rejoice and mourn in the death of martyrs. We mourn, for the sins of the world that has martyred them; we rejoice, that another soul is numbered among the Saints in Heaven, for the glory of God and for the salvation of men.[1]
Martyrdom takes place paradoxically as a moment of delight and of mourning. Archbishop Thomas makes plain the double-edge of the sign of martyrdom – that it reveals both a demonic repudiation of God and a glorious acceptance of him in the one event. Thomas reveals in his sermon that behind the play’s presentation of historical events contrived by human agents lies the counter-narrative of Christ, that the feast of Christmas celebrates. The providential design of God is always in consideration when it comes to martyrdom:
A Christian martyrdom is never an accident, for Saints are not made by accident…A martyrdom is always the design of God, for His love of men, to warn them and to lead them, to bring them back to His ways. It is never the design of man; for the true martyr is he who has become the instrument of God, who has lost his will in the will of God, and who no longer desires anything for himself, not even the glory of being a martyr.[2]
Martyrdom is ultimately an act of God and not of the machinations of human plotters, nor even of the martyr him- or her-self. At least, the martyr acts in so far as he freely conjoins his will to the divine will – not in order that he might be glorified as a saint, but in order that the will of God be done, as Thomas has said earlier “that the wheel may turn and still/ Be forever still.”[3]
Thomas knows just what it is that he has renounced in accepting the path of martyrdom, which makes the sermon a moment of quiet resolution in the face of what is to come. He is visited in the first act by four tempters.[4] The first offers to him the path of sensuality and the good life. The second points out to Thomas the possibilities of political power that lay before him in returning to the king’s side – even the good he may do by means of this power. After all, as he puts it: “Power is present. Holiness hereafter.”[5] The third tempter, though similarly a tempter to power, conversely offers him the chance of an allegiance of church authority with the barons in open defiance of the king. Lastly, and with most subtlety, comes the fourth tempter, who encourages him to “think of glory after death”, for “Saint and Martyr rule from the tomb”.[6] If he seeks the way of martyrdom he will not only bear the crown of glory but be able to enjoy the spectacle of his enemies “in timeless torment…beyond expiation.”[7] This is most troubling for the protagonist and hardest to renounce: it is most difficult to disentangle his own will-to-glory from the rightness of the path he is about to take. As he says:
The last temptation is the greatest treason:
To do the right deed for the wrong reason.[8]
This turning of his motive towards his own self-interest would corrupt his martyrdom. Thomas recognizes that it can scarce be avoided.
And yet, knowing the complications and the risk of perdition, Thomas offers in his sermon his own resolve to submit only to the will of God. He renounces the pragmatism and hedonism of the tempters, and the thinking of those who “argue by results…to settle if an act be good or bad”;[9] in sight of the swords of his killers he gives his life “To the Law of God above the Law of Man”, in confidence that:
We have only to conquer
Now, by suffering. This is the easier victory.
Now is the triumph of the Cross, now
Open the door! [10]
Thomas neither acts nor even suffers for his own ends. He takes his decision “out of time”.[11] It is, in other words, an eschatological decision: while it is open to question and scrutiny as to his motives and to the relative impact of the act in time, what really matters is whether his act stands (or falls) in eternity. As a true martyr he displays a self-abegnation that is a true expression of his faith in Christ.
The play itself invites the process of a judgment “in time” as with no small irony the four assassins offer their rationalizations for their actions, in plain ignoble prose. They explicitly make appeal to the “fair play” of the English audience, who feel themselves privileged as judges over the action they have just witnessed. Thomas was a provocateur; he had a fanatic’s death-wish; he was complicit in the politics of the day; and so on. Eliot admits to the table the quite credible counter-witness of the knights; and they appear to have the last say. However, the play closes not on this note but with the song of the Chorus celebrating the entry of Thomas into glory. And at this point another kind of invitation is issued: an invitation to thankfulness and repentance:
Forgive us, O Lord, we acknowledge ourselves as type of the common man,
Of the men and women who shut the door and sit by the fire… [12]
The audience is pointed to their own complicity in the shedding of blood through their tolerance of injustice and apathetic acceptance of the status quo; and invited to contemplate the example of Thomas in his submission to the will, and the love, of God.
Eliot’s re-narrates the murder of Thomas as a martyrdom for the twentieth century testifying against both cynical political pragmatism, and an ultimately self-regarding religious fanaticism. The passion of Thomas is conjoined to the passion of Christ, as in the early Christian Acts of the Martyrs; his suffering echoes Christ’s suffering and is made meaningful in those terms. However, an ambiguity remains - exactly in the way Eliot himself envisages it. On the historical plane, the nature of Thomas’ death remain subject to an element of concealment. Are not the knights quite plausibly arguing against the reading of Thomas’ death as a martyrdom? Isn’t the verdict of the chorus, simply posited as it is at the end of the drama as a kind of divine judgment (in the manner of Sophoclean tragedy) a presumption of a divine perspective on these events that isn’t really available (except in the theatre)?
[1] Eliot, Murder in the Cathedral, p. 56
[2] Ibid., p. 57
[3] Ibid., p. 32
[4] Allusions abound in the scene to the Temptation of Christ by Satan. The downfall of Thomas is being narrated in imitation of Christ’s death.
[5] The words of the Second Tempter. Eliot, Murder in the Cathedral, p. 37
[6] Ibid., p. 47
[7] Ibid., p. 48
[8] Ibid., p. 52
[9] Ibid., p. 79
[10] Ibid.
[11] Ibid.
[12] Ibid., p. 91
Consider also one thing of which you have probably never thought. Not only do we at the feast of Christmas celebrate the martyrdom of His first martyr, the blessed Stephen. Is it an accident, do you think, that the day of the first martyr follows immediately the day of the Birth of Christ? By no means. Just as we rejoice and mourn at once, in the Birth and Passion of Our Lord; so also, in a smaller figure, we both rejoice and mourn in the death of martyrs. We mourn, for the sins of the world that has martyred them; we rejoice, that another soul is numbered among the Saints in Heaven, for the glory of God and for the salvation of men.[1]
Martyrdom takes place paradoxically as a moment of delight and of mourning. Archbishop Thomas makes plain the double-edge of the sign of martyrdom – that it reveals both a demonic repudiation of God and a glorious acceptance of him in the one event. Thomas reveals in his sermon that behind the play’s presentation of historical events contrived by human agents lies the counter-narrative of Christ, that the feast of Christmas celebrates. The providential design of God is always in consideration when it comes to martyrdom:
A Christian martyrdom is never an accident, for Saints are not made by accident…A martyrdom is always the design of God, for His love of men, to warn them and to lead them, to bring them back to His ways. It is never the design of man; for the true martyr is he who has become the instrument of God, who has lost his will in the will of God, and who no longer desires anything for himself, not even the glory of being a martyr.[2]
Martyrdom is ultimately an act of God and not of the machinations of human plotters, nor even of the martyr him- or her-self. At least, the martyr acts in so far as he freely conjoins his will to the divine will – not in order that he might be glorified as a saint, but in order that the will of God be done, as Thomas has said earlier “that the wheel may turn and still/ Be forever still.”[3]
Thomas knows just what it is that he has renounced in accepting the path of martyrdom, which makes the sermon a moment of quiet resolution in the face of what is to come. He is visited in the first act by four tempters.[4] The first offers to him the path of sensuality and the good life. The second points out to Thomas the possibilities of political power that lay before him in returning to the king’s side – even the good he may do by means of this power. After all, as he puts it: “Power is present. Holiness hereafter.”[5] The third tempter, though similarly a tempter to power, conversely offers him the chance of an allegiance of church authority with the barons in open defiance of the king. Lastly, and with most subtlety, comes the fourth tempter, who encourages him to “think of glory after death”, for “Saint and Martyr rule from the tomb”.[6] If he seeks the way of martyrdom he will not only bear the crown of glory but be able to enjoy the spectacle of his enemies “in timeless torment…beyond expiation.”[7] This is most troubling for the protagonist and hardest to renounce: it is most difficult to disentangle his own will-to-glory from the rightness of the path he is about to take. As he says:
The last temptation is the greatest treason:
To do the right deed for the wrong reason.[8]
This turning of his motive towards his own self-interest would corrupt his martyrdom. Thomas recognizes that it can scarce be avoided.
And yet, knowing the complications and the risk of perdition, Thomas offers in his sermon his own resolve to submit only to the will of God. He renounces the pragmatism and hedonism of the tempters, and the thinking of those who “argue by results…to settle if an act be good or bad”;[9] in sight of the swords of his killers he gives his life “To the Law of God above the Law of Man”, in confidence that:
We have only to conquer
Now, by suffering. This is the easier victory.
Now is the triumph of the Cross, now
Open the door! [10]
Thomas neither acts nor even suffers for his own ends. He takes his decision “out of time”.[11] It is, in other words, an eschatological decision: while it is open to question and scrutiny as to his motives and to the relative impact of the act in time, what really matters is whether his act stands (or falls) in eternity. As a true martyr he displays a self-abegnation that is a true expression of his faith in Christ.
The play itself invites the process of a judgment “in time” as with no small irony the four assassins offer their rationalizations for their actions, in plain ignoble prose. They explicitly make appeal to the “fair play” of the English audience, who feel themselves privileged as judges over the action they have just witnessed. Thomas was a provocateur; he had a fanatic’s death-wish; he was complicit in the politics of the day; and so on. Eliot admits to the table the quite credible counter-witness of the knights; and they appear to have the last say. However, the play closes not on this note but with the song of the Chorus celebrating the entry of Thomas into glory. And at this point another kind of invitation is issued: an invitation to thankfulness and repentance:
Forgive us, O Lord, we acknowledge ourselves as type of the common man,
Of the men and women who shut the door and sit by the fire… [12]
The audience is pointed to their own complicity in the shedding of blood through their tolerance of injustice and apathetic acceptance of the status quo; and invited to contemplate the example of Thomas in his submission to the will, and the love, of God.
Eliot’s re-narrates the murder of Thomas as a martyrdom for the twentieth century testifying against both cynical political pragmatism, and an ultimately self-regarding religious fanaticism. The passion of Thomas is conjoined to the passion of Christ, as in the early Christian Acts of the Martyrs; his suffering echoes Christ’s suffering and is made meaningful in those terms. However, an ambiguity remains - exactly in the way Eliot himself envisages it. On the historical plane, the nature of Thomas’ death remain subject to an element of concealment. Are not the knights quite plausibly arguing against the reading of Thomas’ death as a martyrdom? Isn’t the verdict of the chorus, simply posited as it is at the end of the drama as a kind of divine judgment (in the manner of Sophoclean tragedy) a presumption of a divine perspective on these events that isn’t really available (except in the theatre)?
[1] Eliot, Murder in the Cathedral, p. 56
[2] Ibid., p. 57
[3] Ibid., p. 32
[4] Allusions abound in the scene to the Temptation of Christ by Satan. The downfall of Thomas is being narrated in imitation of Christ’s death.
[5] The words of the Second Tempter. Eliot, Murder in the Cathedral, p. 37
[6] Ibid., p. 47
[7] Ibid., p. 48
[8] Ibid., p. 52
[9] Ibid., p. 79
[10] Ibid.
[11] Ibid.
[12] Ibid., p. 91
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
John Milbank’s Theology and Social Theory: Beyond Secular Reason
The work of John Milbank is a daring attempt to demolish secular social theory from a Christian perspective. This audacious move is a characteristic of the ‘Radical Orthodoxy’ movement, whose other chief protagonists are Graham Ward and Catherine Pickstock. Milbank proclaims nothing less than to prove that the ‘governing assumptions’ of theories like secular western liberalism are ‘bound up with the governing assumptions of orthodox Christian positions’. In fact, it is not necessary to try and relate theology and social theory to one another, for, as Fergus Kerr summarises, ‘theology is already social theory, and social theory is already theology’. What Milbank attempts is to expose the theology (and anti-theology) implicit in the so-called secular disciplines like sociology. Conversely, and with much deference to Augustine, he extrapolates the social theory inherent in theology.
Milbank’s critique of political liberalism shares much in common with those of Foucault and Lyotard. Indeed it is self-consciously postmodern: Milbank explicitly adopts the Foucauldian tactic of an historicizing, ‘genealogical’ inquiry in order to expose the network of power struggles and claims to dominance at the root of liberal thinking. He claims that the discourses of liberalism, from which the secular is first constructed, read the world in terms of an ‘ontology of violence’ – ‘a reading of the world which assumes the priority of force and tells how this force is best managed and confined by counter force’. Violence is assumed to be basic; as a result, political theory is developed assuming that violence has to be forcefully surmounted. Following Foucault, Milbank asserts that any truth claims are in fact a means to assert the dominance of the inevitably clashing centres of power in society. Kant’s liberalism, for example, makes claims about freedom that are really only gestures in a wrestle for power. The liberal move – the ‘Kantian delay’ – only temporarily staves off the nihilism of Nietzche.
Milbank’s scepticism removes for him the possibility of theology building on the foundations of some secular discipline:
Theology has frequently sought to borrow from elsewhere a fundamental account of society or history, and then to see what theological insights will cohere with it. But it has been shown that no such fundamental account, in the sense of something neutral, rational and universal, is really available. It is theology itself that will have to provide its own account of the final causes at work in human history, on the basis of its own particular, and historically specific faith.
Consequently, Christianity does not recognise this ontology of violence but rather thinks of the prime reality as a ‘harmonic peace’: Milbank at this point introduces the triune God as ‘transcendental peace through differential relation’. The meta-narrative of Christianity – its ‘counter-story’ – is at least no less credible than the meta-narratives of violence by which modern social theories (including and especially liberalism) describe themselves, since all alike are unfounded in the traditional sense. The existence of a primal violence is challenged by a counter-history, which is established by the coming of Christ into history; a counter-ethics, in which love becomes the core of virtue; and a counter-ontology, in which true peaceful co-existence is won from violence by the practice of forgiveness. Christianity, for Milbank, is unique in that it
…does not allow violence any real ontological purchase, but relates it instead to a free subject who asserts a will that is truly independent of God and of others, and thereby a will to the inhibition and distortion of reality.
Echoing Augustine, Milbank posits the Church as the political anti-type or counter-society. In the Church there is an ‘ontological priority of peace over conflict’ : there, ‘difference’ is the foundation not for violence but for harmonious peace. Here is one of Milbank’s great difficulties; for the Church as a historical entity has not fulfilled this ‘vision of paradisal[sic] community’. As he rather wistfully admits:
Insofar as the church has failed, and has even become a hellish anti-Church, it has confined Christianity, like everything else, with the cycle of the ceaseless exhaustion and return of violence.
Nevertheless, it is the Christian vision of ontological peace that provides the only alternative to absolute nihilism.
Milbank’s critique of liberalism is dazzling. He is able to show how secular liberalism, like other theories of society, is not secular at all but in fact involves necessarily theological or anti-theological moves. He is able to show how liberal thinking has its own mythos or meta-narrative, despite its pretensions to an abstract universalism; and how it has not finally eluded the gravitational pull of nihilism’s black hole. His introduction of the Christian meta-narrative in response rightly points to the distinctive Christian emphasis on relationality generated by the triune God as an attractive conceptual alternative.
Nevertheless, Milbank’s thesis is problematic for a number of reasons. First, his self-conscious appeal to postmodern thinking enables him to make a devastating critique of secular reason; his own evasion of the critique is less than convincing. He adopts Foucault’s notion of genealogy, by which the power claims implicit in the political discourses he examines are brought to light and exposed as relying on an ‘ontology of violence’. And yet he also claims that his Christian ‘ontology of peace’ escapes this Foucauldian critique. An Icarus flying too near a postmodern sun, he relies on Foucault to prove that Foucault is ultimately wrong.
Secondly, Milbank’s strategy rests on a questionable ecclesiology, which is far too sanguine about the ‘church militant’. His is an over-realised ecclesiology, blurring the traditional distinction between the church visible and the church invisible, focussing on the concrete historical institutions of the universal Church at the expense of its local congregational instances. More recent ‘Radical Orthodox’ writings have tended to make the Eucharist the means by which the ‘ontology of peace’ is realised, following an almost medieval sacramental theology. Christopher J. Insole goes so far as to accuse Milbank of a tendency to theocracy. And yet Milbank seems genuinely baffled by the refusal of the Church to be itself within history. Within the Scriptures themselves, the churches were as much a site of struggle as of peace (the Council of Jerusalem in Acts 15, to take but one example, or the Corinthian church). Peace with God was declared in the gospel, but by no means automatically or easily realised in ecclesial relationships. God’s once-for-all act of reconciliation on the cross is not continued or repeated in the acts of the church this side of Christ’s return.
Thirdly, it seems pertinent to ask, along with Wannenwetsch, if the only way to defeat the violent ontologies of secular reason is by positing an alternative ontology. Milbank has difficulty, having so successfully deconstructed the ontology of political thought, in convincingly constructing something of the same species. The proclamation of the gospel of peace, which founds the church, is not a counter- ontology, but a promise. Further, the NT describes the cross of Christ as achieving peace through a victory against the powers of sin and evil – depicted in terms of a violent exclusion (see Rev 19-22 for just one example).
This third complaint leads to a fourth, which is that while Milbank offers a virtuoso reading of vast tracts of political philosophy, liberation theology and postmodernism, his method is insufficiently grounded in basic Scriptural exegesis. He offers almost no reflection on Israel’s political life; nor does he offer extensive readings of the relevant NT material – all of which ought to condition his explanation of the Church as alternative polis. Strangely, though he claims to be offering Christianity as an alternative meta-narrative, he nowhere offers his retelling of that story at any depth nor an engagement with the authoritative texts of the tradition he is advocating.
Milbank’s critique of political liberalism shares much in common with those of Foucault and Lyotard. Indeed it is self-consciously postmodern: Milbank explicitly adopts the Foucauldian tactic of an historicizing, ‘genealogical’ inquiry in order to expose the network of power struggles and claims to dominance at the root of liberal thinking. He claims that the discourses of liberalism, from which the secular is first constructed, read the world in terms of an ‘ontology of violence’ – ‘a reading of the world which assumes the priority of force and tells how this force is best managed and confined by counter force’. Violence is assumed to be basic; as a result, political theory is developed assuming that violence has to be forcefully surmounted. Following Foucault, Milbank asserts that any truth claims are in fact a means to assert the dominance of the inevitably clashing centres of power in society. Kant’s liberalism, for example, makes claims about freedom that are really only gestures in a wrestle for power. The liberal move – the ‘Kantian delay’ – only temporarily staves off the nihilism of Nietzche.
Milbank’s scepticism removes for him the possibility of theology building on the foundations of some secular discipline:
Theology has frequently sought to borrow from elsewhere a fundamental account of society or history, and then to see what theological insights will cohere with it. But it has been shown that no such fundamental account, in the sense of something neutral, rational and universal, is really available. It is theology itself that will have to provide its own account of the final causes at work in human history, on the basis of its own particular, and historically specific faith.
Consequently, Christianity does not recognise this ontology of violence but rather thinks of the prime reality as a ‘harmonic peace’: Milbank at this point introduces the triune God as ‘transcendental peace through differential relation’. The meta-narrative of Christianity – its ‘counter-story’ – is at least no less credible than the meta-narratives of violence by which modern social theories (including and especially liberalism) describe themselves, since all alike are unfounded in the traditional sense. The existence of a primal violence is challenged by a counter-history, which is established by the coming of Christ into history; a counter-ethics, in which love becomes the core of virtue; and a counter-ontology, in which true peaceful co-existence is won from violence by the practice of forgiveness. Christianity, for Milbank, is unique in that it
…does not allow violence any real ontological purchase, but relates it instead to a free subject who asserts a will that is truly independent of God and of others, and thereby a will to the inhibition and distortion of reality.
Echoing Augustine, Milbank posits the Church as the political anti-type or counter-society. In the Church there is an ‘ontological priority of peace over conflict’ : there, ‘difference’ is the foundation not for violence but for harmonious peace. Here is one of Milbank’s great difficulties; for the Church as a historical entity has not fulfilled this ‘vision of paradisal[sic] community’. As he rather wistfully admits:
Insofar as the church has failed, and has even become a hellish anti-Church, it has confined Christianity, like everything else, with the cycle of the ceaseless exhaustion and return of violence.
Nevertheless, it is the Christian vision of ontological peace that provides the only alternative to absolute nihilism.
Milbank’s critique of liberalism is dazzling. He is able to show how secular liberalism, like other theories of society, is not secular at all but in fact involves necessarily theological or anti-theological moves. He is able to show how liberal thinking has its own mythos or meta-narrative, despite its pretensions to an abstract universalism; and how it has not finally eluded the gravitational pull of nihilism’s black hole. His introduction of the Christian meta-narrative in response rightly points to the distinctive Christian emphasis on relationality generated by the triune God as an attractive conceptual alternative.
Nevertheless, Milbank’s thesis is problematic for a number of reasons. First, his self-conscious appeal to postmodern thinking enables him to make a devastating critique of secular reason; his own evasion of the critique is less than convincing. He adopts Foucault’s notion of genealogy, by which the power claims implicit in the political discourses he examines are brought to light and exposed as relying on an ‘ontology of violence’. And yet he also claims that his Christian ‘ontology of peace’ escapes this Foucauldian critique. An Icarus flying too near a postmodern sun, he relies on Foucault to prove that Foucault is ultimately wrong.
Secondly, Milbank’s strategy rests on a questionable ecclesiology, which is far too sanguine about the ‘church militant’. His is an over-realised ecclesiology, blurring the traditional distinction between the church visible and the church invisible, focussing on the concrete historical institutions of the universal Church at the expense of its local congregational instances. More recent ‘Radical Orthodox’ writings have tended to make the Eucharist the means by which the ‘ontology of peace’ is realised, following an almost medieval sacramental theology. Christopher J. Insole goes so far as to accuse Milbank of a tendency to theocracy. And yet Milbank seems genuinely baffled by the refusal of the Church to be itself within history. Within the Scriptures themselves, the churches were as much a site of struggle as of peace (the Council of Jerusalem in Acts 15, to take but one example, or the Corinthian church). Peace with God was declared in the gospel, but by no means automatically or easily realised in ecclesial relationships. God’s once-for-all act of reconciliation on the cross is not continued or repeated in the acts of the church this side of Christ’s return.
Thirdly, it seems pertinent to ask, along with Wannenwetsch, if the only way to defeat the violent ontologies of secular reason is by positing an alternative ontology. Milbank has difficulty, having so successfully deconstructed the ontology of political thought, in convincingly constructing something of the same species. The proclamation of the gospel of peace, which founds the church, is not a counter- ontology, but a promise. Further, the NT describes the cross of Christ as achieving peace through a victory against the powers of sin and evil – depicted in terms of a violent exclusion (see Rev 19-22 for just one example).
This third complaint leads to a fourth, which is that while Milbank offers a virtuoso reading of vast tracts of political philosophy, liberation theology and postmodernism, his method is insufficiently grounded in basic Scriptural exegesis. He offers almost no reflection on Israel’s political life; nor does he offer extensive readings of the relevant NT material – all of which ought to condition his explanation of the Church as alternative polis. Strangely, though he claims to be offering Christianity as an alternative meta-narrative, he nowhere offers his retelling of that story at any depth nor an engagement with the authoritative texts of the tradition he is advocating.
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