For those who haven’t heard, the police were called in to break up the occupiers, and quickly resorted to violence which continued throughout the day. As word spread, many others joined the protest which organically shifted onto the Collins and Swanston st. intersection, before being violently pushed by police northbound on Swanston. For an interesting account of someone who was arrested for joining and standing in peaceful protest click here.

Many emotions have passed through me since the events of Friday: anger, frustration, fear, even hope. Yet above all of these is a deep melancholia at the confirmation that democracy is indeed an illusion… the shadow of big business… a lost utopia. I had suspected this to be true for some time, but in experiencing the reality that the political and police apparatus act at the beck and call of the wealthy minority, my fears were confirmed (I must confess here that I am well aware of our relative wealth in Australia compared to many parts of the world, and that our middle class response to the wealthy elite must keep that in mind).

The tactics of politicians and police against what was a peaceful protest revealed one thing: our society will allow freedom of speech… up to a point, and the right to demonstrate… until it actually inconveniences those at the top.

The public response from both Victorian Premier Ted Baillieu and Melbourne Lord Mayor Robert Doyle was almost a caricature that you would see of Burlosconi or worse, Mussolini. I was in shock as I read comments like “The selfish rabble got what it deserved” (Doyle)  and that police “had to use force” (Ballieu).

However, what was most shocking was that these comments garnered support from within the community:

Mikey of Oakleigh Posted:
Get rid of this feral rabble who have no clue what they are protesting about. If they don’t disperse and return to their holes turn fire hoses on them and let the police clean up the rest.

too many passengers Posted:
why does the media give these oxygen wasters publicity?. cut their dole,and give them a job. Until then they have no right to protest

Work Hard to Make It of Equal Posted:
Well done Rob! Don’t give an inch to these hopeless losers.

What a fine line we are walking as a society when our fellow citizens speak of each other in such a way.

While I don’t think that our political system is in any way similar to various fascist states or dictatorships, in some ways the illusion of freedom in “liberal-democratic” states is worse. Allowing the occupiers a window to demonstrate within illustrates this hypocrisy. If our government were to allow no vent for frustration, or expression of dissent, then we would see wholesale revolution like that of the ‘Arab Spring’. Philosopher and theologian Pete Rollins explores this very notion in his book The Orthodox Heretic.

This logic is beautifully expressed in The Matrix Trilogy, directed by the [Wachowski] Brothers. In the first film we learn that there is a city where people are free from the AI prison where the majority of humans are held and that Neo (Keanu Reeves) is the hero who can bring freedom. However, in the later films we learn that there have been many cities before Zion (the free city) and that Neo is just the latest in a long line of messiah-like individuals who have risen up to challenge the machines.

Furthermore, we learn that the machines are actually behind what initially seems to be the very force that would threaten them: they are behind the development of Zion and they provide the necessary conditions for Neo (and the other freedom fighters) to arise. Why? Because they understand that, for the oppressive system they have constructed to work, the Matrix needs to include a site of resistance.

In daily life there are reams of activities that are publicly disavowed by the government and society at large, yet are privately permitted. Among these are turning a blind eye to prostitution in certain areas, and the fact that we can all go ten miles per hour over the speed limit without too much fear of getting fined. These acts allow people to disobey the law in ways that are actually unofficially sanctioned by the law. We who engage in such state-sanctioned transgressions are otherwise good law-abiding citizens. Indeed our ability to break the law in small ways is part of what keeps us law-abiding the rest of the time. If we were not able to engage in small acts of transgression, if the law were absolutely unbending, then we would begin to rebel against it in a fundamental way. By creating leniency within the law, the law is not experienced as oppressive and is thus more likely to be accepted with all its flaws.

Sadly, this is the leniency and release valve that has been at play during the Occupy movement, the people had had their time, spoken their piece, and it is time to move on. What the powers underestimate however, is the level of frustration and powerlessness that people are feeling toward a system that has left them behind, and a government that is just not listening. There is a growing number of people from within our society that are crying out to be heard, a growing number of people who have witnessed the emptiness and hypocrisy of western “democracy” and see through the empty rhetoric and placating gestures of its equally powerless leaders. What remains is the question of whether the people can wrest democracy back from those who use it for their own gain.

Is democracy dead: or can the people resurrect it from the shadow of big business?

Insurrection 

H(N)tSoG represents the drilling of deep holes into the mountaintop of religion and the planting of explosives. While Insurrection represents the detonation and the subsequent exposure of the rich potentiality that lies hidden within.

While it is not essential to have read H(N)tSoG, it does provide a great deal of background and context to Insurrection, particularly through a grounding in Christian mysticism and continental philosophy (you can read my summary of (N)tSoG starting here. This said, Insurrection is an accessible yet meaty contribution to the emerging conversation in its own right.

What Rollins’ is attempting to accomplish with Insurrection is debatable…  I wondered at times whether he was actually saying anything at all. Yet as I was drawn into the book, with its rich parables and insightful interpretations, I found myself stopping regularly to catch my breath at the weight of its impact. As I finished each chapter I realised that I had been caught out by a silent explosion and had been happily riding the violent avalanche: I couldn’t wait for each next fuse to be lit!

Insurrection challenges Western Christianity in a number of ways, including its reliance on dogma and its penchant for offering all the answers. Instead, Rollins’ challenges us to stand in the site of Christ and cry in unison “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” In doing so we question the very God that we follow. This a/theistic Christianity is not afraid to stand with God (just as God stands with us) in the mire of existence and say: “Why?” It is a spirituality that instead of offering an oasis in the desert of life, promotes spirituality as the desert in the oasis of life. This is a desert where we can both lose everything for religion and lose everything including religion. It is only when we stare into the void of the crucifixion, and feel that void staring back, that we are free to embrace the resurrection… choosing to stand or fall.

It is through this freedom and confrontation that we can embrace the resurrection, and the way of Jesus. This is a path that has nothing to do with personal piety or even an all-powerful ‘fix-everything’ God, rather, it is a terrifying freedom and realisation that we are required to act in service and love. Like Mother Teresa we must feel compelled to ‘faithfully’ love thy neighbour, even when our ‘belief’ in God is weak. This does not in any way diminish the reality of God, as God remains (as it did for Saint Teresa) in the very workings and actions of love. It is by participating in the crucifixion and resurrection, by participating in the suffering and healing of the world, that our faith must be lived out.

I deny the resurrection of Christ every time I do not serve at the feet of the oppressed, each day that I turn my back on the poor; I deny the resurrection of Christ when I close my ears to the cries of the downtrodden and lend my support to an unjust and corrupt system. – Pete Rollins -

Amen.

You can read the first chapter of Insurrection here and then buy the book from here. H(N)tSoG is available here.

(1) The New Perspective;

(2) The Apocalyptic Perspective;

(3) The Faith of Jesus Christ; and

(4) The Political Perspective.

Harink encourages us to consider Protestantism’s misunderstanding of Justification, largely through the mistranslation of the phrase Pistis Iesou Christou. By engagement with Yoder, Harink points out that politics are central to Jesus’ mission, who was ultimately crucified for his apparent threat to the ‘powers’ in Jerusalem. This Christological focus is enhanced through the apocalyptic theology of Stanley Hauerwas, which highlights the radical revelatory nature of the Christ event, particularly in Galatians. Through his engagement with this literature, Harink develops a deep theological and socio-political understanding of God’s “new creation”, which is invited to participate in God’s work through: the imitation of Christ; gathering together (marked by fraternal admonition, breaking of bread, baptism, and the priesthood of all believers); engaging with broader cultural groups and ‘powers’; ethical, cultural, religious, social and political practices that remain distinct from other people; not replacing Judaism but becoming one people reconciled to each other through Jesus Christ and the power of the Spirit; a people who operate out of, or resemble, the Jewish synagogue. These expectations remain deeply Jewish in outlook and reflect Paul’s commitment to his tradition, which has often been dismissed in Christian theology and Pauline studies.

Harink goes a long way in opposing this dichotomy, with a strong engagement with N.T. Wright’s supposed supersessionist theology. Similarly, Harink rightly expounds the importance of Paul’s context in shaping his outlook (and its similarity to today’s religious and cultural pluralism) via a thorough engagement with Romans and 1 Corinthians. Finally, and thoughtfully, Harink addresses a number of criticisms of the neoliberal approach from the universality of Christianity and its relation to other religions, to the Christian witness and its engagement with the other, finishing with a short but exhaustive summary of “how to preach Paul”.

Ultimately, Harink’s work is a truly authentic Evangelical (re)reading of Paul. Very important to his argument is the translation of Pistis Iesou Christou and the implications of this for the Protestant doctrine of atonement. This is an extremely important step in theology, and one that, through its subversion of long held understandings, often fails to gain traction. However, no-one could possibly question the integrity of the postliberal approach to the biblical text, one that draws its very inspiration from the Protestant reformers.

Harink’s genuine wrestling with scripture encompasses various other important theological questions, none more important than the primacy of the “revelation of God in Jesus’ life, death, and resurrection”. This focus on the biblical text as the defining witness for Christians has equal potential to damage as it does to enrich. Namely, postliberal theologians must be careful not to throw the baby out with the bathwater by reacting too strongly against liberal methodologies and rational and experiential socio-political critiques. As an Evangelical I am happy to affirm the importance of scripture as a guiding light for the Christian tradition, however, there is a danger that fundamentalism might evolve from this approach, whereby isolated readings of the text and tradition can become normative rather than informative. This highlights another criticism of the postliberal approach, which through its prioritizing, and interpretation of the text, privileges the theologian and biblical scholar as ‘keepers of the text’. This results in the tradition itself becoming an ‘object’ of the academic as opposed to the ‘subject’ of the gathered people. However, the postliberal theologian would most likely rebuke this critique with an understanding that the community is ‘the keeper of the text’, and that our wrestling with scripture together is the true ‘God event’, rather than the text being a self-apparent entity. This idea is certainly touched on by Harink, but not explored in any depth.

Furthermore, Harink seems to privilege the North-American social imaginary in his survey of postliberalism. One wonders whether religious engagement and vocabulary of postliberalism could be equally relevant in the socio-political discourse of a more ‘secularized’ country such as France or Australia.  For this reason, I believe that if the postliberal prerogative is to be an ongoing force in the global theological and socio-political discourse, it must more thoroughly engage with secularized postmodern and postcolonial critiques. While Harink briefly does this with passing reference to John Milbank (and others), further research needs to address the parallax gap between postmodern ‘proper’, and neoliberal theology’s absolutizing and universalizing claims.

This ‘totalizing’ approach, inherent within postliberal theology, also fails to reckon with both the problem of evil and postmodern ‘weak’ theology. While many postliberal theologians would no doubt default to Barth’s engagement with the problem of evil, as the work of the ‘other’ hand of God, this in no way settles the question of evil: particularly when engaging with secularist discourse. As for the postliberal engagement with ‘weak’ theology, there remains a seemingly insurmountable dichotomy between the postliberal Power of God, and Caputo’s embrace of the weakness of God. This too needs to be the focus of further research.

These criticisms aside, Harink’s work certainly offers the reader a comprehensive and comprehendible foray into Paul’s theology and the postliberal conversation. It is clear that hermeneutical assumptions are central to the debate, and whilst I would personally take a ‘lower’ view of scripture, I see the necessity and value of such a respectful and serious engagement with the biblical witness: centered in the apocalypse of Jesus Christ. Ultimately, a theology must be judged by its fruit, and in this case (in my humble opinion) the ends certainly justifies the means. Here we see a theology drenched in ‘the Power of God’, ‘the authenticity and authority of Scripture’, and ‘the revelation of Jesus Christ’; resulting in communities that radically ‘embrace of the other’ and stand against ‘social and political oppression’. These realizations open the door (for all) to the possibility whereby Christianity and social/political action might stand on the same side of the barricade.

Rollins begins his book with setting up a dialectic between Ludwig Wittgenstein’s statement “What we cannot speak of we must pass over in silence.” and evangelical christianity’s approach which suggests “God is the one subject of who we must never stop speaking”. What results from this is an approach which suggests “That which we cannot speak of is the one thing about whom and to whom we must never stop speaking”. This dialogue between mysticism and dogmatism sets the scene for Part 1 of How (not) to Speak of God  and Rollin’s discussion of post-modern continental philosophy and theology. 

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Chapter 5: The Third Mile

“Chapter 5 draws out the centrality of love in Christian thinking.” (p xiii).

Truth as soteriological event

In opposition to Greek thought, the Judeo-Christian tradition discusses (metaphysical) Truth (or the Real) not in descriptive terms but in relational terms, “the Judeo-Christian view of truth is concerned with having a relationship with the Real (God) that results in us transforming reality. The emphasis is thus not on description but on transformation… For here Truth is the ungraspable Real (objective) that transforms the individual (subjective).” (p. 56).

Dear friends, let us love one another, for love comes from God. Everyone who loves has been born of God and knows God. Whoever does not love does not know God, because God is love… No-one has ever seen God; but if we love one another, God lives in us and Hilo is made complete in us… God is love. Whoever lives in love lives in God, and God in him. – 1 John 4:7-16 -

“Here John equates the existence of religious knowledge with the act of love.” (p. 57). Thus, knowledge of God (Truth) is removed from propositional doctrines, instead finding its expression in love for others. In this way, Truth is seen to be any act that positively transforms reality, rather than empirical data.

The prejudice of love

This approach calls into question the modernist prerogative for ‘right interpretation’. The religious approach even calls for a prejudice when interpreting a text (or ethical situation): a prejudice of love (Truth).

Infinite readings and transfinite readings

We know from the ‘critique of ideology’ that we all read the bible (or any other text/situation) with a certain cultural bias. However, this does not mean that there are an infinite numbers of interpretations. For example, while we might understand the concept of love differently, it would be irresponsible and dishonest to read the bible as a call to hate or do violence to others. In this way, the number of ‘readings’ is seen to be transfinite, rather than infinite. To help this interpretative process, the prejudice of love is essential. When we embrace this ‘double reading’ of the text we can overcome (cultural) difficulties which might be seen to be supporting such things as slavery.

Ethics and love

“It is this double reading that ensures that we are never absolved from the difficult job of making moral decisions.” (p. 64). Through this method, the bible is never read as an ethical textbook which offers ‘the answers’; instead we are encouraged to constantly be challenged and encouraged by the call to walk the extra mile.

From knowledge to love: reading from right to left

“In the same way that contemporary religious thought has set transcendence in opposition to immanence, and has considered theism to be the binary of atheism, so ‘orthodoxy’ has been interpreted as necessarily excluding heresy… However, there is another way of understanding the word ‘orthodoxy’, one that does not set it in a binary opposition with heresy but embraces the idea that we all get God wrong.” (p. 65-6). Instead of understanding orthodoxy as right (ortho) belief (doxa), we need to read right to left and and understand it as believing in the right way.

Faith and works

“if we love because we are compelled through force [or for reward], then it is not love… This means that my argument for love can in no way be taken as a justification for works-based salvation, for as soon as love works in order to receive something, it is not love.” (p. 68).

Acts of love

There are “three criteria for the perfect, loving gift – that is, one that we would not use in order to get a reward: (1) the receiver does not know he or she has been given a gift; (2) nothing [concrete] is actually given; and (3) the giver does not know he or she has given anything…. For a concrete example of this, we can say that an act of love could involve giving money to someone on the street without stopping to think, or talking to someone who is in pain without thought that we are doing anything special or different from any other daily activity.” (p. 70).

“Yet here is the difficult bit, for we cannot force this radical, Christlike love, we cannot work it up or commit to living in this way. We cannot… Say, ‘OK, today I will live this life of love’, for that would not be the life of love, it would be forced and would lead to condemnation and/or arrogance. So what can we do?” (p. 71).

Letting go

“The underlying love cannot be worked up but is gained by giving up… To affirm the approach that I am advocating means that we must accept that to be a Christian is to be born of love, transformed by love and committed to transforming the world with love… In doing so, we will not merely sit around describing God to the world, but rather, we will become the iconic spaces in which God is made manifest in the world… a journey that willingly walks that thisrd mile with Christ.” (p. 71).

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Peter Rollins begins his book with setting up a dialectic between Ludwig Wittgenstein’s statement “What we cannot speak of we must pass over in silence.” and evangelical christianity’s approach which suggests “God is the one subject of who we must never stop speaking”. What results from this is an approach which suggests “That which we cannot speak of is the one thing about whom and to whom we must never stop speaking”. This dialogue between mysticism and dogmatism sets the scene for Part 1 of How (not) to Speak of God  and Rollin’s discussion of post-modern continental philosophy and theology. 

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Chapter 4: Inhabiting the God-shaped hole

“Chapter 4 explores how the rediscovery of mystery, doubt, complexity and ambiguity in faith helps us come to a more appropriate understanding of religious desire” (p. xiii).

Religion and the absence of God

“[I]n Jesus I see not merely an individual who acted as a catalyst for a new religious movement, but also a subversive prophet who signaled the end of all religious movements.  To be part of the Christian religion is to simultaneously hold that religion lightly.” (p. 44). Jesus’ and Christianity’s deconstructive approach both affirms and critiques religion. To take a Derridian approach, “it is impossible to say what justice is, for as soon as we say what justice is, we are left with the law, and the law always falls short.” (p. 45). Similarly, religion tries to speak of God, but fails to make God present. “The Christian religion thus testifies to a relation with God that exists without religion, to religion as both im/possible and un/necessary.” (p. 46).

Desire for transformation and transformative desire

For Heidegger, “it is only in realizing that we are moving towards death that we become authentic human beings, for once we realize that we are going to die, we take more responsibility over our life.” (p. 47). It is through this realization that we engage in meaningful activities.

There was once a princess who grew up in a kingdom that had been ravished by decades of famines, war and plague.  One night, as the princess slept she had a dream.  In this dream she was walking through the market that lay by the sea, when a young beggar looked up, but before their eyes could meet the dream ended and the princess awoke.  As the dream faded a haunting voice arose in her mind that informed her that if she were ever to meet this young man, he would shower her with riches beyond her wildest dreams.

This dream etched itself so deeply on the princess that she carried the vision deep in her heart, until one day, years later, as she walked through the market, her gaze caught hold of the same man who had visited her in her dreams all those years ago.  Without pausing she ran up to him and proceeded to relay the whole vision.  Never once did he look up, but when the princess had finished her story he reached into an old sack and pulled out a package.  Without saying a word, he offered it to the princess and asked her to leave.

Once the princess reached her dilapidated castle she ripped open the package and, sure enough, there was a great wealth of pure gold and precious diamonds.  That night she placed the package In a safe place, and went to bed.  But her mind was in turmoil and the long night was spent in sleepless contemplation.  Early the next morning she arose, retrieved the treasures and went down to the water’s edge.  Once there she summoned all her strength and threw the riches deep into the sea.   After watching the package sink out of sight, she turned and without looking back went searching for the young beggar.

Finally, she found him sitting in the shade of an old doorway.  The princess approached, held out her hand and placed it under his chin.  Then she drew his face towards hers and whispered, “Young man, speak of the wealth you possess which allows you to give away such worldly treasure without a moment’s thought.” (pp. 47-8).

In the story, we do not hear the young man’s reply. However, we can imagine that no response is necessarily. He might verily ask the princess, ‘Tell me of the wealth that you possess which allows you to give away such worldly treasure without a moment’s thought.’ We see here that the princess’ desire for spiritual transformation was itself spiritually transformative. “Rather than being fulfilled in the presence of God, religious desire is born there. In short, a true spiritual seeking can be understood as the ultimate sign that one already has that which one seeks, or rather, that one is already grasped by that which one seeks to grasp.” (p. 50).

The God-shaped hole

The Pascalian notion of the God-shaped hole suggests that humans remain unfulfilled until filled by God. This idea is rejected by the character Meursault, in Albert Camus’ masterpiece The Outsider. Meursault, while on death row, is confronted by the chaplain. His response is not one of atheism but, rather, one of indifference. He is interested neither in Theism (which asks a meaningless question) and atheism (which takes the question too seriously). “In many ways this character can be taken to represent a contemporary response to religion, one which rejects the religious ‘answer’ as irrelevant precisely because the question is believed to be irrelevant.” (p51-2).

Nourished by our hunger

In a radical reshaping of the Pascalian idea, emerging communities suggest that “far from being something that exists until being filled, the God-shaped hole can be understood as precisely that which is left in the aftermath of God; “a hole that compels them to seek after that which they already have.” (p. 52).

Being evangelized

“This dialogue replaces the standard monologue of those who would wish to either clone the other, making them into a reflection of themselves, or exclude the other, making them into a scapegoat who embodies all our fears and insecurities.” (p. 53). In an open dialogue, individuals can meet and both learn from, and teach, each other.

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Peter Rollins begins his book with setting up a dialectic between Ludwig Wittgenstein’s statement “What we cannot speak of we must pass over in silence.” and evangelical christianity’s approach which suggests “God is the one subject of who we must never stop speaking”. What results from this is an approach which suggests “That which we cannot speak of is the one thing about whom and to whom we must never stop speaking”. This dialogue between mysticism and dogmatism sets the scene for Part 1 of How (not) to Speak of God  and Rollin’s discussion of post-modern continental philosophy and theology. 

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Chapter 3: A/theology as icon

“Chapter 3 delves deeper into these issues by exploring how this a/theology is not divorced from God but rather is a response to the work of God and a means of approaching God.” (p. xiii).

Dis-courses

“By combining theism and atheism in an a/theistic discourse we are able to develop a way of thinking that brings the speaker into an awareness of his or her limitations and a space of knowledgable ignorance. Here the religious participant is addressed, transformed and grasped by that which they cannot contain: they feel themselves to be the subject of an object that cannot be objectified.” (p. 31). This a/theology is a truly ecumenical device through the decentring of any one interpretation. “The deconstructive language being forged here acknowledges itself as dis-course that sends us off-course… [thus] speaking of God is never speaking of God but only ever speaking about our understanding of God.”

Doubt as virtue

Rather than undermining faith, this discourse is helpful for affirming faith. “In contrast to the modern view that religious doubt is something to reject, fear or merely tolerate, doubt not only can be seen as an inevitable aspect of our humanity but also can be celebrated as a vital part of faith… [t]he believer ought to acknowledge and even celebrate this dark night of the soul, understanding that this is not a threatening darkness which conceals an enemy but rather is the intimate darkness within which we embrace our faith. For when we can say that we will follow God regardless of the uncertainty in-volved in such a decision, then real faith is born.” (pp. 34-5).

The end of apologetics

This embrace of doubt stands against the 20th century obsession with Christian apologetics. “These power discourses of word (reason) and wonder attempt to present faith in such a way that rejection, if not impossible, is utterly irrational… In short, power discourses operate at the level of command. For instance, if someone is convinced that there is a place where they will be tormented after death, and that the only way to avoid this terror is by affirming that Jesus Christ is Lord, then they will no doubt make the affirmation, regardless of whether they are genuinely moved by Christ or not.” (pp. 35-6). Instead of responding to the empirical nature of this power discourse, we must listen to Jesus’ poetic discourse which speaks to the heart and hints at the divine.

Iconic God-talk

“Far from this powerless dis-course resulting is a relativistic form of religiosity, it provides the path which leads to a more appropriate way of speaking, acting and believing, for once we reject the idolatrous approach to faith, we are left with what can be called an iconic approach. Unlike idolatry, which claims to make manifest the very essence of God, or the humanist approach, which claims that God, if God exists, is utterly irrelevant, the iconic approach offers a different way of understanding. To treat something as an icon is to view particular words, images or experiences as aids in contemplation of that which cannot be reduced to words, images or experience. Not only this, but the icon represents the place where God touches humanity. Consequently, icons are not only the place where we contemplate God; they also act as the place that God uses in order to communicate with us.” (pp. 37-8).

A/theology as transformative

“This iconic understanding of faith not only allows us to view our religious traditions as an aid to reflection, but they can be held as wisdom narratives that help us to work out how to live as followers of Christ… In this iconic understanding, our thoughts concerning God are directed towards God in love rather than enslaving God with words.

The saying of nothing

“[T]he job of the Church is not to provide an answer – for the answer is not a phrase or doctrine – but rather to help encourage the religious question to arise… The language of faith is at its best when it both remembers its profound limitations and simultaneously places us in a clearing within which we can be addressed by God.” (pp. 40-1). This reflects the insight that God cannot be colonized by any power discourse, rather it is the powerless discourse of Christianity that creates space where others can seek for themselves. This does not however promote silence, rather, “The desire to get beyond language forces us to stretch language to its very limits…. This is why the mystics would write so extensively about nothing can be written and would preach beautiful sermons about the futility of words.” (p. 42).

“For too long the Church has been seen as an oasis in the desert – offering water to those who are thirsty. In contrast, the emerging community appears more as a desert in the oasis of life, offering silence, space and desolation amidst the sickly nourishment of Western capitalism. It is in this desert, as we wander together as nomads, that God is to be found. For it is here that we are nourished by our hunger.” (p. 42-3).

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Peter Rollins begins his book with setting up a dialectic between Ludwig Wittgenstein’s statement “What we cannot speak of we must pass over in silence.” and evangelical christianity’s approach which suggests “God is the one subject of who we must never stop speaking”. What results from this is an approach which suggests “That which we cannot speak of is the one thing about whom and to whom we must never stop speaking”. This dialogue between mysticism and dogmatism sets the scene for Part 1 of How (not) to Speak of God  and Rollin’s discussion of post-modern continental philosophy and theology. 

Chapter 2: The aftermath of theology

“Chapter 2 builds upon this insight by exploring how such thinking critiques the idea of theology as that which speaks of God in favour of the idea that theology is the place where God speaks. Against the idea that we can speak of God I argue that we must embrace an a/theological approach that acknowledges the extent to which our supposed God-talk fails to define who or what God is.” (p. xiii).

Theology and the voice of God

“[Theology] is no longer thought of as a human discourse that speaks of God but rather as the place where God speaks into human discourse. In other words, theology is understood as the site in which revelation makes its appearance in the world, the place in which theos (God) impacts, and overwhelms, the human realm of logos (reason). Consequently we do not do theology but are rather overcome and transformed by it: we do not master it but are mastered by it… Our ‘theological’ musings can thus be called a/theological insomuch as they acknowledge that we must still speak of God (theology, as traditionally understood) while also recognizing that this speech fails to define God (a/theology).” (p. 21).

God as subject, not object

When we objectify God, we act like WWII prison guards, who treated prisoners as objects, collecting and collating vast amounts of data concerning the prisoners’ age, occupation, family background and siblings. Compare this with subjective data about the prisoners as held by their own family. While the guards might hold objective data on the prisoner, it is ultimately ‘poverty-stricken’. It is the family who truly ‘knows’ the prisoner, a knowledge that is only opened up in love. This is similar to the objectification of individuals by consumer capitalism, or even akin to lust. “Indeed this is the difference between love and lust, for while lust treats the other solely as an object to be devoured, love treats the other as a subject who cannot be reduced wholly to an object.” (p. 22). Thus God is not an object for consideration, a problem to solve; rather God is a subject to experience, a mystery to participate in. In this way we are no longer master of our own existence, God is “the absolute subject before whom we are object.

God as hyper-present

“By offering a robust a/theology which acknowledges the proper place of doubt, ambiguity, complexity and mystery, we acknowledge that God’s interaction with the world is irreducible to understanding, precisely because God’s presence is a type of hyper-presence.” (p. 23). This hyper-presence saturates our existence and experience. Because of this, religious activity and experience must move beyond language and reason, to embrace a multitude of languages including such things as poetry, painting and ritual (remembering that these expressions also fail to contain God in the same way as language and reason).

The un/known God

“What is beginning to arise from the discussion so far is the idea that God ought to be understood as radically transcendent, not because God is somehow distant and remote from us, but precisely because God is immanent.” (p. 24). Rather than being a dichotomy, transcendence and immanence are one and the same point. In this way Christianity affirms an un/known God.

Christianity as a/theistic

What this hyper-presence reveals to us is that there seems to be a certain atheistic spirit embedded within Christianity. Like the paradox which combines transcendence and immanence, “This a/theism is not some agnostic middle point hovering hesitantly between theism and atheism but, rather, actively embraces both out of a profound faith.” (p. 265). This deconstructing approach is similar to that of the original cynics who, “far from being nihilists and relativists, were deeply moral individuals who questioned the ethical conduct they saw around them precisely because they loved morality so much. This a/theism is thus a deeply religious and faith-filled form of cynical discourse, one which captures how faith operates in an oscillation between understanding and knowing.” (p. 26). More than merely shedding inaccurate ideas about God, this a/theistic language is concerned with the negation which permeates religion. “It is an acknowledgement that a desert of ignorance exists in the midst of every oasis of understanding… This recognition acts as an effective theological response to fundamentalism, as it unsettles the dark heart of its self-certain power… This a/theistic approach is not to be mistaken for some type of synthesis of opposites; rather, it is the uncollapsible tension between affirming our religious ideas while also placing them into question. This a/theism is not then some temporary place of uncertainty on the way to spiritual maturity, but rather it is something that operates within faith as a type of heat-inducing friction that prevents our liquid images of the divine from cooling and solidifying into idolatrous form.” (pp. 26-7). “This site of uncertainty and unknowing is often a frightening place to dwell, but while the comfort provided by religion is placed into a certain distress by the idea of doubt, this distress too, is not without a certain comfort. For while we do not grasp God, faith is born amidst the feeling that God grasps us.” (p. 30).

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Chapter 1: God rid me of God

“Chapter 1 explores the nature of revelation and argues that, far from being the opposite of concealment, the word of God has mystery built into its very heart” (p. xiii).

Away-from-here

Rollins describes the emerging conversation not as a set of beliefs that might “one day burst onto the religious scene as a single, unified and distinct denominational perspective”, but rather represents an “understanding that being a Christian always involves becoming a Christian” (pp. 5-6).

A revolution of the ‘how’

“[T]his revolution is not one which merely adds to or subtracts from the world of our understanding, but rather one which provides the necessary tools for us to be able to look at that world in a completely different manner” (p. 7).

Speaking (of) God

“Christianity is generally accepted to rest upon the belief that God has communicated with humanity via revelation” (p. 7). Revelation is seen to be the opposite of concealment. Theology = Word (of) God.

Revelation against concealment

The enlightenment saw the employment of pure reason, at the expense of custom, authority and instinct. However this approach, rather than being seen as opposing the theologian, was implemented so that “one could decipher the singular meaning of… supernatural revelation” (p. 8).

The end of ideology

The ‘genealogical critique’ or ‘critique of ideology’, as espoused by Feuerbach, Nietzsche, Marx and Freud, challenged the “belief that our ideas derive from pure reason devoid of prejudice” (p. 140). “In doing so they each helped to point out that when we make absolute claims concerning what we believe about the world or God, acting as if our opinions were the result of some painstaking, objective and rational reflection, we end up deceiving ourselves, for our understanding is always an interpretation of the information before us” (p. 9). These thinkers have been (mis)used in justifying nihilism.

Beyond meaning and meaninglessness

This deconstruction of reason does not necessarily result in meaninglessness. Nietzsche, Marx and Freud did not eliminate the possibility of objective truth, rather they simply noted that subjective humans could not articulate it objectively.

The idolatry of ideology

This ‘critique of ideology’ mirrors the biblical rejection of idolatry. Like the golden calf being a visual rendering of God, ideology is a (conceptual) attempt to make God accessible. “[I]t is the way one engages with an object or idea that makes an idol an idol rather than some kind of property within it.” (p. 12).

The bible and conceptual idolatry

Unlike contemporary churches, the bible does not offer a simple, linear description of God. There is a “vast array of competing stories concerning the character of God that are closely connected to the concrete circumstances of those who inhabit the narrative.” (p. 12). Western theology has reduced this diversity and vibrancy. This unnamable nature of God prevents us from colonizing an idolatrous image, where we “claim to understand God as God really is.” (p. 13). The biblical witness represents many ideological images held together in creative tension. In this way fractures and tensions are embraced rather than ironed out. This ungraspable nature is seen in the unpronounceable (vowelless) form of God’s name, thus preserving the mystery of God.

Revelation as concealment

The ‘critique of ideology’ and condemnation of idolatry undermine fundamentalist attempts to offer a correct interpretation of God. This demonstrates that “revelation, far from being the opposite of concealment, has concealment built into its very heart.” (p. 16). “Hence revelation ought not be thought of either as that which makes God known or as that which leaves God unknown, but rather as the overpowering light that renders God as unknown.” (p. 17). “While all of the Church has maintained that there is a revealed and hidden side of God, this difference here is that we are rediscovering the Barthian insight that even the revealed side of God is mysterious.” (p. 18).

Beyond ‘God’

“Hence Meister Eckhart famously prays, ‘God rid me of God’, a prayer that acknowledges how the God we are in relationship with is bigger, better and different than our understanding of that God.” (p. 19).

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I was hanging out with a few of my favourite 6 year olds today and we were reading Jack and the Beanstalk. While we were reading I came to a startling realization. For those who came late, here’s the classic children’s fairy tale in a nutshell:

Jack and his Mum are very poor. One day, Jack’s Mum sends him to the market to sell their only asset, the family cow. On the way, Jack encounters a mysterious stranger who offers him ‘magic beans’ for his cow. Jack accepts and returns home with his beans. Jack’s Mum is furious and throws them out the window. Overnight they grow to the clouds and Jack climbs the beanstalk to reach the ‘house in the cloud’, owned by an ogre. The ogre is very rich and Jack sees an opportunity. Jack and the ogre have an altercation, with the ogre stating, “I’ll grind his bones to make my bread’. Ultimately, Jack prevails and takes the ogre’s riches, killing the giant in the process. The prize possession is a ‘magic goose’, which lays golden eggs. Jack and his Mum live happily ever after.

Now to my suggestion that there’s more going on here than meets the eye, just humour me for a moment. Imagine the following:

The mysterious stranger is Karl Marx;

His ‘magic beans’ are Marx’s works Capital and The Communist Manifesto;

Jack is a revolutionary leader – say Lenin, Mao, or Castro;

Jack’s Mum is the proletariat;

The cow is labour value;

Grinding Jack’s bones is the exploitation of the proletariat;

The ogre is the bourgeoisie in his ‘castle in the sky’;

The golden egg is of course the ‘never ending’ supply of capital and wealth.

So what we see is a ‘clear’ allegory between Jack and the Beanstalk and revolutionary Marxism. If we view the story with these characters in mind we find:

Karl Marx (the mysterious stranger) brings his Communist manifesto (magic beans) to the proletariat (Jack’s Mum), to be used by revolutionary leaders Lenin, Mao and Castro (Jack) to end exploitation (the grinding of Jack’s bones to make ‘bread’) and destroy the bourgeoisie (the ogre), distributing its wealth (golden egg) to the proletariat.

Now don’t panic parents. I’m not espousing these theories with your children, converting to the evils of communism. But let’s hope that they might hear these classic stories and stop to re/consider our dominant ideolgies, be they good or bad.

Footnote: has anyone ever noticed that The Three Little Pigs is colonial propaganda… think about it.

#3 The Proposition

Some might criticise this selection as being biased as this is one of two titles in my Top 10  that is scored by Nick Cave. However the genius of The Proposition appeals well beyond the haunting score and sublime writing (the film was also written by Cave) to reveal an ensemble of powerful performances exploring philosophical themes as wide ranging as love, death, ethics, alienation, Darwinism and colonialization. Not to mention that is is a cinematographic masterpiece.

The Proposition  is the second in a ‘trilogy’ of films created by director John Hillcoat and writer/composer Nick Cave. While Ghosts of the Civil Dead is a remarkable and bold first feature and The Road a haunting portrayal of survival and family devotion, it is The Proposition that shines brightest from their creative partnership.

The film is set in rural Australia in the late 19th century and follows the classic western formula where lawman Captain Stanley (played by the always endearing Ray Winstone) is sent to apprehend the Burns gang for the heinous crimes. After capturing younger brothers Mike (Richard Wilson) and Charlie Burns (Guy Pearce), Stanley offers a proposition:

Captain Stanley: I wish to present you with a proposition. I know where Arthur Burns is. It is a God-forsaken place. The blacks won’t go there, not the tracks; not even wild men. I suppose, in time, the bounty hunters will get him. But I have other plans, I aim to bring him down – I aim to show that he’s a man like any other. I aim to hurt him.
Sergeant Lawrence: When you’re ready, sir…
Captain Stanley: And what will most hurt him? Well I thought long and hard about that, and I’ve realized Mr. Burns, that I must become more inventive in my methods. But those be my words listen to me now, *don’t* say a word. Now suppose I told there was a way to save your little brother Mikey from the noose. Suppose I gave you a horse, and a gun. Suppose Mr. Burns, I was to give you and your young brother Mikey here a pardon. Suppose I said that I could give you a chance to expunge the guilt, beneath which you so clearly labor. Suppose I gave you ’til Christmas. Now, suppose you tell me what it is I want from you.
Charlie Burns: You want me to kill me brother.
Captain Stanley: I want you to kill your brother.

What follows is probably the most honest portrait of colonial Australia ever committed to film. The audience is dragged along by anti-hero Charlie Burns, both through Pearce’s hypnotizing performance and by the ethical choices his character is forced to make. There are times when you feel oppressed by the heat and vast loneliness of the country and other times when you are lured in (like many of Cave’s songs) to a place of pain, suffering and alienation. This is not a modern alienation (like that described so poignantly by Radiohead in OK Computer), but one which is played out under the spectre of colonialization, where the cultivating of hostile land and being separated from place and people left the British feeling alone and betrayed, causing Captain Stanley to openly mourn; “What fresh hell is this?”

On the other side of the colonial coin sit the ‘blacks’, accurately depicted as not even second class citizens but as animals that can be mistreated, enslaved and murdered: surely the saddest tale in our nation’s history.

In The Propostition, Cave and Hillcoat have surely produced an historical epic worthy of praise in itself. However, by framing their narrative in this way they have subtly, yet brilliantly, used their [our] story as an allegory for modern Australia; one where both our bourgeois city and rural dwellers live in relative alienation, and our indigenous population remain second class citizens, both thorough cultural and physical oppression (the aboriginal health crisis is a perfect example of this: see Closing the Gap).

By simultaneously making The Proposition the story of our past and our present, Cave and Hillcoat have isolated a number of key themes which explore what is means to be Australian. In alluding to modern issues such as ethical choice, alienation, post-colonialism, indigenous welfare and reconciliation (of which we have only made a few tentative steps), the writer and director have drawn our attention to the diversity, loneliness and inequality inherent in our current society.

This thematic depth, combined with cave’s haunting score & poetry and Hillcoat’s mesmerizing cinematography & editing, poises The Proposition to lay claim the greatest Australian film ever produced.