Hay, Horses, and (What Sort of) Dogmatics (?)

I have a long-standing tacit debate going with my mother and my mother-in-law. It involves the reach of Church doctrine — because why wouldn’t it? My mom-in-law puts it in more immediate, community-minded terms; namely, how essential do we want to make something like, say, the Trinity, if the general population of the Church “doesn’t get it”? My own mother’s terms are a bit more pastoral: “Put the hay down where the horses can get to it.”

My general response cites a failure of Christian education and that we don’t think highly enough of the laity, and in large degree I still think this is true. Amos, after all, was an Ancient Near-Eastern farmer who levied a socio-economic critique so scathing that it would have bowled over Marx himself. Radical critiques of Church history typically read modern systems of power/knowledge onto early doctrinal developments and presume that one-tenth of one percent has always dictated the terms of knowledge. But I think it’s reductive to say that the Trinity (might as well stay consistent) emerged from these same sorts of power dynamics. It wasn’t some mystifying element held over the heads of the faithful in order to create a divide between them and the reigning hierarchy. Yes, at the Council of Nicaea the Church was represented by a fairly small number of men, but by many accounts only an astonishing half of one percent dissented from the view which would then under-gird the doctrine of the Trinity and become “orthodox.” To me, this indicates that the doctrine was far from incomprehensible to the people whom these men represented at the council — So why should our thoughts on that change now?

Perhaps they shouldn’t. But that doesn’t render the question unproblematic; in fact, the problem may well lie elsewhere, in the question my mom-in-law consistently poses: what happens if you can’t “grasp” something so essential?

In Radical Hermeneutics (1987), John D. Caputo attempts to re-think the entire foundation of knowledge, reason, and the roles they play in our lives. Extending the legacy of philosopher Jacques Derrida and his theory of deconstruction, Caputo advocates a kind of thinking which “exposes itself to the twilight world of ambiguous and undecidable figures”:

Its role is not so much to “come to grips” with [mystery]–that is the metaphorics of grasping, and we have insisted on [mystery’s] ability to elude our grip–as it is to cope with or, best of all, to stay in play with it. (271)

Here, Caputo suggests that “grasping” is the wrong way to go about learning. Throughout his study, Caputo makes a number of adjustments in how he discusses knowledge: the Latin veritas, an object of conquest and loaded with certainties, gives way to an older notion, the Greek aletheia which discloses itself, generously opening itself to inquiry without giving everything away. Heidegger resources aletheia in his thought, but Caputo wants to radicalize such disclosure into a-letheia. What is disclosed, for Caputo, is the lethe at the heart of all thinking; not a foundational reality which coquettishly gives us peaks of itself but one which opens itself up completely to reveal that, underneath, there is nothing but flux, change, and chaos. This flux, Caputo believes, is what the German mystic Meister Eckhart has in mind when he described “Godhead,” as resourced in Heidegger:

Heidegger’s first, last, and constant thought, in my view, is that thinking is in the end directed at that lethic dimension, that the de-limitation of conceptual thinking issues in a Gelassenheit toward the lethe, the concealed heart of a-letheia, the mystery which withdraws, which never hands itself over in a form we can trust. (271)

So much for “putting the hay where the horses can get at it” …

Caputo dances beautifully across the mystical sublime, the “abyss” which accompanies the overwhelming reality of what we call God. But there are other interventions to be made here. I will leave it to Luke Ferretter to describe Caputo’s misreadings of Eckhart and the tradition to which he belonged; more imminently, one must consider what to make of Caputo’s claim that the lethe, or what Eckhart called “Godhead,” “never hands itself over in a form we can trust.”

Christianity, of course, is proceeds from a different wager: it believes that, in fact, Godhead handed itself over in a form that we can trust; the person of Jesus Christ and, secondarily, in the plural testimonies contained in what we call Scripture and the interpretive traditions of the Church (however fragile that canon may be; you can consult Colby Dickinson on that one). The core of Christianity is the belief that the “abyss” beneath the name of God has conceded to name itself God the Father Almighty, Maker of Heaven and Earth. God puts Godself in play with us materially, historically, making a wager of trust something like possible.

So while I do not believe that Caputo’s “religion without religion” is representative of historic Christianity (nor can it be in any real way), I do want to retain a part of his critique; in this case, his critique of “the metaphorics of grasping.” With Caputo, I agree that language, always the first ingress into our Being, often constitutes the realities in which we live. Insofar as the “metaphorics of grasping” are operative within our discussions of doctrine, there is a constitutive project at work which places us in active relationship to the passivity of God and his nature. Under such dynamics, the privilege will indeed belong to those who are able to “grasp” God, who “get it,” and it will fall to those who cannot to fall in line behind those who can. This creates an economy of power in which those who “get it” merely have to accuse a dissenter of not getting it, an accusation which has no hope of being rebutted because those who “get it” already control the terms of the debate. Practically, this produces situations like our current crisis in Christian education, where doctrine is merely repeated ad nauseum in terms which no one understands anymore, the bludgeon by which the powerful mark themselves off from those who “just don’t get it.”

So what can we do about this? How can we change it, and avoid this sort of toxicity? For one, I am more than satisfied exchanging veritas for Heidegger’s aletheia without making Caputo’s enormous leap into the lethe. This is a conservatism for which he would fault me mightily, but so be it; I see no need to make such a leap. What I do see, however, is that this move returns God to the active position, free to place Godself under disclosure. We take an active role in this as well, watching for events of such self-disclosure and communication by which this God would make itself known, and not to a privileged few but to all people (Isaiah 65:1).

Where, then, heresy? This is something that I will need a long time to sort out, but by way of a preliminary answer, I would argue that, under the “metaphorics of grasping,”accusations of heresy become a means by which to marginalize and manage those who are unable to “grasp” and yet continue to speak as though they do. Privilege of interpretation belongs to those who “get it,” while others are kept in line, warned not to speak beyond their place and unable to defend their dissents against the tribunal. But in accounts of the early Church, unless we read them with the most uncharitable of suspicion (a popular and academically “sexy” move to be sure), this isn’t how we see “heresy” at work. Rather, “heresy” tends to be a pretty active project; rather than being the mere failure to apprehend part of what power has decreed to be knowledge, heresy involves a deliberate rejection, an active misreading, or an over-emphasis of something else. In his feud with Athanasius, Arias did not merely “fail to grasp” the teaching that Christ was both human and divine, rather he insisted on emphasizing the humanness of Christ such that his divinity was effaced. In this case Arias could be accused of “grasping” — veritas — where it was not right to grasp, reaching beyond what God had seen fit to disclose about himself — aletheia.

If we excise or invert the metaphorics of grasping, there is, I think, an opportunity to reconsider the terms. Church dogmatics is not a veritas, a confident “grasping” of what has attempted to stay hidden from us. But neither should dogma be a merely provisional, skittish “construal” of that which “never hands itself over in a form we can trust.” Rather, dogma emerges from a desire to respond to aletheia, to that which God has seen fit to reveal about himself. Aletheia is democratic, and so dogma at its best is the communal response to God’s self disclosure. It says, “Yes, we have all seen the same thing, and though we may not understand it we trust the One who has shown it, and those who have seen the same things before us. It is enough, for now.” Dogma, when it finds its foundation in the community, is democratic because it finds its expression in response to aletheia, and because it is democratic it is also sparse, humble, and yet deadly serious, “valuable for teaching the truth, convicting of sin, correcting faults and training in right living” (c.f. 2 Timothy 3:16). Orthodoxy is orthodoxy precisely because it “sets the hay down where the horses can get to it.” Under this rubric, it is what we call heresy, and not orthodoxy, which repeats the violence of the “metaphorics of grasping” in its dissatisfaction with aletheia and instead reaches for novelty and power, either in the certainty of veritas or the gnosticism of pure lethe. It denies God’s freedom to be responsible for Godself, and denies that Christ is trustworthy enough to reveal himself in a self-consistent way which creates a humbly normative framework by which the entire community can understand itself. A proper dogmatics, responding to revelation, should be assure along with Czeslaw Milosz that, “The errors and childish imaginings of the explorers / Of mysteries should be forgiven.”

Under this reading, heresy rather than orthodoxy is an exercise in the illiberal and undemocratic; dogma is liberated, freed to be the curation of a communal voice. But the believed-in self-consistency of God as communicated by that dogma does not (indeed must not) close down the play, the messianic possibilities of the Spirit. Whereas Caputo sees all as play, as lethe, the Christian sees this as a play with purpose, the play of a person, a divine person in communication with (all) human persons, and this divine person is absolutely free. But this person is also good and trustworthy, and it is ultimately that belief which guards against what I have described above becoming a simple reversal, an inversion of terms which ultimately maintains the same power structure. Caputo himself admits that all such “displacements” are dangerous in precisely this way, no matter who is performing them. Lest we fall prey to this danger, we must remain open to that same messianic “play” by which God-in-Christ overturned the Law of Moses and undermined the theology of the Jews. The free play of the Holy Spirit may, indeed, leave our own conceptualizations and construals undermined at times, but that freedom does not bespeak of a lethe which leaves us cast adrift. We and our ever-fragile dogmatics are, rather, left with a single consolation: ADONAI, God of the spirits of the prophets, is true and trustworthy (c.f. Revelation 22:6).

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“Seeing the form.”

While the “true” and the “good” may not change, the “beautiful” is precisely the capacity for the “true” and the “good” to adapt to the changing needs of history.

I’m about three days into my dedicated time of reading for comprehensive exams, and my track record is abysmal.

Doing the math, I should be reading about 10 books a month to stay ahead of the curve. That’s a book every three days.

Three days in, I am on page 125 of Catholic theologian Hans Urs von Balthasar’s The Glory of the Lord.

That is, page 125 out of 663.

Of Volume I.

Of 7.

Not that I need to read all seven volumes, but still. I could be doing better.

At the same time, the slow grind has been useful, especially since Balthasar is so dense. In his introductory chapter to The Glory of the Lord, Balthasar provides a history lesson on the fall of “beauty” from the world of theology. He begins with Romanticism (the philosophical movement of the long 19th Century) and demonstrates the ways in which art has been divorced from the other transcendentals, the “good” and the “true.”

The main effects have been this: first, there is the privatization of religion into what theologian David Tracy calls “a private consumer product that some people seem to need.” Following closely, art, or “the beautiful,” becomes similarly privatized as (Tracy here, again), “a now attractive, now repulsive expression of another’s private self.”

For Balthasar, this privatization began when “beauty” came to be understood as something intensely personal and subjective, no longer understood as the “form” of the world, as is the case in Catholic sacramentalism. From there, the historicity which has under-girded traditional Christian religious belief ceases to be necessary and give way to the existentialism of modern religion, in which God is not a person to be engaged by a concept to be orbited. For Balthasar, when aesthetic form disappears from our understanding of the Gospel, that form being rooted in God’s self-disclosure throughout history, then we are indeed left only with sterile concepts; “Resurrection,” for instance, no longer figures Christ’s victory over death, but rather a figurative “resurrection” into the memory of the church and the potentials of new life here on earth and among other people.

This, I think, is precisely what Catholic novelist Shusaku Endo encountered in trying to translate his Christianity into something intelligible to his native Japan:

‘When the [Jesus] was killed,’ Otsu muttered, staring at the ground, as though speaking only to himself, ‘the disciples who remained finally understood his love and what it meant. Every one of them had stayed alive by abandoning him and running away. He continued to love them even though they had betrayed him. As a result, he was etched into each of their guilty hearts, and they were never able to forget him. The disciples set out for distant lands to tell others the story of his life.’ Otsu spoke as though he had opened up a picture-book and was reading a story to the impoverished children of India. ‘After that, he continued to live in the hearts of his disciples. He died, but he was restored to life in their hearts.’

This passage, from Endo’s final novel Deep River (1994), has less to do, I think, with the modern refusal to accept anything as miraculous as the bodily resurrection of Christ. More so, I think that it is also an aesthetic problem, one which arises when beauty is no longer a priority for theology — when “seeing the form” becomes clouded and problematic, especially when making the jump into a deeply aesthetic yet modernized culture such as Japan for which “form” means something very different. It is one thing when the “form” requires, as Tracy and Balthasar both argue, an inexhaustible plurality of expressions. It’s a wholly other thing when “form” ceases to be the means by which faith might be expressed.

This, certainly, is the case for a post-structuralist culture for which “form” is a four-letter word, another attempt at dominating reality and rendering it up to our disposal. Living in the world, today, means finding a way to live without form altogether. This is made evident enough by the fact that those who manage to do so insist on praising their achievement.

But this vantage is itself historically grounded, is the product of over a hundred years of history. Modern philosophy is, in many ways, the child who grew up in the middle of the messy divorce between theology and aesthetics. But, I think, it is possible to imagine things being otherwise: that perhaps “beauty” is not merely an after-effect of numerous subjective cross-sections of the “true” and the “good,” themselves as subjective as anything else, but that “beauty” may well be part of what determines what is “good” and “true” in the first place. Maybe it is possible, for instance, to think of ethics not as dogma, but as drama. Such imagining is, I think, precisely the work of literature, the potential role of religious literature in the 21st Century, but it is only effective if history is given central importance to the journey, not only because it tells us where we come from but because, according to Balthasar, history dictates the very needs and means (i.e. “style”) by which the form of the beautiful must be expressed. History explains where we come from, and so clarifies what we need in the present, so while the “true” and the “good” may not change, the “beautiful” is precisely the capacity for the “true” and the “good” to adapt to the changing needs of history.

But, as one fellow in the faith told me recently, and very bluntly, “Oh, I don’t care about history.” Specifically, what use is history to the immediate needs of ministry?

Oh. I wonder.