Opposites always lean on each other . . .

I got the chance a few weeks ago to hang out with some of my church friends and have a proper theological/philosophical conversation. At some point during the talk we were talking about the idea of deconstruction, which I openly confess up front that I am no expert on. Yet, foolishly, I think it proper to use my meager understanding to segue into some things that have been on my mind lately.

In deconstruction it is believed that all oppositions such as good and evil, poor and rich necessitate their opposite. In a sense these, oppositions can been seen to lack substance and eventually cause all our forms of knowledge to collapse in on themselves. When it is understood that good needs evil, or that dark needs light, all our narratives that speak of the triumph of one or the other cease to have meaning. In the end, we find that we need to reaffirm the oppositions that we have attacked so that we continue to have some sort of structure; only knowing that the structure will always remain provisional. (If you despise my summary let me know, but this is the best sense I've been able to make in my studies)

I bring this up because of thoughts I've had recently in regard to church, as well as reactions I've had to reading The Prophetic Imagination by Walter Brueggemann. In this book Brueggemann discusses the way in which the prophet's role is to compromise various societal structures that marginalize others. The prophet criticizes these structures and provides a sort of poetic vision of a better way. Brueggemann offers a wonderful analysis that really contextualizes the voice of the OT prophets to our present situation in affluent America. Yet, as the author points out, this prophetic voice is only one among the plurality of voices present in our Bible. In another one of his books, Brueggemann points out the many places where OT authors are calling out for any social order. It is true that these texts might be sponsored by imperial/aristocratic interests, but it is easy to see in war-torn societies that even tyrants are preferred to chaos.

Thus, we can discern in Scripture a conflict between a desire for order and a prophetic critique which rarely offers a means to a better order but does criticize and defy the present structures. Eventually it brings me to a perspective in which I suspect that prophecy needs oppressive structures, and to an extent these structures have learned to lean on prophetic critique. To some extent I can even perceive that prophets are merely an extension of the structures they oppose.

Everything is gray. So, rather than play the role of Samson and knock over the pillars that hold the roof over my head, I just acknowledge that all my knowledge is built on false dichotomies and move on.

I was driving through Dallas the other day amazed by the sheer number and sizes of churches that I passed on every street. Consider the billions of square feet that the churches in Dallas alone must represent, and the fact that homelessness exists. Churches exist to maintain the structure of society. Churches hate prophets and kill them at every turn. They want to care for poverty by systematizing it; to manage it, but certainly not prevent it. We display the cross on steeples across the nation to remind others what we do to those who speak up, but certainly not for what we would personally consent to suffer. Yet, my very ability to write these thoughts down and your ability to read them is based on the security that such social order has provided. My desire to be a doctor and to help people is built upon the fact that I live in a society that is ordered enough that I can aim for such goals. The only reason I've been able to think these thoughts is that I was well-fed and had enough leisure time to consider the way things are.

Lately I have been troubled by the attempt to discern whether Christian faith is built upon Jesus as an example, or Jesus as an inspiration. The difference for me is enormous. If Jesus is an example that we are supposed to follow, then we are expected to emulate him in his radical prophecy even to the detriment of social order. If literally following Jesus' example is the mark of a Christian, then I hold to the fact that I've never met a Christian. I know they're out there, but I've never met one. I know no one who lives radically enough to suffer prison, hunger, disease, or death in order to be like Jesus. Not one. I certainly don't qualify, nor do I hope that I ever will.

On the other hand, if Jesus is our inspiration I still find much hope and meaning in Christianity. I say this because it leaves plenty of room for creativity. Instead of falling into a prescripted role as prophet or societal agent, it allows for human indeterminacy that plays on the ironic plasticity of systems we otherwise assume are absolute. In other words, and mostly as a confession, I have recently only found hope in faith as one who lives within a system and is part of a system, yet finds inspiration in Jesus' prophetic (and radically humanistic) mentality. This inspiration seeks to play on the fact that our society is built around pillars of order and the prophetic humanism of Judaeo-Christian tradition. To attempt to choose one over the other is to lend rigidity to the structure of our society as it is, but to encompass both . . .

Again, I write all of this confessionally rather than as instruction, which could probably be said for most of my writing. Hopefully I'll be able to clarify and explain further in a later post.

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and all of this matters, why? . . . .

". . . they all muddy their water that it may seem deep." - Nietzsche

It's always equally humorous and frustrating to me when people unacquainted with philosophy or theology ask me to explain things to them. Inevitably the look on their face progresses from inquisitiveness to a mixture of confusion and ridicule. Confusion generally stemming from the fact that I end up giving complex answers to seemingly simple questions. And, ridicule generally arising out of a sense that everything I am saying appears to be quite arbitrary and detached from any practical application. Some days I wonder at how dense these mere mortals must be, but most of the time I suffer from the nagging suspicion that they are probably correct in their skepticism.

After all, how can an idea change the world if no one, statistically speaking, understands it. This perhaps is the paradox of philosophy: that the study which was intended to clarify our thoughts has mostly served to confuse the masses by becoming so esoteric as to be impenetrable to the average person.

So then, what is it that draws me to all this? Probably some mixture of fascination and desire to prove myself. I'm not really sure. I must admit that I often find myself on both sides of the fence, arguing for the vast importance of such great thoughts and at the same time agreeing that they probably really don't matter all that much.

And so, I found it immensely satisfying in my recent studies of Wittgenstein (get used to it, I'll be talking about this guy a lot) that he believed philosophy was basically a frivolous course of study. This coming from the man heralded to be 'the most important philosopher of the 20th century'.

"What we find out in philosophy is trivial; it does not teach us new facts, only science does that. But the proper synopsis of these trivialities is enormously difficult, and has immense importance. Philosophy is in fact the synopsis of trivialities."

He is reported to have defied the common attitude that philosophy was somehow a form of laying foundation to or constructing truth as a structure. This was achieved by any number of other fields, but philosophy was impotent to achieve anything of the sort. Rather, sticking with the metaphor of building a house, if the sciences were the means to lay our foundations and construct our worldview, philosophy was at best a means of cleaning up the rooms of the finished product! Philosophy (and I would argue theology too) is not the "Queen of all sciences" but rather, and at best, the maid.

This is simultaneously a humbling blow and a crucial reassignment of my two favorite fields of study. Neither philosophy nor theology can really give our lives meaning. Rather, they are needed to give order and cleanliness to the experiences and beliefs that we attain elsewhere. In other words they allow us to rid our minds of garbage and tame what would otherwise amount to mental/spiritual chaos. Yet still, if we rely on them as our primary sources of meaning we will indeed be living in a sort of experiential, personal poverty.

Personally this line of thought is liberating and humbling at the same time. It reminds me that it's not merely what we think, but more what we do and choose to be that matters. I can and should keep studying in hopes to clear out all the crap that most people say in hopes to make their ideals and lifestyle appear to have depth. Yet I have to continually guard against the temptation to allow these new ideas to serve as mud to mask my own shallowness. Reading philosophy or theology is not a means to depth per se, but instead a means to perceive where depth is lacking in myself or in others.