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).

Features and Bugs

“Sheep might have to put on wolves’ clothing, to fight as wolves do; of course, the innocent may risk bloodying their own jaws–captured by discourses they should have known were predatory.” — Mark Greif, The Age of the Crisis of Man (2007)

 

According to Rene Girard in I See Satan Fall Like Lightning (2001), what’s right with the world is that our current age enjoys an unprecedented care for victims. Unlike past ages, which were content to unload their violence on suddenly and unanimously-selected victims, our world is no longer content with the selection of scapegoats. Indiscriminate violence against the innocent can no longer serve as a placeholder for justice. Such, according to Girard, is the power of the Gospel.

This is something I want to make sure I think on in light of my last post. I’ll be honest, “movements” scare me. Whether it be #BlackLivesMatter or #BlueLivesMatter or the reaction of #AllLivesMatter anything (those are simply the most visible right now), no matter the source, part of me is always worried that someone is out for blood and that movements for “justice” are actually veiled coups, about-faces disguised as cries for equality which will go suspiciously silent the moment power changes hands. I went through the process of articulating this discomfort with a few people recently and got one particularly interesting response:

I will gently suggest that your discomfort […] should be examined, as they say in tech, as a feature not a bug.

What strikes me about this is the double edge to it. On the one hand, this is absolutely true: my discomfort, insofar as it is sourced in my own unexamined privilege and prejudices, is definitely “a feature not a bug.” Insofar as I am worried that “justice” means I might have to change the way in which I interface with the world, then I am on the wrong side of things — I am complicit, in need of forgiveness, repentance and patience.

But it turns out there is a darker side to this phrase: in the tech industry, when one tries to argue that something is a “feature not a bug,” there may actually be a con going on. When something goes wrong with a line of code for instance, or a program fails to work properly or efficiently, this may be used (jokingly) as an excuse. The argument that “it’s a feature not a bug” is in fact the programmer’s way of avoiding responsibility for a defective product that needed way more care and attention.

So, ironically, perhaps the single most true thing that could be said of any and all social movements is that “Discomfort is a feature, not a bug,” with all the implications of its rampant double-meaning. On the one hand, such discomfort needs to be accepted as a reality of having one’s privilege challenged; on the other, it can also be used to abdicate responsibility under the attitude that the ends justify the means.

The very ideas of justice and revolution, then, contain within themselves the promise of their success as well as their potential for a new kind of tyranny. And this ought to scare us, I think, because we are human creatures. We have a long history of piling up victims, as Girard argues. All special-interest groups have the deck stacked against them from the beginning because they cannot demand justice without reminding humanity of the mob mentality that all human culture is based on. There are two discomforts which must be held in tension, and the challengers and the challenged alike are responsible to one another in producing an actual event of justice: the ending of victimization without producing more victims.

What should encourage us, in the times ahead, is that such justice is a real possibility. If we believe, as Girard does, that we really have developed an attention to victims as well as a distaste for collective violence, then we can bank on that lesson, an instinct which does not come naturally but has been disclosed to us and to which we have failed to attend, even actively struggling against it. If our fear of retaliatory violence is real, or if we fear the inevitable and inexcusable justification of violence in the name of “justice,” then we have at least as much ability — even responsibility — to imagine an event of justice without violence, without the further accumulation of victims.

This doesn’t mean that there isn’t still real, or what Girard would call “Satanic,” potential here — Under the worst of conditions, victimhood can cease being something to rectify and can instead become something to celebrate. Just as our culture has a unique and unprecedented potential for justice through our attention to victims, so it carries the odd potential in which weakness and victimhood can themselves become just as much justifications for violence and prejudice as can privilege and power. The longer privilege and power–comfortable as they are with themselves–go without recognizing themselves as such, the more likely such a scenario becomes in which “justice” simply becomes an act of oppression changing hands.

But if we remember this potential exclusively, we lose the courage to enact the other. This is what I’m learning, anyway. Non-violent justice is not a thing to be wished for but a thing to be performed. It must be demonstrated as a real, imaginable possibility in daily life and lived experience — it must be a way of being-in-the-world. To “imagine that things might be otherwise” requires intentional dedication to a number of things which our culture isn’t exactly hospitable towards: applied humility, slowness, patience, meaningful speech always balanced by the practice of fertile silence.

This, in any case, is the space which I want to occupy.

ēthikē dramatikos

Be beautiful, therefore…

I want to expand a bit on something I only mentioned in passing in my last post: the idea of a dramatic ethics.

Hans Urs von Balthasar argues, in The Glory of the Lord, that aesthetics, when properly understood, should have ethical implications and aftershocks. In other words, morality is an effect of beauty. This is an instance of, as I mentioned before, “the beautiful” having a reciprocal and interdependent relationship with the true and the good.

This, certainly, is not typically the way we think about ethics or morality. The Old Testament, for instance, we boil down to a long litany of “do this” or “don’t do that.” Morality, in our public consciousness, is a set of black-and-white prohibitions which are either tyrannically repressive, or just enough to keep us from killing each other. In order to ensure social order, we codify our morality and yield it up to the jurisdiction of the State so as to ensure that everyone keeps the bare minimum code of behavior to get along, but not enough to infringe on our individual rights to do whatever the hell we want. In fact, this is even how we diet.

This, certainly, is the only outcome when morality is understood in purely juridical terms; when aesthetics has been evicted from our set of concerns.

Perhaps the most well-known and gag-inducing example of this attitude is the pithy phrase “What would Jesus do?”, made popular by evangelicals in the 1990s. Self-contained in this phrase is the assumption that the key to a moral life lies in taking every single action and decision, running it through the heuristic of Christ’s own behavior in the Gospels, doing a quick cross-reference and then acting accordingly.

The problem is, in my Bible at least, I’ve got about a hundred-ish pages of Jesus actually doing anything, most of it is repeat material and, as if this were the least of my concerns, Rabboni didn’t exactly make the clarity of his words or behavior a top priority (Matthew 13:10ff).

So what does this mean for the Imitatio Christi?

I truly think the answer lies in drama.

For Balthasar, drama is ultimately the very form of Being itself, and the dramatic action of the Gospel narrative is the definitive disclosure of the way in which the world works. The self-emptying, saving God-in-Christ reveals himself to be the form of all creation, and so morality becomes a matter of participating in that form in a way that gestures to it, does justice to it, calls attention to it.

But how does this interface with ethics? If morality is fundamentally dramatic, then dramatic logic should apply to our ethics, including one of the oldest forms of drama: tragedy. Tragedy, it seems, throws a wrench into even the most confident ethical systems. I’ve been preoccupied with this question ever since an old highschool teacher of mine told the story of his wife going into labor, with severe complications. Ultimately, the doctors approached him with the decision to save either his wife, or his unborn son. He chose the former.

In fact, this scenario is very similar to that encountered by the Jesuit priest Rodriguez in Shusaku Endo’s novel, Silence (1966). Forced by the Japanese shogunate to either publicly apostatize or thus be responsible for the murder of hundreds of villagers. Meanwhile, the aged and enfeebled Alice Bell in Pat Barker’s Union Street (1987) wanders out of her room and into the freezing cold, not because of any overwhelming desire to die but because the people on whose care she depends have institutionalized her, abdicating their responsibility so thoroughly that she is left with the choice of either dying on her own terms or dying slowly of neglect.

Modern Christian morality is going to immediately pose the question, did they do something wrong? There will be the ardent stance that unproblematically says, yes, your teacher should have saved the unborn child. That, or he should have made no decision and left it in God’s hands. Or, yes, Rodriguez should have given the people over to death and left the rest up to God, if he truly believed in him. Similarly, Alice had no right to seek death on her own terms. Perhaps something in these claims is true. But I think that tragedy ruins us for decisions like this, forces the reminder that our easy groupings of “do this, not that” fail to do any kind of justice to the reality of what Martin Heidegger calls the fallenness of being-in-the-world, or Paul Ricoeur’s fundamental view of the human being as the acting and suffering person.

Tragedy produces situations in which the only appropriate ethical response is to find a way to participate in the dramatic life which weeps despite knowing itself to be the Resurrection and the Life (John 11:21-35). Whatever the outcome, whatever the “right” answer, I feel the really important thing here is that we are forced to account for something lying far afield of our moral systems. We are forced to imagine, as Philip Yancey does, “the Jesus who speaks from the fumie, whose love extends to apostasy and beyond,” held in impossible tension with the Jesus who makes it very clear that he will disown those who disown him (Matthew 10).

“Be perfect, therefore, just as your Father in Heaven is perfect” (Matthew 5:48). This is perhaps the most difficult of Jesus’ teachings. I feel it becomes even harder, not easier, when we divest ourselves of our expectations of moral perfection and instead read, “Be beautiful, therefore, just as your Father in Heaven is beautiful.”