Best reads of 2011

It's been a busy year, and 2012 is looking to get even worse. I have, however, not allowed my studies to disrupt my education, and have managed to get through a few books. Here is my list of highlights from 2011:

1) Marshall and Eric McLuhan: 'Media and Formal Cause' and 'The Medium and the Light.'

Marshall McLuhan (the man behind catchphrases such as 'the medium is the message' and 'global village') is one of the philosophers taken up by Graham Harman, the 'object-oriented' one in the 'speculative realist' milleu. I have mentioned earlier on this blog how Harman draws on the metaphysics of Bruno Latour, but fails to fully appreciate the subtle Catholicism in the latter's philosophy. This year I learned that McLuhan was a convert to Roman Catholicism. Hence, two of the most important philosophers drawn on in the most interesting recent philosophical movement were/are themselves (to put it carefully) blurring the boundaries between philosophy and theology. In 'Media and Formal Cause,' the McLuhans (Marshall wrote much with his son Eric, who is still producing) make more explicit the role of Aristotelian/Thomist formal causality in their analysis of modern media. The failure to understand formal cause accounts for our failure to understand the 'deep' effects of various media, and also the nature of reality as such. In 'The Medium and the Light,' Eric has collected the most explicit religious writings of his father's.

2) Bruno Latour: 'On the Modern Cult of the Factish Gods'

A couple of years ago, Bruno Latour 'came out' as a philosopher. Obviously, his project had never been about the sociology of science at all, but always about ontology - more precisely, the kind of ontology that might account for the ontologies of modernity itself. In this essay collection, he continues to 'come out,' as a religious philosopher. That is, a philosopher who seeks to think and speak religiously, if not necessarily about religion (though the essays do touch upon typical topics of philosophy of religion). Latour is one of those who blur the boundary between the 'secular' and the 'religious' to such a degree (and so generously) that it sometimes feels like a relief to let go of the whole distinction.His reflections on the loudly publicized clashes between 'religion' and 'science' provide entertainment as well as encouragement for those of us who (perhaps because based in Oxford, where the 'science-vs-religion' industry particularly thrives among old as well as young and promising atheists and apologists alike) are beginning to become sick of the whole theatre.

3) Patrick Rothfuss: 'The Wise Man's Fear'

The sequel to the best fantasy novel (I was about to write 'ever written') I have read did not disappoint! The multitalented Kvothe spends a second day recounting his incredible life story to the visiting scribe called Chronicler. I have yet to write about the series on this blog, but for me it already ranks high above both Martin and Hobb. I am delaying the analysis in a kind of reverent fear of what Rothfuss might be up to next. Highly recommended!

4) Michel Serres 'Malfeasance: Appropriation Through Pollution?' 

Michel Serres's reflection on the nature of property connects the mental pollution of advertizing billboards with the ecological pollution in the global backyard of modern Western civilization. A beautifully written (as always) meditation on the world, on the violence on which the modern civilization of 'peace' is founded, with even a few gestures to the God Incarnate, who claimed nothing for Himself, and so left no material trace; no womb, no bed, no grave. Serres simply calls us to make the decision that a certain amount is 'enough.' One wonders why we don't.

Questions for A Song of Ice and Fire

The past months we have been reading G.R.R. Martin's (what is it with fantasy and long names?) series A Song of Ice and Fire. Currently HBO is developing a TV series based on it, even though Martin has still to finish at least three remaining books.

In short, this is a far more raw and explicit storyline than the Robin Hobb series we had just finished (me like!), but nevertheless it is the 'underlying' cosmic plots that grip me the most. Underneath the surface level where vain individuals strive for power through manipulation and violence, with only token references to religious aspects of life, I read this as a story of re-enchantment.

On a second level, it is the story of religious adaption and 'competition'. The 'new' gods of Westeros (in fact seven aspects of a single godhead - one 'strange' one of which one should not speak) have overtaken the "old" nameless (nature-) gods who are still only worshiped in the North. Another element in this mix is the Citadel, a  monastic/academic institution training a kind of all-round renaissance men - 'maesters' - who are sent out to use their medical and academic skills in life-long (preferably) service of each lord in Westeros, regardless of internal conflicts. The maesters, with their medicines and history books are the closest one gets to a kind of scientific disenchantment in this world, as they have little regard for 'religion' other than as an unfortunate yet perhaps necessary cultural cohesive. It is suggested that the Citadel has (perhaps deliberately) forgotten the magic always present in the world, and that the narratives surrounding their own practices have been changed when they 'lost the magic'. And of course this magic is now emerging in many ways. A common fantasy plot, in other words, almost predictable.

On yet another level, the conflict between the "old" and "new" Westerosian gods (with the Citadel as third part) seems to be about to be swallowed up by a dualism with R'hllor the Lord of Fire on the one hand (imported from foreign Southern lands by priests dressed in fiery red colours), and the ice-cold and nameless Other on the other (...). Here seems to lie the background for the overarching title of the book series, A Song of Ice and Fire. So far, while only a few characters seem to favor the fire-Lord, the ghost-like 'Others' of the far Norths have until now been portrayed as purely evil, which could suggest some kind of favoritism in this cosmic battle between a single harsh but providential Lord and his Unspeakable arch-enemy. The difference between Ice and Fire remains somewhat ambiguous. Both sides of the dualism seem able to - in some degree at least - resurrect the dead, though the 'cold' side leaves its re-awakened emotionless and the 'hot' side gives them a relentless passion for vengeance. Both sides demand human sacrifice, and indeed, certain servants of the Lord of Fire often bulldoze over local customs in their pious fervor. On this level, it seems the peoples of Westeros are trapped in a cosmic dualistic battle they are ultimately (so far) unable to comprehend.

If you happen to be a fan, and react to how I don't mention the local Drowned God of the Iron Islands, it's because I think the inclusion of this god seems forced. I don't think he adds much to the cosmic plot for now - though perhaps he will in the remaining books. Martin does not hesitate to kill main characters and continue the story following someone else. More interesting is the One of Many Faces worshiped in the bravosi House of Black and White. This is interesting because it suggests that dualism is finally dissolved in annihilation. The God of many Faces is death itself, to which all peoples must finally surrender, as one priest makes clear.

So on one level, a domestic battle between Northern 'deep ecology' featuring nameless nature gods and 'godswoods' rather than specific holy shrines, and a Southern imported pietist 'seven-who-is-one' theism with a hierarchical structure and proselytizing sectarian sub-divisions (and even a standing army!). On another level, a cosmic Dualism of Ice and Fire, both relatively mysterious and unknown.

Will we be left to mourn the loss of the 'deep-ecological' innocence of the children of the forest, or will this 'natural' monism of old be restored in the end, albeit in a modified version? Will Dualism prevail, even if by violent opposition, like a cold war in which two immeasurably strong sides keep one another in check? Will humanity be portrayed as an irredeemably destructive presence in the world, in contrast to the 'mythical' (yet still present) children of the forest, or will the children of the forest turn out to be human after all, despite the Citadel's (unconsciously) memory-erasing narratives?

More fundamentally, perhaps: The dying maester Aemon (no less than 102 years old) hints that the frozen Wall that keeps the cold Ice at bay cannot endure the presence of Fire, suggesting that the battle itself is ultimately no more than cataclysmic self-destruction disguised as heroism and piety. However, one passing remark made by another character (a mystical 'child of the forest'?) that "ice and fire are ultimately the same" suggests that the deep-ecology of the children of the forest is intertwined with the old Northern gods - the "warm springs" over which Winterfell was constructed -, and that an 'old' (I am tempted to say 'pagan') monist ontology ultimately prevails.

In short: are we here dealing with the good old equation "Dualism = Monism"?

It could of course be that Martin prefers to leave these questions open, which would be suggesting that Reality ultimately consists simply of necessarily violent competition contingently held in check by some arbitrary sovereign power, which would be capitalism all over again, which would be very disappointing. But again, that would only mean suppressing the actual declaration of monism's empty victory after all. If the House of Black and White is any indication of how dualism ultimately plays out, the final word will be had by nothing other than Death itself.

But I speculate. Enjoy the TV series - winter is coming!

Tinkering in tongues - on liturgies badly performed

I could probably be placed squarely within the audience James K.A. Smith imagines when he is writing. Having grown up in a pentecostal church, only to spend the past decade slowly moving towards Catholicism and even (...) 'Eastern' Orthodoxy, just being aware that Smith had written this book was a challenge to my self-image. Other books by the same author had provided bridges for my 'crossing-over', is he now trying to bring me 'back' across that gap? On the one hand I want him to be right. Indeed, if one could isolate what pentecostal churches do (at least in terms of social work etc) from their own often rather studdering attempts to articulate theological rationales, that would be great. On the other hand, if Smith is right, and Pentecostalism has 'something to offer' philosophically, then it also feels a little like I would have to reconsider quite much of my own 'journey' so far. And that would be uncomfortable, I guess, and I would probably prefer to avoid that. Who likes admitting they're wrong...?

James K.A. Smith is a very good writer with a rich toolbox of anecdotes and home-made hyphenated words (I know from his blog that he is consciously honing his writing skills - probably unlike many academic writers - and the result shows). Earlier he has written on how reformed Christian philosophy might benefit from interaction with anglo-catholic 'Radical Orthodoxy', how Evangelical apologists must not simply reject all that is called 'postmodern', and how Christian education lies embedded in the 'rhythms' of embodied, habitual, and collective practices rather than in the content of the curriculum. All very bold projects, considering Smith's largely Evangelical context.

His latest work(s) draws heavily on that of Charles Taylor, in particular on the concept of the social imaginary. In short, Smith takes 'social imaginary' to mean '(big) ideas implicit in practices', which is an OK short-hand for what Taylor is speaking of. On this (phenomenological) view, meaning resides not primarily in heads as propositional thoughts, but is rather 'always-already' embedded in collective habitual bodily conducts. (Like Taylor, Smith bypasses the question of the ontological relation between practices and discourses - the main point is that these are never entirely synchronized, and that the former is more vital). Smith then introduces the idea that this 'social imaginary' resembles notions carried in the word 'liturgy': our deepest desires are directing - as well as being directed by - the embodied 'common work' a group performs together. Then he can speak of the liturgies of shopping, the liturgies of higher education, you name it. Practices we take for granted can hence be analyzed as formative of our desires, as 'cultural liturgies', which might or might not conform to 'orthodox' theological articulations.

At this point, both self-proclaimed secularists and Catholics might hesitate. Smith anticipates the critique of the former (evoking familiar 'secular' names from scholarly fields with 'post' in front of them), but seems (to me at least) to neglect the latter, who might have objections regarding this 'watering down' of the Rite to simply include every collective practice in equal measure. In any case, I am willing to go quite far with Smith down this road (as would many catholic theologians as well). Personally, I am very warm to the idea that 'culture' should be assessed in terms of liturgy, (but then) taking the Eucharistic event as fundamental to all reality. And I like Smith's academic boldness, pure and simple. But in this book problems arise even for me.

I realize that my hesitance might stem from my own background and journey. When I was a teenager in a pentecostal church, the word 'liturgy' was meant to denote empty practices done by mere habit rather than by conviction. And that, so it went, was a really bad thing (as if habits could ever be 'mere', or practices ever be 'empty'). Of course, at a certain point you have to concede that 'we also have a kind of liturgy', and then encourage the services to be 'open' for 'interruption' so that authenticity might be preserved. At a certain point I began thinking that since 'everyone has a liturgy' the difference would have to be how well-performed and comprehensive these liturgies were, and that they should be somehow comparable. So I was hoping this book would have something to say on that. Maybe my notion (now conviction) that 'high church' liturgies are simply better than pentecostal ones must be qualified?

Smith's project is to tease out the big ideas that are implicit in the embodied, habitual, collective practices of pentecostal worship, and to show that these not only beat 'modern' reductive rationalism every time (which is probably true, as far as I'm concerned - but hey, that's an easy target), but that they are closer to traditional 'orthodoxy' than pentecostal articulations of doctrine itself sometimes tend to be.

There are several issues here. One question is what Smith thinks is the relation between the meanings he discerns in the practices of 'ordinary' pentecostal worshipers, and the somewhat different meanings these 'ordinary' worshipers (or even pentecostal theologians) are articulating. Smith grants that practice and articulated theory are not always in synchrony, but does not attempt to explain their actual or ontological relation. Here stops phenomenology, so Taylor would be excused for not going further, but why does not the theologian at least attempt to connect the two?

But much more importantly, there is something revealing about Smith's choice of 'field studies':

Smith wants to 'decode' the rhythms of pentecostal worship, and does so by referring to single events, single Sunday services treated as full examples of Pentecostal worship. It is for example telling that these events as they are described could be taking place at any time of the year. There is no sense in Smith's recaps of pentecostal worship of any 'long-term' rhythm, akin to the traditional church year, with its high and low points. And this is probably accurate. Had he attempted to do the same with Roman Catholic services, he would have had to consider the service in the context of the whole church calendar, with its slow ebbs and flows of different seasons.

And why would Smith limit pentecostal 'worship' to Sunday services, when all collective habits are supposedly 'liturgical'? Doesn't the 'flat' nature of the pentecostal church year signal any 'implicit understandings'? To me, it seems this aspect of the pentecostal social imaginary is far closer to the market/individualism Smith rejects than he would want to admit. Maybe the absence of a 'thick' annual calendar structure in pentecostal worship suggests that the 'overlap' with other (ultimately contradictory) social imaginaries is more problematic than Smith allows for. Because he isolates 'pentecostal' behaviour to Sunday services. Smith actually ends up ignoring the actual complexity of embodied life patterns, and how the 'market liturgies' (to take an example) penetrates into the 'pentecostal imaginary' itself.

Smith also bypasses any comparison of the centrality of preaching in pentecostal services with that of the Eucharistic event in 'higher' liturgies. He focuses on the centrality of embodied action in pentecostal services as an implicit critique of procrustean rationalistic categories. But is not in fact the sermon the central event in the pentecostal service, rather than the bodily actions that happen before (song) or after (alter call) it is delivered? While many elements in pentecostal worship emphasize the goodness of human embodiment, the very structural centrality of the sermon (as well as the architectural centrality of the pulpit) still imply a heavy leaning towards disembodied and 'unmediated' transmission of abstract and unchanging content.

If one compared the sermon as the central event in a pentecostal service with the Eucharist and sharing of bread and wine as the central event in a service in a(ny!) 'higher' church tradition, what would be the difference? My hunch is that such a comparative study might  reveal two very different 'ideal types' of the church (and here we might invoke catholic thinker Charles Taylor for support, this time against Smith) implicit in the two performances.

In the pentecostal service, then, the implied social imaginary would perhaps be one where fundamentally atomistic individuals come together for mutual benefit, centered on the transmission of a 'pure' message that they are then to 'apply' after hearing it. As the message "moves from our heads to our hearts", it can also 'seep into' the world outside. This is very akin to what Charles Taylor calls the modern social imaginary. For all its emphasis on embodied movements, it remains strictly modern as much as the market that Smith wants to provide an alternative for.

In the 'high' church service, the implication is that one single yet universal (!) event provides the eternal foundation for all other events in reality, including the individuals 'emerging' from its relational centre. The ontological 'archetype' implicit in the Eucharistic rite is one where relationality as such is fundamental and originary, and where all events (such as individuals) are ultimately such only by a kind of sharing in one single event - that of the Incarnation.

If we were to compare church years (longer term rhythms), or architectural organization, or what is the high point in the liturgical 'narration' (sermon or Eucharist), I still feel that Pentecostalism is 'modern', far too 'modern'. 

I have long been on a kind of journey from Pentecostalism to something kind of more 'catholic'. But I am not really more 'catholic' than 'pentecostal'. I don't really know what it would be right to call myself. My theory and practice are still out of sync, though I believe I am slowly catching up with myself. Smith's book unfortunately (because I was actually hoping a little - maybe that's why I'm a bit touchy) provides no answer to what for me was the question spurring my journey:

It's liturgy all right, but is it well-performed?

Mission Impossible Complete

After reading Monstrosity of Christ I have been looking forward to Creston Davis’ follow-up: the exploration of the contemporary relevance of St. Paul’s thought among both radical atheists and radical theologians. Apparently, since St. Paul's ideas are engaged by several contemporary thinkers, this means he has 'a new moment'. Of course, this book is not really about St. Paul at all, but hey, which book about St. Paul ever was? This book is instead another step forward in the editor’s endeavour to think with, through, and beyond the ideas of Slavoj Zizek and John Milbank (who in this project is flanked by theological comrade in crime, Catherine Pickstock). No more.


I should say I am deeply sympathetic to Creston Davis’ project. The attempt to find ways of combining the ideas of his two former teachers might be the only response that remains true to them both. Paradoxically, one might say. Or dialectically. I believe which term you prefer comes down to what blogs you like to read (i.e. whose approval you are after).


The mere fact of having been taught by both Milbank and Zizek gives Davis a kind of street cred that not everyone can boast. This biographical fact itself suggests that, at least in Creston Davis’ head (since he has simply had to make it work somehow), Milbank’s metaxology and Zizek’s dialectics can be fruitfully combined. And indeed, it is Davis’ own contributions to the book, together with Catherine Pickstock’s wonderful reflection on the liturgy and the senses, which are (to me at least) the most interesting.


Not that Milbank and Zizek are boring, not at all. But when reading the allegedly new reflections on Paul from the two ‘ultimate fighters’ from Monstrosity, I realized that I have read most of this before. This is where the book disappoints a little. Milbank’s style is entertaining if you like the metaphysical ‘zapping’  of enemies. But the in-it-to-win-it theologian’s essay on Badiou has been available (albeit in draft form) online long before the publication of this book (which raises interesting questions regarding online and printed publishing, but that’s for another day). Zizek’s essays are as entertainingly rebellious as ever (he is that school yard bully you think is cool so long as he's not after you), but his arguments are yesterday, today and forever the same. And, hey, why not? 


Now, here's the point. In his (dauntless or hopeless, I leave that to the reader) attempt to combine these two thinkers, it seems to me that Davis is, in some weird way, actually being faithful to both of them. Not that either would embrace everything he writes, as if Milbank and Zizek were a quarreling couple, who after a therapeutic session with Dr. Davis realize that they are in fact meant for each other. Not that. But simply because neither of them could be content with less than Everything. We are discussing ontology, after all. Neither Milbank nor Zizek would admit that there is anything that ultimately escapes his own ontological framework, because then they wouldn’t be doing ontology anymore. Ontology speaks of Everything, and there is no ‘outside’ space for the opponent to inhabit. 


This is what makes Davis’ project seem (to me, at least, though blog wars will go on) to be the only appropriate response to the incompatibility of Milbank and Zizek. Both will fit the other into his own ‘system’ of thought rather than reject him as simply ‘outside’ it. To Milbank, then, Zizek is fundamentally a protestant assuming the possibility of a qualitative break from stale tradition and hence failing to account for human creativity as improvised participation in God’s life. To Zizek, by contrast, Milbank is fundamentally an ideologue providing a vague yet final theodicy in the face of even God’s ultimate suffering, disguised as aristocratic babble of cosmic/societal harmony. Of course dressed up in a dispute over who is ‘more Christian’, but that’s not only beside but really quite far off the point. In this sense they are really engaged in an all-or-nothing battle. But precisely for that reason, it would be inadequate to simply choose one of them. To choose one and reject the other would, in some ways at least, be to deny the all-encompassing nature of the system one chose, and allow the rejected ‘outsider’ a legitimate foothold beyond the reach of one’s categories – which would reveal one’s blind spot – which would be the end of one’s ontology.


And of course, the conflict itself can be construed in the terms of both sides. "It's harmonic difference!" "No, its dialectic constitutive contradiction!" Ad infinitum. Fun for the kids.

Davis’ clever response has been, primarily, to produce these two books, thus literally placing these two articulated universal ontologies next to one another in a shared space. Not only does this open up room for thinking about the nature of the space where such an unlikely meeting is somehow made possible, but it challenges the reader to join Davis in the effort of holding things together (without simply postulating a common enemy in liberal capitalism). Or, if you like, to deny the necessity of the violent rejection of one in favour of the other. Now, this ‘positive’ approach, I think, implicitly betrays Davis’ debt to thinkers such as William Desmond (who Milbank draws on for conceptual clarification in Monstrosity). Death and dialectics are not simply eradicated, but 'swallowed up', all St. Paul-style.


In this subtle way, Davis simultaneously kills and resurrects both of his former teachers. He also thereby ensures that he pisses off two opposing camps of devoted followers in one and the same move, which, to my mind, is probably not a bad thing. So having read both Monstrosity of Christ and Paul’s New Moment I now eagerly await a book to complete the trilogy – this time one written primarily by Creston Davis perhaps flanked by like-minded explorative thinkers who respect both Milbank and Zizek enough to neither follow nor reject either (though this is of course impossible to avoid – Dialectic! Paradox!), but rather think with them till the end, and then a bit further. Maybe that book will feature numerous footnotes with the name ‘William Desmond’ in them. I’d like that, I think.     


Discipline and Participation - a personal story

Two years ago, I was asked by a student group in one of Oxford's churches to speak on the topic of Christian discipleship, and the following is a version of what I said:

In high school – where I introduced myself through, in the second week of my first semester, standing on the table in the full cafeteria shouting that ‘Jesus is Lord’ and promising physical healing to everyone who would let me pray for them – I used to wear a sweater with the text “YOU CAN BECOME LIKE JESUS” written in large capital letters on the back, white on black. The idea was, I think, to provoke questions, and in that it was partly successful. That is, it was definitely provocative. People were annoyed and irritated and sometimes very provoked indeed. But only a very few times did it actually generate any questions, and then only from other Christians who wondered what the heck I was up to. And so I got to explain to them, rather condescendingly, that as Christians we are called to be like Jesus; to be imitators of God; to be shaped into His likeness. I would then quote Bible verses such as 2. Cor 3:18 or Eph. 5:1-2, mainly to shut up the Christians who questioned the necessity of ‘taking it that far’.
 

‘You can become like Jesus’. Never mind this was an interesting thing to say to people I was literally turning my back on! But there is something in that approach to discipleship that started to bug me, certain tensions that it took a somewhat different approach (for me, at least) to resolve. Sort of resolve, I guess I should say. So here follows my very personal and not at all universal description of the journey that took me from this ‘starting point’ to where I think I might be today, the development of a particular tension, if you like.
 
The tension I am talking about was, very shortly, between these two statements:
 

‘I want to be more like Jesus and do what he did’ vs ‘There is none like Jesus, and no one can do what he did’
 

This becomes a tension because I cannot know in what precisely I should ‘imitate’ Jesus. How should I know what Jesus would do? I figured the Bible would say what Jesus did, and so I took it from there. But what if he would spit in a blind man’s face in order to heal him? Should I do that? When and where would that be appropriate? Or, should I call my elders ‘offspring of snakes’? Should I declare that I am the living bread who has been sent from heaven? Jesus did all of these things…

And so, for me at least, it seemed that I must in the end begin searching for a kind of ‘spiritual’ principles ‘underneath’ what Jesus did, and attempting to understand these hidden principles, and ‘apply’ them. And so I began concentrating on what I understood as ‘revelation’, or occasional moments of sudden intuitive insight (in my “heart” and not my “head”). ‘Oh, if I could only really grasp and understand in my heart that God will take care of me, then I wouldn’t worry so much.’ Or, ‘if I could only ‘have a revelation’ of what Jesus did on the cross, then I would be healed’. But how can I experience these moments of insights, or at least facilitate for them to happen, since I cannot force God to give me ‘revelation’ in this sense?

Again I can only speak for myself. I did two things in particular: Firstly, I read the Bible. A lot. I studied it, I knew all the kings of Judah and Israel, where and when they reigned, whether they were considered godly or not, and their relatives. I challenged my leaders to quote a random verse from any book in the Bible, and I would tell them from which book it was taken, and sometimes even chapter. I looked for patterns in the narratives, e.g. when things turn out right and when things turn out wrong in the stories of God’s people – assuming there were key principles to be ‘excavated’ from the text. I memorized verses. I cross-referenced all the prophets to the stories about the times they lived in. I studied the mentioning of particular cities, places, persons, names, people groups, etc through the scriptures. And I did this without using references or commentaries, since I detested theology as an academic and ‘top-heavy’ discipline that made people lose their authentic ‘living faith’.

Secondly, I prayed. At least, that is what I thought I did. The third year in high school I got up at 5.30am, prayed through a chapter in the book of Proverbs for an hour (pacing up and down in my morning-cold room), had a short breakfast, and went to school an hour before I had to. I then walked a particular route around the whole school, both inside and outside, praying, before going to one of the small practice rooms in the music department to pray for the people in my class by name. School started at 9am. At noon we had an hour off, and every single day without exception I organized prayer meetings in a particular room for the whole of this hour. After school I went home, locked myself in my room to read the Bible and ‘seek God’. I would stay there until dinner, eat quickly and go back upstairs, and read, sing, and ‘seek God’ (which basically meant that I concentrated really hard on ‘feeling His presence’) and meditate on Bible-verses, before I went to bed at 11.00pm, to be able to get up at 5.30am (6.5 hours of sleep). Every day. For a year and a half. On Wednesdays I went to church prayer meetings. I also fasted every Wednesday, as well as for one week in spring and one week in autumn + some other occasions. On Fridays I went to the youth service, where I played in a worship band (which meant arrive early, leave late). On Sundays I slept.

But the question, to return to that, still was: Am I now being shaped into his likeness? Put another way, does it not seem that if this is discipleship, then only intellectually curious people driven by perfectionism and with a lot of time on their hands can be true disciples? To be honest, I thought I was doing better than most. But I did realize that things were not ‘breaking through’ the way I intended them to. I then thought that it would have to come down to two things: My priorities (since doing something else than this would be a kind of idolatry), and secondly, authenticity (since I must ‘really, really mean it’ or everything I do would be a waste). So prioritize the right actions, and be authentic in carrying them out.

But how can I know that I am being authentic? On the one hand, God looks to my heart and not to all the things I do; on the other hand, my priorities reflect my heart’s desire.

This is where this kind of thinking took me. All that was left for me was to do as much as I could, while knowing that it would never be enough, and that God would look to my heart, and not like what He saw there, but nevertheless allow me to be His. At this point I found I was caught in a kind of strange circle of guilt and falling short: My guilt would always be greater than the sum of what I had done wrong; while at the same time God’s forgiveness would always surpass my debt; which in the end meant that my debt of gratitude to God was always more than I could give.

Somehow this turned God into a manipulating superior who gives more than I can repay and makes me feel that I should give more back. It is like when a distant relative surprisingly gives you something way too expensive for your birthday – thereby paralyzing you with a kind of invisible ‘debt’ of gratitude! What kind of manipulating God puts you in an eternal debt of gratitude?

Today I think differently about what it means to be a ‘disciple’.

I think the missing element in my approach was the church and the collective practices of the church. Take the word ‘disciple’ and the word ‘discipline’ – practice, embodied action, habitual performance.

What I didn’t realize was that God is not asking me to do specific things to make other things happen – He is inviting me to share in something God is doing within Godself. But wasn’t this what I thought I was doing? Surely I thought that I was participating in God’s work when I was praying for my school – I actually saw it that way, God is working with this, and I participate. That’s not what I mean. I mean that it is like God is already doing something within Godself , and we are invited to participate in that. One picture that the church has used to think about this is the picture of the three guests of Abraham  This has been understood as an image of the Trinity. We see three persons sitting at a table, sharing a meal. They are relaxed (notice feet position) and attentive to one another (two are listening to the third). They share one meal at the centre of the table. The community is real, there is mutual sharing and waiting upon each other, all already taking place without our contribution. The nearest end (to the viewer) of the table is open, and we are invited to participate if we want to. All we need do is sit down and do what they are already doing. 

Relax, be attentive to the other, share, wait, receive.

Take the crucifixion and resurrection of Christ as an example of something central to Christianity, the one narrative that runs like a thread through the New Testament. When He is crucified, Jesus surrenders everything, He gives up everything. In the resurrection, He receives everything back. So in a way, Jesus is both Giver and Receiver. He is both Servant and King. Think about it this way: Within the Trinity, in the ultimate relation between Father, Christ and Spirit, there is always, all the time, a giving and a receiving taking place. This is fundamental to Reality as such. In short: God IS love. God is always, in His Trinitarian self, centred on the other, submitting in service, receiving in gratitude.

These virtues, if you like, are ingrained in the practices of the Church, and we are shaped through these.

And there is a paradox here. Who is it that has something, and therefore has more status in the relationship? It is the one who gives; the Servant. And who is it that does not have, and therefore less status? It is the one who receives; the King. When Jesus washes the feet of the disciples and says that if you are high then you must be low, and that those who are low will be lifted high, He is only being realistic about the exchange of gifts. The one who has serves, and the one who does not have receives – the one who has is servant, the one who has not is king.

The giving and receiveing of thanks reverses this process, folds it back on itself, as it were. The servant receives praise, the king gives thanks. An eternal reciprocal relationship is what the Church is, because it imitates God, it shares in the internal economy of the Trinitarian Godhead.

Think for example of how we go through the readings during a session of evening prayer. Notice how it is all centred on response. I give you a word, you receive, you give me a word, I receive, both of us always both waiting for and coming to meet the other. This is not found in the content of the text, it is ingrained in the liturgical practices. It takes time; it takes bodily performance and mindful attention.

Lit-urgy; entreaty-activity; “performing prayer”.

Think of when the church ministers the Eucharist. The gifts of money, bread, and wine are carried from the back of the church to the altar to be blessed. We give our gifts to God, yet as a response. On one level, we give and receive bread and wine from one another (we are here giving and receiving from one another Christ Himself) and at the same time, on another level, Christ is in me (His body, the bread and wine) and I am in Christ (His body, the church). This single Eucharistic event is the single defining event of Reality as such – a bottomless reciprocity; participation all the way down, and all the way up.

As the architecture of the Metropolitan Cathedral in Liverpool speaks so clearly of, the Eucharistic event is hence the central event, whereas all other events in the world are considered ‘extensions' of this centre, like chapels surrounding the nave where the altar is located. When we share in this event, and in its extensions throughout Reality – waiting, giving, receiving –, we are participating in something that God is doing amongst Himself; we are part-takers in the divine nature, sharing, as it were, in who God is. Performing Godself; the-urgy.

Consider the icon again – this relationship, this community, this mutual gift-exchange, is always-already taking place. God does not need our help for this to happen. God is not waiting for us so that He can become who God is. God is not telling us to imitate something God could only do because He (Christ) was God. God is not asking us to grasp principles and then ‘apply’ them. God is not giving us everything only to leaving us struggling with too much to be grateful for. God invites participation.

While this is always-already going on, there is an 'individual' side to it.

When I was interviewed by the police about me not wanting to join the military (most Norwegian men of 18 are drafted), I was asked what I would do if a man was chasing me with a knife (‘run for my life’), or if he was catching up (‘run faster’) or if he was sitting on me, stabbing me… I had to say, in the end, that I did not know. And I don’t think we know how we would react in hypothetical situations (…), because in crises we react from our spine, not from conscious convictions or beliefs.  

Perhaps participating in the liturgies and practices of church shapes habits in us, on a much deeper level than we could ever manage without actually participating in them. I believe that would we allow these practices to become habits, over time they would sloooooowly become part of us; and shape our spine reactions. To be a Christian disciple is then nothing else than to be shaped into the likeness of Christ through participation in the (multiple worldly extensions of) the Eucharistic event. To be sent, to give, to receive, to make, to lose. To be emptied, confused, doubting – handed over (traditio) to be crucified - and receive oneself back from death. Perhaps to be a disciple of Christ is to be handed over to series of embodied, habitual, and communal practices (disciplines; liturgies; theurgies) which over time shape me into the kind of broken/whole human being God intends me to continuously become – from the spine and out.

Christian Tradition 4 - epilogue

I ended my 3-part series on Christian tradition quite abruptly, so I thought I would add a little note on where I am trying to take these ideas. While I am so amateurish it's not even funny, I will still try to point out some of the more high-brow philosophical paths I dream of walking one day. I am pulled by certain intiuitions rather than a clearly defined agenda, brought to the fore by my reflection on the dynamics of tradition.

One way to articulate these concerns, is that I think we need to engage the problem of how to construe human creativity, representational naming and construction (this is not a list, I am just not sure what to call it), as something else than a sort of alien intrusion upon a more authentic (whether actual or virtual) Reality, while at the same time resisting the temptation to retreat into solipsistic phenomenology, thus 'forgetting' the always-already presence of metaphysical speculation and presumption. In other words, we can't pretend not to have presumptions about the whole of Reality, even though we don't know how to articulate these. And we need to fit our own act (or the 'event') of thinking the structure into the structure, even in the very 'newness' of this act/event.

Here many so-called 'postmodern' philosophies tend to disappoint, exhibiting only a consistent albeit 'dialectic' and self-contradictory working-out (ad absurdum) of the 'modern' logic they claim to (at least ironically) distance themselves from. Whether they speak of 'perspectives', 'illusions', 'representations', or 'cultures', there is always a subtle denigration of the human element compared to Reality as such. Even when they erase the ontological status of 'the human', and speak of fissures or fractures in Reality itself (of which the level we call 'human' is perhaps only a set of events randomly collected for someone's convenience, or some kind of cosmic attempt of self-healing), the represented/repeated/static/named is always of somewhat less ontological solidity than the always-elusive Real. The numerous available 'death-of-god' theologies so popular among many 'emerging' churches disappoint equally, for the same reasons. The 'metaphysics' they fear is, I think, simply a gigantic straw man constructed by themselves for the rushing pleasure of demolishing it - a rush that is allegedly a 'trace of the Real'. However, since these thinkers can only 'enter the void' by deconstruction and a complete rejection of any 'merely human' erection of metaphysical orders, these (theo-)philosophies cannot but deny, ignore and/or forget the instance of their own 'active' thinking, but only deconstruct whatever has been thought - allegedly by others. The 'merely human' is hence only secondary, ontologically speaking, even though it can never be completely eradicated.

Some of the places I register more consistent and fruitful concern with these ideas are:

1) Some writings of self-proclaimed 'radical orthodox' theologian John Milbank, whose early work explored the philosophy of Giambattista Vico, whose philosophy of history and historiography dealt  with questions regarding the relationship between historical action and the act of representing this in historical writing. Milbank's later explorations include ventures into (neo-Platonic) theurgy and (Eastern Orthodox) Sophiology. A central concern in his oeuvre, at least in my reading, is precisely one of the relation between human creativity/representation/construction and Reality as a whole - a question he approaches through categories such as 'mediation', 'relation', and 'participation' in a transcendence represented in (somewhat updated Thomist) terms of Creation, Incarnation and Trinity. While Milbank is perhaps more known for a certain (un)popular historical narrative of theological deviation and decline as lying at the root of the modern secular (where the sensed experience, representation, and 'realness' of Reality have somehow been split apart), I think that to make this narrative as such the central element in his oeuvre is a misreading.

I think the undeniable relevance of Milbank's metaphysics regarding the ontological status of human making has lately been drowned out by quick 'translations' of his work in public debates over 'Red Tory' policy (which tend to anger those who insist on debating within the terms of the modernity Milbank rejects), or, within the rather narrow confines of Dominican scholarship, questions over his reading of - the in that context seemingly untouchable - Thomas of Aquinas. However, on the perspective of Milbank's own metaphysics of human action and Reality, such re-readings of Aquinas are (I would think) not necessarily in themselves any more of a problem than any other instance/act of translation or exegesis.

2) Some writings of French philosopher (and so not primarily sociologist or anthropologist, though he does carry the burden of those titles) Bruno Latour, as well as his former mentor Michel Serres (by the way - thanks to the people over at this fine blog for linking to my pieces on Serres!). Serres invariably describes - albeit in sometimes very poetic and beautiful language - a Reality that is mediation and relation all the way up and all the way down - often centered around the mundane world of the French parish. Reading his work alongside that of Latour reveals how much the latter is indebted to his mentor, even though his (strikingly similar!) metaphysics are articulated in a kind of 'deep empiricism' and material case studies rather than poetic stories and reflections. (It also seems Latour prefers referencing Alfred Whitehead when it comes to philosophy - though his sensitivities are definitely 'Serresian'). Latour's point of departure is precisely the false break between the 'Human' and 'Nature'.

Bruno Latour's big ideas have lately been taken up by a group of philosophers in a movement loosely labeled 'Speculative Realism', who are (rightly so!) utterly unapologetic about their metaphysical speculation. While these readings are right to consider Latour a philosopher, and do deal with some key texts in his oeuvre, my own (amateur!) opinion is that they miss the facets of his work that emerge when he is read alongside Michel Serres, as well from a consideration of his own subtle Catholicism (Harman in fact expresses positive surprise over the fact that Latour's Catholicism does not seem to hamper his ability to speak of God 'on level with' material objects and mediation - as if this was somehow a curious thing. One wonders whether he has heard of "sacraments"...?). Placing relation rather than 'flux' or 'chaos' at the (moving) centre of his metaphysics seems to me to already allow for the kind of ontological 'borders between things' that these sophisticated 'object-oriented' thinkers are calling for. Another key (paradoxical, perhaps, to mentioned philosophers) is that Latour's own PhD was on biblical exegesis, and centered on nothing less than the question of faithful translation - the relatively reliable transmitting of some-thing from one context to another, and the dynamic between stability and change in such events. That Latour has lately extended his ideas to speculate about Reality as such should come as no surprise, even though he is more famous for what he did during what was arguably only a 20-year detour through so-called Science Studies and the articulation of 'Actor Network Theory'.

Christian Tradition, part 3

This is the third and final post in the series on Christian tradition.

In my first post on this topic, I said that Christianity includes a number of aspects that cannot be reduced to any single one of them (Stories, Teachings, Calendars, Practices, Structures). In my second post I said that the word tradition (from Latin, 'handed over') carries a double meaning: on the one hand, the aspects of Christianity have been handed over to us so we can shape them (and this is legitimate); on the other hand, we have been handed over to these aspects so they can shape us (and this is also legitimate).

In this final post on the topic, I will try and show how many internal debates in the church take place within the 'framework' sketched out in part 1 and 2 together. The point I want to make is that many conflicts we typically tend to think of in terms of the 'old' versus the 'new', really are not about this at all. In fact, they are fundamentally about the question of the legitimacy of human contribution to any set 'order' of things. In other words, what can humans legitimately take part in shaping, and in what areas are human contributions merely violent intrusions and deviations on something 'pure'?

So for example, some would say that the annual season of Lent is not really essential to Christianity as such, because it is a ‘merely human’ invention, and not a God-given decree traceable to the texts in the New Testament. These texts, however, they would treat as absolutely unalterable - to such a degree that their authority is seen to lie in the correct translation of the 'original' language. They firmly believe that a stable point around which everything can be constantly organized lies in eternal principles that can somehow be 'revealed' through approaching the surface text in particular ways (whether by 'personal revelation' or 'historical criticism').

But others might take Lent as a God-instituted period of fasting that does constitute an essential part of Christianity, and with which they cannot imagine humans could interfere without deviating from God’s set order of things. On the other hand, the scriptures are simply part of this structural and calendrical order, and not constitutive of it. They are human writings about the divine, and so, for example, humans (certain humans legitimated by the structural order) may legitimately re-order the scriptural canon - an unthinkable action on the first view.

Now, these two examples are of course caricatures (one would hope). But the point here is that the debates over what can be changed and not is not really a question of some being more attached to the past than others. We all value some past, and we are all pretty selective of the pasts we value. Rather, the reason for our disputes, if we take the ‘double’ view of tradition I have described in part 1 and 2, is that we all tend to fetishize certain aspects of Christianity, and at the same time devalue other aspects. Some fetishize the structural aspects of Christianity, such as those in the second example. Others fetishize the aspect of teachings and principles, as those in the first example.

On one level, this is of course a matter of us always being tempted to protect our own interests and our own feeling of safety, often being far too willing to behave in very destructive ways in order to preserve ourselves and what we like (on that note, what would happen if we began considering our personal taste as something changeable...?). But on a another level, I think this is a case of what I described in part 2 - the question of whether human action is creational and constitutive or a violent and alien intrusion upon Reality. It is for example not the 'oldness' of the New Testament that is supposed to guarantee its 'authenticity', but rather the absence of human contribution. It is not the 'oldness' of the hierarchical structure of the church that guarantees its supposed legitimacy, but the imagined fact that this structure is somehow untouched by human hands. Anything else we allow to be molded and changed, because we consider it 'merely human'. The same is true of views of the scriptures as the 'final authority' - the reason we invoke them as the most 'authentic, is because the farther removed from 'merely human' intervention, the 'purer' they are. And so we imply that if something bears the mark of human contribution, it is second-rate, stained, impure. Thus we actually fail to appreciate the very human contribution that the God described throughout all aspects of Christianity enjoys. We all have our favourite aspects of Christianity, and we all have some sense that certain aspects are human contributions, while other aspects are part of an unalterable order of things unstained by human contribution.

Here I want to point out an interesting paradox: In many (modern evangelical?) contexts, the word 'tradition' is most often seen as referring to the 'old'. However, it doesn't refer to an unchangeable order of things. On the contrary, for modern evangelicals, the word 'tradition' refers to precisely that which is constructed by humans, and so can (and perhaps should) be changed on a regular basis. It has no fundamental legitimacy; it isn't "really real".

(On a second note, this problem is of course not limited to Christian contexts - as argued in part 2, the tension between human creation and a 'given; order seems to be a universal predicament. Perhaps this is only more articulated in contexts and communities where such a final legitimizing order is articulated more consciously - though not necessarily more successfully)

Now, the problem is, that when Christians argue over what is essential to Christianity, they often end up arguing over what can be changed (since it is ‘merely human’) and what has to remain as it is (because it is instituted by God once and for all). We find our favourite aspects of Christianity, whether that be teachings or structures, stories, particular practices, principles or any other aspect, and fetishize it. In this we end up degrading the human participation in God’s creating and sustaining act.

The real challenge, I belive, is rather to find ways of thinking human action and creativity as something other than a violent intrusion upon Reality, a Reality that is nevertheless given as a whole. For it is this dynamic that lies at the very heart of tradition.

Zidane, Serres, and the beautiful game

Being a long-time fan, some years ago I bought the film portrait of the French footballer Zinedine Zidane, by many considered one of the best individual players in the history of football. A number of cameras follow his every move on the pitch for a whole 90-minute match, some from a long distance, some focusing on his face, his whole body, or his feet, from various angles.

Watching this film is completely different from watching a TV match. On TV, the cameras follow the ball as it moves around on the pitch. It seems like something is always happening. Not so in this film. Following a single player, you realize how much each of them is not directly involved. Isolated from context, the meaning of the game is lost.

Almost 20 cameras on Zidane alone. They even have a microphone on him. Throughout the game, he doesn't say a single word. He smiles to a joking opponent, pats David Beckham's back after their team scores a goal, points a couple of times to suggest passing options for team mates - and that's it. As some film reviews said, this is the perfect portrait of the (paradoxically) lone athlete: closely observed by cameras and billions of spectators (Zidane's North-African background has made him the main football-idol of that whole region alone), yet speaking with nobody, seeing no one, hearing nothing.

Yet the loneliness only serves to bring out what one might not realize was there - the constituting relationality that carries the beautiful game

In a passage in The Five Senses, Michel Serres describes the intuitive sensations of ball games. While the description deals with hand ball and rugby, it can easily be translated into that of playing football. The fact that footballers aren't allowed to grip the ball at all, and so cannot stall its movement even the slightest (except by using the sole of their foot - a move demanding exceptional abilities, at least on higher levels), only emphasizes Serres's point.

"Usually, when the ball is passed - and it flies so quickly so as not to be intercepted - it moves from one pair of skilful hands to another; acute, vigilant glances are exchanged, often preceded by a call, word, cry, brief interjection, vowel and even a coded hand gesture. The ball runs with them, after these signals, at the same time as they do, along the network of fluctuating channels that they trace out. Suddenly the ball takes their place, all other signals are extinguished. The whole team enters a box, a dim cave, the clamour of the spectators becomes distant like the far-off seashore, the opposing team dances like a group of shadows without strength, ghosts; it is at that moment that my body positions itself at the point where the ball will pass, I throw it into the vacuum that another cherubim will fill, immediately and unquestioningly, we no longer look at each other, no longer hear each other, no longer speak to each other or call out to each other - our eyes are shut, our mouths closed, our ears blocked, we have no language, we are monads - we know, anticipate, love each other; we anticipate each other at lightning speed, we cannot go wrong, it is playing: not me or my partners but the team itself. I move to the right, I know that another player knows that I have done so, that the ball will await me. The ball is traveling so fast that it weaves between us bonds of unassailable certainty; as this certainty is seamless, the ball can travel around even more rapidly, and as it travels more rapidly it weaves...No-one who has not experienced such ecstasy can know what being together means." (p324)

Good players not only move the ball around - they adapt to the movement of the ball, the movement of other players, and the multiple forces that generate and influence all the intermingled movements - from gravity to one's knowledge of the opponent's strengths and weaknesses.

Seen one way, the ball is the most stable centre of the many movements. Its movements - together with an increasing number of restrictions - determine the game. Yet it is also the thing that moves the most itself. It is only still when there is some breach of the rules, or it goes beyond the confines of the pitch, and it must be put back into play. It has the highest speed and farthest reach of anything on the pitch. Every year new  footballs are designed that move faster and further. Even when it goes off the pitch, one has had to invent rules for how to get the ball back on so the game can continue.Every decade or so, the official rules are modified so as to keep or increase the tempo of the game - 'locking' the ball is not allowed, it must move freely; the goalkeeper can only grip the ball in his hands for a limited time; he must never grip the ball with his hands when receiving it from a team mate, etc. The movement of the ball trumps all.

The best players adapt, they give way, they allow themselves to be molded, they give themselves up to the ball's dictation. Does this mean that the worship-like veneration of individual football 'idols' is a mere mass-media phenomenon - an illusion, since any player might be made good or bad by the team as a whole? Relationality and reciprocity is on the contrary fundamental both on macro- and micro levels. The skillful individual dribbler makes use of the ball's trajectory, and feigns intervention, for example by pretending to alter its course from left to right. Yet the body's dance is always adapting to the movement of the ball - or to how its movement is predicted by the opponent player. The strong individual player is the one who kenotically loses himself to the other movements, yet receives himself (as a strong player) from these. The strongest have spent daily hours turning this self-giving into embodied habits.

In many ways, the relational, the paradoxical "in-between", is therefore the central factor in football, that which constitutes all other movements. Following thinkers such as Michel Serres, we could see this as an instant (rather than image) of Reality as such. The game is hence a 'concentrated' rather than altered or 'fake' version of Reality. A dialectic between creativity and boundaries, process and static. A liturgical dance.

You can watch the whole film here