(Ir)religiosity

I ran across this in Walter Kaufmann’s prologue to his translation of Martin Buber’s I and Thou (an introduction which stands as an excellent piece writing in its own right).

[W]hy use religious terms?  Indeed, it might be better not to use them because they are always misunderstood. But what other terms are there?  We need a new language, and new poets to create it, and new ears to listen to it. Meanwhile, if we shut our ears to the old prophets who still speak more or less in the old tongues, using ancient words, occasionally in new ways, we shall have very little music. We are not so rich that we can do without tradition. Let [those who have] ears listen to it in a new way.

Jesus’ phrase “let those who have ears hear” is perhaps one of the most fascinating and enigmatic expressions in the entire New Testament.  It is so pregnant with meaning and life.  Too often I am afraid we try to force old readings into new wine-skins and end up hurting or even destroying both.  I am convinced that is why Jesus often spoke in parables — because such a medium inherently resists a static, colonizing hermeneutic.  Parables simply cannot be reduced to simple, “in a nutshell” type meanings.  They are complex, multi-faceted, life-giving narratives that invite the reader to participate in birthing meaning, in doing truth.  Like prisms, parables — if we have ears to hear — channel divine dynamism in multiple ways depending upon one’s vantage point or angle.  They abduct us, catching us off guard if we let them, and rupture our usual, predictable mode existence with divine excess and presence (or is it absence?).  I find that it is in the parables that we learn to see the face of the Other thereby see ourselves as (an)other.

But we must have ears to hear.

I’ve been learning to do just that.  And I’m finding that it is not easy and often demands that I forsake my familiar and comfortable reading for something that is unknown — something that makes me uneasy and uncomfortable.

In the process I rediscovered some old friends and have fallen in love with them all over again:  Augustine and Kierkegaard being chief among them.

Who are you rediscovering and re-reading?  Who have you met again with new ears to listen?

Reposted from Open Table Theology:

For quite some time my approach to prayer was nothing more than a glorified exercise in narcissism laced with all the right buzzwords and religious jargon.  I treated God like some sort of cosmic gumball machine.  Through my prayers I inserted the proper coinage, twisted the handle, and hoped what came out of the tube was a flavor of gum I liked.  My prayers consisted of elaborate wish lists containing all sorts of petitions and requests.  To be sure, I would throw in something every once in while about starving kids in a third world country to feel less guilty and hopefully pad my persuasive capital with God — as if God were taking orders from me, or flipping some sort of epic prayer coin to decided whether or not my request should be granted.   God, for me, was a better version of a Genie in a Bottle: except there was no bottle because God was always there to listen (I always wondered how God could be there to listen to everyone, but I never let it bother me too much) and I had an unlimited number of “wishes.”  The only catch was I would never know if my wishes would actually be granted.  Some would, others wouldn’t.  Sometimes the minor ones were granted while other more important ones were not.  I just assumed God arbitrarily picked which ones to honor and which ones to table.  So it went.

I have long since rejected that very trivial theology of prayer, but as I reflect on its implications I realize how important our understanding of prayer actually is.  It seems to me that prayer is often sidelined as a second or even third tier “issue” subservient to more important and pressing theological questions like the nature of God or theodicy or soteriology and so on.  For example, if you go to a local book store book on prayer (the quality of such books notwithstanding) are almost always placed in the “Christian Inspiration” section rather than the “Theology” section.  However, if theology is primarily about developing a sound and coherent word (logos) about God (theos) — however limiting and finite it may be — what could be more important than prayer?  If I am feebly and delicately trying to develop ideas about God, about the divine, about that which is beyond me and that which consumes me — which is what I have devoted the remainder of my life to doing — what could be more weighty and significant than my ideas about addressing the divine, than my approach to communicating with God, than the way in which I, to borrow from Brother Lawrence, practice the presence of God?

This is what I am trying to get at: prayer says more about our theology and our ideas of God than we realize; indeed, I would go so far as to claim that how we view prayer in some sense determines what we believe about the nature of God and vice versa.  If God is a deus ex machina, a mechanistic deity, a Big Daddy in the Sky who pulls strings for good people and cuts strings for bad people, then we will pray in a certain way.  And, like my example above, how we pray will reveal an understood theology whether we overtly claim it or not.  If we really want to “do theology” well and uncover all those areas in which the residue of our tacit assumptions about God still remain, then we had better take prayer seriously. Read the rest of this entry »

As I’ve mentioned before — or maybe I haven’t mentioned it before, I can’t remember — I reserve the right to blatantly disagree with myself and change my mind on this blog.  That’s just the nature of things.

A while back I wrote a post in which I attempt to provisionally answer Augustine’s timeless question: What do I love when I love my God?  One commenter pointing out that my answer was very anthropocentric. No doubt he is right.  I’d probably modify my language were I answering it today.

Last night I was reading On Religion by John Caputo and I ran across a quote that made me wonder about the premise of the question.  No that’s not right.  Not the premise of the question per se, but perhaps the way the question has been couched by virtually every commenter since Augustine firs posed it.

The name of God is the name of the ever open question.  Unlike reductionists, who think that the name of God closes every question down, that it supplies  a ready-made answer for every possible questio, the name of God in my post-modern Itinerarium is the name of infinite questionability, of what is endlessly questionable, for no name can cause my head to spin more than the name of what I love and desire.  But what do I love when I love my God?  In loyalty to St. Augustine, whom I also love, I have retained the “what,” but of course, if I dared to correct a Saint, which I would never do, if I were an obscure copyist in an Irish monastery in the tenth century working on the Confessiones, I would in all fear and trembling have furtively amended the what to a how.  How do I love when I love my God? For love is a how, not a what.

Captuo goes on to argue that God is not merely a name to by examined by theologians and metaphysicians, but a deed — or deeds plural, that is more like it — to be carried out, a doing to be done, and action to be enacted, a how to be put into practice.  For it is in doing justice and doing love that God exists, not in the hopelessly modernistic arguments for or against the existence of God as a simple proposition, for God cannot be constraint my reductionist propositions and premises.

Perhaps then both ends of the spectrum, of God as Being-Itself (Paul Tillich) and God as that which is without Being (Jean-Luc Marion), are as equally problematic as is the false dichotomy of theism and atheism.  To ask whether God is or is not is to miss the higher movement at play and to reduce the name of God to pure empirical proposition.  Rather, in this view, God is in facere veritatem ( the doing of truth), to borrow Caputo borrowing Augustine.  Truth is brought into existence in the happening; likewise God is brought into existence in the event.  God is a God-Who-May-Be, to use Richard Kearney’s expression, because God rejects as false both modern reductions of theism and atheism, of possibility and impossibility, real and unreal.  This God is utterly Beyond, a God of a/theism, a God of im/possibility, and a God of the hyper-real, that is the Real beyond real, whose name is brought to bare in the happening of truth, the doing of justice, and the enacting of a possibility otherwise thought to be impossible — that is love.

There is a lot of talk in the emergent/ing church — and postmodernism at large — about the project of deconstruction, mainly as a critique of modern models of “doing” church and theology, but also, though often not as popular, as offering a constructive response to those systems.  In even narrower conversations, there is talk of what can and cannot be deconstructed.  So for Derrida, “justice” is the undeconstructible nucleus (though he would surely object to that word) of the “law,” which seeks to be justice, but can always be deconstructed.  Likewise, Caputo speaks of the church as the deconstructable sign pointing toward the kingdom, which is undeconstructable.

I think these sort of conversations are very helpful.  We can’t stop deconstruction our own systems and ideas.  Sometimes I think part of my personality is naturally deconstructive.  Which is good…and bad.

What do I mean?

I’m wondering if sometimes, in our efforts to deconstruct “something else,” we miss the opportunity to let ourselves be deconstructed.

For example, for a long time now I have categorically rejected Augustine and his writings.  Original sin, latent — or not so latent — misogyny, sex as utility only, I could go on.  For all these reasons I simply wrote Augustine off completely.  Not that those aren’t good reasons.  I believe they are.  And I still disagree with Augustine about them.

But recently I’ve rediscovered Augustine’s mysticism and his ascent into himself in search of God who is beyond his comprehension.  And in doing so, I’ve been deconstructed.  I’ve allowed myself to be worked over by a tradition I had previously dismissed.

All this has to be done in moderation of course. Because we can just import Augustine uncritically into 2009.  But I wonder if sometimes we are too critical and miss the opportunity to have ourselves criticized?  I wonder if sometimes, under the auspices of deconstruction, I undermine the very heart of the deconstructive project.

That is not to say that I reject the deconstructing of historical figures or systems of thought.  Not at all.  I’m only suggesting that perhaps there is a tension between our deconstruction and our being deconstructed.  The key is learning to live and embody that tension well.

What to do you think?  Have you had similar experiences? Or am I just blowin’ smoke?

That is the all important question that Augustine occupies himself with in his Confessions.  Augustine is never really satisfied with any of his answers because those answers, for him, amount to nothing more the a visual image of an invisible God and ultimately fail to grasp God as God.

I think Augustine’s question has to become our question, a question that must always be lived out within our experience as the all important linchpin of all our theological discourse and reflection.  It is the question of religion.

What would your answer be?  What is it that you love when you love your God?

I could answer with many of virtues that we find so important in theology.  But each one seems to fall short.  What is that I love when I love my God?  Is it love itself?  Justice?  Hope?  Wisdom?  All these are legitimate answers, but each one seems to, when I name it, place restraints and limits on God as God.  Perhaps the best response is all these answers and more.  The more I contemplate possible answers the more I realize that I am wholly inadequate to formulate an answer.

Any answer to this question is provisional, and always arises ad hoc in wake of the event of God.  So my answer today will likely differ from my answer tomorrow just as it differs from my answer yesterday.  And the true paradox is that none of those answers — past, present, or future — is necessarily wrong, as it were.

So again, what do I love when I love my God? I will answer for today.

I am becoming more and more convinced that God is not an object to be contemplated or an external idea to be reflected upon but a reality to be participated in and a life in which we all share.

If that is true then perhaps the best way I can answer this all important question is to say that when I love my God I love you — yes, you.  Whoever you are, however you are, whenever you are and whatever you are doing…I. Love. You.  If you are reading this, if you are a human being and participate in the sharing of this life, then I…love…you.  That is what I love when I love my God.

How would you answer?  What is it that you love when you love your God?