August 24, 2011 at 6:12 pm · Filed under Uncategorized · Tags: lst, metanarratives, philosophy, postmodern, theology
Read the previous ‘Metanarratives’ posts: 1, 2.
In my first post on metanarratives, I said that one of the defining features of postmodernity was the suspicion of metanarratives. What I never wrote about was why the postmodern is outright hostile to the giant stories. In a historical sense, it could be that postmodern philosophy was born from the disappointment of ex-communists with the student rebellion of the 60′s. But the more reasoned answer is because of the inherent violence in the application of a metanarrative.
Now the postmodern conversation uses violence in a slightly different sense to how we might common speech – it’s pretty much any time that someone is forced into something they would not freely choose, whether through actual injury, implicit force and threats or just the weight of a system pushing them into compliance. I’m sure I don’t need to explain how communism was violent in its desire for revolution. Freudianism tries to explain all human behaviour and thought in one single system, and in this reductionism does violence to the multiplicity of impulses and desires that we have. The metanarrative of romantic fulfilment that I wrote about before does violence to both parties as they use each other to ‘see if they’re the one’ and are then broken by the failure of the night. Without exception, metanarratives are seen as bringing violence as they try to eliminate ‘the other’ who is not part of the plan. It appears to be a side effect of their ‘totalizing’ nature, the fact that they claim to explain all human behaviour, everywhere in one simple rule.
And so to Christianity – the violence of Christianity is seen by many as its biggest failing – how can I be part of a religion that excludes women/gays/racial groups, that caused the crusades and the inquisitions, that inspired George W Bush? Just look at the Bible, it’s full of violence, even genocide at the call of God – not to mention the way hell is portrayed as the ultimate violence and exclusion of the other!
As a Christian, I can humbly confess that my faith has been used in horrifically violent ways, it deserves to be called out on every single one of those. Where repentance is required, it must happen and we must reject the violence of the ways the Christian story has been used. However, there are two points to be made about the Christian story and violence. Firstly, the Scriptures themselves challenge the use of Christianity (and Judaism for that matter) in a violent manner. Secondly, while the violence of the Cross is central to the uniquely Christian message, it is an inversion of violence, which must change how we view the bigger story. I’ll fill in some more details of what that means in another post.
August 14, 2011 at 9:06 pm · Filed under Uncategorized · Tags: lst, metanarratives, philosophy, postmodern, theology
Read the previous ‘Metanarratives’ posts: 1, 2, 3
Previously I said that though postmoderns reject metanarratives (in favour of smaller, local narratives) on account of their violent totalizing, my view of scripture is that it does not have to be read as presenting that kind of metanarrative. Here’s why.
We can discern two metanarratives woven through both Old and New Testaments. There is an Empire narrative, the ‘violent redemption’ narrative - we can’t pretend that it’s not there, especially in Joshua, Judges, the Samuels, Kings and Chronicles. But secondly, there’s an anti-Empire narrative of redemption and grace. It’s at play in Exodus in the freeing of the people of Israel, not by their power and skill in war, but God’s wisdom (though we see through the Old Testament that the two stories interweave). In Leviticus, it sets out Jubilee provisions for debts to be broken after 7 years (whether this actually happened or not, the story is there). In Samuel, the blessing of God is on the fugitive, David, not King Saul, but David refuses to fight him or hurt his enemy, despite being a better fighter (again, interwoven with the violence of the struggle with the Philistines). The prophets again and again cry out against the ‘empire’ tendencies of Israel/Judah, the way the poor are exploited because they are weak. In the New Testament, the ultimate anti-Empire manifesto is set out in the Sermon on the Mount – Jesus says that the only way to beat the Empire is to refuse to play its games, to be different. The Zealots were just the same as the Legions of Rome, no better for worshipping God. The only way to win was to play a different game, one where love scored points, not hatred.
So without doubt, you can find passages that legitimate violence and the destruction of enemies. But if Jesus is the pinnacle of revelation to the Christian, we must take his words most seriously. Someone has taken Brian McLaren‘s analogy of Scripture as a library of books further, let’s imagine looking at Scripture as a collection of films, the lifetime’s work of one Director. There are different script-writers, different actors, different ‘SFX’, different storylines, locations, morals, but in all the films the same creative genius and vision. There are repeated themes. There are hints, references and in-jokes (just like JJ Abrams does). Each film has to stand alone in some way, even if it’s part of a series within the wider picture. Each one should change you, in a different way for each one, a different way each time you see it. McLaren describes an unfolding revelation and understanding of God though the scriptures – each writer understood God in different ways, we must see their writing as reflecting their individual understanding and interaction with God. This in no way counts out inspiration, unless by inspiration you only mean ‘autowriting’ as Muslims understand the Koran was given. It rather has a realistic view of the human involvement in writing scripture. Everything is interpretation (that’s the postmodern philosophy of Derrida), but it is guided, shaped, guarded and passed on by a community of faith, in the power of the Holy Spirit.
Most metanarratives we come across are ‘univocal’, that is they have one voice, a narrator. The Bible is different – ‘multivocal’ with so many speakers and voices from inside, outside, the rich, poor, men, women – each is represented. These voices are often misunderstood and diminished, but the very structure of Scripture delegitimates its own use to oppress and exclude. The bigger structure backs this up, tending towards the reconciliation of all things in Jesus; a reconciliation not of violent oppression but loving acceptance. I know there is much more to deconstruct in how we actually realise this and bring it into being, and much more to repent of, but that’s my reading of the Christian metanarrative.
Secondly, above I said that the violence of the Cross is real and central to the Christian message, but that it is an inversion of violence. Art and films like ‘The Passion’ emphasised the brutality of the killing of Jesus, but it was preceded by another violent act, the incarnation. Peter Rollins (in his upcoming book ‘Insurrection’ and other places) talks about the kenosis, or ‘emptying’ of Jesus and its place in Christianity (drawing on the work of Gianni Vattimo). The kind of violence that is accepted, even encouraged in Christianity is the dying of self, the identification with Jesus on the cross. This is two fold (probably more, but not fully worked out in my thinking) – one, in our identification with Christ crucified, all the power of sin on our lives if broken, dead; two, we become open to the possibility of joining in the transforming work of Jesus when we too empty ourselves of all that we count as value and instead dedicate ourselves, even if for a moment, to the inbreaking of the Kingdom of God, the actualisation of the reconciliation of all things.
It’s the violence of death that brings us life. In that death, all that crushed us and separated us from life is killed. In that death we find we are able to live a life that is truly alive. In paradox, violence inverts itself when we empty ourselves and choose not to take the way of violence to others but accept it upon ourselves, destroying it in the process.
August 5, 2011 at 3:53 pm · Filed under Uncategorized · Tags: lst, metanarratives, philosophy, postmodern, theology
In my last post, I mentioned the story of Redemptive Violence as one of the dominant metanarratives that the media feed to us. I am sure you will recognise it when I describe it – it is the basis for every action movie ever! Whether the story takes place in history, in space, or in some other context, there’s a set pattern to the metanarrative. There is a hero, who we are made to identify with, who loses something to an enemy – either of his own or his communities (yes, usually it is a he). After a long and dangerous quest, he and a band of valiant warriors defeat the enemy who has caused this loss in a violent and surprising fight. The story ends with some kind of depiction of the wonderful state of peace and goodness that this battle has brought about.
It is right for postmodernity to deconstruct this story, for a quick historical review can show how it is the story of Empire and oppression. Wired is far from the first to talk about the Babylonian gods’ relationship with contemporary action movies. The myths that were used to explain the origin of earth and Babylon in particular, that legitimated the rule of the King and priests were all about war between the gods. Violence solved the problem in the story, and violence was the way the empire expanded. Successive empires ruled the near east, ending with the Romans. When an ideological difference emerged, heroes stepped up to take charge and deployed as much violence as they could to take over the supreme position. The era of the end of the Roman Republic and the beginning of the Empire (Julius Caesar and all that…) typifies the internal wars that would plague the empire for centuries.
What does the Bible say about redemptive violence? There are many Christians who struggle with the stories of violence in the Old Testament, especially books like Joshua, Judges and Samuel-Kings. Whole cities and tribes are wiped out, seemingly at the order of God. If we read the Bible as an account of how people have engaged with God, we can read these as an example of how violence is not, in fact, redemptive. The ‘ethnic cleansing’ of Canaan does not bring peace to the Israelites. The wars against Moab and Philistia do not bring peace. Even the great conquests of David do not bring lasting peace. In fact we find that the war-like nature of David makes him unfit to build the Temple of God – violence and worship of God are characterised as incompatible.
Violence was an metanarrative that the people of God had to deal with as they were conquered by Babylon and others. For me, scripture engages with it as a possibility and shows that it is flawed. The most cutting critique is in the life (and death) of Jesus himself. If there was ever a case when violent resistance of tyranny in God’s name was justified, Judea in the first century was up there. Galilee was a hot-bed of anti-Roman activity and freedom fighters – within a generation of Jesus it was devastated by war. Yet Jesus chose a different way, rejecting the dominant metanarrative of violence. He took a deliberately different approach, ‘laying down his life’ and practising forgiveness with his last breaths.
Yet there are some who believe that this approach was only temporary, that the second coming of Jesus is in violence and destruction. I am convinced that this is a mis-reading of the character of Jesus and the kind of ending and redemption that he seeks. I think that passages that speak of a conquering Jesus are supposed to point us back to the way that victory was won – in the ‘defeat’ of the Cross. If we really consider the cross to be important, we will reject any kind of power-play and empire building that seeks to conquer through power instead of weakness.
August 1, 2011 at 8:48 pm · Filed under Uncategorized · Tags: lst, sabbath, theology, time
“Time is money” the old saying goes and we’ve thoroughly bought into it.
But I don’t want to be ruled by capitalism in that way. Sometimes my time can be bought and sold. But sometimes it just isn’t up for sale. Time can be treated as a commodity rather than simply as an object to be enjoyed, but the calculus we end up doing is very ugly indeed.
I wonder if the ancient teaching of Sabbath is supposed to remind us that some times cannot be traded – not simply that the most valuable thing I can give to God is time, but that somehow it’s more precious when I’m not penny-pinching with it. Sabbath time is invaluable because it is un-monetisable, not because it is spent on something of higher value.
This must then infect the rest of my life – how can I continue to treat the rest of my time as a commodity when I have learned to place one day above value? I can start to learn how to be present in a moment, rather than weighing its value in order to decide whether to extend or invest or bail on it.
July 8, 2011 at 4:57 am · Filed under Uncategorized · Tags: church, death, lst, missional, theology
I’m reading some of the people who are writing about Emerging & Missional Church for my MA Dissertation, including Alan Hirsch. He quotes a statistic that says only 4% of Southern Baptist churches will plant a daughter church – 96% will not ‘give birth’. By analogy, if 96% of women did not have children it would indicate a fertility problem, even a general health problem in our culture. Hirsch suggests that not planting churches is unhealthy and that ‘the missional-incarnational impulse is a fundamental indicator of ecclesial health’.
Now his image of new, missional churches isn’t stale image that some of us might have, so more churches to Hirsch really means more communities of Jesus followers living in their culture and sharing the good news. The idea still raises some questions in me that I’m not sure I have the answers to at the moment.
Firstly, definitions of ‘church’ seem quite hard to pin down. At what point does a new community group transition from ‘missional community’ to ‘daughter church’ – is it only with an official grant of independence? I think the contemporary trend for working in the tiny (missional groups) and the large (big, even mega- churches) means that there are groups working under the name of a much bigger church that are effectively or largely autonomous. Even semi-autonomous groups starting are an indication of new life.
Hirsch quotes the idea that if we always want new people born, it should be the same with churches. The flipside of this is that we keep wanting new people because humans get old and die. Does Hirsch think that this is the case with churches? He writes near the start of the book that the church he was leading was over 140 years old and that he and his wife were a ‘last ditch effort to turn it around’. Yes, it came back to life under their pastoring and gave life to many new churches, but the only way to keep birthing new churches is to either have (a) exponential growth in number of Christians or (b) old churches die. Or, of course, a bit of both. The trend to ‘big’ is driven in part by Christians moving to where the life is – there are churches where there is little life and death might actually be a release.
Which leads to another, perhaps more difficult question: how can churches die gracefully?
June 30, 2011 at 9:43 am · Filed under Uncategorized · Tags: lst, metanarratives, philosophy, postmodern, theology
Some of my friends joke that I can get the word ‘metanarrative’ into any conversation. Probably true. Warning: this series of posts may have an overdose of the word ‘metanarrative’!
This first post in my metanarrative series will try to define what I’m talking about for those who don’t try to slot it in to every conversation! A narrative is just a story. There are two kinds of stories that we might be talking about with the word narrative – our own personal life story and the stories we tell each other about other people, real or fictional. The first order, personal stories are experienced rather than told – lived out and shared rather than dictated or written out. The second order stories are the ones we were told as children, the novels we read, the articles in the newspaper, the dramas of movies, the ‘reality shows’ of television. They hide within them hints of third order, meta stories. Meta as a prefix can mean beyond or above or about, so a metanarrative is the story of the story. Metanarratives chart the way the world is, the way things happen, how the story is supposed to go.
We absorb metanarratives mainly subconsciously – like a ‘worldview’ we forget that they’re there most of the time, even when we’ve conditioned ourselves to examine them and their effects. But they act as ‘legitimation stories’ – like a foundation, they help us to make decisions by acting according to the storyline we expect to play out. They act as a shortcut in our minds, one we cannot eliminate if we try.
Postmodernity has been famously (and frightfully reductionistically) defined as ‘suspicion towards metanarratives.’ Lyotard is responding to the collapse of faith in Communism, especially in the European academic world, which for him takes down all metanarratives, exposing them as socially constructed and fatally flawed. While there is a great deal of suspicion of metanarratives around (economic progress is inevitable? Really…?), the reality is that we still have some of these stories buried so deep in us that they are still driving our decisions and perspectives.
The media have always been the source of metanarratives, but the sheer volume of media we are able to consume in this always-on, wirelessly-connected, socially-networked, sci-fi present day has not really changed the limited variety of metanarratives we encounter.
‘Rags-to-Riches’ stories emphasise the ‘American Dream’ of Capitalism – economic progress is inevitable if you work hard enough for it. Even people like Bill Gates are characterised as ‘a college dropout’, minimising the fact of his ultra-privileged upbringing and the unique opportunities it afforded him. Conspicuous consumption might not be quite as popular right now in ‘austerity Britain’, but we only need look at supermarkets discussing the rise in ‘premium brands’ to show it is not far away. We might be suspicious of what politicians are telling us about the future, but we harbour not-so-secret hopes that they will be right, at least for us.
One type of movie I tend not to watch has a metanarrative of Romantic Fulfillment. It’s the myth that finding the right person to be with will solve all your problems and heal all your hurts. It’s a story that says the next person you meet could be ‘the one’ and that settling for who you have now might mean missing out on the most important person. It creates holes of dissatisfaction with the present and brings unrealistic dreams of the future closer than is possible, feeding off the tension that is partly released vicariously when we see it all go right on the screen.
The metanarrative of Empire is the use of violence as a redemptive force. I’ve written before about how this story has been around for a long time, and in action movies, it’s the only story going. When our government wants to take the country to war, the presupposition that Hollywood has etched into our thought patterns is that the only way to solve this problem – be it genocide, revolution, terrorism, drugs – is to send guns and bombs to destroy it, for only once the enemy has been defeated can peace happen. My next post will dig more into the myth of redemptive violence and looking at it from a Christian perspective. I also want to discuss how the metanarratives perceived in Scripture should be seen in the postmodern world.
I also need your feedback: what are the important metanarratives fed to us by the media that we tacitly accept? Why do you think it matters that we look at the inherent violence of them?
May 18, 2011 at 6:30 pm · Filed under Uncategorized · Tags: gospel, lst, quick quote, theology
Unless you understand that Jesus invites us through faith in him… to actually live in the Kingdom of God now, there will not be a basis for discipleship and transformation.
Dallas Willard, http://www.outofur.com/archives/2011/05/ur_video_dallas.html
As the conversation goes on to say, faith in Jesus is not about a new life after death, but death in our life now, and grace to live a new life now.
May 8, 2011 at 5:58 pm · Filed under Uncategorized · Tags: bible, lst, quick quote, theology, twitter
Krish Kandiah has been musing on Bin Laden’s death and how scripture has been used by Christians responding to it on Twitter.
If we are not careful Bible verses become bumper stickers – ways of publicly labeling our beliefs. Or worse we end up not trying to seek God’s will but rather draw on the Bible’s authority to back our own positions- we turn the word of God into a mascot for our politics.
I completely agree. As Krish goes on to say, a ‘high’ view of scripture means not taking a verse out of context to back up our preconceived idea but rather engaging with the narratives on their own terms. Scripture is not a collection of proofs to tweet but a series of different and sometimes seemingly competing narratives that interweave and must be wrestled with.
Here’s Krish’s ‘working list’ of guidelines on how to avoid misusing scripture:
- We must avoid offering proof texts rather than letting the grand narrative of the Bible direct us.
- Let the original context of a passage direct its meaning for today.
- Be aware of our own cultural, political and economic biases when we come to scripture.
- Don’t avoid difficult texts that challenge your own position.
- Exploring the Bible with a posture that opens up a discussion rather than closes it down is a mark that we are seeking to humbly submit to scripture rather than use scripture to bully others.
May 7, 2011 at 7:46 pm · Filed under Uncategorized · Tags: lst, parable, theology
There was a man who had two sons. The younger one said to his father, ‘Dad, give me my share of the company.’ So he divided his business between the sons and, taking nothing more than a warm coat, left them.
The younger son squandered all he had been given – drink, drugs and dubious characters. His part of the business eventually went under, he spent every penny he had. He was broke, it was a recession, but he lucked out in finding a job sorting waste at a recycling plant. Sometimes he just wished he could eat the banana skins and chip wrappers there, he could barely scrape enough together to survive.
One day he heard that his father was back. With no time to plan, he ran from work, into the street, up to his father. Through tears he blurted out, ‘Dad, I screwed it all up, I wrecked all you gave me and I never thought I’d get to see you again. You probably can’t even face talking to me.’ Before he could even finish, his father had grabbed him and, stinking work clothes and all, took him in a huge bear hug.
His father called to a guy standing near, ‘Get him a room in the hotel – and a shower! My son will need some new clothes and spending money – tonight’s going to be a party!’
The man had made another fortune while he was gone, so dinner was at the best restaurant in the city – and that guy was his PA. Everyone who had known the father came that evening, it was a real celebration!
While they were there, someone managed to get the older son on the phone and explained what was going on, ‘Your dad’s back, he’s found your brother and they’re hitting the town!’ The father begged him to come and join them, but the older son answered him, ‘Listen! All those years you were gone, I was slaving at keeping your business going. It’s still just as good as the day you left. I didn’t spend a penny of your money – not even one pizza with my friends! But that disgrace of a son destroyed your firm, wasted everything with hookers and now you party with him?!
‘Son’, his dad replied, ‘It was all yours to do what you want with all along. I want to give you more and more – and your brother too. I just want to get our family back together again.’
Define:Prodigal – “Given to extravagant expenditure; expending money or other things without necessity; recklessly profuse; lavish.”
This story is a response to Deus Absconditus, the hidden, or missing God. It was always the father that was prodigal, giving without thought or care apart from love, the son was just lost. In this story, both sons have lost the father. But his character is just the same – giving prodigally, recklessly, lavishly. The difference is that the younger son knows straight away what he’s lost, the older doesn’t. Like the famous original, we never know how he responds to his Dad’s generosity.
I wrote this and then came across Prodigal God by Timothy Keller. His book too is based around the idea that it is the Father that is the lavish, generous one and the real meaning of prodigal.
May 2, 2011 at 11:22 am · Filed under Uncategorized · Tags: empire, lst, story, theology, violence
I woke up this morning to the headline “Osama Bin Laden is dead”. President Obama declares “Justice has been done”. Has it? It sounds like the kind of justice Holywood loves, the kind of redemptive violence that makes good action move. It’s the type of justice that has been doing the rounds since ancient Babylon. And it’s decidedly not the type of justice that the Bible speaks of – in fact it shows us to be just the same as the revenge motivated Muslims our media have demonised. Here’s how the story of Osama might sound like if it was a Babylonian-style epic.
There was once a land that was fought over by giants – one after another they rose up and stamped their way around, puffing themselves up. Once, two giants arose so massive that they could not fight. It seemed that if they did they very sky would fall and the earth be ripped apart. They danced around each other, feinting and jabbing, looking for heroes who would do the dangerous job of taking down the other giant. One day, in a small corned of the land, a hero was found. He was in love with a legendary woman called Khalifa. He could only meet her when the sleeping giant of his homeland awoke. He would do anything to bring his dream to life, even follow the greatest quest. The hero travelled to the mountains, where the giant Rus was terrifying the people. The giant Americ helped him to tease and harry the enemy giant all around the mountains. After months, years even, the warrior Osama cut off the hand of Rus, who slunk back to the frozen wastes to the north. It seemed Rus would never be the same again – like a bear with a sore paw, she hid in her den and watched the land change. Osama was loved like the greatest of heros in the mountains. Just as during his joust with the first giant, Osama recruited fighters to learn with him. They shared his dream of waking the giant Salam, they went all over the land to do what they could to wake him. There was just one giant towering over the land in these days. Other, smaller ones looked for footholds, but they could see that Americ could not be challenged. But Osama and his army knew no fear – they had driven one giant out of the mountains, now he would challenge another in its own lair. His soldiers fired three darts that put out the eye of the great giant Americ. Enraged, Americ swore to get revenge. Osama was once the hero of Americ, now he was the sworn enemy. The giant stomped over to the mountains to find Osama and get revenge for the pain of the darts. Where Rus could not defeat the hero, Americ put all his might into finding and crushing him. Osama slipped around the land of the mountains nimbly, just escaping the crushing stamps of the giant’s feet several times. He hid in caves, he hid in houses, he did not know who would tell the giant where he was. He could only speak in whispers, the giant was always listening with giant ears and chasing after any hint. For years he evaded the enraged giant, every stamped foot and pounded fist. He hid in the hills nearby, doing anything to be sure the giant would not harm him, while sending his warriors to keep irritating and harassing the giant. His army grew more, with new soldiers attacking the giant in the desert and in other places too. Osama’s fame grew so that many who waited for giant Salam to wake and longed for the beautiful Khalifa flocked to help him, new soldiers to advance his cause. They were sure that they were waking a new giant who would balance the land, even chase Americ away. No more would they be terrorised by the great giant, their hero and their giant would protect them. One night, Osama could hide no more. The giant found his hiding place and crushed him, grinding him into the ground like a bug. His dream of the beautiful Khalifa was never realised, the giant Salam had not done more than stir. What would his army do now – would they revenge his death, would new heroes arise, could they escape the same fate as Osama?
Note: Osama is not a hero to me, but he fulfils the ‘hero’ prototype of the epic genre. The hero of the epic violently resists forces much bigger than him, in a comedy he would triumph, in a tragedy, be defeated. However, the great hero of the Bible triumphs by seeming to be defeated and never resists violently. His kind of justice does not come by killing the enemy, the other. So how do we feel, how do we respond?
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