(Ir)religiosity

I’d like to preface this — some stuff I reworked from a paper I wrote earlier this semester — by saying that while it ends on a more critical note, Segundo is without a doubt my favorite Latin American liberation theologian.  I think that especially now, with the so-called triumph of capitalism, Segundo’s work offers the best liberative alternative precisely because it is methodological and provides an ideological analysis of the foundations of theology.  My critical analysis revolves around the question of whether theology itself can provide a impetus for liberation or, as Segundo maintains, if a prior ideological or political commitment must be made.  If the latter is true, then I don’t see the need for theology as a liberative, praxis-oriented discourse.  In short, the question is this:  why be a theologian at all?

It seems that Latin American liberation theology suffers from an unintended epistemological problem.  If, in the final instance, praxis is the ultimate criterion of theoretical theology as many first-generation theologians have compelling argued, then what is the norm by which theological hermeneutics are employed?  To put it more bluntly, if praxis is the criterion for theory, then what is the criterion for praxis?  Such are the questions Juan Luis Segundo raises vis-à-vis Latin American liberation theology.  Whereas important founding thinkers like Gustavo Gutiérrez aimed to construct a theology of liberation by reifying classical Christian theological tropes against the backdrop of the socio-political situation in Latin America with the aid of Marxist analysis, Segundo opts for a different approach altogether.  One with the intention of the liberating theology from the cold grip of the ideological status quo, a move he believes is mandatory before theology itself can even begin its own program of liberation. This fundamental difference in approach is revealed in the title of both Gutiérrez’s and Segundo’s books: A Theology of Liberation and The Liberation of Theology, respectively.  Indeed, the latter suggests that what is needed is not so much a task of critical reconstruction, but rather a wholesale reevaluation of the form and foundation of theology as a potentially revolutionary enterprise, that is the conscious separation of theology from the dominant power discourse brokered — and I use the economically charged verb intentionally — by Euro-America.

For Segundo, the liberation of theology begins with the admission that any intellectual discourse — perhaps especially theology — is “intimately bound up with the existing social situation in at least an unconscious way” (8).  It is therefore imperative that the liberation theologian make the crucial connection between the past and the present situation in her critical interpretation of the biblical text.  Indeed, without such a connection Segundo is fearful that liberation theology will end up being a theology which only deals with liberation, lacking any real potency due to its “methodological naïveté” and eventually “reabsorbed by the deeper mechanisms of oppression” and the “prevailing language of the status quo” (8).  Thus, Segundo answers the question of epistemology with recourse to methodology.  In fact, it would not be wrong, in this case, to assert that a true theology of liberation is one that is concerned not only with concrete historical praxis but with the methodological processes that give rise to such action vis-à-vis the current situation.  For as Segundo provocatively claims, “the one and only thing that can maintain the liberative character of any theology is not its content but its methodology” as it is “the latter that guarantees the continuing bite of theology…however much the existing system tries to reabsorb it into itself” (39-40). Read the rest of this entry »

There is a really interesting post over at the Church Postmodern Culture blog contesting Peter Rollins’s claim that Slavoj Žižek is a “dialectical materialist theologian.”  Geoffrey Holsclaw suggests that to call Žižek a theologian is to “misunderstand Žižek’s project” as an atheist (albeit a certain type of atheist which should be carefully distinguished from the new atheist fundamentalists a la “Ditchkins“) and to “seriously downgrade theology.”

Interesting. And strong.

Which raises the question: what does it take to be a theologian?  What are the qualifications, prerequisites, and prior philosophical convictions to which one must assent in order to claim the title theologian?

In the case of Žižek, I find it a bit odd to dismiss him as theologian purely on his being an atheist and possibly tainting theology.  First, such a stance supposes an unvarying notion of atheism.  Žižek is not your normal (modern) atheist and would undoubtedly detest the idea of being grouped together with the likes of Richard Dawkins and Christopher Hitchens in the same way that progressive Christians dislike being painted with the same brush as Christian fundamentalists.  So I think that charge lacks the proper nuance and care.  Furthermore, aren’t we all atheists of some sort?  Don’t we all reject certain gods?

Second, the accusation that naming Žižek as a theologian does the theological enterprise itself a disservice supposes a very rigid definition of theology and may give Žižek more credit than is due.  As far as I can tell, Žižek rejects any notion of transcendence, a tenet that Holsclaw believes to be central to the aim of theology.  He writes:

If theology is merely the sociology or anthropology of religion run through the Lacanian registers of the Imaginary, the Symbolic, and the Real, then I might as well become a stock broker.  If theology is merely explication of the immanent infinitude of human subjectivity, the void of the cosmos, the height and depth of reality, then let’s own up to that (which I believe Žižek has).

Why should these things be off the table?  I for one would like to keep the channels of conversation open here rather than demanding that all theologizing acceptance some idea of transcendence.    Here is a question:  does a theologian need to choose between the two, between transcendence and immanence?  Is one acceptable and the other out of bounds?  Does one need to accept a certain definition of God and ultimate reality before being allowed a place at the table that is theology?

Setting Žižek aside, I’d like to go back to that original question.  What does it take to be a theologian? Who qualifies?  At the superficial level, I’m tempted to say that everyone is a theologian whether he or she realizes it or not.  Our mode of being in the world will always already be emblematic of our belief(s) about God and ultimate reality whether we overtly confess that belief or not.   But I understand the need to zero in on something more precise.  I just wonder if placing superfluous limitations on what it means to be a theologian is more of a reflection on our own notions about God, religion, and divinity than the larger enterprise itself.  I become deeply suspicious once we start taking things off the table for questioning.

I’m interesting in your thoughts on this.  How would you define a theologian?  What does it take to be one?

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.

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?

I was watching this video of the 2004 Emergent Conversation the other day and I was immediately struck by a quote from Walter Brueggemann about the violence attributed to God in the Hebrew bible.

“God is a recovering practitioner of violence.”

If you watch the video, the quote comes at about 29:00.  For some of the context behind what he is saying and the question he is responding to start at about 25:00.  Or watch the whole thing.  It’s definitely worth it.  There’s also a part two here.

But I want to return to that quote.  The problem of God and violence, be it in the Hebrew Bible or in the atonement, is not new.  And I am by no means have the answer, or an answer at all really.

I have to admit that I was put off by that quote when I first heard.  But I’ve been thinking about it since then and it has grown on me.  This of course questions the traditional view that God is static and completely unchanged.  I know that.  To be honest,  I don’t really have much vested interest in defending that claim that God is wholly static.  But I want to set that and any knee-jerk reactions we might of God being disrespected aside here if we can.

The main rebuttal of any suggestion that God might be participating in violence is that an text that attributes violence to God is simply the projection of human desire onto God.  So, the x group of people wants to kill and dominate y group of people.  So x group imagines that God commands them to kill y group.  That may make sense, but I don’t know that I am satisfied with that answer.  Neither is Brueggemann.  He thinks, and I tend to agree with him, that such an argument is a very slippery slope.  So, at what point do actions/virtues attributed to God in scripture cease to be human projections?  Or, are all attributes to God projected?  That may very well be true.  But we still have to deal with the violent projections.  What makes a projection of love better than a projection of violence?  The answer to that seems obvious, but it must be dealt with.

Things start to get really hairy really quick.

What do you think of Brueggemann’s quote?  Do you think that God might be “a recovering practitioner of violence?”  Is there any truth to that?  If so, what does what are the ramifications?  If not, why not?

Most people usually have strong opinions has to the nature of God, specifically whether God is personal or impersonal, transcendent or immanent.  I wonder if this is really just another false dichotomy that we have constructed for ourselves to put us at odds with one another.

What if it’s not either/or?

What if there is some truth to both positions and by recognizing that we come even closer to wrapping our heads around God?

It seems to me that that is the case because God is beyond our conception, beyond our images, and beyond our language.  All of these can only begin to point to God.

I wonder what happens when we insist that others adopt the same names and images for God that we do?

Recently I was commenting on a blog post about inclusive language and the use of personal pronouns and gender references for God.  As I read and commented I was struck about something.  By insisting that God is completely personal and that others must refer to God in the same way that we do (same pronoun, gender, etc.) are we not essentially de-personalizing God for someone who may have a different connection than we do?

Here’s another way of putting it.  In our overly zealous contention that God must personal for all in the way that S/He is personal to us, are we not making God impersonal for others? Does the act of personalization reverse itself here?

I think it may.  What do you think?