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Apologia and Categoria

Apologia is the defendant's speech in a Greek court of law. The apologist seeks to prove that he measures up to the standards set by the categorist, that he is in fact 'within bounds' and has not been trespassing the borders of legitimacy.

Categoria is the prosecutor's speech in a Greek court of law. The categorist establishes the categories of reality - of truth, of error, and of justice - and invites the defendant to live within and measure himself against these standards.

Christian 'apologetics' is a well-established field (not to say industry). What would a Christian 'categorics' look like?

Terrorens historiske ekko

(Publisert på Aftenpostens nettutgave 2. juli 2012)

Breivik-saken har flere paralleller til en eldre sak som regnes som definerende for moderne terrorisme. Det dreier seg ikke om Timothy McVeigh eller den såkalte Una-bomberen, men om en hendelse knyttet til bølgen av anarkistisk terror på slutten av 1800-tallet. De to sakene reiser lignende spørsmål om definisjoner og grensesetting i et demokratisk samfunn.

Klokken 09.00 om morgenen 12. februar 1894, mens husbandet spilte ‘Les Diamonts de la Couronné’, kastet den unge franske anarkisten Joseph Émile Henry en bombe inn i togterminalkafeen ved Gare Saint-Laraze i Paris. Tyve personer ble såret, én mistet livet. Etter en kort jakt, hvor han også skjøt mot politiet, ble han arrestert. Politimennene som anholdt ham ble senere dekorert for dåden.

Henry hadde forberedt seg godt til rettsaken og medieoppbudet som fulgte. Da den offentlig utnevnte forsvareren forsøkte å få ham erklært sinnsyk, gjorde tiltalte høylytt narr av ham. I stedet reiste Henry seg og delvis leste, delvis resiterte, en lang forsvarstale hvor han rettferdiggjorde handlingene sine. Samtidens kommentatorer (rettsalen var full av journalister) uttrykte avsky over innholdet i talen, men bemerket hvor systematisk og velartikulert den unge mannen var. Aviser trykket talen i sin helhet, og redaktører skrev sine forutsigbare kvasi-filosofiske betraktninger omkring ytringsfrihet og samfunnsansvar.

Ensom eller gal?

Henrys voldshandling utskilte seg fra samtidens bølge av anarkistisk terror ved at den ikke var rettet mot noe statsoverhode eller nøkkelperson i statsforvaltningen. Ofrene var alminnelige borgere, sivile uten mer innflytelse på statens politikk enn Henry selv. Mange historikere ser derfor dette som et eksempel på et skifte til en form for terror som skulle bli typisk for det moderne samfunnet: den ‘ensomme ulven’ som slår til mot en gruppe sivile. I dyreverdenen er ensomme ulver som regel unge hanner på leting etter en flokk å tilhøre. Kanskje var Henry en ensom ulv, men det er uklart hvor mye man forklarer ved å si at han simpelthen var en venneløs og deprimert gutt ute etter tilhørighet.

Andre har ment at Henry var sinnssyk. Bomben hadde ingen direkte politisk effekt – i alle fall ikke om Henry hadde håpet på gjennomslag for sin ideologi. Voldshandlingen hans gjorde heller tilværelsen vanskeligere for andre anarkister. Ikke fikk han selv noe ut av det heller, etter henrettelsen. På grunn av denne tilsynelatende meningsløsheten har enkelte historikere, i likhet med hans egen forsvarsadvokat, konkludert med at Henry ganske enkelt var sinnssyk. Syke sinn utfører handlinger som ikke kan forstås av friske sinn, ferdig med den saken.

Men slike lettvinte diagnoser ligger ikke bare utenfor historikeres kompetanse; de bidrar heller ikke til historisk forståelse. Kanskje kan vi aldri forstå hva som gjorde at Henry gjorde som han gjorde. Det fantes ingen voldelige dataspill han kunne bli avhengig av. Han hadde ikke tilgang til grumsete internettforum eller misvisende artikler fra Wikipedia. Eller fjernsyn eller radio, for den saks skyld. Kanskje var det sinnssykdom inne i bildet – men det er historikere (kanskje også psykiatere) ute av stand til å si med sikkerhet.

Ideologiske motiver?

Selv insisterte Henry på at handlingene skulle forstås som ideologisk motivert.

Valget av terrormål rettferdiggjorde han med at kafégjestene tilhørte en priviligert sosial klasse: ‘ingen borgerlige er uskyldige,’ erklærte han på spørsmål om hvorfor han hadde valgt å drepe sivile. For ham representerte middelklassen selve roten til alt ondt. Den hadde gjort det vanskeligere – faktisk umulig, mente han – for ham og hans meningsfeller å få tilgang til samfunnets goder. Han så seg selv som del av en undertrykt minoritet midt i sitt eget samfunn.

Henry antydet at han tilhørte et omfattende organisert nettverk, og at bomben ‘bare var begynnelsen.’ Mange fryktet at det var sant. I ettertid er det ingenting som tyder på at det fantes noe slikt nettverk. Før Henry ble arrestert var det kun få i Paris’ anarkistiske miljøer som hadde hørt om ham, men etter henrettelsen ble han gjort til helt av den anarkistiske subkulturen i Paris: en martyr som hadde gitt sitt liv for saken. Da han ble ledet til guiljotinen klokken fire om morgenen den 21. mai, kom flere eldre anarkister for å bivåne. De ble synlig rørt av hans forsøk på å bevare fatningen (han rakk til og med å rope ‘leve anarkiet!’ før øksen falt), og enkelte beskrev senere i svulstige ordelag hvordan Henrys idéer ‘ikke kunne fjernes like lett som hodet hans.’ Den samtidige kunstkritikeren og anarkist-sympatisøren Félix Fénéon kommenterte at Henry’s handling hadde vært mer anarkistisk enn andre terroranslag, fordi den hadde rettet seg mot velgerne – disse var til syvende og sist mer skyldige enn de folkevalgte politikerne, påsto han.

Henry var nemlig langt fra alene om idéene sine. Retorikken hans tilhørte en voksende subkultur som flere av samtidens kjendiser assosierte seg mer eller mindre åpent med. Anarkistiske ledere tok avstand fra Henrys handlinger, men støttet hans ideologiske begrunnelser, og forklarte lignende handlinger ved å vise til sosial urettferdighet. Selv om få ville gjort det samme, så sang de mer enn gjerne hyllestsanger om bragden hans i Paris’ mer bortgjemte kaféer (som kan sammenlignes med bortgjemte nettforum i dag).

Definisjoner og dilemmaer

Likhetene mellom Joseph Émile Henrys og Anders Behring Breiviks handlinger, retorikk, og rettsaker er så åpenbare at det nesten ikke er til å tro at det er mer enn et århundre mellom dem. Noen forskjeller er det jo: én var ‘venstre-ekstrem’, den andre er ‘høyre-ekstrem’, men kanskje signalliserer dette bare hvor irrelevante slike merkelapper er. I Henrys tilfelle forsøkte forsvareren å få ham erkjent utilregnelig – i Breivik’s tilfelle tok aktoratet på seg denne oppgaven, kanskje med omtrent like mye hell. I skrivende stund gjenstår det å se.

Kanskje kan vi likevel lære noe av omstendighetene rundt Henrys rettsak og de spørsmålene man ble nødt til å ta stilling til, og dermed slippe å finne opp hjulet på nytt når vi skal reflektere over rettsaken mot Breivik og dens sosiale og politiske implikasjoner. Å lære av historien forklarer ikke det som uansett er uforklarlig. Men det holder oss kanskje unna noen blindspor når vi igjen skal definere hva som skal kjennetegne det norske samfunnet. Jeg vil peke på to sosiale og politiske dilemmaer som ble tydelige i kjølvannet av Henry-saken, som kanskje kan ha relevans for Breivik-saken. I begge tilfeller handler det om å definere grenser.

1. Hvor går grensen mellom moderate og ekstreme meninger og uttrykk?

På mange måter er Henrys opplevelse typisk i moderne samfunn: opplevelsen av å tilhøre en minoritet som ikke blir helt forstått; opplevelsen av å være mer eller mindre avskåret fra politiske avgjørelser; av at en annen gruppe har mer kontroll over sosiale goder; av å i stor grad være prisgitt andres avgjørelser. Dette er helt alminnelige opplevelser i demokratier, og de fleste av oss lever helt fint med det. Vi vet at vi må forholde oss til visse spilleregler i offentlige debatter, selv når vi ikke alltid er enig i spillereglene. Vi vet at hvis vi sier rett ut hva vi mener, så må vi regne med å måtte moderere oss når andre sier imot. Demokratiet handler om kompromisser – og de fleste av oss innrømmer, når vi får tenkt oss om, at slik bør det være. Henry hadde fått det for seg at innflytelse var forbeholdt bestemte klasser, og at andre hadde lettere tilgang til beslutningsprosessen enn ham selv. De fleste av oss har følt på det innimellom. Det er ingen tvil om at han virkelig følte seg som en representant for en stor gruppe likesinnede, og at det fantes mange som ‘forsto hva han mente’ selv om de ikke ville gått like langt.

Etter Henry-saken følte mange fremstående anarkister at de kunne gi åpent uttrykk for sine meninger, og likevel framstå som moderate sammenlignet med Henry. På mange måter er dette en helt alminnelig side av den demokratiske prosessen, kanskje spesielt etter 1880-årene, da massemediene begynte å bli en viktig del av den politiske prosessen. I dag får ofte interesseorganisasjoner gjennomslag for sine politiske forslag på følgende måte: en pressetalsmann kommer med en drastisk påstand, og gir dermed politikere mulighet til å bevege seg i samme retning, men med visse forbehold. Slik vinner alle litt. Organisasjonen får effektivt igjennom de endringene de hadde kalkulert med, men betaler en viss pris når det gjelder troverdighet. Politikeren får igjennom muligens upopulære vedtak han eller hun uansett ønsket seg, men fremstår – sammenlignet med interesseorganisasjonen – som reflektert og realpolitisk klok.

Dette er ikke galt i og for seg. Men voldshandlinger kan bli ekstreme versjoner av denne dynamikken. Sammenlignet med volden på Utøya fremstår grupperinger som tidligere ble sett som ekstreme som relativt moderate. Fremskrittspartiet er ett eksempel, men ikke engang etno-nasjonalistiske English Defence League vil nå ha noe å gjøre med Breiviks handlinger, selv om de uttaler at de ‘forstår hva han mener’. På den andre siden fører denne ‘moderasjonen’ til at det vil dannes nye undergrunnsfora hvor enda mer ekstreme synspunkter vil blomstre. Idet Fjordmann modererer seg mister han noen av sine disipler, og disse vil danne nye fora hvor de vil diskutere Fjordmanns ‘frafall’ og ytre enda mer ekstreme meninger.  Det er kanskje umulig å unngå en slik utvikling – men vi må være klar over den.

2. Hvor går grensene mellom psykiske lidelser, religiøs tro, og politisk/ideologisk overbevisning?

Henry hevdet hardnakket at han var motivert av en politisk ideologi, ikke religiøs overbevisning eller sinnslidelse. Den sekulære staten – sekulær som i betydningen nøytral i livssynsspørsmål – er fundert på at det faktisk er mulig å skille disse sfærene klart fra hverandre. Den skal være et nøytralt rom hvor alle disse kan finne sin plass, for å si det banalt, uten å komme i unødig konflikt med hverandre. Oppstår det konflikter, må staten løse dem, og da er definisjoner alfa og omega. Her oppstår problemene. Er en ideologi en ‘sekulær’ religion? Er sekulær nøytralitet i seg selv en ideologisk konstruksjon som faktisk favoriserer noen på bekostning av andre? Er religiøsitet en slags menneskelig ‘nødvendig’ irrasjonalitet som kan gi seg uttrykk på en rekke ulike måter – det være seg kirkekaffe, englebesøk, eller hyllest til totalitære regimer?

Et foreldrepar som nekter å gi blodoverføring til sitt døende barn – er deres avgjørelse motivert av ideologi, religion eller en psykisk lidelse? Her må staten ta en avgjørelse – det står bokstavelig talt om livet. For foreldrene blir det viktig å ikke bli erklært sinnssyke, slik at deres ståsted kan respekteres. Kaller de avgjørelsen ’religiøs’, kan de forsøke å hevde sin ’rett’ til slik overbevisning, men risikerer dermed at staten definerer utøvelsen av slik ’religion’ som irrelevant eller uakseptabel utenfor deres private sfære. Motpartene karrer til seg så mange begreper som mulig for å underbygge sin sak: rettigheter, rasjonalitet, normalitet, nøytralitet, flertall – begreper som kan tillegge vekt og innflytelse til de posisjonene som klarer å mobilisere dem. Men hvor skal grensene trekkes? Skal staten spørre jurister, psykiatere, teologer, eller andre fagfolk om eksperthjelp, og dermed depolitisere spørsmålet ved å overlate det til andre enn folkevalgte?

Når dommen i Breivik-saken faller denne sommeren blir disse grensene trukket nok en gang. Vi vil ha fått en klar uttalelse fra Oslo tingrett om hvor grensen går mellom sinnssykdom og ideologisk overbevisning, og mellom moderate og ekstreme meninger og uttrykk. Men dommen vil ikke være fasit.

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.