Gilead by Marilynne Robinson

I love this town. I think sometimes of going into the ground here as a last wild gesture of love.”

[To read introduction notes about the novel, click here]

Gilead tells the story of ordinary people in a very ordinary Iowa town. John Ames is an old pastor writing to his very young son. He wants to leave a memoir, to tell his story, to trace his history. “Every life is built on the ruins of prior civilizations.” (p. 197)

There is very little that is sexy about the life of John Ames, his beloved little town of Gilead, Iowa, or the life he lived and the stories he shard. Gilead at points is sluggish and the stories lack gusto or any intense drama. Yet within it all, the novel captures the intersection of American politics, religion, and the relationships between fathers and sons in a profound way. Indeed, in a way that makes us realize that life, no matter how ordinary, is too deep for us; its sacredness is beyond the reach of our courage. The more I reflect on Gilead, the greater my sense of depth about the holiness of all of our very ordinary experiences. In fact, what is ordinary is always extraordinary. It is permeated with the sacred.

John Ames was born in 1880. He is now 76 years old and has resided in the little town of Gilead, Iowa his entire life. He married a much younger woman and now has a young son. But John Ames knows that he is dying, and so he writes to tell his son about the stories of his father and his grandfather, pass on the wisdom of the years, and open his heart in reflection. John Ames’s grandfather was a wild abolitionist, and the town of Gilead was founded (in part) as a stop for runaway slaves. His grandfather was a preacher. He was an uncompromising individual who gave to everyone in need and stole from his parishioners when he was in need. He saw visions and dreamed dreams. He was intense and a bit crazy. John Ames’s father was not impressed. He also became a minister, but he was a pacifist.

John Ames also becomes a minister. He married when he was young, but his wife dies without leaving any children. Through this his heart is deeply wounded. He becomes something of a recluse, burying himself in his books and his texts. He studies, he contemplates, he reflects. But he is deeply lonely. Years go by. He becomes wise, but he feels a deep disconnect from the world: “No matter how much I thought and read and prayed, I felt outside the mystery of it.” (21)

“You can know a thing to death and be for all purposes completely ignorant of it. (7)

“I have been so full of admiration for existence that I have hardly been able to enjoy it properly.” (56)

The Prodigal Son

His close friend Boughton has a beautiful family, and in an act of love and affection Boughton names his youngest son after John Ames: John Ames Boughton. And, in a spiritual sense, he gives the child to John Ames. At the blessing, Ames was going bless the child, Boughton surprises Ames by only then revealing that the child was to be John Ames’s namesake.

“But then when I asked Boughton, ‘By what name do you wish this child to be called?’ he said, ‘John Ames.’ I was so surprised that he said the name again, with the tears running down his face.

“It simply was not at all like Boughton to put me in a position like that. It was so un-Presbyterian, in the first place. I could hear weeping out in the pews. It took me a while to forgive him for that. I’m just telling you the truth.

“If I had had even an hour to reflect, I believe my feelings would have been quite different. As it was, my heart froze in me and I thought, This is not my child—which I truly had never thought of any child before. I don’t know exactly what covetise is, but in my experience it is not so much desiring someone else’s virtue of happiness as rejecting it, taking offense at the beauty of it….

“I’ll tell you a perfectly foolish thing. I have thought from time to time that the child felt how coldly I went about his christening, how far my thoughts were from blessing him. Now, that’s just magical thinking. That is superstition. I’m ashamed to have said such a thing. But I’m trying to be honest. And I do feel a burden of guilt toward that child, that man, my namesake. I have never been able to warm to him, never.” (188)

In this novel of fathers and sons, the primary focus is on John Ames and this namesake of his, whom everyone calls “Jack.” Jack lives a troubled life and returns to see the old Boughton who is sick and dying. Much of what John Ames writes is grappling with this prodigal son, Jack. In this case, however, John Ames must confront the fact that he has never been able to open to the prodigal, even though Ames is “the father of his soul.” (123)

Old Boughton, the biological father and the one who raises the prodigal, loves Jack more than all of his other children.

“And old Boughton, if he could stand up out of his chair, out of his decrepitude and crankiness and sorrow and limitation, would abandon all those handsome children of his, mild and confident as they are, and follow after that one son whom he has never known, whom he has favored as one does a wound….he would utterly pardon every transgression, past, present, and to come, whether or not it was a transgression in fact or his to pardon. He would be that extravagant.” (238)

But what Jack needs is not the love of his biological father. What he needs is the open heart and soul of John Ames. This creates the scenario where the father (Boughton) cannot be the father. Old Boughton has extravagant love for Jack, but Jack needs extravagant love from John Ames. This is a love he never receives, and he spends his life acting out his sense of lovelessness, never able to establish love in any other area of his life.

To me this raises an important theological and spiritual question: Is God the father who cannot be a father? Is God, like old Boughton, the father who wishes to bless but cannot? God, the giver of all love, extends love unconditionally, like old Boughton. “Augustine says the Lord loves each of us as an only child, and that has to be true.” (246) But the love we search for is first and foremost from our earthly fathers and mothers. God, like old Boughton, gives children to fathers and mothers, their own namesakes. As such, the open hearts we most need are those to whose care we have been entrusted.

In this sense, the sons and daughters of humankind all live as prodigals. We need the blessing of the fathers and mothers of our soul. But the fathers and mothers of our souls are broken. John Ames coveted the sons of Boughton. This covetousness was resentment, as Ames says: “it is not so much desiring someone else’s virtue of happiness as rejecting it, taking offense at the beauty of it…” As such, even when presented with the gift of a son, Ames could only reject the son. The son was an offense. The beauty of the gift was offensive. It was too much.

But Ames had his own difficult dynamic to work out. He was the good son, not the prodigal.

“As I have told you, I myself was the good son, so to speak, the one who never left his father’s house—even when his father did, a fact which surely puts my credentials beyond all challenge. I am one of those righteous for whom the rejoicing in heaven will be comparatively restrained. That’s all right.” (238)

In the story of the prodigal son, the good son feels outside of the father’s love. He sees the good things lavished on the prodigal and he desires this extravagant expression of love.

Love, concludes Ames, has no proportion. It cannot be controlled or attained. It may be given to those who do not desire or need it, or it may be withheld from those who crave it the most.

“There is no justice in love, no proportion in it, and there need not be, because in any specific instance it is only a glimpse or parable of an embracing, incomprehensible reality. It makes no sense at all because it is the eternal breaking in on the temporal. So how could it subordinate itself to cause or consequence?” (238)

“Love is holy because it is like grace—the worthiness of its object is never really what matters.” (209)

Sacred beauty

“There are two occasions when the sacred beauty of Creation becomes dazzlingly apparent, and they occur together. One is when we feel our mortal insufficiency to the world, and the other is when we feel the world’s insufficiency to us.” (245)

Many of John Ames’s observations are reflections on the sacred beauty of ordinary life. There is no more ordinary place than Gilead, Iowa. But this only enhances its depth. “To me it seems rather Christlike to be as unadorned as this place is, as little regarded.”

“You never do know the actual nature even of your own experience. Or perhaps it has no fixed and certain nature.” (95) Life for John Ames amounts to an acknowledgement of the inherent sacredness of all things. His father eventually leaves Gilead, but John loves the beauty he finds in the ordinary. Or perhaps it is partly cowardice that keeps him in Gilead. Perhaps there is something of both, but there is certainly deep love.

True religiosity and spirituality is found in the normal. In the silence of an old, unadorned chapel, for example.

“When this old sanctuary is full of silence and prayer, every book Karl Barth ever will write would not be a feather in the scales against it from the point of view of profundity, and I would not believe in Barth’s own authenticity if I did not also believe he would know and recognize the truth of that, and honor it, too.” (173)

“We participate in Being without remainder.” (178)

Even our transience and human mortality is a part of this sacred world: “our fantastic condition of mortality and impermanence.” (57) This comes clearly to fore in a deeply profound way when John Ames decides he is going to burn his sermons. Every sermon he delivered was written out in full. He spent the better part of his life and energy studying and meditating in order to write out each sermon. This was an act of prayer and devotion for him. And yet he decides, as his life is nearing its end that he wants the sermons burned. In a beautiful line of simple spiritual insight he says, “They mattered or they didn’t and that’s the end of it.” (245)

Blessings

“Theologians talk about a prevenient grace that precedes grace itself and allows us to accept it. I think there must also be a prevenient courage that allows us to be brave—that is, to acknowledge that there is more beauty than our eyes can bear, that precious things have been put into our hands and to do nothing to honor them is to do great harm. And, therefore, this courage allows us, as the old men said, to make ourselves useful. It allows us to be generous, which is another way of saying exactly the same thing. But that is the pulpit speaking. What have I to leave you but the ruins of old courage?” (246)

This comes as John Ames closes his reflections. It takes courage to acknowledge that there is more beauty that our eyes can bear. It also takes courage to recognize that “precious things have been put into our hands and to do nothing to honor them is to do great harm.” This is the point at which the two themes come together. This is where our openness to sacred beauty and the relationship of fathers and sons intersects. Life is a precious thing put into our hands. Sons are a precious thing put into the hands of fathers. Fathers, perhaps also, are precious things put into the hands of sons. To do nothing to honor that which is sacred is to do great harm.

But there is too much that is sacred. It is too great for us. And this is the root of much of the harm in our world: it is too sacred for us. Even the sacred beauty of the most ordinary families in the most ordinary towns is a sacred beauty too great for humanity to grasp. It requires courage. Our courage fails, and the world becomes a broken place. Generations come, generations go.

At the beginning of his memoir, John Ames says, “There is a reality in blessing, which I take baptism to be, primarily. It doesn’t enhance sacredness, but it acknowledges it, and there is power in that.” (23) There is power in blessings because they acknowledge the sacred. And yet when the time came to bless his spiritual son Jack, John Ames lacked the courage. He was caught in his “covetise,” as he puts it. He rejected what he had coveted. But as grace would have it, John Ames gets a second chance. Near the end of the novel he relays this experience:

This morning I saw Jack Boughton walking up toward the bus stop, looking too thin for his clothes, carrying a suitcase that seemed to weigh almost nothing. Looking a good deal past his youth. Looking like someone you wouldn’t want your daughter to marry. Looking somehow elegant and brave.

I called to him and he stopped and waited for me, and I walked with him to the bus stop….

Then he stopped and looked at me and said, “You know, I’m doing the worst possible thing again. Leaving now. Glory will never forgive me. She says, ‘This is it. This is your masterpiece.’ He was smiling, but there was actual fear in his eyes, a kind of amazement, and there might well have been. It was truly a dreadful thing he was doing, leaving his father to die without him. It was the kind of thing only his father would forgive him for…..

“I understand why you have to leave, I really do.” That was as true a thing as I have ever said….

He cleared his throat. “Then you wouldn’t mind saying goodbye to my father for me?”
“I will do that. Certainly I will.”…..

Then I said, “The thing I would like, actually, is to bless you.”
He shrugged. “What would that involve?”
“Well, as I envisage it, it would involve my placing my hand on your brow and asking the protection of God for you. But if it would be embarrassing—” There were a few people on the street.
“No, no,” he said. “That doesn’t matter.” And he took his hat off and set it on his knee and closed his eyes and lowered his head, almost rested it against my hand, and I did bless him to the limit of my powers, whatever they are, repeating the benediction from Numbers, of course—“The Lord make His face to shine upon thee and be gracious unto thee: The Lord lift up His countenance upon thee, and give thee peace.” Nothing could be more beautiful than that, or more expressive of my feelings, certainly, or more sufficient, for that matter. Then, when he didn’t open his eyes or lift up his head, I said, “Lord, bless John Ames Boughton, this beloved son and brother and husband and father.” Then he sat back and looked at me as if he were waking out of a dream.
“Thank you, Reverend,” he said, and his tone made me think that to him it might have seemed I had named everything I thought he no longer was, when that was absolutely the furthest thing from my meaning, the exact opposite of my meaning. Well, anyway, I told him it was an honor to bless him. And that was also absolutely true. In fact I’d have gone through seminary and ordination and all the years intervening for that one moment. He just studied me, in that way he has. Then the bus came. I said, “We all love you, you know,” and he laughed and said, “You’re all saints.” He stopped in the door and lifted his hat, and then he was gone, God bless him.

Einstein's God

I have been reading through the Walter Isaacson biography of Albert Einstein. I am about halfway through, and I have enjoyed the read. It has helped me familiarize myself a bit better with the scientific transition from a Newtonian universe to an Einsteinian (if we can call it that) universe. For those interested in Einstein or the scientific advances of his time, I highly recommend this biography.

I thought you might appreciate a few of Einstein's thoughts on God and religion.

"Science without religion is lame.
Religion without science is blind."

"At the heart of this realism was an almost religious, or perhaps childlike, awe at the way all of our sense perceptions--the random sights and sounds that we experience every minute--fit into patterns, follow rules, and make sense.....'The very fact that the totality of our sense experiences is such that, by means of thinking, it can be put in order, this fact is one that leaves us in awe,' he wrote."

Even though Einstein helped lead the way in quantum theory, he balked at the results of a chaotic universe. Einstein was ever and always a determinist, believing that the universe behaved according to a pattern that was set. He differed with many of his fellow religious Jews who tended to believe in free will. Einstein's determinism also put him at odds with his colleague and friend Niels Bohr; together they engaged many lively discussions on the topic of the random nature of quantum theory versus the determinism and predictability that was Einstein's dogma. In this context, Einstein would say, "God does not play dice." Bohr would respond in frustration: "Einstein, stop telling God what to do!"

There's room for you in The Shack

The following is from William Young's The Shack. We are picking up in the middle of a dialog between Mack and Jesus:

"I don't have an agenda here, Mack. Just the opposite," Jesus interjected. "I came to give you Life to the fullest. My life." Mack was still straining to understand. "The simplicity and purity of enjoying a growing friendship?"
"Uh, got it!"
"If you try to live this without me, without the ongoing dialogue of us sharing this journey together, it will be like trying to walk on the water by yourself. You can't! And when you try, however well-intentioned, you're going to sink." Knowing full well the answer, Jesus asked, "Have you ever tried to save someone who was drowning?".....

"Mack, the world system is what it is. Institutions, systems, ideologies, and all the vain, futile efforts of humanity that go with them are everywhere, and interaction with all of it is unavoidable. But I can give you freedom to overcome any system of power in which you find yourself, be it religious, economic, social, or political. You will grow in the freedom to be inside or outside all kinds of systems and to move freely between and among them. Together, you and I can be in it and not of it."
"But so many of the people I care about seem to be both in it and of it!" Mack was thinking of his friends, church people who had expressed love to him and his family. He knew they loved Jesus, but were also sold out to religious activity and patriotism.
"Mack, I love them. And you wrongly judge many of them. For those who are both in it and of it, we must find ways to love and serve them, don't you think?" asked Jesus. "Remember, the people who know me are the ones who are free to live and love without any agenda."
"Is that what it means to be a Christian?" It sounded kind of stupid as Mack said it, but it was how he was trying to sum everything up in his mind.
"Who said anything about being a Christian? I'm not a Christian."
The idea struck Mack as odd and unexpected and he couldn't keep himself from grinning. "No, I suppose you aren't."
They arrived at the door of the workshop. Again Jesus stopped. "Those who love me come from every system that exists. They were Buddhists or Mormons, Baptists or Muslims, Democrats, Republicans and many who don't vote or are not part of any Sunday morning or religious institutions. I have followers who were murderers and many who were self-righteous. Some are bankers and bookies, Americans and Iraqis, Jews and Palestinians. I have no desire to make them Christian, but I do want to join them in their transformation into sons and daughters of my Papa, into my brothers and sisters, into my Beloved."
"Does that mean," asked Mack, "that all roads will lead to you?"
"Not at all," smiled Jesus as he reached for the door handle to the shop. "Most roads don't lead anywhere. What it does mean is that I will travel any road to find you."
(Selections taken from pages 180-82)

The Shack is certainly evangelical. For example, there is a clear and robust theory of substitutionary atonement. And yet in the above dialog, there is something that is potentially very non-evangelical: accepting the validity of other religious perspectives. This is not just an "anything goes approach," as the above makes clear. And yet there is a tone of inclusiveness that is rare amongst evangelicals.

My initial sense was, "Cool! Young is saying that Jesus is working among non-Christians." That is, I was really really fascinated that Young would suggest that Jesus would be at work among Buddhists, Muslims, Hindus, etc. If one could see the values and spirit of the Kingdom being embodied, then this was the activity of Jesus.

And yet Young's language is a bit ambiguous. His Jesus says that he has followers who were Buddhists and Mormons, Baptists or Muslims, Democrats, Republicans, etc. If he would have used the present tense, are, then I think that the language would have been more clearly an inclusive stance: "my followers are Buddhists and Mormons, Baptists or Muslims..."

I wonder if Young has ever been questioned on this point. I know that he has taken a good deal of heat from the conservative sector of evangelicalism.

But The Shack has been extremely popular among evangelicals, primarily (I would suggest) because it loosens up the rigid "us versus them" spirit that has dominated evangelicalsim in the past. And this, I think, can only be a good thing. I think many evangelicals are taught that all other perspectives and religions are condemned (a peculiar interpretation of John 14:6), and that if we entertain any other idea then we are on a road to pure relativism and "anything goes!". What is often ignored in these discussions is that the Gospel is primarily about reconciliation. There is the indication that the reconciliation (apokatallasso) is for all (Colossians 1:20), to unite (anakephalaio) all (Ephesians 1:10), in Christ.

I'm not saying that the New Testament itself teaches inclusivism, but I do think that there is enough there to point us in that direction. There is certainly enough evidence in the New Testament and the Gospels to allow evangelicals to take seriously the idea that Jesus and the message of the Gospel may be quite active in non-Christian settings and in places in the world where the name "Jesus" is unknown. This is because the message and power of the Gospel is based on something greater than any particular religion or institution. And this is what Young brings out very clearly in The Shack.

Once we recognize that the power of the Gospel transcends institution/religion and is much deeper to the core of the human soul than a creed or dogma could ever be, then the theological door is wide open to consider that the power of the Gospel is alive and active within non-Christian settings.

In other words, maybe there's room in the shack for you.

Or perhaps you are already in the shack, and you just don't know it.

Or perhaps if we all recognize that we are in the same shack, then we can start to engage in a new way the Gospel's vision for reconciliation, transformation, and redemption.

The Hermeneutic of Doubt

I finally had a chance to see Doubt last night with my good friend Tamie, and I was quite intrigued.

The plot: A strict, curmudgeon principal at a Catholic elementary and middle school (Meryl Streep, in a role I think she was born to play!) confronts the priest (Philip Seymour Hoffman) with an allegation of an inappropriate relationship with one of the boys. The principal is tough and persistent, and in the end the priest resigns his position and leaves the church/school.

But here's the thing: the film leaves us with no indication as to who is right and who is wrong. That is, there is no resolution as to whether or not the priest had an inappropriate relationship with the boy. We are only left with...well.....doubt.

The priest affirms his innocence and never wavers. The principal never gives an inch, she has an iron will. There is never hard evidence to suggest which person's interpretation is correct. There is no scene of the film that would suggest whether or not the priest is guilty.

The film is something of a "Rorschach test." That is, the response of the interpreter is more significant than the film. The film has no "true meaning," in itself, and doesn't press an interpretation on the audience.

Take note, friends. It is not just another "open" film, in good postmodern style. Rather, the individual (or collective) viewer's response at each stage in the film is telling for their particular disposition to the themes, controversies, subjects, and characters of the film. While this is certainly true of all films, literature, works of art, etc., Doubt seems to deliberately set itself up in a Rorschchian style. In this way, I found it more psychologically interesting than most postmodern films that play on differences of perspective: Doubt seems to lend itself to both analysis of perspective but also one's own psychological disposition.

For example, how we interpret and psychologically relate to child abuse is a critical influence on how we will interpret the plot and characters, potentially surfacing issues related to how we posture ourselves toward predators or alleged predators. Also, one's perception of change and the rule of law influences our interpretation of which character is more sympathetic.

Additionally, and perhaps most interesting to me, there is the very intriguing question of how we process events and how we look for truth. The principal is operating solely on the certainty that she generates from her will. There is a certain kinesthetic energy that she forces into her process of determining what is true and false. She believes that the priest is guilty. There is no doubt. This will certainly be viewed with suspicion by most Westerners, who (like myself) tend to look at "evidence" as being a greater support for processing the world and determining truth and falsity. I imagine that the principal's "certainty of the will" will be viewed with suspicion by most, but certainly not all.

The hermeneutic of Doubt intrigued me. I look forward to multiple viewings in the future. The religious themes of faith and doubt are also woven into the narrative in a thoughtful and intelligent manner, providing plenty of food for thought and topics for discussion.

Wittgenstein

Ludwig Wittgenstein: The Duty of Genius
Ray Monk
1990
My Rating: 5 of 5 Stars

The entry on Ludwig Wittgenstein by The Shorter Routledge Encyclopedia of Philosophy (and by "shorter" we mean a mere 1,077 pages of small-type, double-column entries) states the following, "His writings have aroused great devotion because of the honesty and depth which many find in them. But it is important not to treat them with superstitious reverence. Rather they should be read in the spirit in which he intended, namely as an invitation to explore with as much integrity as possible one's own perplexities and what would resolve them."

Reading the above gave me pause. Why would a reputable philosophical encyclopedia feel compelled to provide a disclaimer against "superstitious reverence" toward a past philosopher? I can only imply that the author is concerned about a cult-following around the person and work of Wittgenstein. But doesn't this strike us as extremely odd? That at the end of the 20th century and as we embark on the 21st there are intelligent students of philosophy religiously devoting themselves to a philosopher not yet 50 years after his death? Admittedly, philosophy students are typically devoted to teachers and professors and even to philosophers of the past who write with the force of logic and truth. And yet I find no similar disclaimer in the Routledge entry on Plato, Locke, Kant, Hegel, or Russell. What is it about Wittgenstein that inspires such "superstitious reverence"?

The answer, I believer, is not simply to be found in the work of Wittgenstein but more so in his life. And this is where the Monk biography comes in. It bridges the gap between philosophy and life: "By describing the life and the work in the one narrative, I hope to make it clear how this work came from this man, to show - what many who read Wittgenstein's work instinctively feel - the unity of his philosophical concerns with his emotional and spiritual life." (xviii)

After reading Monk's biography I can understand why the philosophical establishment would see themselves obliged to disclaim any sense of religious devotion to Wittgenstein. Such devotion is simply the mirror reflection of a man completely dedicated to the questions of life that perplexed him, even tortured him. "Philosophy, one might say, came to him, not he to philosophy. Its dilemmas were experienced by him as unwelcome intrusions, unable to get on with everyday life until he could dispel them with a satisfactory solution." (3) Wittgenstein's ultimate solution to the problems of philosophy was to suggest that philosophy, itself, could not solve them. Or, at the very least, that philosophy has limits and parameters that it should not push beyond.

"What we cannot speak about we must pass over in silence." (Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus, section 7)

In brief, the life of Wittgenstein was one of passion and complete dedication to pursue the deepest and most meaningful questions of life. He was religious, deeply committed to his own ethical purity, and above all things he was a man who brought a relentless intensity to everything that he deemed important enough to warrant investigation. For example, Wittgenstein would engage the most brilliant philosophical minds of his day and simply wear them down. He had the mental, physical and emotional capacity to sustain the pursuit of a line of thought for hours and hours on end. In many cases, philosophers like Bertrand Russell would simply not have the capacity (or even the desire in some cases) to follow Wittgenstein until he was satisfied to conclude.

How many philosophers inspire "superstitious devotion"? How many thinkers are truly worthy of the dedication of their followers? When compared to Wittgenstein, most philosophers appear to approach philosophy as though it were a mere hobby. Wittgenstein's life displayed a sheer force of intellectual passion.

Rather than attempt to review the life and work, exhaustively, I will pick and choose a few interesting portions of Monk's biography that I found particularly intriguing.

Here I highlight a comment by Wittgenstein on belief in God and its relation to science and proof:
"Wittgenstein did not wish to see God or to find reasons for His existence. He thought that if he could overcome himself - if a day came when his whole nature 'bowed down in humble resignation in the dust' - then God would, as it were, come to him; he would then be saved....Both the atheist, who scorns religion because he has found no evidence for its tenets, and the believer, who attempts to prove the existence of God, have fallen victim to the 'other' - to the idol-worship of the scientific style of thinking. Religious beliefs are not analogous to scientific theories, and should not be accepted or rejected using the same evidential criteria." (410)

The above line of thought is intriguing in its own right, and certainly a matter that has come under a great deal of debate over the years. But, aside from the substance of what Wittgenstein says, what is particularly interesting to me is the context within which Wittgenstein developed these ideas. He was working at Cambridge in the early 20th century, where a scientific approach was presumed (in some form or another) by virtually all serious thinkers. To our "postmodern" ears the above statements seem less radical and a matter to be taken seriously for thought and discussion. I don't know that we can appreciate the degree to which these thoughts would have deviated from the philosophical orthodoxy of the day. Of course, deviating from philosophical orthodoxy was the least of Wittgenstein's concerns!

Wittgenstein began his Philosophical Investigations by engaging the Confessions of St Augustine. Says Monk, "For Wittgenstein, all philosophy, in so far as it is pursued honestly and decently, begins with a confession. He often remarked that the problem of writing good philosophy and of thinking well about philosophical problems was one of the will more than of the intellect - the will to resist the temptation to misunderstand, the will to resist superficiality. What gets in the way of genuine understandings often not one's lack of intelligence, but the presence of one's pride." (366)

Monk continues on this line of thought and cites Wittgenstein, himself:
"If anyone is unwilling to descend into himself, because this is too painful, he will remain superficial in his writing: Lying to oneself, deceiving yourself about the pretence in your own state of will, must have a harmful influence on [one's] style; for the result will be that you cannot tell what is genuine in the style and what is false....If you are unwilling to know what you are, your writing is a form of deceit. (366-67)

The Liar Paradox is a problem that develops when someone says, "I am lying." Is the statement true or is it false. If it is true, then it is necessarily false. If it is false, then the person has told the truth. It is a simple little game of logic, but it creates great problems for various theories of propositions. Personally, I have wondered whether or not such paradoxes do not reveal a fundamental flaw in ascribing truth value to propositions, that perhaps this implies that truth is a matter greater than propositions. Or perhaps it is simply a manifestation of the absurdities of the universe. In any event, here is Wittgenstein on the issue:

"It is very queer in a way that this should have puzzled anyone - much more extraordinary than you might think: that this should be the thing to worry human beings. Because the thing works like this: if a man says 'I am lying' we say that it follows that he is not lying, from which it follows that he is lying and so on. Well, so what? You can go on like that until you are black in the face. Why not? It doesn't matter." (420)

For Wittgenstein, then, the issue was really a non-issue. But why? Monk says that it is because what needs to be explained is also why the question matters. In other words, justification is needed for the theoretical constructs that demand an answer to the question. "His [Wittgenstein's] point was rather that a contradiction cannot lead one astray because it leads nowhere at all. One cannot calculate wrongly with a contradiction, because one simply cannot use it to calculate. One can do nothing with contradictions, except waste time puzzling over them." (421)

Wittgenstein was also interested in Freud and dream interpretation. "It was the idea that dream symbols form a kind of language that interested him - the fact that we naturally think that dreams mean something, even if we do not know what they mean." (448) Monk continues, "What puzzles us about a dream is not its causality but its significance. We want the kind of explanation which 'changes the aspect' under which we see the images of a dream, so that they now make sense. Freud's idea that dreams are wish fulfilments is important because it 'points to the sort of interpretation that is wanted', but it is too general." (449)

Says Wittgenstein, "Freud very commonly gives what we might call a sexual interpretation. But it is interesting that among all the reports of dreams which he gives, there is not a single example of a straightforward sexual dream. yet these are as common as rain." (449) Monk continues summarizing Wittgenstein: "This again is connected to Freud's determination to provide a single pattern for all dreams: all dreams must be, for him, expressions of longing, rather than, for example, expressions of fear. Freud, like philosophical theorists, had been seduced by the method of science and the 'craving for generality.'" (449)

This next statement in regard to Freud is interesting to me: "There is not one type of dream, and neither is there one way to interpret the symbols in a dream. Dream symbols to mean something - 'Obviously there are certain similarities with language' - but to understand them requires no some general theory of dreams, but the kind of multi-faceted skill that is involved, say, in the understanding of a piece of music." (449)

The above reflections in relation to Freud and dreams are in line with Wittgenstein's approach of going to the particular thing rather than the general. Furthermore, Wittgenstein does not necessarily go to the particular thing with the intent of using it to develop overarching theories, perhaps what we might call a "metanarrative" - an overarching explanation for all things. This simply wasn't Wittgenstein's primary concern, and as such I think he is able to demonstrate insight into the "skill" required to interpret dreams.

More on Wittgenstein's religious outlook. Monk cites W:
"An honest religious thinker is like a tightrope walker. He almost looks as though he were walking on nothing but air. His support is the slederest imaginable. And yet it really is possible to walk on it." Says Monk, "Though he had the greatest admiration for those who could achieve this balancing act, Wittgenstein did not regard himself as one of them. He could not, for example, bring himself to believe in the literal truth of reported miracles:
'A miracle is, as it were, a gesture which God makes. As a man sits quietly and then makes an impressive gesture, God lets the world run on smoothly and then accompanies the words of a saint by a symbolic occurrence, a gesture of nature. It would be an instance if, when a saint has spoken, the trees around him bowed, as if in reverence. Now, do I believe this happens? I don't. The only way for me to believe in a miracle in this sense would be to be impressed by an occurrence in this particular way. So that I should say e.g.: "It was impossible to see these trees and not to feel that they were responding to the words." Just as I might say "It is impossible to see the face of this god and not to see that he is alert and full of attention to what his master is doing." And I can imagine that the mere report of the words and life of a saint can make someone believe the reports that the tree bowed. But I am not so impressed.'" (464)

The above can be a bit confusing in several places, but I added bold/italics to the second to last sentence because it seems to emphasize the main point of Wittgenstein's approach to miracle, namely, that the event may not necessarily occurred, but the religious significance of those involved impressed them to the point that it was as though it had actually happened.

Monk continues and notes that Wittgenstein's belief in God "did not take the form of subscribing to the truth of any particular doctrine, but rather that of adopting a religious attitude of life. As he once put it to Drury: 'I am not a religious man but I cannot help seeing every problem from a religious point of view.'" (464)

Can one "sum up" Wittgenstein's philosophy? Likely not! However, this one sentence, perhaps might be a start in understanding Wittgenstein's reflections as they relate to his contemporaries: "Partly under Wittgenstein's influence, the Theory of Knowledge had been subordinated to the analysis of meaning." (472) So, in this sense, the study of theories of epistemology eclipse into analyzing meaning: meanings of words and meanings of objects and the meanings of anything that we encounter in life that yields meaning. In this sense we are talking about a focus on interpretation. Interpretation was also the occupation of Heidegger and Gadamer in their own ways, and from there, philosophical thought (and even non-philosophical thought) seems to take of in a variety of directions.

In Zettel, Wittgenstein states, "Only in the stream of thought and life do words have meaning." For Wittgenstein, Monk notes, "Practice gives the words their sense." (573) This is a comment on context. Here, Monk comments on this idea of context and follows this by citing Wittgenstein: "The thrust of Wittgenstein's remarks is to focus the attention of philosophers away from words, from sentences, and on to the occasions in which we use them, the contexts which give them their sense:
'Am In not getting closer and closer to saying that in the end logic cannot be described? You must look at the practice of language, then you will see it.'" (578-79)

The above goes to the idea of a "framework" for thinking and interpreting. Monk states Wittgenstein as follows: "A framework itself cannot be justified or proven correct; it provides the limits within which justification and proof take place....We cannot make sense of anything without some sort of framework, and with any particular framework there has to be a distinction between propositions that, using that framework, describe the world, and those that describe the framework itself, though this distinction is not fixed at the same place for ever." (571) This reminds me of Gadamer's insistence that "tradition" and "prejudice," far from being things we should despise are the very preconditions under which all thought takes place. Interesting that for Wittgenstein we need to distinguish the propositions within the framework from those that describe the framework, and yet this cannot ever be "fixed." Monk cites an analogy that Wittgenstein uses for this point: "...the river-bed of thoughts may shift. But I distinguish between the movements of the waters on the river-bed and the shift of the bed itself; though there is not a sharp division of the one from the other." (571)

The life and philosophy of Wittgenstein is intense. His works, though short in length and few in words, are dense. Monk's biography, however, is highly readable and comes highly recommended. It traces Wittgenstein's philosophy as it relates to his contemporaries, however, it is not simply a portrait of the development of philosophy. Monk skillfully combines life and thought in such a way that one cannot help but be impressed by the person. This biography is helpful for its philosophical reflections, but it is fascinating for the portrait of the person - a person whose life and works have inspired a "superstitious reverence" that should make all establishment philosophers wary!

All that philosophy can do is to destroy idols.

God and Other Minds - Alvin Plantinga

A review of God and Other Minds: A Study of the Rational Justification of Belief in God (1967)
Cornell University Press
by Alvin Plantinga


In this early work by Alvin Plantinga the first two parts deal with arguments for and against Christianity. Though a Theist and a Christian, Plantinga concludes that the arguments for God's existence are unsuccessful. After reviewing the atheological arguments against Christianity, Plantinga concludes:
"These atheological arguments are as unsuccessful as the arguments from natural theology we considered in Part I; natural atheology seems no better than natural theology as an answer to the question, 'Are religious beliefs rationally justified?'" (183) Part Three attempts "a different approach." (183)

Plantinga beings the third part by saying,
"It may be said, with the existence of God: the theist must be able to answer the question 'How do you know or why do you believe?' if his belief is to be rational; or at any rate there must be a good answer to this question. He needs evidence of some sort or other; he needs some reason for believing." (187)

Is belief in God "rational"? What are the "reasons" for believing in God? These have been questions of much historical debate, and at this point in Plantinga's book it is of considerable interest in light of the fact that he has rejected all arguments put forward thus far forward thus far. But rather than simply presenting another argument for the existence of God, Plantinga next makes a very interesting move:

"Obviously this raises many question. What is evidence? What relation holds between a person and a proposition when the person has evidence for the proposition? Must a rational person have evidence or reasons for all of his beliefs? Presumably not." (187-88)

So, Plantinga's question goes deeper: What is evidence? And must the rational person have evidence for all beliefs. Plantinga somewhat casually suggests, "presumably not," which will come as quite a startling conclusion for those coming out of Modernity and the various philosophical systems that are so rooted in the epistemologies of Classical Foundationalism.

Plantinga continues, "But then what properties must a belief have for a person to be justified in accepting it without evidence? Is a person justified in believing a proposition only if it can be inferred inductively or deductively from (roughly) incorrigible sensory beliefs? Or propositions that are obvious to common sense and accepted by everyone?" (188) These questions await further development by Plantinga in his future works. (See below) We leave these for now and proceed toward Plantinga's conclusion.

The primary point of Plantinga's work is to suggest that the belief in God is like the belief in other minds:
"There may be other reasons for supposing that although rational belief in other minds does not require an answer to the epistemological question, rational belief in the existence of God does. But it is certainly hard to see what these reasons might be. Hence my tentative conclusion: if my belief in other minds is rational, so is my belief in God. But obviously the former is rational; so, therefore, is the latter."

The conclusion is worded in such a way ("my tentative conclusion") that seems rather disappointing at first, or perhaps even trivial and irrelevant. But two things are important to bear in mind. The first is the historical perspective. In his 1970 review of God and Other Minds Michael A. Slote said, "This book is one of the most important to have appeared in this century on the philosophy of religion." (The Journal of Philosophy 67 (1970): 39-45) Over the course of his career, Plantinga's work within the Analytical field of philosophy has helped contribute to vigorous debate in the belief in God and the place of evidence within that debate.

Secondly, it is important to understand the scope of the work and how it shifts the burden of proof. There is something of a paradigm shift that must occur by those who demand evidence for belief in God and yet take the existence of other minds for granted. There is a shift of the burden of proof from the assumption that the Theist must provide evidence for God's existence to now questioning whether this assumption is valid.

Must the Theist provide evidence? If so, then what about the existence of other minds? This is something we seem to take for granted, while at the same time demanding proof of the existence of God.

The purpose of this review, then, is primarily to highlight Plantinga's conclusion. In his 1990 Preface to the reissue of the book, Plantinga restates his conclusion:
"'If my belief in other minds is rational, so is my belief in God. But obviously the former is rationa; so, therefore, is the latter.' As I now see (with the acuity of hindsight), my chief aim was to make a suitable reply to the evidentialist objection to theistic belief: the objection that theistic belief is irrational or unreasonable or intellectually second- or third-rate because there is insufficient evidence for it. More exactly (and relying even more heavily on hindsight) my aim was to reply to that objection taken in the context or from the perspective of classical (Cartesian and Lockean) foundationalism. The main argument of the book is really an argument against that objection, so taken." (xi)

Again, Plantinga is boldly suggesting a shift of the burden of proof. Why do we believe in the existence of other minds. It seems to be something that we all take for granted. Are we thus irrational??? Or unreasonable??? Surely not, one would think. (One would hope!) And yet, if we do not need evidence for the existence of other minds, what does that suggest about our evidence for the belief in God? Is it possible that Modernity/Enlightenment epistemology is so deeply rooted in our thinking that we do not even have a paradigm for looking at the question of God's existence as one that does not require evidence or rational proof?

As I close the review I return to Plantinga's 1990 preface: "What I argued, in essence, is that from this point of view belief in other minds and belief in God are on an epistemological pare. In neither case are there good arguments of the sort required; hence if the absence of such arguments in the theistic case demonstrates irrationality, the same goes for belief in other minds." (xi-xii)

This book finds itself a bit bogged down in the mire of Analytical argumentation. In my opinion this is a weakness, because those unfamiliar with the Analytic tradition will find many parts to be a bit convoluted. Yet the basic points made and the conclusions drawn are historically important in the history of philosophy and also of ongoing importance to the discussion of the existence of God.

Notes and References:
The above review is of a very early work by Plantinga, and merely represents a few early (albeit important) questions. To understand Plantinga's thoroughgoing epistemology, see the Warrant trilogy:
Warrant: The Current Debate (1993)
Warrant and Proper Function (1993)
Warranted Christian Belief (2000)
The first two works are epistemological in the Analyitc tradition, while the third (and perhaps most accessible) deals specifically with Theism and Christian belief.

Easy Rider

I just finished watching the classic, generational film, Easy Rider, with Peter Fonda, Dennis Hopper, and Jack Nicholson.

Two bikers (hippies?) turn a big cocaine deal and then head out from the west coast for a cross-country trip to New Orleans for Mardi Gras. On the way they encounter a hippie farm (of sorts), pick up a young and drunk lawyer (played by Jack Nicholson), and encounter resistance from white rednecks and hillbillies.

Jack Nicholson explains the presence of alien life forms living amongst us as well as the reason why those who are truly free represent a threat to Americans for whom freedom is only a concept - a concept that represents a threat when it actually emerges. That is, the word freedom becomes merely a code for maintaining establishment norms.



There is a scene I found rather bizarre, but also quite intriguing. Near the end of the movie Wyatt (Fonda) and Billy (Hopper) pick up two hookers and hit the streets of Mardi Gras. At morning they find a secluded area where they can get stoned and have sex. So, in the midst of the stoned/sex the movie has voice-overs of Catholic catechisms and Scripture recitations. It was very, very strange, and I'm wondering what the movie makers were going for in this scene. For me, there was a contrast between that which was sacred and the "degrading of their bodies" (Romans 1). And yet the movie is obviously not anti-sex or anti-stoned. I don't think the point was to condemn the "freedom" of sex, drugs, and rock and roll. And yet during the mini-orgy there were Scriptures dealing with the judgment of God and the values of morality as espoused by the Scriptures and the Catholic confessionals.

So, what is the point? Is it to contrast the freedom of the bikers with the bondage of the church?



My other question had to do with the scene right before the end. Billy and Wyatt are turning in for the evening and Billy begins expressing his excitement at how much money they took in and how they are now in the clear and have all kinds of opportunities ahead of them. But Wyatt doesn't share his optimism or joy. Instead he says that we've done it all wrong, Billy. We got it all wrong. Wyatt then turns in and then they cut to the last scene where our two heroes ride along the highway and are gunned down by two rednecks in a pickup truck.

But why does Wyatt say that they have it all wrong? Throughout the movie Wyatt is obviously the more reflective of the two and seems at times to balk at the freedom that his friend Billy seems to be able to enjoy more easily.

So, is this film something of a middle-road approach? Anti-establishment, yet at the same time cautious about the alternative of a free love and free drugs culture?

The Metaphorical Ripley

I wrote up a review of one of my favorite movies, The Talented Mr. Ripley over at amazon.com. I have reproduced it here:

The movie is an adaptation of Patricia Highsmith's novel by the same name. The story line follows Highsmith, but there are notable departures. I find the movie adaptation to be brilliant. It is a psychologically complex movie that continues to probe deeper and deeper into issues of identity and moral conscience right up until the closing scene. Seeing the movie for the first time one might have the feel that director/writer Anthony Minghella is walking one through a tour of a grand old castle where rooms and corridors upon up into more rooms and corridors even more intriguing than the first.

The film seems to divide into two movements. The first is the "age of innocence" for Tom Ripley. He is a boy with an opportunity and a hope for a better life: to escape his boring life of normalcy in New York for a life of beauty and taste. Where else, but Italy!??!

While in Italy he is charged with bringing playboy Dickie Greenleaf back home to his wealthy father in the States. Dickie, however, has no interest, and Tom quickly realizes this and chooses to cast in his lot with Dickie and become fast friends. But Dickie is too fickle for the "brotherhood" that Tom craves. Hence the tension leads up to a moment of dramatic tragedy that forever changes the course of Ripley's life and ushers in the second movement of the film.

There is now a turn towards suspense and intrigue as Tom uses his "talents" to gain a life of privilege and beauty. The narrative unfolds the suspense of Ripley trying to maintain multiple "worlds" and "realities" of deceit that Minghella describes as a myriad of "spinning plates," and Matt Damon creates a character who skillfully holds all of these false realities together in a grand score that somehow makes sense to all the players despite the glaring inconsistencies that the audience can see.

Holding this labyrinth of duplicity together would not have been possible without an absolutely incredible cast of actors and characters who come in and out of Ripley's life at every turn. The classical scenery also provides a setting where Damon can create his character of complexity.

Ripley is desperate to escape the social and aesthetic "basement" of life, and for a while he seems to have succeeded. Yet despite his achievement he is left wondering whether he has not simply constructed another basement of moral and spiritual darkness. This is a character who begins a journey of discovering identity and finds himself trying to attain a new life through any means possible. But the events of Ripley's life play out like a tragedy and the grip of irony becomes tighter and tighter for Ripley as the road to his self discovery leads, as Minghella says, to "the annihilation of self."

I find it ironic as I watch this movie that often times the things we pursue the most wind up out of our reach because of the means by which we pursue them....or sometimes we fail to achieve what we desire simply because we desire it so much. It is this type of irony that I see in Qohelet (crf. the book of Ecclesiastes): Life is a "chasing after of the wind." The metaphor of pursuing what ultimately cannot be caught. And yet this is the metaphor used to describe life, leading Qohelet to conclude in chapter 8 that anyone who is able to appreciate one's position and status in life that this is commendable. After all, life is complex and no one can claim to understand all that God has done!

Notes:
1-For various muddleheaded interpretations of the film/book please see Ktismatics and his dialogue with Parody.
2-If you compare the translations of 8:17 you will notice the NIV adds the word "meaning", as in "no one can discover its meaning." This is a terrible move, and one of many translation/interpretive moves made by the NIV that have enormous and in my opinion devastating philosophical/theological consequences for the book. It provides the setting for theologians to transform Qohelet from someone standing in awe at the mystery and irony of life into a Modern apologetics evangelist preaching about how having God in your life can make it more meaningful. Tragic!)

Ultimatum

If you have followed the Bourne series of movies, as I have, then you will find the third installment very satisfying. Like the first two movies it is very intense - the movie wastes no time and begins in action sequence, picking up where the second movie left off....well.....sort of....

After watching this Bourne movie I get the feeling that Jason Bourne (aka David Webb) is a some sort of combination of Ethan Hunt, James Bond, and Jack Bauer all rolled into one. I think it captures the best elements of all of those films. The plot lines are sophisticated, but not so complex as to become completely irrelevant (Mission Impossible), the action is incredible and the film explores the ramifications of power - the tension between the freedom to strike the enemy quickly against the dangers of abusing absolute power.

It is much of the same as the first two installments, only it is ratcheted up a notch. The action sequences are even more intense, believe it or not. The plot line would be somewhat difficult to follow without knowledge of the first two. But the ending is very satisfying.

The interesting question at this point is whether movie makers could possibly provide a fourth movie. It is the same question that the writers and producers of the 24 series are asking themselves. I'm sure there will be another movie or two on this series, but whether or not it will be satisfying is another issue. As I remember, this series started slow and then picked up momentum as it went along. I loved the first Bourne movie, but I don't remember it being hyped all that much when it first was released. Anyway, if you are a fan of Jason Bourne you will enjoy the movie. In fact, you may just want to turn around and watch it again.

Music about Indiana?

Yeah, that's what I thought, too.

A guy named Jon McLaughlin has a new album. The title? Indiana.

There are some good songs, and I recommend it. Very reflective. It's pop-piano. For a preview of his music you can take a listen at his myspace. I like the song "Indiana" and "Human":
http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendID=6082022


Here is the link to my review at Amazon.com. Upon reading the review it seems to be more my personal reflections on the state of Indiana - part autobiographical, part existential reflections - but hey, it's my review, right?
http://www.amazon.com/gp/cdp/member-reviews/A2K3VAXPPBHWPK/ref=cm_pdp_profile_reviews/002-3551723-8758419?ie=UTF8&sort%5Fby=MostRecentReview

A New Kind of Christian

A review of A New Kind of Christian (2001)
by Brian McLaren
My Rating: 5 out of 5 Stars

The cover jacket of McLaren’s 2001 publication states that this book is “a tale of spiritual renewal for those who thought they had given up on church.” It is an engaging work written in the form of a dialogue between burned-out Pastor Dan and his philosophical and culturally-engaged friend, Neo, a school teacher and former Pastor. The source of Pastor Dan’s burnout goes back to a feeling of a lack of authenticity and feeling amongst his institutionalized church. Dan has questions about doctrine and faith, some of which he cannot vocalize or is even aware of, but as he engages in an ongoing dialogue with Neo many of these troubling issues are identified and discussed.

As we look back over the course of the story, however, the fundamental source of Dan’s discouragement is in the fact that for Dan’s church/congregation doctrine, practice, and church life has been drained of meaning. The church has become institutionalized such that it is now simply a conduit for recycling and repeating what has been passed down from the previous generations. The doctrinal watchdogs are keeping score on Pastor Dan’s sermons, there is no effort to engage the questions and concerns of the culture, and those who are seeking a fresh expression of faith and evangelism are stifled by the church’s rigid atmosphere. In short, the church lacks vitality and energy. It has been drained of any authentic and genuine expression of deep spiritual meaning. Pastor Dan is ready to resign. He feels disingenuous and stale. This is the setting for a lively dialogue and exchange between Pastor Dan and Neo.

Smattered throughout the book are various philosophical/theological/hermeneutical issues, but more important than all of this is to understand that the fundamental point of A New Kind of Christian is that a significant shift has taken place from the “Modern” to “Postmodern” period and that the church must respond in order for the Christian faith to be a meaningful and vital source of spiritual change and renewal. The dialogue between Dan and Neo is presented, not so much to give answers or solutions to this new paradigm of the Postmodern, rather, it is simply to highlight the new paradigm and issue a call for change and creativity. Throughout the book it is evident that the proposed changes are only proposals and not an extensive treatise. This book, then, is truly a call for those “who thought they had given up on church”, and the suggestion is that the change of paradigm has left many searching for a new, more relevant expression of faith. This search is a search for a new kind of Christian.


As we reflect on this book now six years after publication it has proven to strike a resonating chord amongst Christians across the United States, and even around the world. There are clearly many who can relate with the discouragements of Pastor Dan and Neo. What is less clear are the reasons why. Has the church become a place where difficult questions are not explored? Did the church get comfortable and is now failing to engage the new Postmodern culture? Has the church burned many people with overly-zealous regulations or with excessive judgmentalism? Was there a turn to show-and-tell Christianity? Has whatever is happening been entirely the fault of traditional Christianity, as this book would suggest? Or are there many who are simply looking for the next exciting church fad? We might suggest that there are a myriad of factors, working in conjunction with each other. Yet regardless of the reasons A New Kind of Christian has captured the hearts of many, and to miss this heart-to-heart connection is to miss the impact of the book.

McLaren uses the character of Neo to suggest that there has been a dramatic paradigm change. The following is from a lecture that Neo is giving to college students:

Change is ever-present, and nearly all generations see themselves as generations of change. And they’re right. But let me make a distinction between change and transition…all ages are ages of change, but not all ages involve transition. You young mean and women happen to have been born at a time of transition. If you keep on doing the same old things with the same old tools – the tools you have inherited from my generation and my friend Mr. Poole’s generation – you’ll make a mess of things. (40)

So, McLaren makes a distinction between change, which happens in all generations and transition, which seems to represent a more distinct break with the past. This renders the “old tools” ineffective. This paradigm shift represents the heart of McLaren’s book, and A New Kind of Christian was written because we live in a new kind of world. The extent of the paradigm shift is, of course, a matter of debate. Some would suggest that the changes occurring are reminiscent of the shift from the Medieval period into the so-called Modern period. Others would suggest that this overstates the case, and that we are still in the Modern period, which has only hit something of a bump in the road.

A thorough evaluation of the paradigm shift is beyond the scope of this book review. Suffice it to say that it is simply too early to tell. But the question of whether or not we live in a new kind of world is essential to whether or not we need a new kind of Christian, is it not? The actions of the church have ramifications for our world both now and in the future. On the one hand, to fail to recognize a paradigm shift would be devastating. The other potential error is to believe that a paradigm shift has taken place when, in fact, no significant turn has occurred. It would seem that the latter mistake would be much less cause for concern than the former. To overreact would seem to represent less of a threat than to live in denial as history passes the church by.

We return to Neo’s lecture, which addresses just this point:

Most of your peers live in a different world from you. They have already crossed the line into the postmodern world. But few of you have. Why? Because you want to be faithful to the Christian upbringing you have received, which is so thoroughly enmeshed with modernity. One of the most important choices you will make in your whole lives will be in these few years at this university. Will you continue to live loyally in the fading world, in the waning light of the setting sun of modernity? Or will you venture ahead in faith, to practice your faith and devotion to Christ in the new emerging culture of postmodernity? (38)

At the conclusion of the lecture a student named Ruth responds:

I don’t really have a question, but I just wanted to say that everywhere in my life except here and at church, I think I am postmodern. But I think when I go anyplace religious or Christian, I just sort of switch. It’s like I click into my parents’ way of thinking for an hour, and then I switch back. It’s really cool to think that I might not have to keep switching back and forth and could just be one person all the time. (44)

McLaren through the mouthpiece of his characters is making the point that a cultural revolution has occurred and that many of those who are younger must make a decision as to whether or not they will “venture ahead in faith” or “live loyally in the fading years” and maintain a commitment to the Modern church. For McLaren there is clearly an either-or at work here. On his view the church is “enmeshed with modernity.” This suggests a lack of ability to respond to a culture that is “emerging.” This point is significant and goes to both the strength and weakness of the book. By painting with such broad strokes and presenting massive historical/cultural generalizations McLaren can issue a clear call to arms for the church to respond to the emerging culture. This is surely a strength to the book. McLaren is, in this sense, a prophet.

However, his strength is simultaneously his weakness in that such generalizations can be overly-simplistic if the nuances of the emerging culture are not appreciated. For example, would we say that culture is emerging in the same way in the so-called “fly over States” in the United States as it is in New York City, Seattle, Houston, or other metro areas? Certainly not. One cannot possibly apply these general categories to each, specific context and culture. This, of course, is a point that McLaren would acknowledge. He surely appreciates these distinctions and nuances. However, the point of A New Kind of Christian is to awaken the church to action and to issue a call to “those who thought they had given up on church.” As such, there really is no room to discuss in depth the fact that the Modern v. Postmodern distinction may not be very helpful to many contexts. In fact, as fast as culture is emerging these categories are already being dismissed by some as irrelevant.

As I conclude I want to highlight the last citation made above. The respondent at Neo’s lecture, Ruth, mentions that she made a switch to transition back into her parent’s way of thinking when she went to church. From the context it is evident that for Ruth this did not seem to be a conscious transition of thinking, but a subconscious switch that occurred apart from her own realization. This, I think, is profound, and goes to the heart of this book and the current discussion of the role of the church in contemporary culture. If Ruth’s response is indicative of a large scale of Christian believers then I think the situation is grave and extremely dangerous. Without realizing it Ruth’s faith was the faith of the previous generation, but was not the faith of her generation. This goes to the question of meaningfulness. Can a believer’s faith be considered meaningful if it is not something relevant to the contemporary generation?

My experiences are admittedly limited. However, from my observations many in the previous generation of believers have passed down the faith that was meaningful for them, and seem to be at something of a loss as to why so many of those raised in the church are struggling to find the faith meaningful for them. For some believers there is the assumption that the meaningfulness of faith should be more or less the same for all believers across all of time. But if McLaren is correct that a significant shift in culture and thinking has taken place, then the current challenge of the faithful is for the current generation to find a God who is breaking through onto the contemporary scene and into the hearts and lives of the faithful in the now.

In short, if it is true that culture has transitioned, then the church faces a crisis of meaning. I give this book five stars and highly recommend it because I believe that Christians in my generation and in the next generation are face to face with a profound crisis of meaning, and I think that McLaren's A New Kind of Christians can help the church begin a dialogue on the meaning of faith in the contemporary culture.

A Generous Orthodoxy

A review of: A Generous Orthodoxy (2004)
by Brian McLaren
My Rating: 3 out of 5 Stars

This review starts right off with a confession. I was bored for the first 215 pages.

McLaren begins his book by expressing his desire to cultivate an appreciation for all perspectives on the Christian faith. A postcritical approach: “The approach you’ll find here, which might be called postcritical, seeks to find a way to embrace the good in many traditions and historic streams of Christian faith, and to integrate them, yielding a new, generous, emergent approach that is greater than the sum of its parts.” (22) Throughout the first 215 pages, and indeed for the remainder of the book, McLaren examines various aspects of various traditions of the Christian faith and expresses appreciation for their contribution to his own, personal spiritual journey. This, of course, begs the question as to why I or anyone else should appreciate them, but nonetheless his autobiographical approach is lively and engaging and kept me moving through the first 215.

As one moves through the book, however, there are obvious issues that emerge from trying to find the best in all things. For example, in speaking of the liberal/evangelical dichotomy McLaren says the following about generous orthodoxy: “This generous orthodoxy does not mean a simple merging, mixing, conflating, or reconciling of the two schools of thought, though. Rather it disagrees with both regarding the ‘view of certainty and knowledge which liberals and evangelicals hold in common,’ a view Grenz describes as ‘produced…by modernist assumptions.’” (28) Yet after reading through A Generous Orthodoxy it is hard to see how he is not simply suggesting a “simple merging, mixing, conflating, or reconciling” of doctrines or worldviews that might stand in opposition to one another. The question is obvious: By seeking to legitimize all perspectives have we lost the significance of any? This is a point that many traditionalist Evangelicals will seize on to declare McLaren a good-time, hippy-tree-hugging relativist with no respect for reason, doctrine or the “substantial” things of the faith. (crf. 283) Yet this would be a hasty and regrettable categorization, for there is real genius in Brian McLaren’s writing and thought. I first spotted it at page 215. I quote him at length here:

Each of these new challenges and opportunities requires Christian leaders to create new forms, new methods, new structures – and it requires them to find new content, new ideas, new truths, new meaning to bring to bear on the new challenges. These new messages are not incompatible with the gospel of the kingdom Jesus taught. No, they are inherent in it, but previously undiscovered, unexpressed, perhaps unimagined. Jesus’ original message was pregnant with all that they would need, but there was much, Jesus said, that they could not yet bear to hear, and so Jesus would send the Spirit of truth to guide them into all truth as they needed it and were ready to bear it. (215)

What McLaren recognizes, which so few of those of us in conservatives circles are understanding, is that faith must be faith in this generation or it is no longer our faith. If the coming generations simply repeat the formulas of faith passed down to them then they are merely acting as historical chroniclers, documenting and preserving creedal affirmations as a tribute to God’s work in the past. In essence, the Christian faith must be meaningful if it to be truly faith.

Many of us who consider ourselves conservative watch dogs would certainly agree with the above, but there is much more – and this is where the controversy arises. If the context changes, then new formulations of the faith must be made in order for the faith to be meaningful. The expressions of faith handed down to this generation must be questioned and explored in light of the current context. This is a move involving great risk, because it necessitates putting the Christian faith in the dock and leveling fundamental and even heretical questions against it. It means asking whether or not the Christian faith, the holy scriptures, and even God himself is relevant to the current context.

When I take a few days for hiking in the cold mountains I have footwear appropriate for the terrain, I wear layers to conserve my body heat, and I pack supplies appropriate for the lengthy hike. I must be prepared for the challenges that I will face unique for this journey. I do not run, rather I hike at a brisk but deliberate pace. I must conserve my energy. Yet when I enter a marathon race on the flat, paved roads in northern Indiana on a warm summer day I merely wear a pair of shorts and a tee shirt. I do not care for heavy hiking boots, rather, I wear light shoes designed for speed, but also appropriate and cushioned. I carry no supplies, except perhaps a watch and an ipod. My challenges have changed. The terrain if drastically different.

To our conservative ears McLaren sounds like a radical, even a heretic, to suggest that we need “new truths.” Or that we need “new ideas.” We often believe that the burden of proof is on McLaren to defend this perspective. I say that the burden of proof is on those of us who suggest that the church should be wearing hiking boots when she is lining up at the starting line of a marathon. The challenges have changed and it is simply naïve to suggest that we can merely recite the previous formulations of the past. This generation faces a crisis of meaning. Will the ancient Scriptures be proved meaningful in this day, for this challenge, and for this life? Or will they merely be “handed down” as a queer curiosity?

Chapter 17, “Why I am Incarnational” is perhaps the most provocative of all. McLaren directly addresses the issue of interacting with other religions. What he says is intriguing: “Because I follow Jesus I am bound to Jews, Muslims, Buddhists, Hindus, agnostics, atheists, New Agers, everyone…Not only am I bound to them in love, but I am also actually called to, in some real sense, become one of them, to enter their world and be with them in it.” (282)

Firstly, the vision that McLaren casts is lofty, and it is high. McLaren speaks of learning from the religious distinctives of others, such as meditation from Zen Buddhists. (287-88) He suggests that other religious perspectives might serve as a corrective to our tendency to distort the purity of our own faith. (286-87) There must be a genuine dialogue, then, with other religious perspectives that is not merely a pretense, but an authentic outreach to give and to take. (283) It is, then, a risky venture, and for McLaren this will likely mean that many faults with our understanding of faith will be exposed, such that Jesus will not only be saving the Buddhist religion, but will also save the Christian religion. (297) The vision I see McLaren cast is not one of competition, but cooperation. (299) This involves a high degree of risk. I make two observations.

First, this approach to evangelism requires a great deal of security in one’s own beliefs. Otherwise, it no longer becomes evangelism and the Christian is simply enjoying an interesting dialogue. There is nothing wrong with this, but dialogue is not discipleship. And if the Christian faith is not in the business of discipleship then it is not in the business of its founder and commissioner.

Secondly, to engage in an evangelism that is cooperative rather than competitive I would think must involve a rigorous intellectual climate and community within the church. Where do believers go to sort out the meaning of faith and truth and life after having fundamental beliefs challenged in dialogue with a member of another faith? To be perfectly frank and completely honest the current church in America has no structure to support this kind of probing and exploration. This is true on all levels, even for those churches that pride themselves in their depth of doctrine. Perhaps it is especially true in these more intellectual wings of the church because there are so many “untouchable” questions – so many doctrines and beliefs that would existentially freeze us to question. In short, the church simply does not have the forums to open up real questions and then take the time to meaningfully explore them in a deep and relevant way.

This last point goes to the weakness of A Generous Orthodoxy, for although it gives us a vision for a generous orthodoxy, it fails to move towards a meaningful orthodoxy. Again, to restate, this generation faces a crisis of meaning, and to find something meaningful requires not only to question and explore it in a deep and way, but it also requires defining how it is distinctive in relationship to other competing views and life perspectives.

Most conservatives fail to recognize that the crisis exists and are too reserved to engage the issues and take the risks to explore the challenges and to put the ancient faith in the dock. McLaren sees the crisis and understands the direction the church should move, but he seems to me to fail to appreciate that for the faith to be made meaningful it must be distinctive. I repeat my question stated at the beginning of this review: By seeking to legitimize all perspectives have we lost the significance of any?

Unlike my fellow conservatives, I do not discount McLaren’s vision for dialogue and cooperation with other religions. I am just skeptical whether the church has the ability to handle such a bold advance. The majority of my fellow thinkers and theologians who are in the best position to advance such a vision are unwilling to do so, thinking that such a view is a retreat from the start. A vision for cooperation and conversation seems to them to trivialize the truth. Only combative dialogue seems like the appropriate tone for an intellectual battle field.

McLaren is not a theologian, and the deeper he goes into theology the more I cringe. But give or take a few fumbles here and a few over generalizations there McLaren has it right. McLaren has it too right. At this point we simply do not have the resources for a vision of engaging the world through cooperation, or for deep doctrinal discussions that actually explore some of the genuine contributions of various viewpoints. Either we have people willing to seek meaning but content to never find it, or we have those who find meaning but never seek it.

Becoming Conversant with the Emerging Church

A review of Becoming Conversant with the Emerging Church (2005)
D.A. Carson
My Rating: 2 out of 5 stars

In Becoming Conversant with the Emerging Church Carson seeks to “become conversant” with the emergent church. I first note that the title does not accurately reflect Carson’s tone and objectives. For example, it is hard to find any suggestions made by Carson for conversations and dialogue between mainline Evangelicals and those in the E/emerging/Emergent church. This is essentially Carson’s final word on the subject, not a book meant to stimulate further dialogue. Carson’s final charge is particularly revealing and a bit condescending as he speaks to the Emergent Church: “They need to spend more time in careful study of Scripture and theology than they are doing, even if that takes away some of the hours they have devoted to trying to understand the culture in which they find themselves.” (234)

In this book there is primarily one aspect on which Carson rests his case, and it has much less to do with Scripture or theology than it does with philosophy. Throughout the book it is abundantly clear that for Carson the issues of church/Scripture/theology/culture all come back to an epistemological issue. That is, for Carson the church must privilege knowledge. I am not suggesting that Carson discards experience or spirituality or emotional aspects of the faith. Rather, I am submitting that Carson privileges knowledge as first philosophy. For Carson it is right and correct epistemology that drives his theology and hermeneutic.

Carson begins by taking as a given that it is epistemology that is the distinction between modernity and postmodernity: “The majority view is that the fundamental issue in the move from modernism to postmodernism is epistemology…In my view it is this epistemological contrast between the modern and the postmodern that is most usefully explored, as it touches so many other things.” (27)

This is a fundamental point for Carson, and it is followed through for the remainder of the book. (crf. 27-33, 40-41, 57-58, 122-124, 188ff.) Most of what Carson does can be seen as a defense of privileging knowledge as the most foundational pursuit. This is most particularly the case when Carson speaks of truth. (“The discussion in this book could be recast as a debate between the claims of truth and the claims of experience.” 218) “Truth” on Carson’s development is always propositional and related to knowledge.

Carson’s treatment of Lindbeck’s Crusader example on page 144 is particularly revealing. The scenario is of a Crusader who is bashing in the skull of an infidel and crying out, “Christ is Lord.” Carson comments:

The statement “Christ is Lord” is in fact true, objectively true, insofar as it refers to the extra-textual realities: the (objective) Christ is Lord of the universe, its Maker and final Judge, regardless of whether he is confessed as such or not or, as in this instance, confessed as such while an action is being undertaken by the confessor that flies in the face of what it means truly and faithfully to confess Christ as Lord…The statement, in other words, is objectively true…” (144)

This example is very telling, for a few reasons. First, it reveals Carson’s bias towards propositional truth. For Carson the truth of the statement is found in the proposition, and this has nothing to do with the context in which it is uttered, or it furthermore has nothing to do with the person who is uttering it or their own existential relationship to truth. For Carson it is the truth of the proposition that we must be primarily concerned about. This is a theme that runs throughout the book. (See especially 218ff.)

Also note that Carson has no problem, whatsoever, in abstracting propositions from their context in the stream of life and evaluating them for their propositional truth content. But it is at this point that Carson tips his hand and reveals his failure to understand the contemporary culture. For the emerging culture, and for many in the postmodern world and church there is little interest or desire to abstract propositions from their context in life. That is, the proposition that the Crusader utters is not relevant if the life-style and spirit of that same Crusader is untruthful. I think this is a key point. Many, like Carson, from mainline Evangelicalism and conservative church backgrounds who do not understand the current culture seem to believe that “postmoderns” are all relativists, and this is the typical polemic leveled against the so-called postmodern culture. The first thing wrong with this is that there is no uniform “postmodern” movement. But more importantly, there are some in the culture that are simply looking for a truth that is more holistic and authentic. For many of a “postmodern” ilk there is nothing true about the Crusader. To rip his objectively true statement out of the context of his infidel-bashing just seems wrong. Yet Carson seems content to disconnect statements from the reality in which they are embedded.

Perhaps the propositional statement is true in a propositional sense, but why privilege “truth” as merely propositional? Can we not say that the Crusader’s actions were untrue? Or that the untruth in his soul and spirit denied Jesus Christ, who proclaimed himself to be the way, the truth, and the life? Furthermore, even if we grant the truth of the proposition uttered it is meaningless. It is meaningful for Carson and others who privilege the proposition, but this is simply not the case for the emerging culture.

This move by Carson is indicative of much of the popular, conservative Christian response to so-called postmodernism. Truth exclusively refers to propositional truth, and these propositions can be freely and liberally ripped from their context in life and examined for their “truth value” regardless of whether or not the person speaking the truth is hacking away at someone’s skull in a blood-thirsty rage. What this really goes to is that in this so-called postmodern era there has been a significant shift from epistemology to ontology. From knowing to being. I would suggest that the quest for true propositions has been replaced by a quest for an authentic life.

I believe that Carson is wrong about privileging epistemology. But keep in mind that this book is reactionary. It does not project a vision for reaching the emerging culture, and furthermore it is simply reacting to the mistakes of many in the E/emerging/Emergent movements who, themselves, seem to think that the postmodern turn is about epistemology! It is interesting that for all of the clamoring very few (if any) of the pop-Christian writers (on either side of this argument) seem to understand the nature of the philosophical and cultural shift from propositional knowledge to authentic being. It seems to be a rather obvious shift, and one that should deserve more attention.

For example, take Carson on page 219: “Truth and experience do not have exactly the same sort of footing. Truth itself, rightly understood, may correct experience, but not the other way around.” Carson’s statement is disturbing on many levels. Once again Carson only allows “truth” to be defined on propositional terms – truth as knowledge. But worse than this is that Carson dichotomizes and pits “truth” (propositional) over and against experience. I am at a loss to understand this move. Surely we may think we have possession of true propositions, but experience could certainly serve as a corrective. The Pharisees thought that they possessed many true propositions, but when they experientially confronted the physical embodiment of truth, Jesus Christ himself, they remained unmoved. (John 8) Carson has tried to cover for himself by saying that the truth “rightly understood” cannot be corrected by experience. But he is merely begging the question because as finite beings we must remain humble and open to experiences that might correct what we think are true propositions. We may think that we posses true propositions “rightly understood,” but it would seems naïve to suggest that we could collect a few true propositions and then close ourselves off to any corrections from the experiences of life. Is it not a basic trait of wisdom that one learns and gains insight from one’s experience? Yet for Carson it would seem that we could store up a warehouse of untouchable propositions that we take as true and then reject any corrections that our life experiences might offer.

But the real point is this: Why pit these two (propositions and experience) against each other? My own study of Scripture is that the human person is a whole being – a thinking, feeling, experiential being. And while knowledge might certainly serve as a corrective I do not think that the evidence of Scripture suggests that we should allow ourselves to give knowledge the pride of place that Carson gives it. Rather, I would suggest we do better to view ourselves more holistically as spiritual creatures who are connecting with God and others on multiple levels.

In Becoming Conversant with the Emerging Church Carson does offer some helpful insights on issues related to the study of Scripture as well as the necessity of knowledge/epistemology. Yet it remains very difficult for me to get past the fact that he dichotomizes epistemology/ontology as well as propositions/experience and then proceeds to privilege epistemology, knowledge and propositions as the more sure thing for the life of faith. He takes this for granted and then proceeds to make his case against the E/emerging/Emergent church. But I submit that what he takes for granted is precisely the point of contention. In this generation and in especially in the current cultural context the church needs to more carefully consider the place of knowledge and the place of being. Too often pop-Christian books like Carson’s duck the primary issue and then spend the vast majority of pages working under a presumed assumption. This sells books, makes money for publishers, and gives us something to argue about, yet I fail to see how it advances the kingdom or cultivates a truly reflective Christian faith. Instead we become merely a reactionary church.