Kierkegaard-Crop Rotation and the Aesthetic Life

Phil 333

James Sellers

09/26/13

Writing Assignment#01

The aesthetic life is lived in pursuit of the interesting and the rejection of boredom. As such, it is no simple matter to be an effective aesthete capable of generating interest from mundane subjects. Certain mental acrobatics must be involved. In “Crop Rotation,” the outline of a strategy to ward off boredom is proposed, in which Author A (who is possibly Johannes himself) prescribes a life infused with change and guided by a method. This method is crop rotation, the rotating of one's aesthetic crops, the varying of the soil in which amusement and interest may grow. This method is utilized in “Diary of the Seducer” by Johannes in his relationship with Cordelia. He manipulates, strains and elongates the affair in order to extract as much interest from it as possible, all in accordance with the strategies defined in “Crop Rotation.”

There are correct and incorrect ways to rotate crops. Traveling abroad because one's homeland has become familiar to the point of being boring does not solve the issue, and the boredom of country life is not effectively combated by simply moving to the city. This change is extensive, a changing of fields through which one hopes the soil will yield better crops. But changing the soil in an immediate sense will not accomplish much; reflectively varying one's methods of grain cultivation from this soil will. Through an intensive pursuit of change, interest can be grown in mundane soil, if one is resourceful enough. Limiting oneself to a single field, while restrictive, prompts resourcefulness that can give rise to interest.

“The more inventive one can be in changing the mode of cultivation, the better; but every particular change comes under the general rule of the relation between remembering and forgetting. The whole of life moves in these two currents, so it is essential to have control over them” (233).

If remembering and forgetting are principles by which change can be used to combat boredom, then the interpretation of one's own life and experiences are the key to crop rotation. Remembering the past selectively in a poetic sense means recalling experiences strictly in an interesting light, censuring the past to make it interesting instead of boring; the aesthete turns her life into an entertaining spectacle. Thus she can sow seeds in the soil of her experience and forget unpleasantness, which is an obstruction to the generation of interest. This art of forgetting through how one remembers is the standpoint towards reality which is most conducive to the rotation of crops, and thus the preferred mode of living for the reflective aesthete. However, this stance also means that the moment must be enjoyed with restraint, never pursued to the point of completion. The longer and more drawn out an interesting affair is, the more effectively boredom can be avoided. This is how Author A believes one can have a cake and eat it too (234).

This art of remembering through forgetfulness mentally seals the aesthete off from influences of boredom, but only if she can avoid the hindrances of the boring status quo. This means that anything which could distract one from the rotation of crops must be cut out, including friendship, marriage, and vocation. Being trapped in any of these relationships imposes a sense of obligation, which is restrictive and therefore boring. However, friendship, marriage and vocation can be enjoyed as long as they are not pursued to their fullest. For example, an acquaintance you are on good terms with can be useful in generating new possibilities of interest. And while a married couple have climbed so high in their relationship that they have nowhere to go but down, an engaged couple can enjoy a degree of eroticism before it grows stale (238), though the relationship should ideally last no longer than six months. Just as the moment can be suspended and enjoyed with restraint, a relationship can be drawn out with similar effect. In this sense, relationships have utility and represent potentially fertile soil for the growth of crops.

But just as she varies her soil, the aesthete herself must be varied (239). In order to extract as many possibilities of interest from her experiences as possible, the aesthete must be in control of her mood, able to foresee which mask will benefit her most for any given occasion. Summoning any feeling at will is impossible, but with practice, the aesthete can use moods to manipulate people, situations and even herself, toward desired ends.

This will help her to see the accidental in the arbitrary, to derive enjoyment from normally uninteresting situations. In engaging the arbitrary, it is possible to extract satisfying, accidental meaning. Going to the same church every week may be arbitrary, but counting the tiles in the stain glass windows can be entertaining and therefore gives the whole experience an accidental value. The aesthete should therefore always be on the lookout for the accidental (240).

These strategies for the preservation of interest and the avoidance of boredom are adopted by Johannes in the “Diary of the Seducer.” His relationship with Cordelia, as well as his entire sense of perception, is governed by these rules. In his April 20^th entry, Johannes writes that “One has to restrict oneself, that is a main condition of all enjoyment” (267). This restriction he speaks of is the principle of limitation that is necessary for the intensive pursuit of interest, as well as the restraint vital to the art of forgetting through selective remembrance. In the previous April 14th entry, he describes the state of his soul as a ship about to plunge into the ocean. But despite the power of the waves, he sits above in the crow's nest, observing the tension below as a grand spectacle. This represents the reflective aesthetic state of mind during the process of crop rotation, in which one's own experiences become sources of entertainment.

Before his engagement to Cordelia, Johannes injects himself into her life indirectly through the presence of Edvard, a young man infatuated with the girl. “We are firm friends now, Edvard and I” (287). Johannes' friendship with Edvard is the kind of friendship endorsed by the method of crop rotation; Johannes is befriending Edvard strictly because the boy is of use to him in his manipulation of Cordelia, and the depth of their relationship ends there. Johannes does as crop rotation prescribes and avoids friendship as a genuine obligation, because that would be boring. Likewise when considering the prospect of his intended engagement with Cordelia, he dismisses marriage upon the basis of its ethicality. “The damnable thing with an engagement is always the ethical side. The ethical is just as boring in life as it is in learning” (305). Johannes never intends to marry because it is ethical, and ethics are restricting, and anything restricting is boring. His standards for relationships, both in terms of friendship and marriage, are those espoused in “Crop Rotation.”

His manipulations of Cordelia are an excellent example of controlling moods. During the engagement, it becomes a priority to draw out the tension of the relationship for as long as possible to yield the maximum amount of interest. For this reason, Johannes attempts to balance Cordelia's disposition between two extremes, her cool of disillusionment with the relationship and her warm erotic desire for him. “In this wrestling, her womanliness is matured. I could use conversation to inflame and letters to cool, or conversely. The latter alternative is in every way preferable” (322). When he fears that she is drawing too far away, he draws her in with eroticism, and when she is too near, he pushes her away with distant behavior. The aim is to keep Cordelia in suspense until she breaks off the engagement herself (which happens six months into the relationship, in accordance with the policy on engagements in “Crop Rotation”), all the while engendering in her a sense of her own power over him. In keeping the relationship alive within this field of tension for as long as possible, Johannes generates interest, rotating his crops intensively in a single field.

Johannes is also adept at finding the accidental within the arbitrary. Before Cordelia breaks the engagement, there is an entry where Johannes is sitting on a fence with a cigar, observing the movements of a fisher-girl as she carries firewood. There is nothing that makes this scene special except for Johannes' internal comments, which attempt to paint the situation as more colorful than it likely is. “Maybe you are not a real fisher-girl but an enchanted princess; you are the servant of a troll; he is cruel enough to make you fetch firewood in the forest. That's how it always is in fairy stories” (337). Johannes is highly attuned to the potential interest of every moment, even when not contemplating his larger projects. Instead of a boring fisher-girl, an enchanted princess, and the firewood in her arms is the demand of a cruel troll; all accidental things yielded from an arbitrary situation, demonstrating that Johannes' state of mind is constantly engaged in the act of crop rotation.

If “Crop Rotation” is the proposed method of combating boredom, then “Diary of the Seducer” is the application of that method. Everything Johannes does is motivated by a pursuit of the interesting. He is so dedicated in his practice of the art of remembering and forgetting that he has lost himself within that mental framework, to the degree that the success of his own project leaves him feeling lost and melancholic. At the end, the only thing left to him is to reflect (375). It is ironic that for all the work and manipulation Johannes does to increase the longevity of interest, he cannot control moods in a way that yields lasting interest. No matter how hard he fights reality for every scrap of amusement, he has no underlying source of happiness or contentment. Since Johannes' life is the life of crop rotation in practice, the result of his project with Cordelia is a demonstration of the aesthetic life's ultimate failure to provide the satisfaction that it promises.

Works Cited:

Kierkegaard, Søren. Either/Or. Penguin ed. London: Penguin Books, 1843. Print.

Simone de Beauvoir, God, and the Blank Canvas of Values

Being an existentialist, Simone de Beauvoir once said that values exist in the world only because we attribute value to them. The world and everything in it, the trees, the creatures, are a blank canvas upon which we paint.

I thought about this as I took time out of my busy day to sit outside and smoke my pipe. It was warm and balmy today. Even though I personally dislike warm weather, nature loves it. People were out and about, playing and talking. The ants were working and exploring, and the trees were basking in the sunlight as they blossomed after a prolonged winter. The stones beneath me were warmed by the sun.

I sat and thought about these ants and these trees, about the wooden bench I sat on and the stone beneath it. In themselves, these things have no value. They are just inert matter waiting to be cognized and given importance. People often step on ants and think nothing of it, or they cut up stone and wood into shapes meaningful for them. The ants and the wood and stone themselves mean nothing and have no value except in what potential value they present us with in the act of cognizing them.

Then I thought about a lack of cognizance. I thought about no humans being around to attribute value to these things. It was a world like that blank canvas, still, unrealized, dead. It was a cold and dark world.

Then I thought about God, and I realized that even if the canvas was blank, it had a craftsman who imagined a wealth of possibilities for it. In themselves, the ants and the wood and the stone mean nothing, but they are loved by God. He attributes the quality of being beloved to them, and this makes them cognizable to us as having values beyond their functional use. But more than this, it opens up the possibility that we might see the world as its craftsman sees it, as something beloved. Even in a world without cognizance, value exists, the value of love and preciousness.

As a rational being, I may paint upon this canvas either great or terrible things. But nothing that is not contrary to love is without value, nothing is nothing in itself, because everything is loved. And because of this, I wish to love everything, even though my capacity for this kind of universal love is imperfect. I love the ants as they crawl on me; they are my sisters in the order of creation. I love the wood of the bench and the trees as they afford me comfort and beauty. I love the stone beneath me as it holds me steadily.

But even as I attempted to love the world around me as God loves it, I realized that I felt intruded upon by the person sitting across from me. I should love that person just as I love the ants and the wood and the stone, but it is more difficult for me, being someone who finds comfort in solitude. The imperfection of my love is laid before me; is it a challenge to overcome? A lesson to be learned? Or is it enough to attempt to love the world as God loves it?

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

Random Thoughts about Memories and Facticity

Every once in a while, you experience a moment that is worthy of preservation, a moment that you can't help but recognize as having genuinely authentic content. You take it all in, you take pictures with your mind's eye, you smell the roses, and then the moment is gone. It can be depressing to say goodbye to that moment, to see it as just another lifeless representation of a meaningful event, which you place on the shelf of your memory, next to all the others as they collect dust. It can be saddening to consign that memory to the role of acquaintance rather than friend.

But those memories are never lifeless, not for an instant. They're never absent. Far from being dusty photographs in the museum of your life, they are like new colors that you experience, that become permanent fixtures of how you see the world. That genuinely authentic moment is with you always, because you absorbed it into your whole outlook. That memory is part of who you are now, part of what makes up your facticity and its vibrancy will forevermore color what new experiences become apparent to you.

The memories you accumulate are not there now as a solid, tangible thing you can experience, but they are no less real. And if you can have faith that they are there, defining every subsequent moment of your existence, these memories have all their fondly remembered potency, only now they are drawn infinitely closer to your heart.

This is the Idiot, signing out.

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.

The Theology of Flatland (God and the 4th Dimension)

Last semester at school, I was required to take a lower level math course that I had no desire to sit through. For the most part, my dread and hesitancy were both justified, but for one brief, shining week or two, the math class covered the topic of the 4th Dimension. Part of that study involved reading Flatland, a wonderful book by Edwin A. Abbott that tells the story of a 2-dimensional being experiencing the higher realities of the 3rd dimension, as we see it. Truly fascinating stuff, I would encourage anyone and everyone to read it.

Everyone else in the class seemed to hate this topic. Perhaps it was too cerebral for them (though how any of them could prefer to discuss modular arithmetic or statistics instead of dimensional theory is beyond me), but my colleagues were relieved when the topic was over and we were assigned a paper, detailing our thoughts and reactions to Flatland. Perhaps it was because I was in a particularly theological mood that semester, but I tackled it from a perspective of how the idea of the 4th dimension pertains to varying models of God's existence. It was philosophically satisfying as well.

This is the paper that I wrote. I feel confident enough in my writing and reasoning that I can share it with you all without too much trepidation. I hope you enjoy it, and I hope this gives you something extra to think about when the subject of God's existence or Flatland or dimensional theory crops up.

And with that said, spoilers. You have been warned.

"At first glance, Flatland appears to have little to do with theology. The given history of that 2-dimensional plane is fueled by satire, the plot points are written in terms of geometrical proofs and the overall goal of the work seems to be to get the reader to think in terms of 0-4 dimensions (or even 0-nth dimensions). Yet the book has themes that transcend the field of mathematics to which it is traditionally bound, especially in the second half when the main figure, A. Square, receives a revelation from a Sphere who comes in the name of a “Gospel of the 3^rd Dimension.” Such terms as “Gospel,” “converts” or “Apostle” imply deeper religious meanings which can give the book added context (62). By no means is this a book with ideological content that is exclusive to the field of mathematics.

This shift towards theology begins in the second half of the book and persists until the end, from the arrival of the visiting Sphere to A. Square's imprisonment. The book's first sign of theological awareness is the point in the story when the Sphere pulls Square out of Flatland and into Spaceland, where Square is overcome with wonder and awe that leads him to initially make the assumption that he now sees things as God does. “Behold, I am become as a God. For the wise men in our country say that to see all things, or as they express it, omnividence, is the attribute of God alone” (66). The Sphere is quick to rebuke him, responding that if omnividence is the attribute of God, then even the crudest and most immoral of Spacelanders must be divine, at which point divinity becomes a joke. Qualities like mercy and love are betters indicators of divinity, according to him.

In this case, Omnividence is a thinly veiled term for omniscience, which was platonically thought to be one of the attributes of a perfectly rational and aloof God. In this platonic theological model, God is seen as being above the possibility of being affected by anything, even feelings. This preference of the intellectual over the emotional is reflected in Flatland's attitude towards women, who are depicted as being irrational and overly-emotional. The Sphere's answer is a dismissal of the platonic model, with its uncaring and purely rational God. Furthermore, it is a refutation of A. Square's gnostic presumption that knowledge, power, and perception are signs of godliness.

It is worth briefly noting that the King of Pointland is another example of the platonic theological model and its inadequacies. As described by the Sphere, this non-dimensional being is completely self encapsulated and utterly indivisible, since he is a universe unto himself: “He is himself his own World, his own Universe; of any other than himself he can form no conception; he knows not Length, nor Breadth, nor Height, for he has had no experience of them; he has no cognizance even of the number Two; nor has he a thought of Plurality; for he is himself his One and All, being really Nothing” (75). The Greek world associated plurality and divisibility with the physical, which was mortal, sinful, and prone to decay. Conversely, singleness and indivisibility were associated with the spirit, which was divine, rational, and eternal. What this implied for them was a God who was a single unit unto himself, so completely transcendent that he could only be aware of himself. This platonic God was, for the Greeks, the highest being, a position that is contested by the example of the King of Pointland, who while being utterly singular is also at the lowest possible level of existence. How pitiful it would be if God were so wrapped up in himself that he could not even be aware of anything other than himself! Creation itself would then be impossible, since creation, by definition, implies a creator and a creation, which is a plurality. By way of this comparison between the non-dimensional and the platonic, we can apply geometry to theology; if God is to be worthy of his name, he cannot possibly be non-dimensional and ignorant of plurality like the King of Pointland, and consequently, he cannot be like the God that the Greeks envisioned.

Also worthy of mention is how Square's initial conviction that Spaceland is the ultimate reality is analogous to the way many people imagine they may feel about the prospect of meeting intelligent extraterrestrials or experiencing the 4^th Dimension firsthand. The rash assumption is often made that upon find ourselves capable of such transcendence, God becomes irrelevant. It may seem a disappointment for a Flatlander to experience the 3^rd Dimension and not find God there (as was the case when Square first assumed that omnividence was Godly and then realized his error), but this does not mean that God is not out there in a yet higher dimension. The day may come when human beings discover a way to travel to the most distant stars or experience the 4^th Dimension for themselves, and they may find no God waiting for them. But this should not be discouraging. How disappointing it would be to learn that God is merely 4^th Dimensional, and not at a level of existence infinitely greater than that. Whatever dimensions we eventually travel to and regardless of what beings we meet, it would be theologically advisable for us to remember that God is the Great Other, of whom we can as of yet see but little. Square's inability to look upward did not discount the possibility of upward direction; our inability to look in God's direction does not discount the possibility of his existence. No matter how many dimensions we travel to, we will not find God with our own eyes, but he will still be present. Until we meet face to face, he will remain Nth Dimensional.

All of this is to say that our finitude as human beings affects how we think of God and also how we are unable to see him. Our platonic models yield only the pitiful King of Pointland and unfeeling rationality, and no matter how hard we try, we do not have eyes capable of seeing beyond the fog of our imposed dimensions. No matter what incredible strides we make in terms of spatial or dimensional capability, the one true and all encompassing answer is beyond achieving on our own strength. But in spite of all this, we have heard God speak to us, though we could not see him. We did not have to rip through dimensional barriers to find the truth; the truth came to us. When God decided that the time was right for us to see him with our limited, 3-Dimensional eyes, he stepped down into our dimension as the Incarnation, so he could preach a Gospel of a Kingdom, the Dimension of Heaven."

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

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

Immanuel Kant-Copernican Revolution

Here it is, my new video! This is footage of a honors presentation I gave last semester at school. It was a lot of work to put together, but a lot of fun too. Sorry about the choppiness of the editing; I had to chop it down to size in places in order for youtube to let me upload it. Other than that, I'm quite proud of it. Enjoy!



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.

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