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

The first-hand knowledge of Michel Serres

How to approach this book on the five senses (that aren't really five after all)? I loved it, but it's so hard to explain why. It's more the ideas it gives birth to than what's in it. But let me try:

Take your index finger and place it on your bottom lip.

Do it! You have to do it, or you wont understand this post. Please do it.

Now, without moving, fix your attention on feeling your lip through your finger (do it, take your time, close your eyes if it helps). OK? Now, shift perspective, and feel your finger through your lip. Isn't that amazing?! One moment you are in your finger, feeling your lip - another moment you are in your lip, feeling your finger! Your consciousness, your self-awareness is somehow shifting place, moving from inside your lip and outside your finger to inside your finger and outside your lip. Yet only one event, one touch, is actually happening. So where are you? In this encounter, this relation, this instance of first-hand knowledge, you are both the knowing subject and the known object. You are outside and  inside.

When your finger touches your lip, that is your body sort of folding back on itself, and your self-awareness emerges from within that folding. Of course, not only from that single folding alone - but from the innumerable foldings immersing your whole body: sounds, touches, smells, visions - the air around you, the particular places where your bottom touches the chair you are sitting on, or where your shirt hangs on your shoulders, or in the muscles that strain your eyebrows as you read of the screen, the way you fold your tongue in your mouth. There is no 'you' apart from these complex processes.

This is familiar stuff to those who read too-much-to-be-healthy 'postmodern' theory: There are no stable essences (there is no essential 'you'), and where there appear to be such essences, these are only constituted through violent differentiations and cutting-offs - which nevertheless always leave a trace of the rejected within themselves - however, there is no alternative and so we might as well 'get on with things'. The essence of the self is in other words constituted by a kind of pretense, an unconscious exclusion of something unwanted. In this sense, whenever we claim to know the essence or nature of anything, we are doing violence to something else by excluding it. Violence is at bottom what makes us able to imagine something stable and peace-like.

Interestingly, Michel Serres rejects this view of violence as fundamental and somehow necessary for things to be what they are. Yet he doesn't believe in stable essences either. In a way, he seeks to portray a Reality that is characterized by difference as something harmonic rather than something violent, a philosophy that is radically inclusive rather than dialectic or exclusive. Serres is completely opposed to any idea that violence is a necessary part of Reality as such. Commenting on this, one otherwise positive reader of him has complained that "there is a hole in Serres' philosophy where negativity should be." (How there can be a 'hole' that isn't in itself negative is another question).

For me, this lack of basic negativity signals not a 'lack' in Serres, but rather a subtle overlap of interests with theologians Serres allegedly has not even read. One reason is, as is mentioned above, that Serres seeks to view difference as harmonic rather than violent, as somehow positive rather than negative. This has been a major (of course contested) theme for metaphysical theology over the last decades. Secondly, Serres describes Reality where everything is always being mediated through something else, always  intermingled, hybrid, mutating, emerging. For him, the constitutive in-between - relation, mediation, communication - is Reality's fundamental characteristic. Anyone who have skimmed an issue of the journal Modern Theology would recognize how this resonates with contemporary concerns in Christology and general theological interests in incarnation, sacramentality, mediation, translation, etc.

Serres himself seems blissfully unaware that the paganism he celebrates is already redeemed and made even-more-itself by Christendom. If he does know, it doesn't trouble him. His style is wandering, suggestive, and at all costs avoids enmity and rejection. His flowing descriptions of mundane experiences are unparalleled as far as I know. Perhaps the best thing I can say about this book is this: reading Serres' poetic philosophy-of-Everything makes me want to stop reading and just go and experience the world in all its infinite, mundane, nitty gritty wonder. And, of course, do a doctorate in theology. And then retire and be a gardener. As planned.

Theory and practice - what's up with THAT?!

Norwegian Marxist Georg Johannesen (1931-2005) was once invited to the Norwegian branch of the international PEN association to participate in a debate on the controversial question “Is There Freedom of Speech in Norway?”. He opened by saying that he could only see four possible answers to that question:

(1) Yes, fortunately there is freedom of speech, as there should be.
(2) No, fortunately there is not freedom of speech, and neither should there be.
(3) No, unfortunately there is not freedom of speech, but there should be.
(4) Yes, unfortunately there is freedom of speech, but there should not be.

He went on to say that people who believed that (2), (3), or (4) was true, would never say so in a public debate. Those who believe (2) that there is no freedom of speech in Norway, and that this is fortunate, would not risk ruining everything by speaking up. Neither would those who agree that there is no freedom of speech in Norway, but that this is unfortunate (3). They might wish there was freedom of speech, but they will not use it if they don’t believe it is there. Likewise, those who regret that there is in fact freedom of speech will also not participate in a debate, because that itself would undermine their interests (4). It seems that we are therefore left with people agreeing that there is freedom of speech, and that this is fortunate (1). In that case, it is impossible know how large the three groups of non-participants are, since they either can or will not make themselves known. We cannot, therefore, have any idea whether there is truly freedom of speech in Norway.

“However”, he added, “I know that there is NOT freedom of speech in the Norwegian PEN association, because here we are being told what questions to debate!”

Hold for applause - nope, nothing.

Now, one thing to draw from this story would be that Johannesen is of course absolutely right. A similar argument could be made for example about something so simple as internet access. The internet is accessed by people who all assume that everyone else are able to access the internet. Thus, when Iranians were 'tweeting' about the late turmoils, 'we' saw this as a sign that the internet allowed free speech for everyone, 'even in Iran' - ignoring that the ones who were 'tweeting' were all located in Western democratic states. The simple fact is that most people in the world have no internet access, whether that is because of being too old (most people over 65 don't use the internet, yet the size of this group is increasing annually in many Western countries) or too young, or because they cannot afford it, or are hindered by social customs, or whatever it is - most of us are simply not there. As Wikileaks-founder Julian Assange states, in general, bloggers are really more concerned about what their peer group thinks of them (us!) than whether their blogging has actual consequences. Internet is great for freedom of speech among the wealthy minority that set it up, and have spare time to use it. How large the concealed majority/minority(?) of the voiceless really is, there is simply no way of knowing from within the system. The same is true of the global market.

But there is another interesting thing about Johannesen's argument, and that is the fact that it is so difficult to accept.

We somehow, for some reason, find it hard to take his argument seriously - it is not like we would end the debate after he had spoken. The show must go on. My view is that this reveals how used we are to separating theory from practice, our thinking from our doing. We find it hard to accept his argument because we don't actually expect anyone - or ourselves - to practice their beliefs. We assume that even if people don't believe in free speech, they would still be speaking. That if people were against it, they would deny that by saying so.

We react to his argument with disbelief because we are so used to separating thinking from doing - we don't expect people's thoughts and actions to match up. Oh, we would like to live consistent lives. Some of us may even consciously be trying to achieve such consistency on a daily or weekly basis, using self-help books, mentors, disciplines. We want to combine the two as much as possible. But then we do assume that the two - our thought and our practice - as a general rule, are separated. We act as if we have one 'self' that performs certain actions, and another 'self' that can discipline the first 'self' into doing the right thing, eventually. There is a deep ironic split between thought and action, and we expect there to be.

We don't conceive of thinking as something we do. But both thinking and doing take time, demand our attention, state certain values. Entertaining a belief is performing that belief - performing an action is entertaining the ideas implicit in that action. In other words - we may say we hold whatever belief, but our actions always give us away. Could it be that we are indeed open letters, to be read by anyone? (2. Cor. 3:2) Actions don't speak louder than words - but they definitely speak truer.

Political views

I am, as many of us are, currently updating my facebook status in response to the 'New Profile' design, and in a sincere attempt to fill in as much as possible I have come up with a fitting term for my political views:

"Cynysis"

Cynysis denotes an subtle cynicism toward political rhetoric, structures, and practices, disguised as penetrating intellectual analysis. It is characterized by substantial self-awareness and an adolescent rejection of practical responsibility. Cynysis is practiced by being quiet for most of the conversation, before - still leaning back in the chair, and with a single string of well-articulated senteces - softly killing every expressed view with an analysis that 'reveals' that they are fundamentally "the same". Cynysis claims to be neither 'Left' nor 'Right' nor 'Centre', since these categories are "all screwed up anyway", yet it can present no plausible alternative. For this, it blames political elites/social structures/culture/ideology/discourse/mass media/modernity/lobbyists/capitalism/secularity/religion/postmodernism/patriarchy, etc.