Christian Tradition, part 1

On this the first day of a new church year (1st Sunday in Advent), I thought I would post some thoughts on Christian tradition.

But first, it might be worth saying a little something about the two words Christian' and 'tradition' themselves, and how I understand them. In the final part of a three-part series on this topic, I will argue that many of the disputes between Christian denominations, as well as the internal arguments over form and content, the 'traditional' and the 'emerging', have a similar inner structure. In this first part, however, I will focus on the word 'Christian', as denoting something belonging to Christianity. Rather than defining where one could draw the line between 'Christian' and 'non-Christian', or between the 'inside' and the 'outside' of Christianity, I will simply state several aspects that the term 'Christianity' at the very least must include. Many people, even confessing Christians, find it hard to define clearly what Christianity actually is, and so I am only taking a very broad approach because I am not out to upset anyone. The second part will elaborate on the different, and in some ways contradictory, meanings of the word 'tradition'. Hopefully, one thing that will emerge after these three long posts is a more helpful (yet challenging) way of viewing differences between Christian denominations and movements.

First, then, what is included in the term 'Christianity':

One aspect of Christianity is its stories. Christianity consists of a multitude of stories on many levels. There are myths of the origins of reality, humanity and nature. There are historical narratives of the people of Israel, and of individuals connected to this narrative. There are the four accounts of the life of Jesus. There is the story of the early church and the acts and journeys - individual or collective - of the first apostles. Then there are local, regional and global church histories. Christianity is also full of parables and educational stories, such as the story of the Good Samaritan or of the Prodigal Son, or stories of the desert fathers or various saints. There are also the personal testimonies and life stories of the disciples - past and contemporary. Big stories and little stories, all interwoven, and none of them can be removed without altering the whole. Christianity can never be described apart form its stories.

A second aspect of Christianity is its teachings. Christianity consists of a set of concepts and categories that are constructed as if they were a-historical and more or less ‘timeless’. There are the creeds, and there are the doctrines, which are a kind of models or frameworks for thought and reflection, such as ‘Creation’, ‘Trinity’, ‘Incarnation’, etc. These are not necessarily sharply defined in a set of propositions, but function more as places to stand from when we engage with Reality. There are concepts such as ‘sin’, ‘redemption’, ‘atonement’, ‘repentance’, ‘salvation’, ‘theosis’, etc, which are not explicitly defined in any sacred text, are extracted from contexts and developed in relation to each other.  There are principles such as ‘pray and you shall receive’, ‘God cannot lie’, and  ‘if you do this and that, then so and so will happen’. There are logics, that is, systems of thought, such as ecclesiology, eschatology, soteriology, etc., all interwoven, and none can be removed without altering the whole. Christianity can never be described apart from its teachings.

A third aspect of Christianity is its practices. Christianity consists of sets of practices, individual and series of actions that the people of the church do together and individually. There are individual and communal practices that we would perhaps associate with collective gatherings: baptism (immersion or sprinkling of water), communion (sharing a meal consisting of bread and wine), singing together, exchanging gifts in the form of words and objects. There are also actions such as kneeling, lifting hands, bowing before alter, making the sign of a cross on one’s chest, laying hands on one another. On a wider view there are also Christian actions that take place in a ‘wider’ context, such as performing daily work to sustain one’s living, retreating to quiet places to rest and restore one’s strength, travelling to visit places that have historical significance for Christianity or to serve others (‘missions’). Christianity can never be described apart from its practices.

A fourth aspect of Christianity is its calendars. Christianity consists of temporal rhythms. These rhythms are daily, weekly, and annual. There are particular times for certain stories, tasks and practices during the year (liturgical year), seasons of working and resting, rejoicing and mourning. There are Sabbaths, holidays, festivals, fasts and feasts (Advent, Christmas, Annunciation, Lent, Easter, Pentecost, etc.), set times for particular things in particular places. So-called ‘ordinary time’ is also part of this – there is no moment of the year or the week or the day that is not somehow touched by the Christian calendar. Christianity can not be described apart from its calendars.

A fifth aspect of Christianity is its structures. Christianity consists of structures. It includes institutions, organizational systems, hierarchies of leadership and responsibility, lines of authority. In all human relationships there are certain structures of status - of domination and submission - like it or not, that is simply the case. There is a diversity of roles according to different criteria; there are roles with different status in every relationship (servant-king, flock-pastor, etc). There are many different tasks and ministries, structured in particular ways. Christianity can never be described apart from its structures.


I have gone through these aspects really quickly, and we all realize that much more could be said about each section here. My point right now is that the term 'Christianity' includes all of these, on both macro- and micro-levels. Christianity cannot be reduced to something less than all of its aspects. In other words, everything above is somehow included in the term. More could be included, but not less.  This might seem obvious, but taken together with part 2, it becomes quite radical and, for some, hard to swallow.

In Part 2 I will discuss the term 'tradition', and how I think it relates to the aspects of Christianity.

Latour and modernity

If any book has ever changed the way I think, it would be Bruno Latour's "We Have Never Been Modern". It is a complex argument with a lot of fascinating implications that philosophers are still working out.

In this book, Latour describes modernity - our contemporary way of thinking, living, and asking questions - as being founded on a particular 'constitution' or set of rules that have come to be taken for granted, but that turn out to be self-contradictory and groundless when we examine them. The reason is that we 'moderns' only think consciously about one part of the constitution at a time, and so the contradictions escape us - we believe we are actually being consistent.

Central in Latour's analysis of modernity is our attempt to separate Nature from Society. Nature stands for everything that simply is what it is, whether we would like to change it or not. Society stands for all that is human, human-made and artificial, that we might construct otherwise if we choose to. What Latour shows is that Nature and Society aren't really that easy to separate in reality, even though the moderns treat them as if they are already separate.

For example, a scientist in a laboratory claims to be seeing Nature as it is, apart from any human construction. But he can only confirm what Nature is in itself through the agreement of a community of scientists in a human-made laboratory. They construct an environment and a consensus that Nature is a particular way. This way, Nature is founded on Society. But this can be reversed. The science of Society tells us that humans can construct whatever society we like, and that this is our liberty. But in order to base her argument on something, the social scientist refers to sociological 'laws' that echo the natural 'laws' of the laboratory. Society is then ultimately founded on Nature.

We, the 'moderns', are only able to look at one of these at the time, and so we don't realize the inconsistency. In fact, Latour says, there has never actually been a clear separation between Nature and Society. But for as long as we have told ourselves that we manage to make that separation, we have remained blind to the many 'hybrid' things in the world that belie our categories. In this sense we have never been modern - for we have never actually separated Nature from Society.

Latour shows how our views of God, history, time, materiality, ideas, etc. are all connected to the modern 'constitution', and also how the questions regarding all of these are re-opened when we realize just how unsustainable is the modern way of thinking and practicing. We cannot forever keep on acting as if the separation of Nature and Society is possible, but all our modern practices are tangled up in this misconception.

After having argued that we have never been modern, Latour then has to explain what then we have actually been. In other words, he must give us an alternative way of thinking about the world. This is the basis for what has become loosely known as 'Actor-Network Theory', even though Latour himself is not too fond of that particular label.

The details of this philosophical system is a bit too complex for this post. Generally, it is used as if it simply means giving more attention to the material objects involved in human societies, but Latour's metaphysics are a bit more radical than that. While Latour's view of the world has recently been taken up by confessional atheist philosophers as a kind of 'deep' materialism, his metaphysics also invites a sacramental, trinitarian, catholic theology. In a later post, I hope to show how this is the case.

The Adventure of Orthodoxy

I regularly return to Orthodoxy. 

Everyone wants to be G.K. Chesterton's friend. In a debate forecast as the philosophical equivalent of ultimate wrestling, theologian John Milbank and philosopher Slavoj Zizek wasted much of their time and ink arguing over who had more support from Chesterton. Of course, if Chesterton himself was at the debate, he would turn up late, make everyone laugh, and drag Zizek and Milbank down to the pub for a pint, in the name of sanity.

For those of you who have not yet had your lives changed (into LIVES) by reading this witty, unafraid and paradoxical writer - try Orthodoxy. It will make you laugh at yourself, and your world - since when laughing at yourself, you take up less space in it - will seem larger. Then go on to Heretics, Introduction to the Book of Job, the Father Brown stories, The Everlasting Man, and his numerous published essays and poems. Enjoy.

The theology of Robin Hobb

We have long been reading Robin Hobb's tales from the Realm of the Elderlings. That is, I read, while Linda sews, knits, draws, or plays computer games (yeah, she didn't put THAT on her blog, did she?). We have finished three trilogies (Farseer, Liveship Traders, and Tawny Man), and are waiting for Hobb to finish the last book in her fourth trilogy before we embark on that.

One thing that makes Hobb's books so interesting compared to many other fantasy writers is that she has created a world where it is not given which people group or race is 'good' or 'bad'. This way she can write a trilogy from the perspective of one group, in which other peoples are portrayed as 'barbaric', while the next trilogy might be written from this very group's perspective, showing the 'barbarism' of the former group. In a world of more than five different people groups and a time-span of potentially thousands of years, she can keep writing for a while.

I am not going to recount the stories here. I only want to say that there are enough books in the world about the theological undercurrents in the works of C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien. It is about time Robin Hobb had her following of the 'theologically interested'. Aside from more obvious 'religious' traits such as magic(s), prophesies, betrayal and reconciliation, and innocent sacrifices - common to so much fantasy literature-, her books are filled with themes such as global and ecological restoration after a cataclysmic Fall in the past, humans being destined for 'deification' (mutating into something 'higher' through the correct interaction with the world), mixed with a high regard (almost sacramental) for the ordinary life of eating, sleeping, and working.

Alain Badiou: an atheist reads St. Paul

The first in a series of books I have just read that somehow inspired me, is Alain Badiou's book on St.Paul's radical philosophy and politics.

Alain Badiou is one of the contemporary philosophers who despite his announced atheism is exploring Christian doctrine for resources to meet present philosophical and political challenges. In particular, he has engaged with Christian thought as it develops through the work of St. Paul. Most of Badiou's philosophy is hard to understand, since he is often demanding an advanced understanding of mathematics (in particular Cantorian set theory) from his readers. I wish...

One could of course accuse Badiou of simply trying to shape St. Paul in the image of his own philosophy. He is certainly not the only one doing that. His project is nevertheless fascinating because of how he introduces the book to his assumed atheist readers (to whom he obviously feels he has to justify his use of Christian thought at all). Badiou himself states that there are more important distinctions to make in the contemporary world than between 'religion' and philosophy.

Our contemporary world, says Badiou, is a place where there is a homogenizing universalism on the one hand, and a kind of impotent identity politics on the other. What does this mean? On one side, a globalizing market reduces all forms of life to mere numbers on a sheet of paper, drained of any specific quality. Everything can be measured (in terms of money), and compared on the same background. On the other side, there are groups seeking recognition of their 'rights' within this global order, and trying to distinguish themselves from those who do not belong to that particular group.

Badiou claims the conditions we live under are similar to the circumstances of St. Paul, and that we have much to learn from the apostle's radical break with everything around him and his construction of a new way of thinking and living the (his) truth. On the one hand, Paul was surrounded by a Roman empire (our time's global market) that enveloped all particular identities within its geographical borders and the limits of its Greek philosophy. On the other hand, he was engaging with a Jewish community (our time's identity politics and interest groups) that sought to have their particular 'rights' recognized by the Empire, while distinguishing themselves from all the other groups through certain characteristics.

These two forms of 'universalism' always go together - in fact they re-enforce each other -, and both are false to Badiou. What he sees St. Paul doing, then, is to challenge both of these at the same time. St.Paul refuses all the available categories of the world around him ('there is no Greek nor Jew, no male nor female, etc'), and constructs 'from scratch' a completely new kind of practicing community (the Church) that is universal but not homogenizing like the empire, and time/place-specific without being based on particular qualities (showing who's 'in' or 'out') like the Jewish community.

Badiou's reading of St. Paul flies in the face of what many contemporary churches seem to be practicing. Either, the church attempts to subsume everything and everyone into itself (as if it were an Empire) - or it is fighting for its 'rights' to be recognized by the State, while constantly trying to define the criteria for being 'within' and 'outside of' its fold (as if it were just another interest group). Badiou's reading suggests none of these strategies are 'Christian' in the way St. Paul describes it.

Contemporary theologians and self-professed believers might be facing a time when atheist philosophers are prepared to do more radical theological thinking (and practicing) than themselves...

X-Factor finalists

For the first time ever I have been joining Linda in watching the X-Factor, and (to paraphrase Louis Walsh) I love everything about it. Well, that's not true, of course - like everyone else I watch it with a certain self-righteous, ironical distance. But I do enjoy it. In our house, the obvious favourites are Rebecca Ferguson and Matt Cardle. What unbelievable talents! We are even considering voting, which would be a tough blow to my self-image.

A crash course in contemporary thinking...

...with no name-dropping and as free of technical vocabulary as possible.

(If any professional philosophers read this, I apologize sincerely. Then, on the other hand, why are you, a professional philosopher, reading this blog?)

Philosophy books can be very intimidating for some of us. The vocabulary can be so specialized, and just when you think you have understood a sentence, the next sentence proves you wrong. So here is a quick crash course in contemporary thinking, without any pretentious dropping of French-sounding names, no assumptions about how updated you should be on philosophical debates or terms such as ‘Immanence’, and no implication that you have be a scholar do some good thinking. That does not mean that it will be easy to understand the implications of everything here, this is a crash course after all. There will also be no real answers here, only a way of asking questions, of posing problems, of thinking. That’s kind of the point.

THE big question is 'What is Reality?'

Imagine Reality as a circle, outside of which is nothing. Everything that is, is inside this circle. That seems simple enough, but remember that even lies, misunderstandings, and false ideas cannot be outside the circle. In Reality, there must be a place for the false as well, or we would have to draw two circles. But false ideas do not exist in a parallel reality, but in this one. Therefore, everything that is, is included in Reality, even if its nature is ‘false’.

Enter you, the philosopher.

(Model 1)

Here you are, looking at Reality, tasting it, smelling, feeling, hearing it, thinking of it. What is Reality like? How can you describe it? For many philosophers these are the important questions. How can we know anything about Reality, what are the limits to our understanding, and so on.

But for others another question becomes important: Isn’t it true that you can’t describe Reality as it is anyway, that you only see it from your particular perspective? It’s like you are wearing glasses that are coloured, and so Reality seems to have that colour. Reality seems to be a particular way, but really this is only because of your perspective. And no perspective is perfect. So how then can you see further than your own perspective?

(Model 2)

Some philosophers like the first model of the philosopher looking at Reality, whereas others really get into model two, and the critique of perspectives. The latter have sometimes called the former “modern” and themselves “postmodern”, since they see themselves as coming ‘after’ (post) the ‘moderns’, somehow being aware of (and maybe avoiding) the mistakes of their forerunners. The ‘moderns’ would sometimes respond by calling the ‘postmoderns’ irrational (that they weren’t really all that clever) or relativists (that a result of their thinking would be that anything is equally OK) or inconsistent (that their actual lives could never match up to their theories, since the phrase ‘everything is relative’ could not itself be relative).

I think it is fair to say that neither side represented the other in a very generous way.

But there is another question that arises from both model 1 and 2, that has become more important to some contemporary thinkers.


The model shows the philosopher standing outside of Reality looking in. If so, then why don’t we draw 6 billion little people looking ‘into’ Reality? But the problem here is, of course, that for the philosopher – or for you, for that matter – all other people are part of the Reality she/you is trying to explain. All other people belong inside the big circle, and you look ‘in’ on them. But if they are included in the circle, then the philosopher herself should also be included. If nothing that is, is outside of Reality, then the philosopher and all her thoughts must also be included within it.

(Model 3)

 
This is where much contemporary philosophy takes its starting point (I just call it contemporary, because it isn’t really ‘modern’ or ‘postmodern’ – it doesn’t call itself anything). The thinker, her thoughts, and Reality are parts or aspects of the same ‘thing’ – so what is this thing? How do differences between the thinker and the rest of Reality emerge? How ‘solid’ are the boundaries between different things in Reality? How ‘solid’ are the boundaries of Reality itself? How do new things come into being? What is change? What is that thing we call ‘thought’, and what is its relation to the rest of Reality?

This can make some contemporary philosophy books seem quite strange. While trying to answer the question of what Reality is, the philosopher’s is at the same time trying to fit her own thinking itself (not only her ‘finished’ thoughts, but the process of thinking where more or less fully formed thoughts emerge) into the picture – the book she is writing must be included in the Reality it describes. It is like stories that have stories within them – imagine that the bigger story was to be fitted into the smaller story that is within the bigger story…that’s right, it gets complex and strange.

A few notes on the 'God question':

For those particularly interested (and not turned off by the above simplifications), I want to suggest how the ‘God question’ fits into the three models outlined above.

In the first model, God often figures in two places at once: On the one hand, God is a kind of external assurance that the philosopher will be able to understand Reality as it is, or approximately so. As she is looking at Reality, God hovers above her as the Designer of Reality, who makes sure its laws and principles remain stable and universal. On the other hand, God is a ‘still voice within’, nearer the self than rationality, emotions or any conscious idea. God is either 'out there' to be proved, or 'within' to be experienced. Behind all ‘postmodern’ perspectives, the God of the ‘moderns’ always guarantees the unity and essential stability of Reality, whether from far ‘outside’ or from deep ‘inside’.

In the second model, God often figures as the Other perspective, the Voice that interrupts your story of what Reality is. There is no access to any Reality outside of perspectives, no shortcuts through the known purposes of a grand Designer. Here, God is that nudging sense that all is not complete, the whispering Voice of the voice-less outcasts of any seemingly flawless description. In the face of all ‘modern’ claims of underlying structures and stabilities, the God of the ‘postmoderns’ always interrupts the flow of anything that seemed complete and ‘closed’.

In the third model, the ‘God question’ becomes paradoxical and loses much of its sting altogether. Asking whether God exists or not is very much like asking whether God (whatever is meant by the term) is included in Reality. Now, for Christian theology (since it is here the ‘God question’ is most often debated) this is not really a question that makes sense. On the one hand, God is seen as Creator of the world, and so not a simple part of that world, so it seems the answer should be ‘no’. But, if one answers ‘no, God should not be included in Reality’, this amounts to saying that God does not exist, even while affirming that God is Creator. On the other hand, if one answers ‘yes, God should be included in Reality’, this seems to align God with creation, reducing God to merely one of many things that are ‘out there’ in the world.

In this third model the question whether God exists or not, is a question that makes no sense. What some do, then, is to show that Christian theology has a long history of distinguishing between the ‘existence’ of creation and the ‘Being’ of God. Created things ‘exist’ only by participating in the ‘Being’ of God, they say. Therefore, to affirm that God ‘exists’, is actually technically wrong from a theological point of view. The answer to the ‘God question’ in the third model, is neither ‘yes’ nor ‘no’, but something entirely different than the available alternatives. In a sense it is the question itself that is wrong, since it only makes sense if it first ignores theology – and then demands a theological answer. On this perspective, both model 1 and 2 ask the wrong question. In the third model, then, the question of God is thrown wide open, even though many ‘moderns’ and ‘postmoderns’ do not like it, and so are trying to shut it down again.

Et foredrag om å ha rett

En venn sendte meg en link til foredraget religionshistoriker Hanne Nabintu Herland holdt for en stund siden. Fra intervjuer jeg har lest tidligere hadde jeg inntrykk av at Herland har noen interessante poenger (som hun egentlig ikke er så alene om, selv om hun fremstiller det slik), men er en i overkant frimodig konservativ kristen bråkebøtte. Dette foredraget gjorde at inntrykket har blitt dårligere. Og det er ikke bare fordi hun høres ut som Harald Eia sin sketsj om ‘Varjen’, eller på grunn av tenkepausene som stort sett fylles med pinlig stillhet mens tilhørerne teller sekunder og vil hjem. Heller ikke at hun først snakker om den naive vestlige holdningen til de ‘stakkars afrikanerne’, for så å fortelle at ‘afrikanerne har en glede og generøsitet som ikke vi har i vårt samfunn’. Eller at hun snakker om ‘Norge’ og ‘vår del av verden’ som om de to betyr det samme.

Det ser ut som Norge har fått sin Glenn Beck. En høytropende og litt for følelsesladet ‘debattant’ med veska full konspirasjonsteorier. Den generelle følelsen av å tilhøre mindretallet forklares med at ‘alle andre’ har rottet seg sammen mot ‘oss’. Denne ‘onde’ konsensusen, som Herland/Beck har klart å avdekke og nå deler med almenheten, er liksom årsaken til alt det vonde som skjer i verden (og mye som virker helt greit, er EGENTLIG skikkelig ondt, skjønner du). Er det ikke ‘Illuminatet’ eller ‘Bildenbergere’ så er det ‘68’ere’ og ‘nazister’. Men de er vel egentlig de samme, eller hva?

Som religionshistoriker roter Herland utrolig mye i dette foredraget. Hun er gjennomført uklar på hvordan hun vil definere ‘religion’. På den ene siden er Norge nedsunket i Marxisme, som hun så definerer som en ‘religion’. På den andre siden er denne Marxistiske ‘religionen’ fiendtlig innstilt til ‘religion’, som hun så definerer som et knippe vage ‘tradisjonelle verdier’. Hvilken av disse definisjonene av ‘religion’ hun vil holde seg til, kommer visst helt an på hvem hun snakker om, og om hun liker dem eller ikke.

Vi kan ta Herlands ‘oppgjør’ med sosialismen (og andre –ismer hun for sikkerhets skyld skyfler ned i samme sekk) like alvorlig som vi skal ta Richard Dawkins’s ‘oppgjør’ med Tomas Aquinas, eller Dan Brown’s ‘avdekning’ av den tidlige kirkens hemmeligheter. Det hun sier er med andre ord fullstendig uinteressant i seg selv. Det er som derimot er interessant er at slikt forfølgelsesvanvidd finnes på så mange sider av ‘debatten’ hun deltar i. Er Herland et slags konservativ-kristent svar på Einar Gelius? Akkurat som Gelius ser Herland kritikk som et uttrykk for forfølgelse, en slags bevis på at hun har rett og må lide for sanneten hun ‘avdekker’.

Hvis noe er en fellesnevner i denne litt paranoide tankegangen, så er det at absolutt ALT passer inn i mønsteret. Alt er en del av en stor plan eller en stor feiltakelse. Her er ingen gråsoner, bare en pendelsving mellom ekstremer. Her har alle tilsynelatende kompliserte gråsoner et mye ‘dypere’ (eller ‘tyngre’, som Herland sier) nivå som visstnok er veldig svart-hvitt.

Herland treffer en nerve som er felles for mange – følelsen av å tilhøre en minoritet som ikke blir lyttet til. Avgjørelser taes alltid et annet sted enn der man selv er. Det er liksom alltid noen andre som trekker i trådene. Da er det godt at noen ‘sier det som det er’ – selv om det bare er sånn for noen få.

Problemet er at ingenting av det Herland sier kan omsettes i praktisk, politisk handling. Det finnes bare to konstruktive utganger på det hun sier. Enten kan ‘vi’ (Herlands etterfølgere) kjempe for å bli anerkjent som en minoritet som gis rettigheter på lik linje med andre minoriteter. Det betyr i så fall at systemet som gir oss rettighetene blir stående uforandret. Eller så kan ‘vi’ ta over selve systemet og legge nye retningslinjer som favoriserer våre egne interesser og verdier, og over tid korrumperes av makt, akkurat som de franske revolusjonære hun er så sinna på. Det finnes med andre ord ingenting vi faktisk kan gjøre. Resultatet av denne upraktiske tankegangen er at ingen gjør noe annet enn å klappe seg selv og sine likesinnede på skulderen. 

Hanne Nabintu Herland forer forfølgelseskomplekset vårt. Hun beviser at når ingen vil lytte til det ‘vi’ har å si, så er det fordi de egentlig vet at ‘vi’ har rett. Først slenger hun ut helt urealistiske beskyldninger, og når ingen svarer tar hun det som tegn på at hun traff spikeren på hodet, at hun sier noe som det ellers ‘legges lokk på’. Man kan si at hun ‘sier det som det er’ – men bare på den måten at hun får oss til å føle oss ‘rettferdige’ og som gode martyrer for ‘sannheten’.

Herland er populær i media. Kanskje hun har en slags ‘Palin-effekt’ fordi hun er pen kvinne og retter retorikken sin mot ‘makta’. At hun er oppvokst i Afrika gir også endel ekstrapoeng, for da kan hun hevde at hun ser ‘vår del av verden’ utenfra.  Men i dette foredraget står hun for en type tenkning som ikke kan settes ut i livet politisk, fordi det er systemet hun kritiserer som gjør det mulig for henne å leve som ‘bestselgende forfatter’ og ‘ettertraktet foredragsholder’. Ved å kaste om seg med ekstreme karakteristikker gjør hun det veldig vanskelig å utføre noe, og veldig lett å sette seg ned og bare ‘ha rett’.

Traditio: surrender/translate/betray

Welcome to my blog!

I guess I suck at finding catchy, self-explanatory titles. The following is an attempt to clarify. Believe it or not.

One thing will probably become clear as (if) I post on this blog: I like to think in terms of 'tradition'. But I mean by that word a number of things, things that might seem contradictory, and it is this the blog title is getting at. The latin word traditio (‘handed over’) is the common root of such different words/concepts as surrender, translation, and betrayal.  

Surrender

Traditio carries within itself the seed of a universal order of things, a home, tounge, and life common of all. Importantly, it recognizes the validity of such an order, even while recognizing it as ‘merely’ human. There is always an order of things – there can be no break away by any autonomous individual from order-as-such. If order-as-such is evil, we are damned. Perhaps a common understanding of tradition (also why we love to hate it) is that it is precisely such a set of practices and structures.  

We always stand firmly within a world, structure, set of circumstances, concrete and abstract, that makes us who we are. All innovation is in this certain respect imitation - we cannot break out. There is no 'out'. Within this perspective, not only does the 'old' speak to the 'new', as if we could pick and mix as we prefer from the past - but the 'new' is indeed only a surface movement on the 'old', a particular trajectory of a past that remains forever present.  

Translate  

I belong to several worlds – cultural, political, denominational, academic, etc – and there is no me apart from these worlds. My thoughts are a strange mix of pietist leanings, Reformed Christian ‘rational’ apologetics, postmodern theory, general interest in classic texts, historical ‘broad-brush painting’, pentecostal confidence, a taste for the inappropriate and anarchical, fascination for the radicality of orthodox dogmatism, for cross-disciplinary fusions, interruptive events, paradoxical relations, and the ‘in-between’. Whenever any aspects of my cumulated background meet (or something new is introduced) – in other words, constantly – translation is taking place, both changing everything and making sure my sense of self remains (more or less) stable throughout the interaction. As a result, I am still me, but I can never be the same again, and without having to do these translations, [the] I would not be at all.

Traditio carries the seed of translation within itself. The church founded on Pentecost was founded on translation of a single message (well, actually probably several – the canon alone gives us no less than four) into 15-20 languages. If you were there, and knew all the languages, would you not pick up differences in nuance in each sermon delivered by enthusiastic apostles, messengers, mercuries? The church never sought to replicate the ‘eternally unchangeable’ in changing circumstances – it translates itself. Translation is its DNA, its foundation if it ever had any. Translation is thus a recognition that relationship first is constitutive – it makes the participants who they are – and secondly goes ‘all the way down’.

Betray  

On the ‘dark’ side of every tradition and translation there is an element of treason, of betrayal. Judas handed over Jesus to the romans, and Pilate handed over Jesus to be crucified. For me, this side of traditio is where I am constantly made to realize that all my fancy names for the nameless, all my own-made forms into which I seek to conform what is beyond all form, all my expressed orders of things (see above, under surrender) fall short, are false, made-up, violent. Betrayal is the fidelity expressed by iconoclasts, correct practice, with or without correct confession.

But rather than a reaction against traditio, betrayal becomes an essential element of its inner dynamic. The aspect of traditio that commands surrender to identity-giving structures and orders, can meet its counterpart – and its fulfilment – in the betrayal of these very same structures. Being an element of traditio rather than its negation does not mean that the extent of betrayal is limited. Quite the opposite - betrayal becomes betrayal only as part of traditio.  

An English bishop once visited a cathedral school on Holy Saturday (between the crucifixion and resurrection of Christ), and asked the pupils "what do you think Jesus did on Holy Saturday?" One of the boys answered, "He went to see his friend Judas".