Sexuality and God-Images - A healing sexual theology of Submission and dominance

This is a paper I wrote for a class on Christian Sexuality. I hope it proves edifying to you. Note that there are footnotes on citations 14, 15 and 18 which may help to clarify certain points.

Thank you for reading. I hope you too will see the urgency of the task before us, the need to provide everyone with a unique language necessary for living into healing narratives and relationships.

"In Embodiment, James Nelson argues that sexual and religious questions are not mutually exclusive from one another as many traditions maintain, but rather inform and color each other necessarily.¹ Our sexuality conditions and affects our theology, and vice versa. This conditioning has a multitude of factors, not least of which is the power of the God-image on the sexually developing being. In what follows, I will explore the interplay between faith and sexuality, first providing personal and historical context, then arguing that God need not be related to in a way that is detrimental to the sexual unfolding and happiness of the individual. Drawing from my own context and Nelson, I will propose a sexual theology wherein the traditional power dynamic between humanity and the divine is inverted to reflect an authentic sexual communion surrounding submission and dominance. I will conclude that faith ought to be a matter of claiming a healing narrative and then living into a healing relationship, both with fellow sexual beings and with God. This will all begin with some personal and historical context on the subject.

Much ink has been spilled on establishing, defining and enforcing the normative God-images of western Christianity. Whether it is God as Father, God as Lord, God as Husband or God as Judge, the symbolic language by which we refer to the divine has concrete implications for how we live as embodied beings, particularly with regard to sexuality. Sometimes these implications are positive, sometimes negative. In my case, they were negative. Growing up, there was no sexual theology in place to make sense of my traumatic experiences.

The early family life of which I am cognizant was not very life-giving. My parents were unhappily married. They spent most of my childhood fighting, and while my mother was loving, she and my father both left me to my own devices. I discovered masturbation and sexuality almost entirely through pornography, as my father was too belligerent and abusive and my mother did not think it her place to explain male sexuality to her son. I was left in the dark. All I had to go on was my natural attraction to the opposite sex.

Partly due to fundamentalist Christian influence and partly because of my toxic relationship with my father, I saw God as an authority figure who said he loved me even when his behavior suggested that the condition for his love was total obedience. My father said he loved me, but I did not feel loved. God made me feel guilty and unworthy. Again, I was left to my own devices, and many days were spent alone before God, repenting but never experiencing absolution. God was Father and Judge, and neither God-image had a positive impact on me. The salt in the wound was that I was constantly told how vital relationship with God was, but I did not desire any such relationship with my Heavenly Father, let alone my earthly one. Needless to say, the God-image of Father did not facilitate my development, but rather nurtured my sense of hurt and resentment. My faith was stunted, and my sexuality developed according to what pornography taught me, leading to sexist dualisms that estranged me from my emotions. Neither my family nor my faith community contributed to my sexual or theological development. I had no context, and until college, I played along. God was Father, but I did not desire relationship with him, and sexual release only happened secretly on a computer screen late at night.

Looking back on the historical context of western Christianity, it is not surprising that my faith community and parents taught me nothing about sexuality. From the days of the overwhelmingly influential Saint Augustine to the present, Christianity has taken a more or less negative view of the human body and sexual relationships that take place outside of marriage (or for purposes other than procreation). This is largely attributable to Augustine. In his mind, sexual acts are sinful by nature and distort the loves and wills of humanity, transmitting the original sin of Adam and Eve like a biological contagion.² He is adamant on this point because it fits his experience; Augustine's life was characterized by lustful trysts that caused more harm than good, feeding into his sense of listlessness and inner frustration. His sexual drive was high, and he was clearly disturbed by the loss of self-control and willpower that occurs when engaging in sexual acts. In such moments, the human being becomes insatiable, attempting to feed an infinite desire with a finite good. Only God, the infinite good, can meet this infinite desire, and trying to replace God with sex is sinful in Augustine's eyes. Given this association between sex and selfish, insatiable desires (referred to as 'concupiscence'), “every sex act is not only directly connected to original sin (for which each of us is responsible) but also binds us more firmly to it.”³ In Confessions, Augustine writes that his heart is restless until it rests in God, who alone can satisfy his deep longing and properly order his will, so that lust can no longer turn him from divine love, which was waiting for him all along.⁴

In Augustine's mind, it is not humanity who first reaches out to God, but God who first reaches out to humanity. Even in the midst of sin and concupiscence, God is present, never far away, always ready to break the chains. In terms of grace and salvation, God always acts first. This is solidified later when Augustine argues contra Pelagius that humanity cannot abstain from sin by willpower alone, but is always in need of divine help. In other words, the initiative is God's alone to take. Even so, humanity is still free to pursue finite goods in place of the infinite good:

“How long it was before I learned that you were my true joy! You were silent then, and I went on my way, father and farther from you, proud in my distress and restless in fatigue, sowing more and more seeds whose only crop was grief.”⁵

Augustine's sexual history did not bring him fulfillment and wholeness, but rather grief. In processing his experiences, he turned to abstinence, prescribing a sexual ethic where sex could only happen in marriage, and then only for procreation. Thus, contraception and sex for pleasure were condemned.⁶ It takes only a cursory glance to see that Augustine's sexual ethic, first written through the experiential lens of a traumatic sexual history, is commonplace in Christianity today. The west's most predominant Christian sexual ethic was written by a man who ultimately gave up on embodied sexual fulfillment. In this way, it is easy to see how one's sexual experiences can color one's theology, and how one's theology can change the world.

Just as sexuality can color the particulars of theology, it also gives rise to God-images. The God-image most constraining to me is Father, which has become one of the most common God-images. It had its origins with Jesus himself, automatically lending itself to popularity. In first century Judaism, God was understood as a party to the covenant between him and his chosen people, Israel. Before that, he was the creator, the maker of all. In terms of relationship, he was the husband, while Israel was the bride.⁷ This marital language in theology has endured. Augustine in the 4^th century CE used such language when he described his years of lust, during which he “broke troth with [God].”⁸ Israelite transgression of the covenant was often interpreted in terms of breaking troth and marital infidelity.⁹ God was not commonly referred to as Father. However, possibly due to his own father's death and the subsequent loss of a stable father figure, Jesus had a moving experience where he came to know God as his heavenly Father, claiming dignity as a Son of God (after all, in all accounts of Jesus' ministry, Joseph is curiously absent).¹⁰ This metaphor gave life to Jesus, but for me, this paternal metaphor has become entangled in feelings of fear, hurt, resentment, and powerlessness. It has not contributed to my sexual unfolding.

What does contribute to my sexual unfolding is a God-image that not only makes sense of my experiences, but also gives me new understanding of who God is. In the course of discovering my own sexual characteristics, I learned that it is erotic for me to be in a dominant role. I appreciate and enjoy the submission of a partner because it indicates that they trust me and value my wishes. It is an affirmation of my self-worth, a reminder that I have control over my life and that I need not be a doormat to anyone. It also feeds into my nurturing side, the aspect of my self that has always wanted to be a responsible caretaker and provider. Being dominant and assuming the position of power in sexual acts speaks to what is good in me; it banishes my anxieties surrounding my sense of worthlessness engendered in me by my father, and it fills me with love for the person who first loved me enough to submit. It makes me a fuller person, and it was only when I became sexually active in this way that I achieved an orgasm meaningful to me. Being in control and indulging in the moment of desire, far from corrupting my humanity as Augustine feared, actually restored it.

This sexual development represents a deviation from the sexual ethic prescribed in most faith communities, which often closely resemble Augustine's. At the same time, it is also a departure from historical Christianity, which has always conceived of God in male terms and then as a figure of supreme authority, not as an intimate lover. The God-image that makes better sense to me of my sexual experiences and general context is God as female Lover. Like Augustine, I too wasted much time sowing seeds whose only crop was grief. But in the midst of all my loss and heartache, I have learned that God alone is the Lover who will never leave, the Supporter who will build me up, the Wife who will give my labor meaning, the Seductress whose charms will unfailingly hold my wandering gaze, and the Heart that will always desire me, even when I feel undesirable.

Moreover, God is the Lover who will give herself to me, not because I am more powerful or significant, but because she knows that her submission will make me happy. That is how much she loves me. Her submission and the transfer of power it signifies is an affirmation of my worth as the beloved, as a creature made in the image of God. This mode of relating to God gives me insight into the divine; for once, the tables are turned, and I can see God from an inverted point of view.

My proposal for a sexual theology is precisely this: humanity is afforded new perspective and is affirmed in its created goodness when it allows God to be submissive and itself to be dominant. Throughout history, God has always been the one to take the initiative, as Augustine argued. In nearly all of the philosophical and theological literature, God is all-powerful, dominant, all-knowing, utterly transcendent, and always in charge. God calls the shots, and humanity is the one who must surrender and find value in the act. I would argue that while this dynamic is not without merit, it also cuts off possibility and inhibits growth when it becomes the sole lens through which the relationship between God and humanity is viewed. Nelson writes that sexuality is “a highly symbolic dimension of human experience,” and that to think of it as such represents a “departure from from the heavily biological emphasis typical of traditional natural law theory in ethics.”¹¹ By the same token, I would argue that to see sexuality as a highly symbolic dimension of human experience also represents a departure from the heavily philosophical emphasis on traditional metaphysical and hierarchical distinctions between God and humanity, such as creator and created, spirit and matter, Lord and subject. When the relationship between God and humanity becomes one sided in this way, it ceases to be a polarity where “two harmonious elements essentially belonging together are yet distinguishable and may exist in creative tension.”¹² The implication of God always being in the position of power and dominance in the relationship is that humanity is always in the position of lack of power and submission, meaning that humanity will never fully understand the act of submission in context. Does giving mean as much when one does not know what it is to receive? God knows equally well what it is to dominate and what it is to submit, but in the historically adopted paradigm of divine domination, humanity has only ever known submission. In allowing God to submit, humanity is given the opportunity to know another aspect of God, to touch the divine heart, to experience union with the divine in a new and empowering way.

The first immediate objection is that if God submits and humanity dominates, God is made less and humanity is lifted up beyond safe boundaries. This need not be a concern. Nelson argues that authentic sexual communion precludes both dichotomy (wherein fundamental distinctions are not resolved) and absorption (where the two become one or both lovers are rendered precisely the same, in which case there is no polarity worth having). Rather:

In authentic sexual communion dichotomy is overcome while polarity remains. The body-self is united with the beloved partner. . .This communion retains its polarity. . .In a true sexual relationship with the beloved, I do not possess my partner. The same is true in the knowing relationship with God.”¹³

In short, if a sexual relationship of dominance and submission is entered into in good faith and loving intention on both sides, the polarity of creative tension and the uniqueness of both dom and sub remains untouched, regardless of whatever outward dynamic the sexual act might imply.¹⁴ The dom does not own the sub, and the sub's value or identity is not invalidated by the dom. Real sexual communion means giving lovingly and graciously accepting what is given, all in a dynamic of mutuality. However the power dynamic appears on the surface, if it is authentic sexual communion, the polarity remains. Even if God is conceived of in the role of sub, her power, identity and majesty is preserved. The ontological status quo between God and humanity remains, despite the outward appearance of power transfer. God does not become humanity and humanity does not become God; they merely become the beloved of one another in a different capacity.¹⁵

Another objection is that the rightful place of humanity is one of submission. This depends heavily on how one defines submission and whether or not the act of submission is toxic for the individual. There are those for whom submission is a return to a violent and traumatic childhood, for whom the language of submission holds little but trauma and sadness, just as there are those for whom the language of dominance denies the value of submission. Everyone has different experiences, and the language of submission will not be life-giving to everyone. For this reason, I argue that Christianity's historical emphasis on the value of human submission is highly contextual and should not be taken as universally valid across the board. There will always be those who find life in submission to God and to others, but there will also always be those for whom submission is death.

For those who seek to know and love God by way of the sexual theology I am proposing, there are arguments to be made against humanity always being in submission. When Augustine wrote that the initiative is God's alone to take, he implied that the human being was a “receptor only – a passive, waiting vessel who can only respond to the divine initiative. . .Thus, the image of a passive self totally pliable before God not only truncates the fullness of the body-self but also impoverishes the God to whom we would respond.”¹⁶ If humanity and God are lovers on a polarity, God is robbed of a lover when humanity does not contribute to the co-creative tension, floundering limply like a doll. There is little pleasure to be derived from a partner who lies lifeless and still, lacking dynamism of any kind, never giving feedback during the act. Whether dominant or submissive, God surely desires an active partner, not a passive receptor. If the initiative is always God's alone, then humanity is robbed of its right to be co-creative with God, and co-creativity is part of what it means to occupy a polarity of authentic sexual communion with the divine.

It goes without saying that all language applied to God is symbolic. Any sexual theology that conceives of God as Lover in the context of a specific sexual act is necessarily metaphorical and will not fully encapsulate the Mystery. Equally obvious is that the language of dominant and submissive relationship will not resonate with everyone's experiences, sexual or otherwise. But whatever form a sexual theology may take, it is important to recognize that sex, as a form of human language, is “an expression of the human search for meaning and belonging,” and that “sex for human beings is a language of love.”¹⁷ One of the first things a child in Sunday School learns is 'God loves you.' What that love means will change from person to person, from sexual history to sexual history, from heartache to heartache.¹⁸ Many people carry a lot of pain and alienation inside of them, as Augustine did for so many years. But where he dismissed the desire of sexuality as inherently sinful, I would argue that sexuality and sexual theology both ought to be about claiming healing narratives that speak to and validate our individual stories.

At its core, religion is about claiming healing narratives. Unfortunately, where there is no language in the community to give voice to their sexual or theological experiences, people will either bear the pain silently or look elsewhere. When the stories of the faith community do not resonate with and make room for the sexual self, that sexual self will be forced to find expression elsewhere, perhaps in a subculture established around a certain sexual act. Too often, an individual will discover themselves sexually only to find that their faith community is not only unwilling to celebrate that discovery, but condemns it! The simple fact is that not only are we unable to understand ourselves apart from our sexuality, but we also “do not have complete control over interpretations of our sexuality; some definitions and understandings are forced upon us. . .our sexuality is shaped by the time and space in which we live.”¹⁹ We cannot help being what we are, and we are fully justified in wanting to find communities where aspects of our sexual-selves can find freedom of expression. The tragedy lies in the fact that while many find acceptance in sexual subcultures, they do not always find that same acceptance in their faith communities or in their homes. This is true not only of certain sexual acts, but also of sexual theologies that go against the grain established by Augustine long ago. I know of no church where the sexual theology I proposed could be wholly accepted. Like many, I am forced to compartmentalize my self, to pick and choose between membership in seemingly mutually exclusive tribes.

There is an urgent need for theological language that can facilitate the synthesis between these tribes, so that people may experience both sexual and spiritual fulfillment, not one at the expense of the other. Whatever human beings are, we are social and sexual, and our sexuality is an expression of our search for value and meaning; when we find that value and meaning, we ought to be able to share it with others! Our sexuality informs our intimate relationships, both with people and with God. In the final analysis, these relationships should reflect authentic sexual communion and take forms that heal us, rather than hurt us. They should never inhibit our unfolding as social and sexual beings desiring intimacy and acceptance. The sexual theology of human domination and divine submission is merely one of many sexual theologies that need to be written. We need many more such theologies and God-images, so that all people may own a language by which to express their sexual experiences to both their divine and human beloved.

Works Cited:

Nelson, James B. Embodiment: An Approach to Sexuality and Christian Theology. First ed., Minneapolis, MN, Augsburg Publishing House, 1978, pp. 15-106.

Holy Bible: New Revised Standard Version. San Francisco, Harper One, 1989.

Beattie, Patricia, and Darryl W. Stephens, editors. Professional Sexual Ethics: A Holistic Ministry Approach. First ed., Minneapolis, MN, Fortress Press, 2013, pp. 12-62.

Augustine, Saint. Confessions. Westminster, Penguin Books, 1961, pp. 34-44.

Hinson, E G. The Early Church. First ed., Nashville, TN, Abingdon Press, 1996, p 30.

1James B. Nelson, Embodiment, page 15

2Professional Sexual Ethics, page 62

3Nelson, page 53

4Saint Augustine, Confessions, page 21

5Augustine, pages 43-44

6Professional Sexual Ethics, page 62

7Holy Bible NRSV, Isaiah 54:5, Hosea 2:19, Jeremiah 31:32, Malachi 3:17

8Augustine, page 34

9Hosea 2:2-23, Jeremiah 3:20

10Glenn Hinson, The Early Church, page 30

11Nelson, page 28

12Nelson, page 37

13Nelson, pages 34-35

14Briefly, in relationships of power transfer and exchange, the dominant one who takes initiative and derives pleasure from dominance is referred to as a top or dom (there are fine distinctions between a top and a dom, but these lie outside the scope of this paper. We will simply use the term dom moving forward), and the submissive one who derives pleasure from submission is referred to as the sub.

15In such relationships, it is the sub who has the power; while the dom takes the initiative and dictates what sexual act will happen and when, the sub has the final word and retains the power to say “yes” or “no,” to which the dom must respectfully comply. The dom has only the appearance of power. God is not diminished in any way as the sub. In fact, her ultimate power is thus affirmed.

16Nelson, page 32

17Nelson, pages 105-106

18For many with experiences similar to mine, the statement 'God loves you' can be harmful if that love is perceived as coming from certain figures, i.e. paternal figures. My father said he loved me, but his actions implied otherwise. If God is paternal and I hear 'God loves you,' it rings hollow in my ears. If a faith community succeeds in making the statement 'God loves you' ring hollow for anyone, it has failed in its primary mission.

19Professional Sexual Ethics, pages 12-13"

Trump

Trump became president today. I saw a rational, sane person support him, posting this:

This was my response.

If your faith was in God and Christ crucified, then you would remember what he was executed for; 1) sedition against the state and 2) challenging the status quo in favor of affirming the dignity of the marginalized, the outcast, the downtrodden, the socially undesirable, the other.

Trump's campaign was largely built on unfounded fear of these social undesirables, these others. People were talked into being afraid that the others would harm their country.

If you voted for Trump and believed his rhetoric based on fear of the other, then your faith was in an idol, in a nation, not Christ crucified.  You valued a sense of security over the love of Christ.

This is what shakes my faith.

How Sakura Con is more of a church than some churches

After a long absence of many years, I had the privilege of attending Sakura Con 2015. Sakura Con is an anime/manga convention I was exposed to in high school during my now embarrassing infatuation with Hellsing (which, in my defense, has fantastical art). Though Sakura Con has been and always will be primarily a celebration of Japanese culture, the primary appeal for me is cosplay, the practice of creating costumes designed to make you look like a fictional character of your choice. It need not be anime or manga based, it could be anything. This year, I was the tragic Booker Dewitt of Bioshock Infinite (a game with such depth that I would love to devote an entire blog entry to it), as well as Oswald of Carim of Dark Souls. I even threw together a Vincent Law of Ergo Proxy for the masquerade ball.

But while the cosplay was excellent this year (it's always such a delight to see what people come up with), other aspects of con were emphasized to me. One of the most magical things about con is that everyone becomes approachable. You can hold an amiable conversation with anyone, as if you were friends, no matter who or what you are outside of con. I chatted with strangers for hours, and I enjoyed it. Even though I am an introvert typically drained by prolonged exposure to people, I was charged by the atmosphere. The sense of brotherhood was tangible, and while there were those who preferred to remain quiet and reserved, everyone was friendly with one another. The details of our lives were unimportant, except that we were all of us nerds who delighted in nerdy things. Sakura Con is one of the largest conventions on the west coast, and it draws thousands upon thousands of people from all over the world; inevitably, you run across someone with a unique shared interest. "You like this too? I thought I was the only one!" For the most part, it's a time of tearing down the walls we erect to prevent unwanted social contact and enjoying one another's company. It's about sharing in nerdiness.

This being said, Sakura Con (I can only speak for this con, having attended few others) has spawned cultural practices that are observed each year. This was my first con since going to college, and I found that my insight into things had drastically changed since my first con experiences, and I began to notice and appreciate different things that were always there.

Chief among my examples is the practice of the hugging circle. Every year in the courtyard, a large crowd gathers, usually at least 60 people. Some of the people form a circle around the others, and empty cans and bottles are placed in the center. A person inside the circle kicks a can, and whomever the bottle points to on the outside of the circle is then approached and hugged by the kicker. After the hug, the two exchange places. The person then stands on the edge of the circle until a new kicker's bottle points to the them. They then hug and the first kicker returns to the merry frenzy of the center, looking for a bottle to kick. It's a very simple dance of exitus and redditus that perpetuates itself endlessly.

This might not sound like much of a game, but I spent hours playing it. Along with a new friend who had become dear to me in a short amount of time, I hugged what must have been hundreds of people, and it was a far more delightful experience than I expected. Everyone was enthusiastic in their determination to make everyone feel welcome. All types were present. Those in cosplay and those in street clothes, those in brightly colored costumes and those in dark ones, those were were dressed morbidly and those were dressed pleasantly, those who spoke english and those who did not, those were loud and those were quiet, white, black, asian, straight, gay, male, female, transexual. All were accepted into the circle as participants of the ritual. I gave some damn fine hugs that day, and received my fair share too, and I couldn't keep from smiling. Though the dance was quick in its pace and you could go out and in and back outside the circle within a minute, everyone moved at an amiable pace and got to know one another through a word spoken here and there. The air was charged with a determination to love and celebrate one another.

Through it all, I couldn't help but think. And being me, my thoughts eventually took a theological turn. Again and again, I could feel myself nodding in approval as I thought to myself "there is a goodness at work here. Surely God is in it." And I progressively came to realize that the hug circle was more like a church than some churches. As a community, it perfectly represented the peace that is meant to be present in church when the Lord's peace is shared among the congregation. There was an incredible amount of diversity as well, and it did not matter in the least who you were; the only things of importance was that you brought no evil with you, that you were welcome, and that you could expect a warm hug from anyone at any moment. It amazed me that such a diverse crowd of people could exist in a small space so happily, and I realized that this is what church is meant to be. All children of God should feel welcome as members of the body of his son, no matter who they are. All types were present, including a silent and intimidating assassin who would politely bow before offering a quick but courteous embrace. There was also a child led by his father's hand. The circle drew all kinds, just as God draws all kinds.

There was an additional liturgy often invoked in the circle. Occasionally, one of the members in the center would shout "Hey, guess what," to which the rest would respond "What," followed by an additional "Hey guess what" from the crier, who would then make a statement or claim. Sometimes a person would declare "I need a hug," at which point the entire center of the circle would swarm them in a group hug. One of two chants would then begin: either "No way out" or "One of us." Occasionally a member would announce that they needed to leave, at which point the "No way out" chant would begin. The person was free to leave at any time, and people did come and go, but it was vigorously emphasized by the collective circle that it desired to keep the company of the person leaving.

The significance of this for me was that in the body of Christ, there is no power that can separate you from God's love. There is "no way out." At the same time, you are, and always will be "one of us." Taken alone, one of the chants might come across as either foreboding (no way out, we won't let you leave, you're trapped!) or in danger of sounding insipid (one of us, man, totally far out, man). But taken holistically, the chants communicated a powerful message to me, saying that the experience of having participated in the circle this year would be with me forever, that there was no way out of the experiences that made up my person. At the same time, I would always have the experience of being one of the group, of being included, of actively participating, of being welcome without any qualifiers at all.

It is entirely possible that some of my readers are reading into my analogy of the hug circle as church with a sense of abject horror. "Welcome without any qualifiers at all? What madness! Are we to let just anyone into our church? The foreigner, the atheist and the sexually ambiguous? Those who do not take the liturgy seriously? Those whose sin clings to them? Are we to let them in without any qualifiers at all?" To which I would respond, no, you would not let them in without any qualifiers at all, because admittance into the body of Christ has only one condition: that you willingly share in God's love through his son and give it freely to others. I find this condition an excellent one because by the word love, much is communicated. Love is grand in scope but uncomplicated. It desires and hopes all things that God wills, and God's will is peace and harmony, meaning that to share and give of God's love is to be an agent of renewal, that is, an agent of shalom. When the heart is fixed on God's love, it desires what God desires, and wills what he wills. And the more one takes love into account in every action, no matter how small, the more one realizes that God wills that love should flow into everything. Everyone in the world ought to be welcomed into church, so that they may learn of God's love in real and life changing ways. Christianity is not a set of abstractions, policies and dogmas; it is a living, breathing community charged with a sense of belonging together in a context of celebration, unity, and delight. That is the church, and that is also the hug circle.

"But what about rules? Rules need to be in place!" Indeed, the church is held together by rules. The hug circle would fall apart if everyone decided to abandon the rules and do as they each individually willed. The church has a code of conduct that is beyond contestation, not for the sake of rewarding some and excluding others, but for the sake of holding the community of believers together in real and tangible ways. God's word is law and sin is to be removed, but this happens through the economy of God's love as it descends on the congregation and continually winds its way through them. In other words, the hug circle represents a kind of perichoresis that is uniquely human. It is a dancing about where a hug is received, given, and then received again. It is self-sustaining, animated by the economy of hugging. It's like a heart beating blood into every vein, again and again. Life spreads like a wave, quiets for a moment, and then explodes into action again. God's love comes into the congregation, beginning a cycle of sharing that can go on a long time before dissipating. The rules of perichoresis are clear, and they must be willingly abided by for the economy of love to flow ceaselessly. Everyone is welcome in the church/welcome to play the game, but the there are rules and they must be observed. And within the context of these rules, what could there be to complain about when God's love is moving among his people? Why worry about how the rules of hug circle are constricting you when you are caught in a maelstrom of affection and warmth? No, the rules are not constricting. They are there not to dictate who may or may not participate in the economy of love, but rather to keep that economy flowing ceaselessly as it ought to.

Perhaps this all sounds too idyllic. I understand. In the case of the hug circle, all of the members were predisposed towards a functioning economy of love because of their shared nerdiness by being members at con. It is entirely possible that not everyone in Seattle would have been comfortable participating in the circle. Perhaps the circle is not meant for everyone. Perhaps everyone must seek out their own version of the economy of love, just as each Christian must seek the denomination and congregation that brings them closest to that sense of divine perichoresis with fellow humans. Perhaps this is more representative of what I ought to expect from the time following the resurrection, when all will be given new life and a new chance to know God's love. Indeed, it seems appropriate, now that I think about it, that Sakura Con is always held on Easter weekend. And though I regret not being able to attend a church service on Sunday, I still believe that I witnessed a hint of what can be expected on the day of resurrection. For while Easter is a day to celebrate and be in awe of Christ's death and resurrection, the hug circle was (for me) a celebration in awe of each person's own death and resurrection, and what that shared experience of resurrection will mean. There is a sense in which churches have lost, and need to regain, the hug circle's sense of vibrant joy and celebration. Churches could learn more than a few things from con culture, because con is all about drawing together disparate people through shared passion and love. And that's what church should be.

The dear friend I mentioned earlier had to leave Sunday to go back to Montana, far away from here. But we spoke about hope and memory; we had formed these memories, and there was no way out. They would always be part of us. Memory alone is not enough to live on, so we could keep those memories with the hope of one day making new ones. Hope and memory, I sometimes catch myself murmuring now. One of us, no way out. One day, the memories I formed in the hug circle, which hope for perfect realization in the healed earth God promised us, will be made new. Hope and memory. I keep the memory in hope. One of us, no way out.

And I will never forget how present God felt in that circle, because I am one of us, and there is no way out of that. I am eternally a member of the hug circle at Sakura Con 2015, just as I am eternally a member of God's family.

This is the Idiot, signing out.

What I think about in the shower

A lot has been going on in the world lately, particularly regarding the relationship between violence and what we commonly call "religion." Some have interpreted their faiths in terms of commands from God, specifically, commands to violence, which is opposed to peaceful communion. This got me thinking.

One night, after a particularly painful massage and a relaxing shower, I had an epiphany. All genuine traditions of piety and belief (which most today problematically refer to as "religions") historically began not in the ethical mode, but in the relational. One calls out to the Divine (by whatever name), just like a child calling out to a parent. The Divine responds, and a relationship develops, one which boils over into the lives of others, so that the relationship grows into a communal act as well as a personal one. Genuine traditions of piety and belief have always been this way.

The ethical concerns itself with what an individual ought to do in order to live well, so what does an ethic of faith look like? What have the faithful been commanded to do? Given that true traditions of piety and belief sprang from the relational mode, an ethic of faith is less concerned with prescribing the minutia of day to day living as it is with opening individuals to an active awareness of the fundamental nature of the relational mode. It is not "Thou shalt" and "Thou shalt not" so much as it is "Thou shalt be with me and with thine fellow creatures and with thine world, and what shall define that be-ing will be love." We were relational beings before we were ethical ones. An ethic of faith is a call to communion, a call to a deepening awareness of one's relation to the Divine, one's relation to one's neighbor, and one's relation to one's world. When faith finds itself reduced to petty legalism, or when it becomes defined strictly in terms of orthodoxy to the point of neglecting orthopraxy and communion, then whatever ethic faith lays claim to loses its legitimacy.

It really is just like they always said to me growing up; faith is about relationship, and that is something this world consistently demonstrates it is incapable of realizing. When the mountains of mankind at last make themselves humble before God, their submission will coincide with the realization that the sole command God issued them was at the heart of their greatest yearning, which is to call out and to be responded to, to be with, and to be with in love. God's command for each life is this: "Thou shalt love in communion."

“Teacher, which is the greatest commandment in the Law?”
Jesus replied: “‘Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind.’This is the first and greatest commandment. And the second is like it: ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.' All the Law and the Prophets hang on these two commandments.”

Matthew 22:36-40

Kierkegaard vs Hegel - Objectivity, Subjectivity, and Faith

The following is a paper I submitted during my undergrad studies at Calvin College. I hope you find it beneficial and that it clarifies some of the nuances existing between thinkers like Kierkegaard and Hegel.

I'd like to note, however, that if you wish to make use of my work, remember to cite your sources, including this webpage. The general rule of thumb is this: whenever you use anything, even an idea or concept, that you did not come up with yourself, use proper citation. The integrity of your project is too important to risk through acts of plagiarism.

So cite any and all sources you end up using. Yes, even if it's a paper posted by some schmuck on an online blog somewhere.

Cheers.

Philosophy 333

James Sellers

10/11/13

Writing Assignment #02

Kierkegaard often disagrees with Hegelian ideas. In this case, he disagrees with Hegel's definition of what constitutes truth with regard to the question of Christianity as truth. Hegel would say that truth is an absolute and objective certainty; this certainty is possible through having complete knowledge in its final form. Kierkegaard pseudonymously disputes this idea through Climacus when he asserts that truth as objective certainty has no power to transform the subject as an individual, and neither is it conducive to the passion and inwardness that are important conditions for truth relevant to the subject as an existing individual. For these reasons, Climacus states that truth is subjective and that how the subject relates herself to truth has greater significance than what she relates herself to. This comes to expression in the passage in Concluding Unscientific Postscript that compares the virtuous pagan praying to an idol and the nominal Christian who prays to the true God. In this paper, I will explore what truth means both objectively and subjectively and what these different interpretations mean for the definition and location of truth that Climacus wishes to espouse.

Climacus understands objective truth as a mutual agreement between thinking and being (189). Essentially, one's thinking must correspond with reality, or what is, and vice-versa; the subject must approach truth without biases of any kind, and the subject's beliefs must correspond to what factually is the case. For Climacus, however, this two-way agreement falls short. It turns Christian truth into mere approximation, whereby Christianity, were it to ever be proven as objective truth, would become a mere obligation instead of the object of passion, an abstraction instead of a personal reality. Additionally, this agreement between thinking and being does not take into account the problem of flux that is inherent to human existence:

“If, in the two definitions given, being is understood as empirical being, then truth itself is transformed into a desideratum [something wanted] and everything is placed in the process of becoming, because the empirical object is not finished, and the existing knowing spirit is itself in the process of becoming. Thus truth is an approximating whose beginning cannot be established absolutely, because there is no conclusion that has retroactive power” (189).

By this account, truth has only partial reality as approximating abstraction and not as a timeless reality. If truth as a two-way correspondence between thinking and being is the ideal, then it will always be in a process of approximation.

These problems with the objective account lead Climacus to reject it in favor of a subjective account. Climacus suggest that people think of truth not as an abstract approximation external to the subject to which she must comport herself dispassionately, but rather something that the subject reflects upon inwardly in order to exist in subjectivity. In other words, the question is not necessarily what human beings believe, but rather how they relate themselves to what they believe; the issue is how human beings can live in truth in a subjectively authentic manner. The divergence of the objective and the subjective comes to a head when Climacus writes:

“When the question about truth is asked objectively, truth is reflected upon objectively as an object to which the knower relates himself. What is reflected upon is not the relation but that what he relates himself to is the truth, the true. If only that to which he relates himself is the truth, the true, then the subject is in the truth. When the question about truth is asked subjectively, the individual's relation is reflected upon subjectively. If only the how of this relation is in truth, the individual is in truth, even if he in this way were to relate himself to untruth” (199).

Climacus does not necessarily deny the existence of objective truth as something to which the subject must relate herself. However, he goes one step beyond this, stating that the manner of subjective relation to objective truth is more important than the content of the subject's beliefs. If the question is whether or not one can have knowledge of God, the objective relation to truth encounters the problem of approximation, whereby objective knowledge of God deliberates dispassionately in the hopes of somehow proving God objectively. This is problematic, however, because “God is a subject and hence only for subjectivity in inwardness” (200).

The subjective relation, on the other hand, has personal and urgent reality for the subject. Climacus endorses this mode of relation. An objective seeker of God can only approximate the truth of God as an idea, but a subjective seeker of God is infinitely concerned with how she relates to truth. The person who knows the truth objectively but relates to the truth impersonally prohibits truth's genuine, transformative effect in her life. But the person who, while objectively in untruth, relates to it in truth allows herself to experience truth nevertheless on account of her intensely personal and authentic passion and need. If the question is where more truth can be found, in the objective relation or in the subjective relation, Climacus feels that the answer reveals itself in the comparison of the nominal Christian with the virtuous pagan:

“If someone who lives in the midst of Christianity enters, with knowledge of the true idea of God, the house of the true God, and prays, but prays in untruth, and if someone lives in an idolatrous land but prays with all the passion of infinity, although his eyes are resting upon the image of an idol—where, then, is there more truth? The one prays in truth to God although he is worshipping an idol; the other prays in untruth to the true God and is therefore in truth worshipping an idol” (201).

Put simply, actions speak louder than words. The pagan who prays with life-transforming intensity feels the effects of genuine faith, which inwardly spurs him to action, whereas the Christian who goes to church out of a sense of obligation and prays dispassionately feels no such effects of genuine faith and is not inwardly prompted to action. The pagan likewise struggles with uncertainty and takes hold of faith, while the Christian settles for a mere approximation of God. Acknowledging the truth intellectually is by itself an insufficient belief, because belief must be practiced to have effectual value. What one believes must be reflected in one's actions. As an example, Climacus considers the figure of Socrates, who was willing to die for belief in immortality. “He stakes his whole life on this “if”; he dares to die, and with the passion of the infinite he has so ordered his life that it might be acceptable—if there is an immortality” (201). So with regard to the prayers of the virtuous pagan and the nominal Christian, the transforming power of their beliefs decides whether a subject is in truth or not. As such, the truth ultimately lies in the subjective. Climacus supports this conclusion further when he states that the objective emphasis is on what is said and the subjective with how it is said (202). “At its maximum,” he writes. “this 'how' is the passion of the infinite, and the passion of the infinite is the very truth. But the passion of the infinite is precisely subjectivity, and thus subjectivity is truth” (203). In this way, it is preferable (according to Climacus) to pray to a false god in truth rather than praying to the true God in untruth.

With truth being located in subjectivity, Climacus provides a definition of this truth: “An objective uncertainty, held fast through appropriation with the most passionate inwardness, is the truth, the highest truth there is for an existing person” (203). This means that past a certain point, objective knowledge becomes suspended for the subject, and the infinite passion of inwardness grows stronger in this objective uncertainty. The subject thus chooses objective uncertainty, fueled by infinite passion. Climacus observes that this definition also expresses what it means to have faith. Without a sense of objective uncertainty and risk, one does not need something like faith. “If I am able to apprehend God subjectively, I do not have faith; but because I cannot do this, I must have faith” (204). Only in the absence of objective certainty can something as hopeful as faith occur. Praying in truth thus means to let faith guide one through inward passion in how one relates to one's beliefs.

In short, Climacus concerns himself primarily with the authenticity of the subject's relation to objective truth. The orientation of the subject and the power of a belief to transform the subject in a real and life changing way ultimately makes the most important difference. Truth is thus found in subjectivity, in the heart of the believer as her beliefs drive her to action. The Hegelian idea of absolute knowledge becomes unattainable to the subject, but this very suspension of objectivity brings faith's value to light. In this sense, Climacus implies that Christianity as truth does not lend itself easily to the modern understanding, but is rather something best understood through the genuine and earnest practice of faith.

Works Cited:

Kierkegaard, Søren. Concluding Unscientific Postscript. Hong ed. Princeton, New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 1846. 189-204. Print.

Human Belief in Knowledge, Certainty, and Assassin's Creed

Foreword: The following is not exactly polished. As far as philosophy goes, it's pretty basic stuff. It's a discussion about Cartesian scientific certainty, which is all the rage these days. It's also about the role that faith (or belief, if you like) plays in human experience. All of this was inspired by a particular scene in Assassin's Creed 1 (minor spoilers). I wrote it without a whole lot of editing, but regardless, my convictions as to the importance of faith in human experience are firm. I hope you will see why upon reading this.

"People today tend to talk in terms of knowledge and ignorance. In true Socratic fashion, human existence has largely become a dichotomy where knowledge and ignorance represent bookends for an all-applicable standard. Certainty and grounded-ness are perceived as the ultimate goals. The highest good of discussion and discourse is to stick closely to the facts and adhere to a decidedly scientific rigor. But personally, I think it's more complicated (and yet also much simpler) than that. More than facts and certainty, I believe that the dichotomy which applies more deeply, more authentically to the breadth of human existence, is faith and doubt.

I played Assassin's Creed yesterday. It's a fun little game to play, set in the under-explored historical setting of the Third Crusade. I liked it quite a bit when I was younger, partly because it was one of the few games willing to touch on things like philosophy and religion. But things are never quite as good as you remember, and this game is not as ideologically grand as I remember it being. Essentially, it's science fiction set in the middle ages, with the player attempting to wrest control of advanced alien technology from the evil Templar Order. There is a part of the game later on in which you have to assassinate a Teutonic crusader named Sibrand, who has terrorized the people of the city of Acre with his paranoid fear that assassin's are out to get him (which is actually true, in his case). To make the player feel justified in killing Sibrand, there is a scene in which he accuses an innocent and defenseless priest of being an assassin, and then kills him. The player naturally feels enraged (and maybe a little guilty) over this.

The player makes the successful stab while Sibrand is alone, and lays the dying crusader down. "Rest now, and go to the arms of your God," says the assassin. "Have you learned nothing?" rasps Sibrand. "I know what awaits for me, for all of us." "If not your God, then what?" "Nothing," utters Sibrand, his voice hushed in fear. "Nothing awaits. And that is what I fear." "You don't believe?" the assassin asks incredulously. "How could I? Given what I know, what I have seen? This life is all we have." The talk lingers a little while, with Sibrand explaining that armed with his scientific knowledge (gleaned from the alien tech we mentioned above), he intended to free the holy land by dispelling the illusion of religion. "I followed my orders, believing in my cause," he says, whispering his final words. "Same as you."

The irony of this, to me, was that Sibrand talks about the dialectic between knowledge and ignorance as a criterion while speaking about belief in the same breath. He, a middle ages crusader, saw scientific wonders that made religion look like ignorance by comparison. In this light, holding knowledge over belief became a moral obligation; to be true to himself, he felt he needed to dismiss all belief as ignorance in favor of the standard of knowledge. But upon his death, he confesses that he acted from the standpoint of belief.

When knowledge is reduced down to its most basic axioms, when we arrive at the deepest foundations of what we think is certain, we have nothing but belief. Short of studying EVERYTHING that there is to know about ANYTHING, to the extreme point of achieving certainty in all aspects of your knowledge, there is no way to know for certain that what you know is actually the case. You have to take it on faith that your eyes are not deceiving you. How do you know the traffic light is green? How are you absolutely, beyond all doubt, objectively certain that it is green? Might it be red? You don't know; all you can do is trust your senses and take it on faith that what they are telling you corresponds to reality. Descartes, for all his faults, shines here; there is no way for you to be certain that everything you learned in school is objectively true. And even if they were true facts when you learned them, the nature of science is that it is in a state of near constant self-contradiction. What is true today in science may not be true tomorrow. The implication of this model of knowledge is that absolute certainty is a pipe dream. Nothing can be known for certain. If you are honest with yourself, I think you will find that this is true of everything you think you have ever known. Faith or doubt, not certainty, is at the base of human understanding. Everything we think we know is an assumption without ultimate proof, a leap of faith. There is no primordially verifiable evidence for human experience.

This is one reason why I am skeptical when people tell me that the dialectic between knowledge and ignorance is the only way to understand the world. I find that it is never that simple. The best that science can do is explore the world and present us with more knowledge, which then serves to update/negate what we thought was absolutely true. There's nothing inherently wrong with that, as knowledge is valuable, and without it, we would arguably remain incomplete and unfulfilled. Learning is a natural and fundamental part of what it means to be human. But the end point is that the more knowledge you have, the more things you have to be uncertain about and the more things you must take on faith.

Sibrand automatically assumed that because he had obtained knowledge, everything beyond the scope of tangible knowledge and certainty had to be discounted. He assumed scientific, factual ignorance was the great evil to avoid, but this very assumption was an act of faith. There was no hard evidence to ground his assumption that knowledge was the highest criterion; he chose where he would place value, where to put his belief. Ironically, his unbelief was wholly constituted by belief, by faith, a faith tainted with despair, a faith determined to sink deeper into doubt.

All this sermonizing is just to say this: you have far more faith and doubt than you do knowledge or certainty, and this tension between faith and doubt is at work in every moment of your life. Do with that what you will.

I only know that I want to believe in something more than knowledge, which is contingent on the ever changing interpretations of what constitutes ignorance. I want to believe in something more than Sibrand's despair. I have to believe in something, by virtue of human finitude, and I cannot do otherwise. So I will choose to believe in something good, something noble, something higher than myself, something constant and absolute. And when I look out into the world of possible beliefs that I could work toward realizing, Christianity and the hope of new life stand out to me in a profound way that I cannot, for all my powers of reason, adequately justify. I am compelled by my very existence to believe, so I will believe in hope. And in that hope, may my ordinary faith be lifted up to new heights, there to find new life."

Until next time, this is the Idiot, signing out.

Unconscious Pagans: A Response to "Christianity Rediscovered"

Hello, all. I wrote a paper just recently for a class at college. It might actually be one of the most concise papers I've ever written, and I am quite pleased with it. Looking back at my old posts, I can see that I have come a long way, but I still have a long way to go.

The paper is a response to a book I read called "Christianity Rediscovered." It was about a Catholic missionary named Donovan who traveled to Africa in the 1960's. He was deeply disturbed by the way that the once good name of Christianity had been dragged through the mud of racial hatred and institutionalism, both of which are NOT central to the Christian message. He also worried that Christianity had become too Western, too estranged from the third world to be able to make any difference in the life of a nomadic tribe, of which there are many in Africa. I recommend this book for anyone who wants to see the culturally sensitive side of Christianity or wants to be given a reason why Christianity is NOT conformist or culturally single minded, and is in fact freely accessible to everyone.

That being said, here's my customary disclaimer: The paper is not meant to offend, just to build on top of what I see as solid work from Donovan and to make it more relevant to a contemporary Western audience.

"Most Christians today agree that the teachings of Christ are wholly distinct from worldly beliefs. The Christian Gospel is allegedly transcendent, above any worldly influence that could dilute the significance of its message. And yet, none can deny that throughout its long historical existence, Christianity as a whole has progressively assumed a decidedly Western tone. During the time of Vincent J. Donovan, missionary and author of Christianity Rediscovered, this Westernized Christianity began to show its age and limitations in how it went about its mission to spread the Gospel. In its emphasis on the education of and financial assistance for the African people, the Church essentially became another world charity organization, a mere institution, no better qualified to share the Gospel than the United Nations. After one hundred years of such administration, the only victory achieved was a hollow one, with liturgy being neglected and religion becoming just another subject taught in the schools (7).

Donovan protests this cultural bias, and rightly so. Throughout his book, he argues that the radical individualism and institutionalism of Western society needs careful examination (and when necessary, restriction) before preaching the Gospel, and throughout this brief exposition, I will argue that, at all times, Christians should carefully emphasize the Gospel's transcendence over all earthly systems and its need to be shared within a culturally subjective context. Every tribe and people, whether pagan or Western, is perfectly capable of listening to and receiving the good news. The challenge lies in translating it in such a way that they can understand it within their own cultural context. Only then can they begin to decide their collective response. The relationship between Christian theology (or belief in the divine message that it is meant to clarify) and human culture becomes clear in this light. Theology is meant to meet humanity where it stands.

Frustrated by the inefficiency of the Church's institutional work in Africa, Donovan took an alternative, direct approach. In a letter to an unnamed bishop, he expressed a desire to dispense with the failing, traditional strategy of not preaching the Gospel directly to the pagans:

“I suddenly feel the urgent need to cast aside all theories and discussions, all efforts at strategy – and simply go to these people and do the work among them for which I came to Africa. . . .I know this is a radical departure from traditional procedure, but the very fact that it is to be considered shows the state we are in” (13).

Traditional procedure dictated that one could not preach the Gospel to pagans directly, but that they needed time and incentive to warm up to Christian ideology (42). This might be a concern for a number of reasons, whether political, economical or historical, etc. But when Donovan defied the norm by asking a Masai elder named Ndangoya to speak with him about God (as opposed to medical or financial aid), it quickly became clear that the pagan Masai were already culturally prepared for the Gospel; they needed no warming up or incentive to listen to it when it was spoken. “Who can refuse to talk about God?” answered Ndangoya (18).

Donovan soon learned that the Masai, indeed, all pagans, are beautiful people. They have beautiful customs, habits and expressions. They are human without being Western. But more importantly, they possess their own liturgies and a religious mindset that is potentially receptive to the Christian Gospel. The true story of the virtuous Ole Sikii, the Masai who earnestly sought Engai (his god) even to the edges of a volcano, but for all his effort could not find him, stands as a testament to the honesty and purity of pagan belief (83-90). Though the way they think about God and theological concepts might initially sound too different from the orthodoxy that Westerners have accepted, they are every bit as capable of comprehending the significance of the Christian Gospel and the fulfillment that it entails.

Indeed, fulfillment is the single most important word that could be used to describe the Gospel to pagan ears. The Gospel does not demand a conforming to Western thought. It has no cultural strings attached. Being a Christian does not strictly mean abandoning tribal culture and embracing the theological culture of the Western Church. But what the Gospel does entail is the fulfillment of the beliefs and customs already in pagan possession, meaning that Christ and all subsequent theology is meant to meet humanity where it stands. In other words, pagan culture and liturgy is entirely compatible with Christian doctrine, just as the language of the Hellenistic people encountered by Paul proved entirely compatible. While the Greeks sought God, God sought the Greeks, and he spoke to them through missionaries like Paul. The Gospel presented itself as an answer to the great questions that had plagued Greek thought for years; the Gospel was the fulfillment of their culture. In just the same way, the messages of forgiveness and community preached by Christ addressed the age old concerns and fears of the Masai people. Though their creation myth was not that of Eden, it shared the most fundamental themes of Creation and Fall, albeit with different cultural biases (43).

In multiple cases, Donovan learned to dismiss the culturally blind assumption that pagans have no sense of piety, or that grace and holiness were gifts that he needed to bring with him to the dark corners of the world. His encounters with the various Masai tribes made it progressively clearer to him that grace and holiness already abounded there, regardless of his missionary presence. In fact, when his own faith failed him, he found among the Masai culture a new insight to faith that helped inspire him to complete his task. To the Masai, true belief is like a lion on the hunt, who leaps for his prey, wraps his arms around it, and takes it into himself. Merely agreeing to something is like the hunter who shoots his prey from a distance and uses only a portion of his body, but real faith requires the use of the lion's entire being in its pursuit. Moreover, the analogy provides an excellent picture of how God seeks out his people. “We have not searched for him,” said the Masai elder. “He has searched for us. He has searched for us and found us. All the time we think we are the lion. In the end, the lion is God” (48). In a way, this is the heart of the Christian faith; while humanity seeks the divine, the divine seeks humanity. The light of the Gospel was always God's to give, and he gives it indiscriminately of culture.

Not only is the Gospel intended to be given to all cultures, but it is also meant to be heard and understood by them as well. As in the case of language, we fail to understand foreign languages despite our familiarity with the common meanings behind words, as we are not always familiar with the words to which meanings correspond. Human beings do not speak a single language, nor do they have a single cultural context in which to share concepts. Instead, there are many cultures and ways of thinking. If the Gospel is truly transcendent of earthly limitations, then it cares nothing for culture. This is not to say that the Gospel dispenses with human culture as worthless, but instead that it cares for human cultural, political, or historical systems specifically as varying means by which it can express itself to the human understanding. For example, God communicated with the tribe of Israel in terms of its own culture, but this does not make ancient Hebrew culture somehow superior to contemporary ones. Human ways of thinking, living, and speaking, while valued as precious, are vehicles for the underlying message of the Gospel. They are ways of signifying something greater than themselves.

If this is true, then Western civilization has no exclusive claim to the interpretation of the Gospel. Donovan frequently criticizes the Western Church for being too individualistic and centered around organizations. He contrasts these tendencies to the communitarian outlook of Masai tribal society, and claims that, “A missionary facing an alien culture, to be an efficient instrument of the gospel, has to have the courage to cast off the idols of the tribe, of the tribe he came from” (68). In other words, a missionary like Donovan must set aside his tendencies of thinking in terms of individualism or institutionalism, both traits of Western “tribes,” and learn to take on a new meta-cultural perspective, which is entirely in keeping with the demands of missionary work.

Up to this point, Donovan has correctly assessed the relationship between the Gospel and human culture, but a problem presents itself: he has articulated well how Christianity is a fulfillment of pagan culture, but he has said nothing of fulfillment for Western culture. What about the people who do not possess the religious receptivity of the pious pagans, and whose culture has contrasting values that do not immediately lend themselves to the fulfillment that the Gospel promises?

I am a Westerner. I have never travelled to Africa or any third world countries, and as such, Western society is my native environment. The only foreign countries I have seen with my own eyes are European ones, with developed cities and no nomadic tribes to speak of. The people and customs there are as diverse and unique as anywhere, but they differ from the pagans in that they have inherited varying viewpoints with regards to religion. I have seen that large portions of Europe are without belief. Despite the towering cathedrals that still stand as reminders of their Christian heritage, many Westerners do not acknowledge any need for faith in their lives. This obstacle to missionary work is not exclusive to Europe, either. North America finds itself in a similar situation. The public eye here often confuses faith for fundamentalism or irrationality. In increasing numbers, Western people dismiss belief in God as an antiquated notion. At best, they see the Gospel as trivial or subjective.

Westerners, for all their civilization, are in desperate need. Though they may not starve or suffer under conditions of civil war, they lack the ability to see the Gospel as a fulfillment of their culture. In their comfort, they have lost the religious receptivity of the pagans, which was what once allowed Christianity to spread, and they remain unaware of their loss. They are as the rich young man who refused to follow Christ after giving away his possessions. My objection to Donovan is not his meta-cultural perspective of missionary work, but rather how limited his scope within that field of work is. He emphasizes the need to speak the pagan language to bring them the fulfillment of the Gospel, but he remains silent as to how the Gospel should translate to Western ears. Donovan is a product of his time, putting all his focus into third world missionary work because that was where the greatest need once seemed to be. Apart from an occasional anecdote about the ignorance of Western youth in the classroom, he seems blind to the spiritual poverty of Western culture, and gives no guidance or insight as to how this obstacle can be overcome.

Having never traveled to Africa, I cannot say with certainty that Donovan's emphasis was unnecessary. Extreme poverty and suffering are, beyond any reasonable doubt, real issues that Christians must take seriously. In spite of that, I am keenly aware that I do not live in the pagan society that Donovan describes. Post-modernism and the lingering spirit of the Enlightenment have hardened the heart of the West to the good news. In a way, the West has assumed the traditionally negative connotations of paganism: its superstition is science, its witchdoctors are radical secularists, and, most dangerously, it teaches an active resistance to any notion of a higher power that could threaten human sovereignty. Westerners have become the worst sort of pagans, the kind who have lost their religious receptivity, something crucial to the acknowledgement of the fulfillment promised by the Gospel. Arguably, this fulfillment is the very point of missionary work. In short, Westerners have traded the positive aspects of their paganism for all the negative ones. They remain willfully ignorant of who they really are.

Donovan's strategy of the Finishable Task assumes that pagans who will either accept or reject the Gospel constitute the world. For those who accept, they receive the Christian inheritance, and they must become missionaries unto their neighbors. For those who reject, Donovan says nothing except that he must mournfully pass them by and continue sharing with those who will listen (80-82). With this tactic, he excludes many Westerners, as a simple sharing of the Gospel will never suffice in persuading them. Moreover, his outlined plan entails approaching “the people of any culture or nation, not as individuals, but as a community” (121). This worked well in his dealings with the Masai, but for Westerners, who do not often think in terms of community, this approach fails.

Either Donovan's meta-cultural vision of the Gospel is correct, and missionaries need to approach Westerners within the context or their own culture (even if that culture is individualistic or organization centered), or they need to convince Westerners that their culture is somehow wrong and that they must embrace a communitarian outlook. The first option says that Westerners must hear the Gospel in their own terms, while the second dictates that they must forsake their culture and take on aspects of one more fitting with Donovan's model. But this second alternative is an anathema to Donovan's entire position, since he initially concerned himself with the fact that the Western Church has no right to impose Western culture on any who hear the Gospel. Consequently, pagan communitarianism has no right to impose its culture on the West, and Donovan's complaints of Western individualism are dismissible in the face of the Gospel, which is transcendent of human culture in any case.

Looking back, I can see that Donovan's approach is true to the original missionary intent and practice of the Gospel. Seen in this light, Christianity is geared for reaching out to pagans, specifically those who earnestly seek God. But at the same time, Christianity appears ill-suited for dealing with a culture of pagans who have heard the good news but rejected it. However accurate Donovan's view, it fails to consider the fulfillment of Western culture. This stands out as a clear shortcoming. While I must agree with Donovan's model, it suffices only as one half of a greater equation, a foundation upon which to build. The question becomes how missionaries can translate the Gospel into the language of Western pagans while staying true to Donovan's meta-cultural approach to missionary work.

Belief in the Gospel meets people where they are. It must meet us Westerners in terms of our own language while somehow coaxing us away from our hard-hearted Enlightenment presuppositions. It must remain consistent with our scientific and moral sensibilities while simultaneously engendering in us a heart of understanding, a willingness to listen to God's message as given through the Incarnation. It must transform us from rejecting pagans into virtuous pagans. It must convince us of the need to acknowledge our own paganism, and that the Gospel fulfills our culture every bit as much as it does that of the Masai of Africa."

Works Cited:

Donovan, Vincent J. Christianity Rediscovered. 4thth ed. Maryknoll, New York: Orbis, 2005. N. pag. Print.

Feedback/comments are welcome and appreciated. I'd love to hear what you think of all this.

This is the Idiot, signing out.