Paper for Spanish Mysticism

Someone asked if I was posting my papers to my blog... and I thought, "wait, I still have a blog?" So, if anyone still is reading this, here is a paper from the end of this semester. 10 pager for Readings in Spanish Mysticism. Enjoy:

Apophatic theology is often a touchstone for controversy in Introduction to Theology or Christian Heritage classes. The concept of meaning something by positing and then negating it seems foreign and, to some, meaningless. It is my contention that negative theology anticipates 20th century philosophical hermeneutics in its method, and to a certain extent, its goals. Through an in depth look at the apophatic discourse in the first twelve stanzas of St. John’s florid and descriptive writing, The Spiritual Canticles, I will demonstrate how the author’s use of unsaying and apophasis create an excess of meaning that encourage the devotee to push past the bounds of language and sense into the realm of new spiritual possibilities. In this essay, I will first explore contemporary theories regarding historical Christian negative theology, drawing primarily on the works of Denys Turner and Michael Sells. I will then connect historical Christian negative theologians to 20th century philosophical hermeneutics in the work of John Caputo and Jacques Derrida, by demonstrating the correlation between their method and the method of apophatic Christian theologians. I will use Caputo’s own words to move forward with confidence regarding the explicated parallels between St. John’s writings and Caputian/Derridean deconstruction. In the end, I will show how, despite a widely divergent context, St. John accomplishes very similar goals to Caputo’s using a correlating method of unsaying.

The mainstream of the Christian creedal tradition has almost always affirmed the existence of a God “in the highest.” The Western (and neo-Platonic) concepts of what a god essentially is combined with the Judeo-Christian idea of the one, true God to form concept of the transcendent Godhead – that part of God which is utterly inaccessible to creation, unless revealed by God’s self. The very concept of this transcendence, however, is rooted in an aporia, an “unresolvable dilemma,” for the “transcendent must be beyond names, ineffable.” One way of responding to this paradox is an acceptance of it, which, “instead of leading to silence, leads to a new mode of discourse… called negative theology.” Negative theology, or apophasis, is essentially a way of speaking of the unspeakable. Apophasis literally means “speaking away,” or “unsaying.” Unsaying always already requires saying, for the goal of apophasis is not to say nothing, but to demonstrate—in a sense, to perform—the excess of meaning that overflows from language. Negative theology does not seek to simply deny the ability of language to convey meaning, but desires to push past language into more meaning.

Importantly, negative theology can never be purely negative. One cannot “speak away” without also and always “speaking towards.” Apophatic and cataphatic language are thus caught up intimately and intricately at the very base level of their existence. One cannot speak without silence, else all is noise; nor can one only remain silent, else nothing exists. Denys Turner goes as far as to say that it is “this interplay of negativity and affirmation which structures all theological discourse precisely as theological.” Indeed,
The apophatic is not given in some negative vocabulary which takes over from the affirmative when we get a mystical urge; it is not engaged in by means of some negative chasing game with the affirmative up the ladder of speech about God, thus at the top either to win or to lose out to the affirmative.

Apophasis, then, does not seek to mute or to silence positive claims, but to work with them to transcend into that which cannot be truly spoken. While it is tempting then to subsume all language into one unified method, it is important to maintain the distinction between the two modes – cataphatic and apophatic – in order to better understand what is happening in a text. In fact, this “interplay of negation and affirmation... [is] the defining characteristic of the medieval apophatic mystical tradition.”

The apophatic Christian tradition runs from Pauline epistles all the way up through contemporary Christian negative theologians. Interestingly, another form of apophasis has developed in the field of recent and contemporary philosophy, especially hermeneutics and linguistic philosophy. Michael Sells notes that “the question of apophasis in our own cultural world becomes particularly intriguing in view of the burgeoning of contemporary languages of the unsayable.” Two major figures in this trend are Jacques Derrida and John D. Caputo. A detailed analysis of either of these figures would require an expansive volume; however, since Caputo often speaks for Derrida as well as himself in his work, More Radical Hermeneutics, this essay will focus primarily on this particular text. At the root of Caputo’s hermeneutics is the concept of the Secret. If there is a secret unitary truth behind all meaning, we are not in on it. The “absolute secret keeps things safely secreted away … in principle;” or “even if the secret is, there is no Secret.” The inability to access that which could theoretically unify meaning in effect nullifies any hope for an originary unity of meaning. This deconstructive move sets up the non-foundation for both Derrida and Caputo: “the passion of the secret and of non-knowledge.” Caputo, then, establishes that any one text claiming to explain that-which-is-behind-it-all must be exposed for the fraud that it is.

In order to do this, Caputo—in an examination of the nature of the Secret—defines and describes the concepts of Derridean différance and Caputian devilish-ness. If the other is “safe on a shore we will never reach,” then the other is actually tout autre, wholly other. As the secret keeps us from possessing or wrongly claiming the other for ourself, so too with God, the name of the wholliest/Holiest other, where the “absolute secret keeps us safe.” The Secret, to Caputo, is not the problem, but the solution. Just as the impenetrable abyss between our self and the other leads to a pursuit of the endlessly withdrawing other, so too does the absolute Secret keep us always progressing, seeking, moving. The Secret is the tool of deconstruction, and Caputo’s “radical hermeneutics [is] a kind of intellectual fire department that arrives on the scene to douse the flames of essentialism wherever they flare up and threaten to consume us.” This abyss, this absolute secret, “leaves us on our knees, praying like mad…”

As Derrida acknowledged, one must deconstruct from within the structures which one is always already located. Or in Caputo’s words, “we have said yes to language before we say yes to anything else… we are caught up in the secret, but not in on The Secret.” This unavoidable conundrum does not effect a giving up on the task of finding meaning, as some might do (and have done), but instead leads Caputo to claim that “we get the best results if we do not dodge the arrows of the trace, the displacement of the subject, the dissemination of meaning, the real difficulty in factical life.” In other words, we lean into the abyss, while always already acknowledging its impenetrability. In this leaning, we participate in the world of meaning.

It is this leaning into the abyss, this “praying like the devil,” that John of the Cross proposes in the first twelve stanzas of The Spiritual Canticles. These first twelve stanzas are the section of the text wherein the bride, who is the soul, is engaged in the search for her Beloved, who is God. While the second and third sections of the work might present a more challenging connection to philosophical hermeneutics and thus possibly more unique insight, this first section connects clearly and fundamentally with the method of unsaying, and thus sets up the rest of the text as springing from (and indeed returning to) unsaying. In this text, St. John employs the same concept of the inaccessible Secret throughout his writings, in order to underscore the inadequacy of language. St. John also describes the ways in which this unknowing, this felt absence, actually draws the soul on toward the Secret, rather than repulsing it. Finally, St. John makes it abundantly clear that this searching for that which cannot be found is not an act of futility, but the ultimate goal of the human soul.

The Secret, for St. John, is clearly the transcendent essence of God. For the “substance of the secrets is God himself, for God is the substance and concept of faith, and faith is the secret and the mystery.” It is important to note that while St. John did speak of this “secret” God, John was always already caught up in the practice of Catholic Christianity in early modern Spain. Thus, St. John does not toss out the window all the positive claims to knowing God in the Eucharist, through grace, and the other sacraments. Instead, working within the framework of Christianity, John undermines claims of absolute experience of God’s essential nature, or full knowledge thereof. St. John is explicit about this idea, saying that “all the knowledge of God possible in this life, however extensive it may be, is inadequate, for it is only partial knowledge and very remote.” Yet, as St. John explains, God has left “some trace of who he is” in the created order. This trace does not satisfy our soul, however, but actually creates the desire for the full knowledge of God we, by his own definition, cannot have in this life.

This hiddenness is part of the very quality of the Beloved, according to St. John. For even if one enters a hiding place where a treasure lays secreted away, the treasure-hunter becomes hidden along with the treasure, rather than vice-versa. For despite the fact that the Secret Beloved is hidden within the very soul which seeks him, “he is hidden.” Therefore, any experience of the Beloved, of the Secret God, will be experienced in secret, “in a way transcending all language and feeling.” Thus, the Secret that is sought after will not be exposed when found, but will instead draw the seeker into secrecy. Even the “saintly doctors, no matter how much they have said or will say, can never furnish an exhaustive explanation… since the abundant meanings of the Holy Spirit cannot be caught in words.” This inability to put into words what is hidden does not lead to silence, however, but to an “overflow in figures, comparisons, and similitudes,” which “from the abundance of their spirit pour out secrets and mysteries rather than rational explanations.” Therefore, John’s commentary on his poem is an explanation of the secret experience of the hidden God, although “there is no reason to be bound to this explanation.”

Furthermore, the hiddenness of the Secret Beloved does not lead to silence or despair. Instead, when the soul is “wounded with love through a trace of the beauty of her Beloved, which she has known through creatures,” she desires that which is impossible in this life, to know the fullness of the beauty of her Beloved. Love and longing are tied intimately together in this scenario, as the soul’s love for the hidden Beloved causes the soul “sorrow at his absence.” This sorrow will not be fully abated in this life. Instead, the absence of the Beloved constantly and continually wounds the soul who loves him. The language of absence is not an atheistic metaphor, though, since “just as the ‘mystical’ is … characterized by its transcendence of both affirmation and negation, so too are the signs of presence and the signs of absence equally signs, are equally material conditions which signify.” Therefore, St. John negates his own affirmation of absence by reassuring the soul that God is actually always and already within the soul, although perfectly hidden. Thus absence and hiddenness are conflated into a quasi-absence of God, wherein the loving soul “must suffer her Beloved’s absence” but still always asks where he has hidden.

The soul, being wounded by the quasi-absent God, suffers and seeks, suffering while seeking, seeking the quasi-presence of her hidden/present Beloved bridegroom. This predicament is portrayed by John as a state of “moaning,” wherein the soul, having been wounded by love, moans for the one who wounded her. This intensely imagistic depiction, so reminiscent of bodily sexuality, is a reminder that John is caught in the same struggle between “facticity” and the “other,” who is God. St. John attempts to depict the absent, hidden God’s fleeting encounters in such a way that captures the intensity and desire felt by the soul, and thus turns to a cataphatic description of bodily sensuality. The soul is struck by “arrows,” which are “touches of love” that “impregnate the soul and heart with the knowledge of God.” Through the use of the clearly physical language of sexual physicality, St. John effectively “pour[s] out secrets and mysteries rather than rational expalanations.” Sells points out that “birth and sexual union are two human experiences that have commonly been associated with the overcoming of subject-object dichotomy,” and St. John does this through the whole of his poem and commentary, by placing the soul’s search for God in the contextual framework of the Song of Songs. This erotic language, however, is complicated – if not contradicted – by St. John’s self-gendering and the Beloved’s quasi-absence, thus creating another aporia. For, having established that all his attempts at description will fall short, St. John’s descriptions self-consciously look beyond themselves to a deeper meaning than the literal. Thus, despite the physical, embodied language (or more precisely, because of it), the reader does not attempt to extrapolate a rational explanation, but instead leans into the same abyss as the soul in the text. The reader does not explain away the physical erotic analogy, but participates in it through reading it and allowing it to contradict itself.

In the act of reading and participating in the excess of meaning created by the cataphatic and apophatic language of St. John, the devotee also leans into the abyss of the hidden Beloved. Caputo points to this “hope against hope,” or praying against all odds, as the mode of being/understanding in which one encounters the tout autre. Both Caputo and St. John do not cease their prayer when encountering the infinite other-ness, but instead press even harder into the abyss. St. John takes care to caution his readers:
Do not be like the many foolish ones who, in their lowly understanding of God, think that when they do not understand, taste, or experience him, he is far away and utterly concealed. The contrary belief would be truer. The less distinct is their understanding of him, the closer they approach him, since in the words of the prophet David, he made darkness his hiding place… Thus in drawing near him you will experience darkness because of the weakness of your eye.
Caputo, similarly, discourages hesitation at the edge of this unknowing, instead claiming that this mystery goes “hand in hand with desire, with the desire of language, the language of desire, with what Derrida in one place calls the ‘promise’ inscribed in language.” Both Johns encourage their readers to press into the great Secret of unknowing.

While it is clear that St. John believed that the hidden God to whom one presses into is undoubtedly the Christian God, John also firmly believed in maintaining the absolute mystery of the hidden Beloved. Although negative theologians such as John are often “accused of posing a ‘being’ beyond being, a kind of metabeing,” any reference to this metabeing is undone “by a disorienting … of standard rules of reference and antecedence.” John uses language that turns back in on itself, and in doing so, keeps any absolute claims from “hardening into a fixed system.” Thus, John performs a de-constructive theology in the text, by “pushing language to its very limits, to its breaking point.” This broken-language is not the divine speaking absolute truths beyond reproach, but is the “language of our desire for, our affirmation of the tout autre.” For despite St. John’s saintly status, he does only that which any of us can and should do: pray for the impossible.

The practitioner of mystical prayer has not been hoisted aloft by some Extraterrestial Secret and absolved from the human condition; she has not been relieved of the difficulties of factical life. Mystics who fall to their knees before the living God in praise and prayer develop calluses on their knees and in any case pull their pants on one leg at a time. They are, like the rest of us, doing the best they can in an impossible situation, all along praying for the impossible.

(for citations, email me, and I will send you the .doc file)

Paper for World Religions

This is the paper I wrote for my World Religions Class, in which one assignment was to visit another faith's worship center. Jaimie and I visited a Synagogue. Enjoy!

In the beginning, there was Judaism. Before Guatama Buddha sat under his tree, before Jesus of Nazareth walked the shores of Galilee, and before Mohammed gathered a new community around him, there was Judaism. The historical and ancient nature of Judaism has always appealed to me. Far from being monolithic, Judaism has existed in many forms since Abraham first listened to the whisper of a monotheistic G-d; however, the consistency and continuity of this great world religion reaches further than any other faith tradition that I am aware of. It was with this in mind that I chose to focus my project on Judaism rather than the other world religions we have studied.

Over the past few years, I have studied the Jewish roots of Christianity, the Hebrew Bible, and even mystical trends in the history of the Jewish tradition. Although I have not studied the Hebrew language, I still felt reasonably comfortable talking about Judaism and its constituents. I felt as if a trip to a Synagogue would be a relatively comfortable experience, enriching me while furthering what I thought I already knew. Fortunately, in the process of a weekend worship experience, I found myself challenged to reconfigure my own interpretations of Judaism and my relationship with it.

When I chose Judaism as my study, I first looked at what services were offered. The typical Shabbat (Sabbath) service is the Saturday morning service held in most synagogues. This service is held weekly for the community to gather on Shabbat and celebrate and remember G-d on that the weekly day of rest. There was also the Friday evening service, in which the community gathers to welcome the Shabbat as one would welcome a bride or a queen – this service is driven by the idea that one must set apart the Shabbat day (having a lunar calendar, the Jewish day begins at sundown, and lasts until the Sun sets again). This Shabbat service contains a song written by medieval Kabbalists, and although Kabbalah is not always orthodox within Judaism, this song is a sign of the tremendous influence Kabbalistic practice had on later Judaic practices. It was due to my exposure to Kabbalah through my Monotheistic Mysticism class that I decided to attend the Friday evening service as opposed to the Saturday morning service, as several of my readings regarding the Shabbat queen were profoundly beautiful.

Although the assignment only called for us to visit a worship center one evening, due to my previous study of Judaism, I did not feel that visiting a gathering in the Synagogue would be an adequate experience of Jewish worship. Therefore, I sat down with my wife and we decided to engage the Shabbat experience as fully as possible. We decided to set apart our Friday evening through Saturday evening and to fulfill as many mitzvot as we were able. I believe that the Jews worship G-d through their entire structure and rhythm of living, so we set out to join them in worshipping G-d through our lives as well.

Interestingly, when I began looking at a potential weekend for our Shabbat experience, I noticed a rare occurrence in the Jewish calendar. This year, on the weekend of April 18th, the day before Pesach (Passover) fell on a Shabbat. While this may not seem to be a problem at first glance, one must actually follow extra special rules in order to properly fulfill all of the halakah regarding both Shabbat and Erev Pesach (Passover Eve). With this in mind, my wife and I decided to fully engage this conundrum by having our own Seder family meal on Saturday night. This would entail extra preparation, as the Shabbat proscribes cooking, among other things.

I had high hopes for this experience. I did not know exactly how things would turn out, but I hoped to see my wife and I find elements of the Jewish tradition that we could identify with, bring into our own faith journeys, and use them to better articulate our understanding of religion and the role it plays in our lives. While these were my vocalized – if selfish – plans, my overarching goals for the weekend were to join together with the ancient-modern Jewish community, connect to the deepest religious roots the world has to offer, and to share in their remembrance and observation of their storied and difficult past.

After learning as much as I could about the context of the religion that we were about to encounter, my wife and I set about preparing for our Shabbat and Seder. It is tradition that on Erev Pesach, the firstborns in the family fast. The fast of the firstborn is usually ended at the Seder meal; however, due to the restriction against fasting on the Shabbat, on this occasion the Fast of the Firstborn was moved to the Thursday before Erev Pesach, rather than on Friday, in order to be able to obey the restrictions regarding both Shabbat and Erev Pesach. Also moved to Thursday because of this rare situation was the cleaning of the Chametz (yeast) from the house. Every year on Erev Pesach, the family cleans their entire household of all chametz in order to be kosher for the week of Pesach. This entails even sweeping the kitchen for crumbs, collecting all chametz, and burning it in a ceremony. Here is where we ran into our first stumbling block. My wife and I don’t have a lot of bread in the first place, but we do have many items that contain chametz. With this in mind, we decided to clean our house in a symbolic gesture (pointing to the ritual nature of the cleaning of the chametz). We straightened up and cleaned, swept and wiped the floors and counters, and vacuumed. We did not burn the chametz, sadly.

However, that was only one component of our Thursday night activities. Since my wife works on Friday, and since we were entering Shabbat on Friday evening, we had to cook three meals on Thursday evening in order to avoid cooking on Shabbat. We prepared fire-roasted tortilla soup for our Seder dinner, homemade chicken salad for our Shabbat lunch and a special fish recipe for our Shabbat dinner. After an exhausting night of cooking and cleaning, we went to bed ready to engage our first Jewish weekend.

Obviously, our joining with the Jewish community in worship began when I began my fast on Thursday and when we cleaned the house on Thursday night. By engaging in these practices we felt somewhat plugged in by the time I picked up my wife on Friday evening to drive to the Synagogue. When we arrived at Anshai Torah in Plano a few minutes before the time the service was to start, we both felt a little anxious. I had contacted the Rabbi of this synagogue several weeks prior, but hadn’t heard back from him as he apparently was on vacation the week leading up to this particular Shabbat. As we walked in, we felt immediately unsure of ourselves. I found the bin of loaner yarmulkes for visitors and placed one lightly on my head. We wandered into the gathering place for worship, grabbed a worship book from a large bookshelf on our left, and found our seat in a pew. The pews were laid out in a semi-ovular shape, with the Rabbi’s pulpit in the middle of the pews, creating an effect wherein all of the worshippers were both facing each other, the Rabbi, and slightly facing the beautiful art and windows on the main wall of the synagogue. My wife suggested we sit in the mid-back and left section, close enough to the door that we could make a run for it if necessary.

The congregation seemed sparse as the Rabbi began the service. The service was primarily in Hebrew, with the Rabbi intoning and singing the ancient language. Sometimes he would sing a complicated and quick melody; at other times, the congregation would join him as though they knew the melody. There were no markings in the book to indicate when we were to sing, and when we were to listen quietly. So we mainly just listened quietly. I spent most of my energy trying to follow along with my spare knowledge of Hebrew, attempting to translate in my mind what it was that the haunting and beautiful lines of Hebrew were pointing towards. My wife was more focused on the sounds, as she stutteringly joined in with the congregation by mouthing and muttering whatever words she could identify. At one point, the Rabbi gave a short homily which consisted of a funny story about Jewish identity at holiday times. The Rabbi would also direct the congregation from time to time, and the transitions from instruction to liturgy were at times jarring, as though the fact that we were in Dallas rather than Israel would break through inconsiderately.

The service was long, running for over one and a half hours, and by the end the synagogue was filled with congregants and families. The lady behind us was a visitor in town from Sugar Land (our hometown), so we made small talk about how things were back home. The Rabbi had told a funny story about the process of “Bagel-ing,” wherein Jews “out” each other with clever comments and questions. My wife and I were “de-bageled” several times during the evening. We met several families, most introducing themselves and asking if we were just visiting or had recently moved to town. Inevitably, we spoke of how we were visiting to fulfill requirements for a seminary class. Our awkward position was made slightly more awkward by the fact that neither I nor my wife appear particularly Jewish. We stood out. We felt out of place in the rituals, we did not know the language, and we clearly did not belong. Despite our best efforts to “be Jewish,” we had missed the most important aspect. I know now that in order to more fully engage in the community of Jewish worship, we should have connected with a practicing Jewish family, and participated alongside of them. The unique nature of the Jewish religion is the deep-seeded connection to the Jewish community itself. Nevertheless, as we left the synagogue, neither of us felt bitter or put off by our experience of Kol Shabbat.

As we drove home, my wife and I unpacked what we had just gone through. We both felt that we were outsiders, but we also both felt respect and not a little awe at the strength of the bonds holding the community together. We spoke of Jewish history, and how these bonds are what allowed the Jewish tradition to survive despite vicious and consistent persecution and oppression. Our experience at the synagogue and our conversation after convinced us to take our Shabbat experience even more seriously, and to honor this beautiful and ancient community of faith with our words and actions over the weekend.

Our Saturday morning was restful. We woke up to the sun, and walked a small distance to some shops in our area. We followed certain restrictions, such as not driving or cooking, but did shop a little, disobeying the halakah regarding making others work. Mainly, we ceased from doing on Shabbat. As the evening drew near, we did not feel that we had wasted our day, but instead felt a deep sense of rest. To prepare for the Seder, we both took showers and got dressed up. We set the table, and got out the food. After performing the Havdalah – the ceremony that ends the Shabbat (separating it from the rest of the week) – we began the Seder Haggadah. Having bought the “Concise Family Seder” earlier in the week, my wife and I read through the ceremony, taking turns reading the passages in English that were there and sounding out the Hebrew when it was transliterated for us.

As we tasted the sweet wine, the bitter parsley dipped in salt water, the dry and unleavened matzah, the bitter and sweet charoset (a mixture of apples, cinnamon, nuts, and wine mixed to look and feel like mortar), and the sharp bite of the horseradish, we attempted to remember the past along with the Jewish community. We tried to conjure up both the pain of past injustice and the hope for future peace. We opened our door for Elijah and left a seat open for him. We sang (with an improvised and childish melody) Daseynu, that it would have been enough if G-d had only done a little. We joined together in words and actions with countless generations of Jewish people, these people who experienced the destruction of their homeland, were turned away wherever they tried to make their home, who experienced countless pogroms, and suffered the worst injustices and inhumanity mankind has ever witnessed in the bleak time of the Holocaust. While knowing that our efforts to understand would fall woefully short, our little family began to open the door to a fuller knowledge of and connection with the Jewish tradition to which we all owe so much.

There was no shining moment of recognition, no glorious revelation during our weekend experience. What was left after our experience was instead a residue, a lasting impact that has echoed forward from day to day. Affecting our relationships with each other, our understanding of what real rest looks like, and giving us a deeper appreciation of the difficulties of fully living out such a complicated set of rules, the Shabbat-Seder experience taught my wife and I how to better understand one another as well as the religious other. My wife comes from an unchurched background. I had never empathized with her discomfort in the Christian church setting until I sat discomfited in the Kol Shabbat service. Beyond that, by stretching ourselves and our boundaries, we learned that reaching out to another tradition is not easy, but is utterly worth our energy and time. The worldview shifting experience of living out another culture is a practice that we hope to continue in the future.

In conclusion, the Jewish faith tradition is not for the individual, but for the community. One cannot simply go to Synagogue, say a prayer, and become a Jew. The intricacies of the life lived in Torah-awareness, the deep connections to the historical past of Judaism, and the tight knit community of the Jewish people are not to be found in doctrine or abstract thought, but in practicalities and relationships.
During the Friday evening Shabbat service, when the section of the text called for those in mourning to read along with the Rabbi, our newly met friend from Sugar Land stood along with the congregation to whom she was “only” a visitor. As she read the mourner’s Kaddish, her voice broke, and I could hear the deep emotion coming through her prayer. Despite the fact that she was over 250 miles from her home, among strangers, and speaking in a language not her own, something eternal and beautiful resonated in her prayer. I do not know who she was mourning, nor do I know much else about her. What I am sure of is that her experience is quintessential to the Jewish faith. No matter where one is, how far one has gone, or how much one has suffered and lost, a Jew is always connected to a community that has been, is, and will be an expression of G-d’s mysterious faithfulness through all eternity.

Whoa, its been a while

Update on what's happenin:

* Working at a church again. "What?" you say, "I thought you swore that off." Well, I did.
* Jaimie is starting a blog! You should all read it. go for it. She's a good writer

I will post a real update in the near future. School has been going well - 3.85 gpa after my first 24 hours. Thinking of switching to MDiv. Still absolutely sure I will not be doing the ordination process. Not so sure that I won't end up working for/starting a church.

Um, yeah. So staying busy and all, peace out.

more lists!

Ten things I'm going to start doing soon...

1. Finish school for the semester (DONE)
2. Plan out my break, so I don't waste my free time. (DONE)
3. Restring my guitar, and take it to a specialist to figure out how much it would cost to fix the pick-up problem it has. (soon...)
4. Get our car registered, and change the title (waiting on Carmax) on the Galant over to Amber's name. (REAL soon)
5. Find and buy insurance for Jaimie and I. Soon...)
6. Get set up to substitute on Mondays and Fridays in the Spring. (DONE, waiting to hear back)
7. Begin studying vocabulary for the GRE. (DONE)
8. Restart German studies with Jaimie. (soon...)
9. Work out more often. (Started a new routine!)
10. Hang out with good friends, watch some good movies, read some good books. (Done, done, done)

more things...

I. Act in a play
II. Coach a team of some sort
III. Play in an organized team sport
IV. write more poetry
V. Use roman numerals more often.

Things I want to do...

Things I want to do.

1. Write a bunch more songs
2. Read more fiction
3. Write some fiction
4. Play in a band
5. Learn to paint
6. Teach a class on church history
7. Put together an event re: teaching/history
8. Do some more CHAPs
9. Work with film
a. Make a short film
b. Write some screenplays
c. Learn to speak German fluently
d. Learn to speak Italian fluently
e. Learn to read Latin
f. Learn to read Greek
g. Get a full time teaching job
i. Substitute teach in Spring 08, Fall 08, Spring 09
ii. Put together a camping trip or two
iii. Fix guitar
iv. Take a cooking class
v. Raise a puppy, then, raise a child
vi. Build some more furniture
vii. Maintain my blog
viii. Develop history curriculum
ix. Develop the animated map curriculum idea
x. Get a PhD, someday...

Well...

Update on what's happenin:

* My grandmother passed away this Friday. She had battled through some really tough years fighting Alzheimer's Disease, and she had left us bit by bit. Now she is complete again.
* This weekend was a long, but good, weekend. Spending time with family is irreplaceable, and it needs to be a higher priority for my wife and I. We say that we put family first, but sometimes our actions speak otherwise.

What I'm readin:

* I'm reading about 3000 pages of text this month, as I prepare to end the semester, write 3 papers and study for 3 finals. This will be the craziest month so far, but it will be very fulfilling to finish my first semester.
* Some books I'm reading for this marathon:
John Cobb - Process Theology: Introductory Exposition
Selected writings of Maximus the Confessor
Selected writings of Gregory of Palamas
Sallie McFague - Models of God
Richard Nelson - The Historical Books
Selected writings on Liberation Theology
And some other stuff too...

In class...

Update on what's happenin:

* I'm in class. School rocks.
* Life is good, but kinda unsettled. We're housesitting in Addison, and its really thrown our 'routines' off.
* Pretty sure that by Fall of 2008, I'll be applying for PhD programs. I'm trying to put together my top 15 program list, and then we'll be makin it happen! Studying latin (on and off), learning German with the wife, and trying to kick butt in seminary. Also have been meeting with some professors and that has been fun.

What I'm readin:

* A lot.
* And then more...

Random thoughts on my PVM:

I'm doing a community hour here at Perkins on blogs. Here's a basic outline:

Keep this question in mind - hypothetical question - would Paul have blogged?
I. History of blogs (15 minutes)
a. What is the internet? (digital, networks, files with file extensions)
b. What is html?
c. What is RSS? Why invented? How does it work?
d. Weblogs, and their raison d'aitre
e. Podcasts/Vidcasts (and why we're not covering that today)

II. Potential Purposes of Blogging (15 minutes)
a. Uses
1. news
2. journaling
3. editorials
4. random crap
b. Pros
1. dynamic content
2. interactivity
3. building buzz
c. cons
1. detached from other cues
2. can be static (if not used properly)
3. can be discouraging
4. isn't mainstream media

III. Application (15 minutes)
a. signing up is easy/free (tutorial at the end)
b. set up a realistic posting plan
c. write ALL the TIME
d. link - the network is the key
e. browse - aggregators are the answer (list of good starter blogs)

IV. Interaction
a. questions?
b. prompts for discussion -> ministry uses?

Descriptive Review of The Color Purple

Over ninety Letters. No separate narrative. All conversations, scenarios, and plot told from the perspective of either the main character or her sister. And yet, in the Color Purple, Alice Walker paints a near-perfect portrait of the struggle to survive in situations of oppression and hardship. The novel is entertaining, enriching, and at times, excruciatingly beautiful. At the end, the reader finds his or her soul lifted up and offered a shining ray of hope in spite of the apparent darkness and brokenness of the world. And in the midst of this, the author clearly delineates a theological argument that resonates through all sorts of people, time and place.

Question: The primary question asked by the author through the story is, “How can I have hope and joy when I am abused, marginalized and broken in two?” Furthermore, the question succeeding the question is what that hope and joy might look like and lead to if indeed they can be discovered. The author speaks these questions to whosoever will listen.

Answer: In the words of Shug, “everything want to be loved” (Walker 198). Through the loving-kindness of Shug, and the ripples that spread from this love, Celie discovers hope and joy. This is foreshadowed through Celie’s initial impressions, glimpses and first encounter with the Blues singer (6, 8); and this fact is cemented as Shug becomes the lover and teacher of the broken and marginalized Celie (115). Celie does not discover this hope and joy on her own; she is taught to appreciate the gifts of life by someone who herself has learned to do so. Through this telling, the author argues that all of us are responsible not only to notice “the color purple” but also to point it out to others as well (197). This answer to the second question is elaborated on in the second half of the book as the ripples of loving-kindness spread outward from Celie and Shug to the rest of their family and community, until in the end the very soul of Celie is rejoined in an Utopian setting as her sister and children are verily resurrected from the dead (291).

Method: Through the use of narrative and poetic language, Alice Walker lays out her perspective on how to find joy and happiness in the midst of trial. The narrative of Celie and her sister demonstrate the divided heart; part of us has been torn asunder, and only after years of living and loving and healing can this deep rift be restored. The narrative of Celie and Shug puts on display the boundless nature of love as societal conventions and even other loves themselves cannot lessen or break the bond between the lovers. The various narratives of family members and in-laws demonstrates over and again the marginalization of a people that will not give up hope, whether it be African-Americans in the South or women in an abusive marriage; all these narratives are resolved with hope and optimism. The broken family is restored, the destitute find prosperity, the lost return home, and the ugliness of life is turned to beauty. In the end, through the resolutions of these narrative conflicts, the author clearly announces that this same hope and optimism are within all of our grasps.

Further, Walker employs dialectic to establish her theology in key moments. Whether it is Celie ‘arguing’ with Shug, Sofia fighting with her husband (and whoever else is stupid enough to mess with her), or even Nettie talking with Celie’s children and the tribe in Africa, the author continually uses dialogue to move towards the deeper truths hinted at in the narrative.

Significance: Since the message is one of hope, anyone who experiences a dark time can take solace in the notion of the eventual good; all ends well for Celie and her family, so why should it not end well for the reader? Also, this hope extends outward to a broken world that can’t seem to get it right. Maybe, Walker seems to say, we can fix this whole thing if we learn to love each other as equals in the scheme of things.

Evaluation: Walker’s novel is superb, her characters rich, and her tale engrossing. Even her theology, as implied in the book, is full of sparkling hope for the eventual unity and equality of the human race. However, the only flaw is that Walker’s story does not seem to imitate the way life actually ends up. The author’s utopian vision is jarring when contrasted with the unfair nature of the poverty cycle, the un-repentance of many abusive partners, and the death of many loved ones. It seems clear to me that the author was not naïve; every scenario seems to play out for the best in spite of all the odds for failure. Perhaps this is the vision of Walker: to present an absurdly hopeful picture. Maybe the author is saying that the world doesn’t look like this at all, and we all know it. But maybe it should. And maybe it can.

Post on scripture as metaphor

this was from my New Testament class. We were supposed to first read the passage in Luke about the calming of the storm, and view it as metaphor. Then we were tasked with engaging with it personally. Lastly, we were to pick our favorite scripture and explain why...

Scripture as metaphor:
Crossing to the other side - we are a part of a new exodus, leaving the old for the new; we have set out on this journey at the behest of our teacher/messiah/Lord; he has begun a new creation, and we are ready for the glorious journey...

(the ascension) - Jesus falls asleep.

The storm - wow, this journey is tough. Immediately, things have taken turns for the worse. What was promised is not being fulfilled. We are fighting against not only our own spiritual failings but against what seems to be the very bent of creation.

The calm - Jesus wakes up. He fixes it. (Implied: we make it to the other side).

My personal view:
Well, I always try to run away (far far away) from my built-in, Sunday school, canned responses that are so interwoven with the language and narrative of scripture that I have trouble distinguishing my own thought from that of Cokesbury Publishing. Here, after clearing my head as much as possible, I felt afraid. This story is deeply connected to my own struggle in this present day. I am much like the disciples, pre-calm.

We (humans/Christians in general) are stuck in a nasty storm. The waves are terrible. The wind is powerful and chaotic. There was little to no warning. We are in danger, constantly. So what do we do? I believe that we must read between the lines to understand the space between the storm and the waking up of Jesus (else, why the comment regarding little-faith?). The disciples first tried to bail out. They tried to sail away, or sail through. Some might have wanted to turn back. Others began doing what I find myself doing on a daily basis: accusing. "Peter, I thought you knew how to sail this thing!" "Andrew, you said those clouds wouldn't put us in danger!" "James, it was your turn to check the boat for leaks!" "Thaddeus, it's your job to get this boat bailed out!" "C'mon guys, we suck, we need to fix this boat!! We are failing! This isn't how we were supposed to sail!! How do you expect to get to the other side like this!" "Jesus, you ... you. are. sleeping."

Where are you, Lord? How strongly does the storm rage.

The promise is there in the text. I do not feel inclined to read this passage in a individualistic/salvation light. So I ask that dreaded question. Why? Why are you sleeping? Do you not care that we are perishing?

Now. My choice of text.

Revelation 22:17, 20.

"The spirit and the bride say, 'Come.'
And let everyone who hears say, 'Come.'
And let everyone who is thirsty come.
Let anyone who wishes take the water of life as a gift...

The one who testifies to these things says,
Surely.
I am
coming
soon.

Amen. Come Lord Jesus."

I echo the words again, in my soul.
Amen.
Amen.
Come Lord Jesus.
Come.

Descriptive Review of The Essential Tillich, Ch 5

Engaging with Paul Tillich’s writing has been refreshing and challenging to my soul. So, as I attempt to do a descriptive review of his chapter on “The Nature of Religious Language,” I am certain that my own enjoyment of Tillich will show through; however, I also will attempt to be as honest and critical of Tillich’s arguments and methods as I would of any other author.

Question: The question for this chapter is illuminated by the title of the essay from which it was collected: “Religious Symbols and Our Knowledge of God” (Tillich 44). Tillich attempts to answer the dilemma that he has created in previous chapters, as he has established that God is the being beyond being, or Being-Itself. If God is beyond being, then how can we speak of God? Tillich writes this piece in 1955, in America, at a time when the world was picking up the pieces from a foundation-shaking war (44).

Answer: Tillich answers this question through his description of symbols over against signs, then through his refinement of the specifically religious symbols. To the author, one obviously cannot understand any reality without some kind of sign or symbol to point to that experienced reality (45). Tillich differentiates between signs and symbols, and this is the key to his answer. A sign can only represent something, but it is arbitrary (45). The letters in this sentence have no internal significance; if they had any originally, it has since been lost. Symbols, however, “participate in the meaning and the power” of the reality which they represent (45). Furthermore, a religious symbol both participates in and points to the “fundamental level … of being itself” (49). Therefore, the concept of God, while insufficient, is the religious symbol for the transcendent reality of the Being-Itself (51). Not only this, but all of the materials that make up our conception of God are from our own experienced reality (52); therefore, our conception of God can only be a symbol, since God, by definition, is greater than all of our experienced reality.

Method: Tillich engages in a philosophical method aptly named dialectic. All of Tillich’s syntheses in this chapter are forged from the theses and antitheses that Tillich brings up. First, Tillich juxtaposes the concepts of sign and symbol (45); his synthesis states that symbols are those concepts that participate in the reality to which they point, and he arrives at this conclusion by illustrating that signs are excluded from this definition, in that they are arbitrary. Next, Tillich holds up symbols to a more specific religious symbol (49). Symbols in general point to a deeper reality, but religious symbols point to the ultimate transcendent reality. Then the theologian holds up the transcendent reality itself as an antithesis to the previous thesis in order to arrive at this synthesis: “participation is not identity; they [the religious symbols] are not themselves the Holy” (49). This kind of logic and approach intermingled with existential language and reasoning drive Tillich’s arguments.

Significance: For all those who have suffered under the yoke of existentialism, and for any and all who feel infinitely distant from a transcendent God, this chapter offers a light unto the path back to speaking of God. We must be careful, Tillich notes, but we must still attempt to point to the deep dimensions of reality with symbols and to the ultimate dimension of Being-Itself with religious symbol. For any and all who have become worshippers of the symbols themselves, this chapter is a warning and a reminder of just how limited our symbols actually are.

Evaluation: Following Tillich’s lead, the thesis is that this chapter logically demonstrates for us how we can and why we should still attempt to speak of the Holy; the antithesis is that the very arguments made are made with signs, rather than symbol. We can then move to our synthesis that this chapter examines language with language, and thus is limited; but Tillich acknowledges this limitation in his tone and structure. One weak point in Tillich’s chain of reasoning is the seemingly simple dichotomies that the author moves through to get to his point. We must ignore all gray in order to clearly delineate the black and white. Sign and symbol, we are led to believe, are the only ways to communicate reality. Conversely, Tillich’s method of differentiating between the two is one of degrees and personal judgment, leaving much open ended and unclear. Furthermore, Tillich appears to work in a world of universals – there is little room in these arguments for different perspectives. Overall, a great chapter that is effective and important; but like all reasoned arguments, it has its flaws.

Visual Exegesis: Rob Pepper's "Crucifixion"

In this piece of art by Rob Pepper entitled “Crucifixion,” there are several elements that immediately stand out. For one, the piece appears to be a drawing done by black ink, and then colored in with gold paint at selective places. The strokes are very sketchy in nature, and not many lines connect. Due to the nature of the medium, negative space is apparent in almost every portion of the piece. There are many repeated similar strokes, and certain lines seem to be slightly thicker than others. Movement is suggested by the flowing and lengthy nature of some of the lines, and the repeated short strokes imply stillness by their abruptness. The top and middle center of the piece immediately draws your attention, as many of the lines move outward from or inward towards this section. The negative space at the top portion of the piece is blocked off by two parallel arching lines that delimit all eye movement to everything below it. Concentric semicircles facing upward at the top center of the piece imply movement downwards toward the middle center. The piece itself feels very symmetrical and balanced; there is not much pull away from the middle-top center.

The general scene is fairly obvious at first glance (to those familiar with the Christian tradition). The man portrayed at the center of the piece has a beard, what appears to be a crown of thorns, a loincloth, and is very clearly elevated above the observers portrayed on either side, below him. The symbol that centers the piece is a cross-shape behind this elevated man. A clearly delineated cross is not present, but implied by the shape of the elevated man, and two clear lines above at eye level from the man, moving vertically outward to either side from his head. The observers below – four of which are distinct – seem to be downcast, implying grief or shame. The observers are not clearly defined, and leave room for interpreting more observers in the short, abrupt and unclear strokes surrounding them. These elements clearly establish that this is a crucifixion scene.

Several elements that are atypical of depictions of crucifixion, and which seem somewhat out of place, are noteworthy. First, the two arching parallel lines don’t seem to connect with the ground, and therefore don’t appear to be a physical structure in the scene. The left side of this arch has four sketchy block shapes that follow the movement of the arch from bottom left to top middle and do not wildly deviate from their path. The right side of the arch has five sketchy block shapes that seem to be progressively out of the alignment of the arch. In the middle of the arch, the concentric semicircles point downward to the head of the crucified man. Finally, the most eye-catching element of this piece is the golden leaf structure that surrounds the crucified man on both his left and his right. The leaves seem to moving outward from the crucified man, as implied by the strong and smooth strokes that seem to be the branches upon which the leaves are growing. The contrast of the gold on the black and white clearly establishes the importance of these leaves, and consistently draws the viewer’s eyes outward from the crucified man.

At this point, it can be assumed – both from the analysis thus far and the title of the piece – that the crucified man is Jesus of Nazareth, and the scene is the death of Jesus as portrayed in all four gospels. The piece focuses only on Jesus (there are no rebels being crucified on either side), the observers are in mourning, and more importantly, the vine/tree with its golden leaves has sprung forth. The artist has used this primary element to establish what the artist believes was accomplished, or begun, on the cross by Jesus. It is clear that this bright, glowing plant receives its beginning and nourishment from the man on the cross. It is also evident that this plant is moving outward and growing; it is growing downwards as well, as it is beginning to reach the heads of the mourning observers. It should be noted here that the four distinct observers do not seem to be aware of the movement of life that has sprung out of the crucified man.

Another interesting key to this piece is the arch across the top. It does not seem to be arbitrary; indeed, it echoes the prophecies about capstones and rejected stones. Jesus on the cross becomes the capstone that the builders rejected. This element is implied by the unfinished nature of the arch, as well as the placement of Jesus in the middle of the arch. Furthermore, the concentric semicircles also seem to be pointing down at Jesus, and the semicircles are in the spot where the capstone would go. The arch is also in the heavens, implying an eternal nature. The semicircles also seem to symbolize God’s movement from heaven to act in Jesus Christ.

Taking these two elements together, the leaves and the arch, the viewer can come to the conclusion that the artist believes Jesus’ death on the cross to have accomplished something that is eternally important and life giving. The concept of Jesus as the capstone contains the understanding that Jesus’ life and death was essential to the architecture of creation. The concept of Jesus’ death as a life-giving moment means that Jesus began a New Creation through his death and resurrection. This New Creation, as the painting implies, begins on the cross, but grows outward and downward to creation, and to all of us.

Overall, this piece does an excellent job of capturing two beautiful and powerful meanings in the crucified God. Rob Pepper, the artist, stunningly captured one of the most essential elements of our Lord’s death: the breaking in of a New Creation. He did so by using the very images that Jesus uses in his parables and are found in prophecies throughout the Hebrew Bible: the vine, the capstone, and the tree of life, among others.

If any criticism presents itself, it is the criticism that is inherent to any artist attempting to point at religious depths; there are infinitely more meanings to the cross of Christ than are portrayed in this piece. The darkness and bitterness of the death of Jesus is delimited in order to highlight his saving work. Part of the power of the cross is the suffering Savior. Furthermore, only two persons of the trinity are present in the piece. The implied breaking in of God and the incarnate Son are easily found, but the Spirit is not hinted at in this work.

The medium of the art, the artist’s intention, and the subject matter itself all combine to form a striking and moving rendition of one of the most important moments in human history.

Old Testament Exegesis Paper #1

In the Hebrew Bible, not all narratives feel as realistic as the Jacob cycle. Full of brotherly betrayal, fear of destruction, trickery and cunning, the story has the feel of a modern day soap opera. In spite of the gritty nature of the narrative, or more accurately, alongside of this trait, another characteristic is evident. The narrator of the text tells this story in such a way as to display to the implied reader the emergence of Israel in accordance with the promise to Abraham, as well as to exhort the implied reader to trust in the same promise. I will demonstrate this purpose as it is woven into the text of Genesis 32:3-33:17 by first establishing the context of the written text; second, I will illustrate the importance of the place of the story within the larger narrative; and finally, I will engage in a detailed analysis of the passage, explicating the elements of the text that support my thesis.

The text of Genesis is, in part, a patchwork quilt of old legends and narratives woven into a larger, seamless meta-narrative. We have no records of these stories and legends independent of the text, however the stories carry the character of many differing folktales and legends. Therefore, the narrator (probably some in the sixth century BCE or later ) seems to have consciously attempted to draw varying sources together to help the reader understand this meta-narrative at work. Here, we are examining a section of the Jacob cycle. This narrative contains obvious etymological , ethnological and ceremonial elements; these will not be fully explored, as they are inherent in the legendary material but not urgently tied to the two-fold purpose of the narrator.

The story of Genesis so far has shown the emergence of humanity, the emergence of the patriarchs and the covenant with Abraham. This covenant promise is the primary unifying strand in the stories. The Jacob cycle is part of this narrative; it lasts from Genesis 25:19-37:1. The story of Jacob and Esau is the primary framework within the narrative. Jacob was the younger of the twins, but receives a prophecy that “the elder will serve the younger” Jacob then steals Esau’s birthright, receives great wealth without ‘earning’ it, and leaves a foreign land with wealth and children (sign of promise) to return to the Land of promise.

Gen 32:3-6: introduction // Gen 32:7-23: conflict and response

The players in the story are quickly identified and characterized in the first few sentences. Jacob is marked as a man who is reentering a familiar land (he knows where Esau is), has gained wealth and prosperity in a foreign land, and is subservient to Esau. The story then moves quickly into conflict, as the messengers return with word of Esau; the elder brother is coming, with 400 men, and Jacob is “greatly afraid and distressed.” Jacob has stolen Esau’s blessing and birthright, and now Esau is coming in power to reclaim them.

Jacob’s response is threefold. It is clear that Jacob has only two options: return to the land from which he had just fled, or face Esau and find a way to reconcile with his estranged brother. He rises to the challenge by first dividing his camp into two, so that if one is destroyed, “then the company that is left will escape.” To the implied reader, this division echoes and foreshadows the future division of the kingdom of Israel, as it too was divided and only one “company” was left to escape. At this point in the story, it is still not clear whom Jacob is going to turn out to be. As Brueggemann notes, “it is not known whether Yahweh … will be faithful.”

Next, Jacob responds to the oncoming wrath through a prayer. This prayer reminds the reader that this whole situation is about the promise. God is re-introduced into the narrative, and the reader is reminded that the only reason Jacob returned home is that God promised greater blessing. And finally, Jacob responds to the conflict through a “present” to Esau. It seems clear that Jacob is returning Esau’s stolen birthright to him, as the droves are very clearly shown to be fertile and of high value. Jacob, as far as the text shows, seems to be clearing his conscience by sending to Esau what might be rightfully his; this act is accompanied by a reminder that Jacob is second to Esau, and that Jacob has no desire to usurp power or wealth (any further) from Esau.

The repeated word/image “face” comes into play here, as Jacob declares his hope of appeasement. The word “pen” (face) is repeated five times in verse XX, and it has many layers of meaning. Most importantly, it signifies how completely Jacob is at Esau’s mercy. Finally, it seems clear from the text that Jacob has ceded his original blessing back to Esau. This leaves Jacob in the precarious position of returning to the land without the promise of a blessing. The question of Jacob’s inheritance is now at stake.

Gen. 32:24-32: intercalated legendary material

Jacob was left alone. He then, apparently, wrestles with a man. This legend presupposes the myths of the numen, and the implied reader most likely does not question the supernatural essence of this encounter. The wrestling ends with Jacob and the being in a draw; Jacob has clung to the man, and the man has granted Jacob a new blessing. Henceforth, Jacob’s blessing has been earned through his tenacity, rather than his deceit. This is a major turning point for Jacob, although it does not fully resolve the conflict with his brother, Esau. Heather McKay notes that similar legends implied that the hero “defeats the god, and then is entitled to take possession of the land.” Therefore, it seems implicit that Jacob’s near-victory ensures his continuance in the land he enters into.

More importantly, to the implied reader, this moment reveals the true nature of Jacob. In the renaming to Israel , the listener can now clearly see Jacob as the one whose progeny will inherit the land they long to return to. The hints and foreshadowing (earlier, the names of the tribes) all culminate in this climactic moment. Jacob/Israel is now ready to cling to the promise as he clung to the wrestler.

Gen. 33:1-3: repetition of conflict and response // Gen. 33:4-11: climax and resolution

This section reiterates to the reader what exactly is going on. Lest we forget, Jacob must be reconciled fully to his brother before he can claim the promise. The land will always be at risk if Esau is always looming to the South. The section reminds us that Jacob is still afraid, the companies are still divided, and Jacob is still subservient to Esau. This subservience is made full by Jacob’s “complete” submission and bowing to Esau.

Jacob has passed the birthright back to Esau. Esau now greets Jacob with an emotional embrace. To those in exile wishing to return home, this is a message of hope. Jacob then further establishes his inheritance by ensuring that Esau accepts his rightful sacrifice. Jacob’s declaration that seeing Esau’s face is like seeing the face of God is the inclusio that signals the end of the Jacob-Esau conflict.

Gen. 33:12-17: denouement

Jacob is now shown to move into the land itself, rather than follow Esau further south into what is obviously not the land of promise. Jacob is now free from constraint or guilt, no longer haunted by his past deceit, but now able to fully embrace the promise and inheritance given to his forefathers, Abraham and Isaac. In Jacob, the promise will be fulfilled.

Jacob’s clinging to the promise in spite of the odds being against him is both ethnological in that it displays the kind of tenacity the nation of Israel needed to come into its own in the land of Canaan; this story also is an exhortation to the listener to lay claim to the same promise in spite of fear of rejection, failure or destruction.

In my personal journey, I have encountered many times of fear and distress. Like Jacob, I have set out on my way with the best of intentions, determined to follow the calling on my heart, and have run into many obstacles, often of my own creation. Like Jacob, I often find myself alone at the most critical junctions. This story is a challenge to me to continue to cling to the covenant, to do what I can to reconcile with those I have injured, and to follow through to the very last the commitment to the promise of hope and restoration.

Unfortunately, I often fail at this level of commitment. I aspire to join with others in the great task of bringing the hopeful message of God’s kingdom to the world; I, and my brothers and sisters, often get too wrapped up in self-concern and self-pity to put ourselves at risk. If we are to take this story seriously, and believe its implications, then we, as the community of Christians, must engage those who seem bent on our destruction with humility and hope. We must wrestle with and cling to the promises of hope and inheritance that seem out of our grasp.

Furthermore, we must not forget that our hope comes not from strength, but from weakness. As Brueggeman notes, it is this “same theology of weakness in power and power in weakness [that] turns this text towards the New Testament and the gospel of the cross.” If we put each other first, and do not claim power or arrogant strength over each other, perhaps we will see the face of God in each other’s faces.

Descriptive Review on Karl Barth's Humanity of God, Essay 2

Karl Barth, The Humanity of God “Essay 2: The Humanity of God”

If one were to attempt to analyze Barth’s arguments in “The Humanity of God,” one might spend pages upon pages explicating all the implications and foundations buried in this concise and eloquent sermon; however, I have two pages, so I will attempt to focus on a brief overview, along with an evaluation of one aspect of Barth’s “consequences” that particularly struck a chord with me.

Question: The primary question, in essence, that Barth attempts to answer in this essay is “What do we know about God?” The secondary question asked by Barth is “What does this knowledge then imply for us?” Barth is nearing the end of his career in 1956, and speaking directly to a group of Swiss Reformed ministers in Aarau, Switzerland (Barth 37). If one understands that Barth is communicating with people in the same tradition as himself, one gets closer to understanding why Barth does not choose to spend time elucidating his reasons for believing in the God-man relationship as found in Jesus Christ; this knowledge also helps us understand who Barth is encouraging and exhorting in his final words.

Answer: Simply put, the answer to the primary question is that we can only know God through Jesus. From this starting point, Barth proclaims that since Jesus is both “wholly” human and “wholly” God (47), we can therefore pronounce that God has both humanity and deity (48). To Barth, “God’s deity does not exclude … [God’s] humanity (49); instead, we both recognize God as human and the implied value of human nature. What does this actually mean? In my own paraphrase, we can’t understand God in any other way than as a human God. Therefore, we are not being superstitious, anthropocentric, or ignorant when we pray to a God who is actually like us. Conversely, we can’t cast aspersion on humanity, since God’s self is revealed as being fully human. This leads to us treating all of humanity as valuable and containing the stamp of divinity (53).

The answer to the secondary question leads out from the previous statement. If God is similar to us in God’s humanity, what does that imply for us? Since the starting point for Barth’s theology is Jesus, then Barth proclaims that God chooses to be for us, even though God doesn’t have to (60). It as if Barth is saying that God could be against us, just as we could be for or against our neighbor. Due to God’s humanity, God can choose any direction; God exists in space and time. This leads Barth to the most powerful aspect of the gospel of grace: God is not constrained to act in any way, but chooses to act for us. This gospel, according to Barth, is the “framework” within which all proclamation in the church must be spoken (60).

Method: Barth uses, on the one hand, a hermeneutic of trust when examining scriptures and history (55). The author also employs the use of analogical thinking and reason to move from point A to point B.

Significance: Within this text, there is a strong call to the church to actually manifest the humanity and deity of God to the world. To a land that was still reeling from the damages of two major and destructive wars – during which the church somehow managed to attach the name of Jesus to both Allied forces, National Socialism, and worst of all, genocide – Barth exhorts the listener and the reader to act as a force for positivity, hope and love on behalf of God and in the power and grace granted by God. Barth’s sermon eloquently encourages a people to continue in the work that was begun in the Event of Incarnation and continued by the church.

Evaluation: Several of Barth’s points ring true with me. Barth’s profound description of human culture (54), his view that all theology must be dialogue over against monologue (57), and his statement that there is no such thing as private Christianity (64) all echoed in my heart and mind as important truths for any Christian theologian. However, Barth’s depiction of the church and his near-commandment to stay within the institution seemed hollow and false. For one, I have yet to discover a church that actually holds to Barth’s view of Jesus, God and God’s humanity. Barth seems to ignore the fact that his own tradition had to move outside the institution, so to speak. Second, I agree with Barth that the Event precedes the institution; unfortunately, I employ a hermeneutic of suspicion when studying church history, and it seems clear that even from the earliest of institutions, the church fails to adequately follow the trajectory that the event established. Therefore, should we not constantly be seeking to be faithful to the Event, over and against the institution? If it is understood that the institution is not in line with this trajectory, then no claim be made on the believer to “affirm … this community in its peculiarity” (64). Instead, the believer should continue, as Barth implores, to be in the family of faith that is most faithful to the Event of God’s descent to humanity and humanity’s ascent to God.

Descriptive Review of Church Dogmatics in Outline, Ch 12

Karl Barth, Dogmatics in Outline – Chapter 12

As we wrap up our analysis of Karl Barth’s Dogmatics in Outline, I am compelled to note that this study has proven to be tremendously beneficial to me, both as a reminder of the core of Christian doctrine as passed down through history as well as an inspiration to pursue my own theology as it develops. For Barth did not need to write in the tongues of philosophy or existentialism or postmodernism, but wrote simply to the common Christian theologian, and in doing so left a permanent and powerful mark upon Christendom.

On the chapter in question, “God’s Only Son,” Karl Barth asserts the divinity of Christ, and the implications found therein. The four adjectives that stand out in the epigraph – and hence, in the text – are helpful, adequate, compelling and exclusive. These four words define the boundary of the argument being attempted. Barth does not attempt to determine what divinity actually is in an ontological sense; instead, Barth seeks to claim the divinity of Christ as exclusive, compelling, helpful and adequate.

Question: Why do Christians say they “believe in Jesus Christ, God’s only son?” What do they mean when they say this? These two primary questions are addressed by Barth in this essay, and they are addressed to the Christian church as it does confession. This starting point, within the church, is made clear when Barth states that “starting from the Christian faith” (83).

Answer: The statement of Jesus as God’s only son means that the “revelation” of God is “compelling and exclusive,” and the “work” of God is “helpful and adequate” (82). These two statements and four terms define what Barth means when he claims that God is “uniquely living through” Jesus (82). The Incarnation of God in Jesus is compelling and exclusive in that in Jesus, there is the supreme and final Revelation of God. If Jesus is God made human (which Barth has spoken of in the previous articles), then there can be no other God made human – Jesus’ Revelation is exclusive. If Jesus is God made human, then we are compelled to seek and understand this Revelation. Furthermore, Barth claims, if Jesus is God made human, then this Revelation has shown us a God that if for us; this God made human is both helpful and adequate.

Method: Barth again uses the primary tool of exegesis and reasoning based on his prior assertions. Barth does not engage in questions of substance and essence, of eternity and time, but Barth affirms the definitions and answers of the early church fathers as they struggled with these issues. Barth commends them for not being “afraid to fight” (86); indeed, Barth confesses that “all we men do is problematic, shameful and joyless,” a caveat for the reader declaring that even Barth’s assertions must be held in the same understanding. Barth does not claim any special revelation or power – he only stands with the church, claiming what the church claims.

Significance: To those who have experienced abuse of power in Christ’s name and to those who have “reduced” Jesus to simply a man/teacher/great thinker, Barth stands for Christ’s divinity, over against these things. For one, to those in Barth’s era who had seen people lay claim to the special Revelation and even the divinity of God (Heil, Hitler = Heil, Marie), and subsequently experienced terrible acts of inhumanity at their hands, Barth reminds us that Jesus as God is both helpful and adequate. And to those in Barth’s time who spoke of the Christian message as powerless and empty in the face of evil and death, the theologian offers us hope in that Jesus as God is compelling and exclusive. This work of God, according to Christian faith, is both final and for our good.

Evaluation: It is now quite clear that Karl Barth is not concerned with abstract theology and questions, but with practical Christian theology, as can be determined from the bible and from the creeds. I believe that Barth accomplishes this to a certain degree, as is evidenced from his longevity. More importantly, I believe Barth offers up a new criteria for faith and progress; we must not discard or discredit the past, but instead we must look searchingly for truth where it is to be found, and then determine what is helpful and adequate, compelling and exclusive in the work of God as “He wills to be for us in His only-begotten Son, Jesus Christ” (87).

Church Dogmatics in Outline, Chapter 10

Karl Barth, Dogmatics in Outline – Chapter 10

In chapter 10 of Karl Barth’s Dogmatics in Outline, the author tackles the portion of the Creed that contains the phrase, “Jesus Christ.” In doing so, Barth illuminates his Christ centric tendencies. This chapter makes the audacious claim to be expositing the “heart of the object of Christian faith” (65). The author makes his point very clear, that in the second article, “I believe in Jesus Christ,” we find the foundation of all Christian belief and theology.

Question: Barth asks the simple question, “Why must we confess that we believe in Jesus Christ?” Why not say, “I believe in God, but not in Jesus,” or “I believe in the movement Jesus started?” Barth is concerned here with positing that Christians confess that they believe in Jesus Christ, the historical person (69), as the actual and literal center of all else they claim to believe. Why is this so, asks Barth?

Answer: As the author claims on page 65, the “original Christian confession consisted of three words, ‘Jesus Christ (is) Lord.’” If Barth holds to the idea that the closer to the original faith we get, the closer we get to God (and it seems that this is most undoubtedly the case), then a priori the original creed of the Church is most likely to have essential truths therein. So, to Barth, the answer to the previously noted question of why is answered by the voice of the early church, as they proclaimed the Christian message of Jesus Christ as supreme.

Method: One does not arrive at Barth’s conclusion by speculating or philosophizing. Barth’s methodology once again is clearly an exegetical approach to first scripture, and then creeds (the closer to the Incarnation, the better). The reason that Barth accepts and lifts up the creeds and doctrines of the Reformation is that Barth believed, as the reformers did, that they were returning to the more original understanding of the Christian message. Barth, like the reformers, is concerned with refining our theology regarding God and Word, and is focused on the evangelical nature of this confession. As is evident in this chapter, the author speaks of Jesus Christ as God becoming man for our good. This is absolutely good news, claims Barth.

Significance: The significance of this chapter is primarily noted in demonstrating how Barth is Christ centric. By understanding Barth’s point of view regarding the Incarnation, one can more clearly understand the whole of Barth’s theology and dogmatics (65). Accordingly, this chapter is significant to any who might agree with the author regarding the nature of theology, scripture and Christian confession. To any and all reformed theologians, this chapter is a significant statement of belief, couched in modern terms and context, and paves the way for future hope and proclamation regarding the Event of God made man.

Evaluation: According to the measure of philosophers and historians, this chapter does not stand up. Barth does not prove, in fact, does not make an attempt to prove, why Jesus must be declared as central to the Christian faith. To Barth, that Jesus is central is established in the fact that Jesus Christ is central. There is no argument around or against this. Barth has declared, since the beginning, that we are playing with his rules, and these rules dictate that Jesus Christ is central. In fact, this is the very starting point for the theology and expositions that the author has engaged in.

Socrates and Plato might have decried this work as a work of rhetoric, as a work of a Sophist; to many, Barth does nothing more than try to convince the reader of his rightness, disregarding any truth that might be discovered outside the revealed truth already in the mind of this sophist. I would wager, however, that Barth did not perceive his work as sophistry, but instead as exposition of history – a history based in the work of God as done in and through Jesus. I stand in the middle, both admiring Barth for his boldness and clarity of thought as he engages in admittedly Christian theology, but also shuddering at the arrogant and dismissive ways that Barth seems to disregard all other arguments against his reasoning.

Descriptive Review of Church Dogmatics in Outline, Ch 5

In my Introduction to Theology class, we have to do at least one "descriptive review" paper a week. The second week was on "Church Dogmatics in Outline" by Karl Barth. This paper is on the fifth chapter, entitled "God in the highest"

Karl Barth, Dogmatics in Outline – Chapter 5

As Barth moves through the Apostles’ Creed in his book Church Dogmatics In Outline, the author spends a varying amount of time on each phrase and concept. For instance, Barth spends three chapters on “I believe,” trying to establish what it means for a Christian to say this in the context of doctrine. In chapter five, Barth tackles the beginning of the first article of faith, “… in God.”

Question: To begin with, Barth asks, what is the content of the proclamation of the gospel? In this context, the sub-question that this chapter deals with is, what does a Christian mean when he or she says “God?” The audience is the same as before; the students at Bonn, the nation of Germany and the rest of the world. Barth is also specifically speaking to a group of people who have recently placed their allegiance with a “god” in Hitler.
Answer: In answer to this question, Barth posits that the Christian is speaking of “God in the highest” (henceforth, God in excelsis). This phrase, in excelsis, captures what Barth feels to be the differentiating factor between humanity’s concepts of God and divinity (gods) and the God of Christianity. Barth expands on this by explaining that by in excelsis, he also means the God “who exists, lives, acts, and makes himself known to us … in Jesus Christ” (35). Barth goes even further, declaring that God in excelsis is “the One who stands above us,” is established in God’s self, and is “made manifest … only through Himself” (37). If God is only made manifest through God’s own actions and the Holy Scriptures (as Barth describes them) are a record of God’s “mighty acts,” then Barth has reiterated his earlier point that the only source of knowledge of/about God is through the Word (38).

Method: Barth speaks in the language of apophasis (negative theology) and uses the reasoning frame of an existentialist to arrive at his primary point, and then uses the logic to reach the conclusion that God is God in excelsis. Perhaps due to the abuses Barth has witnessed in the name of reason, the author’s launching point for the discussion of God is summed up in this statement, “if we glance at the history of human … assertion about this being [God] … [the] impression we receive is … of human waywardness and human violence with this concept, this idea of God” (35). Barth’s response to this troubling observation is that “when Christians speak of ‘God’, we may and must be clear that this word signifies a priori the fundamentally Other, the fundamental deliverance from that whole world of man’s … speculating” (36). It is clear that Barth believes it impossible to methodically and philosophically “reach” up to this God in the highest.

Therefore, Barth elaborates on the act of God “descending” as the definitive characteristic (to humankind’s perspective) of the God of Christianity. This proposition is forcefully stated on page 38, where Barth speaks to those who would attempt and prove God’s existence; “I speak of a God who proves Himself on every hand: Here am I, and since I live and act it is superfluous that I should be proved” (38). These “mighty acts of God” are shown to be in three categories (or strata): the work of creation, the covenant between God and humankind, and the work of redemption (39). It is through these acts that God descends, and thus, is God in excelsis.

Significance: To anyone in Barth’s time, the problem of usurpers has become a pressing issue; Hitler, Stalin, and Mussolini among others have placed themselves in power in such a way as to steal the ‘title’ of Lord from God. Barth speaks vehemently against this, decrying any and all attempts to claim divinity outside of the three mighty acts of God found in the Holy Scriptures. This chapter’s definition of the God of Christianity is a pronouncement against any person who claims divinity for his/herself.

Evaluation: Outside of the context of the situation (indeed, outside the context of the book), this chapter stands on its own as a ‘natural negative theology.’ Barth comes to the “obvious” conclusion that we cannot know God, therefore God must reach us. The flaws in the author’s arguments can be illuminated by the very idea that we can claim to know God in the highest in spite of all the author’s posturing on the side of apophasis. Barth seems to say, we cannot know God, but we must know God. In spite of this apparent contradiction, the author eloquently speaks to the concept of the God of Christianity as a non-concept; he speaks about God as an acting, living being that is made known to us in Christ. Overall, one might still argue that to this day, we have not grasped the Otherness of God, instead continuing the pretentious ideas and concepts of divinity that allow us to continually reshape God in our own image. Barth stands against it.

Descriptive Review of Church Dogmatics in Outline, Ch 1

In my Introduction to Theology class, we have to do at least one "descriptive review" paper a week. The second week was on "Church Dogmatics in Outline" by Karl Barth. This paper is on the first chapter, entitled "The Task."

Karl Barth, Dogmatics in Outline – Chapter 1

Any time a theologian attempts to convey their beliefs, one must take into consideration the context in which the beliefs were forged. Karl Barth was deeply affected (like many others) by the great wars, and especially by World War II and the rise of Nazism. That said, Barth expounds theological treatises that still hold sway in many communities, and his contribution to theology cannot and, indeed, must not be ignored or dismissed. This paper will attempt to analyze the first chapter of Barth’s book, Dogmatics in Outline, and offer an evaluation of its significance and continuing value.

Question: Barth begins very clearly in this chapter (a prolegomena of sorts) to explain to the reader to what task he has set out to accomplish. In the preceding preface, the author has already told us that these lectures are given to students at the University of Bonn immediately following the war (in 1946). Barth’s purpose in this chapter is to answer the question, “What is church dogmatics?” This is made unequivocally clear by his summary statement “dogmatics is…” (9). The rest of the sentence and this chapter attempt to finish this phrase satisfactorily for both the students and the rest of the world (both of whom were still reeling in the aftershock of WWII and the Holocaust).

Answer: Barth posits, “Christian dogmatics is an attempt … to state definite facts … and present them in the form of a doctrine” (9). He goes on to say that the subject of dogmatics (that which does the study) is the church and that the object (that which is studied) is the “proclamation of the Gospel” (9-10). According to Barth, the church alone can attempt dogmatics. Barth also clarifies that this dogma is “not a thing which has fallen from Heaven to earth” (10), which implies his acknowledgement of erroneous interpretations. Moreover, Barth insists that what we are concerned with is not simply theory, but instead is the very proclamation of the gospel: “what as Christians do we really have to say?” (11) In summary, dogmatics is the act of weighing critically the content of what the church says to the world about G-d. This leads to the next question, how must we go about this process?

Method: Barth’s method appears at surface level to be ‘sola scriptura.’ To some, Barth appears to ignore reason for an extremist view that ONLY the bible can provide truth. Barth’s background in existentialism, alongside his criticism of the so-called “German Christians,” is key here to understanding his desire to jump immediately to Scripture and Confession as the only relevant sources for critical dogmatics over against reason and philosophy. If G-d exists, Kierkegaard posited, then G-d cannot be objectively known (Grenz 7). This theologian believed that since this is true, the starting point is an individual’s “leap of faith.” Barth echoes this sentiment (and goes into greater detail in the next three chapters) along with the theology of Calvin; Barth’s foundational claim is that we cannot find G-d, only G-d can find us.
Therefore, the event of G-d’s incarnation is the only real Revelation. Furthermore, “Holy Scripture is… the document of the manifestation of the Word of God in the person of Jesus Christ” (13). Barth is offering a way of doing theology that is rooted and anchored in the line of succession from the Event of Jesus down to our present day. The fact that the world of theology is still fresh off of the first real wave of biblical criticism comes into play here; Barth’s understanding of scripture is filtered through the previous century’s attempt at understanding the bible better.

Significance: In a time of groundlessness, angst, and foolishness that had recently led to genocide and war, Barth provides an anchor – don’t just ‘feel’ your way through it, that only leads to perversions like National Socialism – instead, the church must take account of its own proclamations by the standards of scripture and confession. Barth’s statements echo down to today, when Christian doctrine is still twisted and co-opted for worldly and quite evil purposes. Don’t let your reason fool you, Barth beseeches, but trust in the revealed G-d found in Jesus.

Evaluation: Barth’s theology is good for what it is. He does not attempt to engage in certain questions, such as proving G-d’s existence. Instead, the author claims that we just can’t know objectively about G-d and therefore, once we have taken that leap of faith, then we must examine that faith against the Revelation found in Jesus Christ. My only qualms with this approach are that for one, Barth seems to trust rather completely in the scriptures’ accuracy regarding the Incarnation. Also, Barth does not seem to have a plan to address the problem of evil, which in my humble opinion, might have been a necessary task in the face of the holocaust.

Descriptive Review of Surviving the Blight by Cannon

In my Introduction to Theology class, we have to do at least one "descriptive review" paper a week. The first week was on "Inheriting Our Mothers' Gardens" and I chose to review an essay by Katie Geneva Cannon on "Surviving the Blight."

With a title as consciously ambivalent as Inheriting Our Mothers’ Gardens, one may expect to find a wide swath of perspectives on the symbol of garden as it relates to “inherited” theology and worldview. In chapter four of this collection, Katie Geneva Cannon understands the metaphorical garden as related to the blighted plants of her African-American roots. In this, her main theme is the survival of a people and culture in spite of inhuman oppression and systemic de-humanization.
1. Questions/Audience:
Cannon, like the rest of the authors in the book, is writing to a global audience of women, and she is writing, in one sense, to inform others of her unique perspective. The author perceives her audience to be unaware to some degree of the “blighted” gardens of the African-American people who have suffered from the institution of slavery (and its effects) as it existed in the United States.
The questions that necessarily must be answered by all the authors in this book are (1) “from what history and culture does my version of feminist theology spring,” and (2) “what can I offer to the global dialogue as I examine this heritage.” Cannon’s unique take on these questions is apparent in her summary of the stories of oppression that begin her chapter; the author states that “hovering over all my cultural inheritance is the devastating reality that chattel tenure excluded any sort of social recognition of Black people as thinking, religious and moral beings” (83). Cannon must not only answer the first two questions, but she must do so with the reality that her cultural heritage is one that suffered under a conscious attempt at eradication.
2. Answer:
“Even with cultural self-expression outlawed, my ancestors never surrendered their humanity or lost sight of a vision of freedom and justice they believed to be their due” (84). With this statement, Cannon transitions from a recounting of the “blight” to a telling of the “surviving.” This is done with three specific “flowers” from her garden: folklore, spirituals, and prayer. In her accounts of all three, Cannon demonstrates that her heritage is full of the struggle for “freedom, resistance and self-determination” (85) and the “unflinching faith that they, too, were the people of God” (87). Both narrative and music are tied together in prayer, which the author describes as a “living bridge” (88).
3. Method:
The author approaches this task with the double-edged sword of narrative as her primary means of analysis. On the one hand, the reader can read the essay and feel as if all Cannon did was tell tales of her past; on the other hand, the tales of injustice and oppression allow the reader to see the garden from the author’s eyes. Cannon seems most concerned with placing the reader in the midst of the “blighted” garden, and letting the reader then appreciate more fully the beauty and strength of the surviving flowers.
4. Significance:
In a world where there are many injustices, the American enslavement and de-humanization of African-Americans stands out as one of humanity’s bleakest moments. If Cannon can effectively demonstrate for the global reader how her ancestors survived these times with a culture of “freedom, resistance and self-determination,” then hope can be offered to those in the world still suffering under the many facets of institutional and systemic oppression.
5. Evaluation:
As my tone may have indicated, I value both the author’s stories and approach. Cannon’s use of narrative is an effective tool as she first establishes why her ancestors’ history is unique in the magnitude and scale of the oppression. Next, her answers sufficiently demonstrate that “despite” the inhumanities, her culture retained its humanness and religion.
My only criticism is that Cannon does not go into much detail as to how exactly these “flowers” might be planted in someone else’s garden. Understanding one another is good, but contributing substantive answers to each other’s questions could be considered the true task of dialogue in theology. The author either does not have room or does not find it necessary to interpret her inherited culture for the non-African American. This, once again, is a double-edged sword; if any person so chooses, they could interpret the author’s history as similar to their own. Overall, I personally felt closer to an understanding of the author’s situation, and appreciated her task, method, and her application of the method.

coming this week

coming this week:

* posting my papers for class so far
* posting my thoughts on starting the MTS program at Perkins
* posting an update on what's been happening
* posting some thoughts about Jaimie and I's possible future plans
* posting some random crap...

Do you think you're ready for this jelly?