(Ir)religiosity

Power and Postmodern Empire: Sovereignty and Invisibility

In their seminal and erudite work Empire, Hardt and Negri provide an exhaustive political and philosophical genealogy of the historical evolution of imperialism from the dawn of modernity to the current era of globalization.  Along with this new epoch comes a new(er) form of sovereignty. The collapse of colonial regimes in the twentieth century and the demise of the Soviet Union signify the triumph of the global capitalist market and with it a new network of power — a superstructure one might say — that transcends the modern nation-state.  This new conglomeration consists of various transnational corporations and organisms which together constitute Empire and function as the driving apparatus of the world market, the new neoliberal order of global capitalism.  With the rise of this superstructure, the sovereignty of the modern nation-state has declined but, as Hardt and Negri are quick to point out, this does not mean that sovereignty as such is in decline.¹ Rather, what is emerging is a new form of global, transcendental sovereignty based upon these supra-structures and entities.  Hardt and Negri name this new postmodern form of sovereignty Empire.² Whereas under the modern form of sovereignty nation-states could “go it alone,” so to speak, in their own imperial and hegemonic exploits, Empire, because of its supra-national structure, precludes a singular nation from doing so.  In other words, nations are no longer shielded and insulated from the global network; rather, their politics are determined, and their policies made subservient to, the economics of Empire.  As Kwok Pui-lan succinctly puts it, “the market is not now subjected to the control of individual nation-states, but is rather dictated by transnational economic powers defined by greed and corporate interests.”³ This is evident by the inability of singular states to regulate economic and cultural exchanges on a global scale as they once could under standard imperial and colonial structures.⁴ Thus, the various imperialisms of modernity have lost their grip and no longer hold.  What we are experiencing in the era of globalization is a passage from imperialism to Empire.⁵

Not only are the in/formal structures of Empire less visible than they were under modern imperialisms, the very notion of power — its usage, control, and employment — are invisible as well.⁶ Drawing upon Michel Foucault’s notion of biopower developed in his The History of Sexuality, Hardt and Negri argue that under the problematic of Empire power is less overt than before and its usage and demarcation express a certain degree of ambivalence.⁷ Whereas in modernity power and authority came “from above” to issue control, under Empire the mechanisms of command are much more immanent in society “distributed throughout the brains and bodies of the citizens” such that the “behaviors of social integration and exclusion [are]…increasingly interiorized within the [political] subjects themselves.”⁸ With the passage to Empire, biopower becomes intrinsic to the good life, “regulat[ing] social life from its interior” and “achiev[ing] an effective command over the entire life of the population only when it becomes an integral, vital function that every individual embraces and reactivates of his or her own accord.”⁹ Thus, while the biopower of Empire is more invisible than the brute force of the modern nation-state’s imperialisms, it is surely no less toxic or lethal.  In fact, biopower in Empire may be more toxic and more lethal precisely because of its invisibility.  Moreover, this power is buttressed and reinforced by the ideological apparatus of the state. We see this at work most effectively in mainstream media.  For instance, recently a Super Bowl advertisement sponsored by the conservative Christian think tank Focus on the Family featuring Heisman Trophy winner Tim Tebow and his mother advocating a pro-life position sparked much controversy and many well-meaning liberals petitioned to have the commercial censored or removed before it aired.¹⁰ The irony here is that while these protestors were criticizing an overt form of advocacy — the kind most associated with modern imperialism — they were oblivious to the more covert forms of advocacy that, in their protest, they were tacitly supporting.  Super Bowl Sunday is the biggest day of the year for advertising.  Are not all the commercials in some sense advocating for capitalist Empire?  From the Dodge Charger and Old Spice vignettes inferring a false and perverted since of masculinity, to the credit card promotions and the beer advertisements — most all of these advertisements lend at least minimal support to the status quo and promotion of the American Dream (read “the good life”).  As a recent column puts it, “to fail to recognize the intention and consequences of commercials pushing trucks and SUV’s is naïve.”¹¹ It is not so much naïve as it is normal.  This is precisely the function of biopower as Hardt and Negri see it: the tentacles of the superstructure have penetrated the fabric of the social and political subject to such an extent that to be happy and to pursue the good life means to freely offer oneself — one’s mind and body — in support to Empire without even realizing it, indeed to do so under the guise of entertainment and pursuit of the so-called good life (e.g., having a beer with friends and watching the Super Bowl).  Biopower, therefore, constitutes those manifestations of power which, under capitalist Empire, oversee “the production and reproduction of life itself,” expressing themselves as a form of covert ideological control that “extends throughout the depths of the consciousness and bodies of the population—and at the same time across the entirety of social relations.”¹² At this point one does not need to point out that the problematic of Empire presents all sorts of pressing theological issues, however, as we shall see below, the eschatological question is perhaps chief among them.

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1. Hardt and Negri, Empire, xi. [↩]
2. Ibid., xii. [↩]
3. Kwok Pui-lan, “Liberation Theology in the Twenty-First Century,” Opting for the Margins: Postmodernity and Liberation in Christian Theology, ed. Joerg Rieger (New York, New York: Oxford University Press, 2003), 73. [↩]
4. Hardt and Negri, Empire, xii. [↩]
5. There are many monikers one might use to describe this new world order — global transnational capitalism, neoliberal globalization, for instance — however I follow Hardt and Negri and choose to refer to it as simply Empire. [↩]
6. Cf. Joerg Rieger, Christ and Empire: From Paul to Postcolonial Times (Minneapolis, Minnesota:  Fortress Press, 2007), 5, 275. [↩]
7. For our purposes, it is worth noting that the notion of ambivalence within postmodern power structures is an important theme within postcolonial theory and subaltern studies.  Cf. Homi K. Bhabha’s foundational text, The Location of Culture (New York, New York: Routledge Press, 1994.  For a theological perspective, see Catherine Keller, Michael Nausner, and Mayra Rivera, Postcolonial Theologies: Divinity and Empire (Danvers, Massachusetts: Chalice Press, 2004). One should also take note of Hardt and Negri’s own critique of postmodern and postcolonial thought in Empire, 137-143.  Their evaluation parallels that of Fredric Jameson, David Harvey and other post-Marxists theorists who claim that postmodernity is, in the final analysis, simply the cultural logic of a “late capitalist” society. [↩]
8. Hardt and Negri, Empire, 23. [↩]
9. Ibid., 23-24. [↩]
10. This commercial can be viewed online here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6BIOTItUwvk (accessed 2/28/10).  It turns out that this form of advocacy was much less inflammatory than many expected.  I would argue that is far less explicit and perhaps even docile in comparison to those that buttress and reinforce the logic of capitalism. [↩]
11. Bill Littlefield, “Advocacy is in the Eye of the Beholder,” WBUR News, Feb. 4, 2010 http://www.wbur.org/2010/02/04/tebow-et-al/ (accessed 2/14/10). [↩]
12. Hardt and Negri, Empire, 24. [↩]

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?

Rather, to borrow from Oswald Chambers, prayer changes me, altering the very fabric of my being and empowering me to better participate in the divine life.  The goal is to radically restructure my life as an ongoing act of prayer, a continual outworking of my wrestling with the timeless Augustinian question “what do I love when I love my God?”, and a faithful response to the Event that lays claim to me.

That is the nucleus of the post I wrote yesterday on prayer for Open Table Theology.  It should be published sometime later this month.

In the meantime, add the feed to your reader and join the in dialogical experiment!

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?