who are we?
The space of the world is immense, before me and around me;
If I turn quickly, I am terrified, feeling space surround me;
Like a man in a boat on very clear, deep water, space frightens and confounds me.
I see myself isolated in the universe, and wonder
What effect I can have. My hands wave under
The heavens like specks of dust that are floating asunder.
I hold myself up, and feel a big wind blowing
Me like a gadfly into the dusk, without my knowing
Whither or why or even how I am going....
-D.H. Lawrence, “Song of a Man Who is Not Loved”
A lot of old thoughts — ideas and stories and conversations — have come drifting back to me in the last couple days. I don’t know why, but I’ve been more than a little disconcerted lately. And I think that’s why these past-tense circumstances are floating up in my mind, unchecked and unguarded, and they’re pulling me somewhere. I’m trying to sort them out, sift through them to find the gold, or whatever it is that won’t be burned away. But I’m not having much luck. After work a couple nights ago I just wandered my apartment, talking to Sarah on the phone, feeling aimless but okay because of the voice in my ear. It’s a wonder that the idea of individualism ever caught on. I mean, not to be too close-minded or absolute about it, but to erect this little edifice to myself, and to bow down to my own supremacy and primacy as an individual is a little messed up. Good things have come about through individualism, I admit, and obviously it came at a time when it was (and still can be) very worthwhile, providing a standard for the rights and equality of all people, but it has become a justification to separate and isolate. Often we place ourselves in a position of prominence and privilege, even to the exclusion of any others. I guess the thing I’m trying to get at is that when a person is isolated, truly suspended on his or her own, things begin to crumble. It became pretty apparent to me a couple nights ago, after getting off the phone, that a person wasn’t meant to be alone. Humanity is a relational creature, intended to be joined (in some way) with other people.
I was talking to Alyssa on Saturday about names and identity, specifically this one passage in a Frederick Buechner book, Wishful Thinking. The book is a dictionary of sorts, a “Seeker’s ABC,” and in it Buechner defines his name: “BUECHNER: It is my name. It is pronounced Beekner. If somebody mispronounces it in some foolish way, I have the feeling that what’s foolish is me. If somebody forgets it, I feel that it’s I who am forgotten. There’s something about it that embarrasses me in just the same way that there’s something about me that embarrasses me.” My identity is somehow wrapped up in my name, in what I’m called and by what I’m known as. The way I live is the way my name is made known. It seems like an unusual thing that a name should hold so much meaning, even while it’s possible to change it and “go by” something different. But the way we exist in the world depends on our choices, and it really seems that a person’s choices are not meant to be made with only one’s self in mind.
So... I’m reading Proverbs of Ashes right now, by Rita Nakashima Brock and Rebecca Ann Parker, and it’s getting me thinking about how violent the world can be, and wondering about what a Christian response should be. The immediate feeling is that the Church should stand up and oppose violence and denounce unjust social structures, affirming that which is good and working to better the world in which we live. I think there are very few people who would disagree with this, but there are a great many who do not see that everyday we implicitly endorse violence and injustice. And I’m not talking about supporting businesses that use sweatshops or the unjust trade practices of many nations or genocide wars in far-off countries (although these are problems that deserve our attention). I’m talking about our attitudes towards those who are victims of abuse and neglect and violence — not simply physical, either, but emotional and mental — people that we meet and interact with everyday. To suggest that you don’t know anyone who has been abused or is a victim is to suggest that you have never met anyone. I don’t mean for that to sound confrontational or to imply that everyone is an unequivocal victim of abuse, but rather to draw attention to the limited capacity of every person to know those people that surround him or her. There is no way that we can know what our friends have gone through, what they struggle with, and what their pasts look like. There is no way to know what they feel guilty about or what they have done. There is no way to know a person’s heart.
I say all this because of the way I treat others and the way others treat me. The word “victim” has very negative connotations in our society, often associated with powerlessness and shame, but I use it just the same, attempting to save it, and maybe even save ourselves in the process, somehow. Because all people are victims, in some capacity, whether they admit it or not. We have all been trod upon, taken advantage off, dashed against the rocks, or left for dead. All of it feels very acutely like death. And each of us responds differently, whether it be a quiet, withdrawn individual or an aggressive, angry person or a gentle, humble soul, etc. Sometimes I think about how the people I meet must feel when I go strutting off about something that hurts them, even though I don’t necessarily know that it’s a vulnerable and tender wound. Maybe it’s better to be soft-spoken, to speak few words, and to be gentle and gracious. Maybe it’s better to listen to people than to tell people. I don’t know. But the tendency is to figure people out so that they won’t surprise you and so you won’t be hurt by the things they do. If you have a person figured out, then you will never “go too far” or “say too much” with them, and you will never know that hurt or betrayal that a careless word can cause. The problem is that to live like this is painful, and it causes a much more harmful and self-inflicted type of hurt: isolation.
So, here is the big question for me these days: what saves us? Returning to Proverbs of Ashes, Brock and Parker suggest that to see Jesus’s suffering and death as the instrument of redemption is to valorize an unjust and extremely violent circumstance. They argue that suffering and sacrifice have no place in redemption or in Christianity. The implications of such a doctrine are terrifying and a little disorienting. Effectively, without the atonement of sin, the foundation of evangelical Christianity has been kicked out from beneath our feet, and we are left in freefall. (Admittedly, I am new to the whole realm of liberal theologies, so I won’t do it justice, but I’m still pressing on because there’s something here…) The oppressor uses the idea of self-sacrifice to control and coerce the oppressed. The oppressor says that in order to truly exhibit love and grace the oppressed must sacrifice themselves, to be taken advantage of, to be walked upon, and eventually to be destroyed by their subservience. So the question is raised over what self-sacrifice should look like: Do you tell a woman who is being beaten by her husband that she should suffer gladly? Do the mistakes of a homeless man justify the suffering he now endures? Does a child-molester deserve to be loved? Is there redemption for the murderer? How do you balance justice and self-sacrifice? Does love really suffer all things? How can self-sacrifice exist in a world where the poor and afflicted are pushed farther to the margins and further oppressed? Is there a difference between self-giving love and self-sacrifice? The “skin” that I have covered these ideas with is meant to grate, to reveal the tenderness and ache that exists, the pain and conflicted feelings I have about these ideas. It seems obvious that you shouldn’t tell a woman she must suffer the beatings of her husband gladly, but if you were her, where would you draw the line between showing love and extending grace and exhibiting self-sacrifice to your husband, and actually caring for yourself in simple self-preservation? I don’t mean to say that it’s greedy or self-centered to consider oneself as holy and worthy of love — rather, it seems to be good common sense that’s hardly ever preached. But where is the line between self-sacrifice and common sense? Do you give people a second chance if they hurt you? Do you forgive seven times seventy times? Or do you recoil, preserving your self and your dignity and your life? Or is there some way to forgive and withhold your inner self at the same time? Is that a Christian thing to do? Or should you just keep giving of yourself, regardless of pain or injury?
And now, a very difficult question: If I take Brock & Parker’s argument at face value, and just accept that Christianity based on an oppressed and violent suffering only condones more violence, then I wonder why Jesus did have to die? Of course I know the standard response that Jesus came to die for my sins so that I could be reconciled to God forever and ever. But if this is true, if we are finally able to (re)gain our proper place in the universe, why are we still such assholes? We were made to be in relationship, but when we are, we just end up hurting one another. It seems that only by the grace of God that anything we do is redeemable. And like the D.H. Lawrence quote, all I can do is hold myself up, but the big wind is blowing, and I don’t know where I’m going...
If I turn quickly, I am terrified, feeling space surround me;
Like a man in a boat on very clear, deep water, space frightens and confounds me.
I see myself isolated in the universe, and wonder
What effect I can have. My hands wave under
The heavens like specks of dust that are floating asunder.
I hold myself up, and feel a big wind blowing
Me like a gadfly into the dusk, without my knowing
Whither or why or even how I am going....
-D.H. Lawrence, “Song of a Man Who is Not Loved”
A lot of old thoughts — ideas and stories and conversations — have come drifting back to me in the last couple days. I don’t know why, but I’ve been more than a little disconcerted lately. And I think that’s why these past-tense circumstances are floating up in my mind, unchecked and unguarded, and they’re pulling me somewhere. I’m trying to sort them out, sift through them to find the gold, or whatever it is that won’t be burned away. But I’m not having much luck. After work a couple nights ago I just wandered my apartment, talking to Sarah on the phone, feeling aimless but okay because of the voice in my ear. It’s a wonder that the idea of individualism ever caught on. I mean, not to be too close-minded or absolute about it, but to erect this little edifice to myself, and to bow down to my own supremacy and primacy as an individual is a little messed up. Good things have come about through individualism, I admit, and obviously it came at a time when it was (and still can be) very worthwhile, providing a standard for the rights and equality of all people, but it has become a justification to separate and isolate. Often we place ourselves in a position of prominence and privilege, even to the exclusion of any others. I guess the thing I’m trying to get at is that when a person is isolated, truly suspended on his or her own, things begin to crumble. It became pretty apparent to me a couple nights ago, after getting off the phone, that a person wasn’t meant to be alone. Humanity is a relational creature, intended to be joined (in some way) with other people.
I was talking to Alyssa on Saturday about names and identity, specifically this one passage in a Frederick Buechner book, Wishful Thinking. The book is a dictionary of sorts, a “Seeker’s ABC,” and in it Buechner defines his name: “BUECHNER: It is my name. It is pronounced Beekner. If somebody mispronounces it in some foolish way, I have the feeling that what’s foolish is me. If somebody forgets it, I feel that it’s I who am forgotten. There’s something about it that embarrasses me in just the same way that there’s something about me that embarrasses me.” My identity is somehow wrapped up in my name, in what I’m called and by what I’m known as. The way I live is the way my name is made known. It seems like an unusual thing that a name should hold so much meaning, even while it’s possible to change it and “go by” something different. But the way we exist in the world depends on our choices, and it really seems that a person’s choices are not meant to be made with only one’s self in mind.
So... I’m reading Proverbs of Ashes right now, by Rita Nakashima Brock and Rebecca Ann Parker, and it’s getting me thinking about how violent the world can be, and wondering about what a Christian response should be. The immediate feeling is that the Church should stand up and oppose violence and denounce unjust social structures, affirming that which is good and working to better the world in which we live. I think there are very few people who would disagree with this, but there are a great many who do not see that everyday we implicitly endorse violence and injustice. And I’m not talking about supporting businesses that use sweatshops or the unjust trade practices of many nations or genocide wars in far-off countries (although these are problems that deserve our attention). I’m talking about our attitudes towards those who are victims of abuse and neglect and violence — not simply physical, either, but emotional and mental — people that we meet and interact with everyday. To suggest that you don’t know anyone who has been abused or is a victim is to suggest that you have never met anyone. I don’t mean for that to sound confrontational or to imply that everyone is an unequivocal victim of abuse, but rather to draw attention to the limited capacity of every person to know those people that surround him or her. There is no way that we can know what our friends have gone through, what they struggle with, and what their pasts look like. There is no way to know what they feel guilty about or what they have done. There is no way to know a person’s heart.
I say all this because of the way I treat others and the way others treat me. The word “victim” has very negative connotations in our society, often associated with powerlessness and shame, but I use it just the same, attempting to save it, and maybe even save ourselves in the process, somehow. Because all people are victims, in some capacity, whether they admit it or not. We have all been trod upon, taken advantage off, dashed against the rocks, or left for dead. All of it feels very acutely like death. And each of us responds differently, whether it be a quiet, withdrawn individual or an aggressive, angry person or a gentle, humble soul, etc. Sometimes I think about how the people I meet must feel when I go strutting off about something that hurts them, even though I don’t necessarily know that it’s a vulnerable and tender wound. Maybe it’s better to be soft-spoken, to speak few words, and to be gentle and gracious. Maybe it’s better to listen to people than to tell people. I don’t know. But the tendency is to figure people out so that they won’t surprise you and so you won’t be hurt by the things they do. If you have a person figured out, then you will never “go too far” or “say too much” with them, and you will never know that hurt or betrayal that a careless word can cause. The problem is that to live like this is painful, and it causes a much more harmful and self-inflicted type of hurt: isolation.
So, here is the big question for me these days: what saves us? Returning to Proverbs of Ashes, Brock and Parker suggest that to see Jesus’s suffering and death as the instrument of redemption is to valorize an unjust and extremely violent circumstance. They argue that suffering and sacrifice have no place in redemption or in Christianity. The implications of such a doctrine are terrifying and a little disorienting. Effectively, without the atonement of sin, the foundation of evangelical Christianity has been kicked out from beneath our feet, and we are left in freefall. (Admittedly, I am new to the whole realm of liberal theologies, so I won’t do it justice, but I’m still pressing on because there’s something here…) The oppressor uses the idea of self-sacrifice to control and coerce the oppressed. The oppressor says that in order to truly exhibit love and grace the oppressed must sacrifice themselves, to be taken advantage of, to be walked upon, and eventually to be destroyed by their subservience. So the question is raised over what self-sacrifice should look like: Do you tell a woman who is being beaten by her husband that she should suffer gladly? Do the mistakes of a homeless man justify the suffering he now endures? Does a child-molester deserve to be loved? Is there redemption for the murderer? How do you balance justice and self-sacrifice? Does love really suffer all things? How can self-sacrifice exist in a world where the poor and afflicted are pushed farther to the margins and further oppressed? Is there a difference between self-giving love and self-sacrifice? The “skin” that I have covered these ideas with is meant to grate, to reveal the tenderness and ache that exists, the pain and conflicted feelings I have about these ideas. It seems obvious that you shouldn’t tell a woman she must suffer the beatings of her husband gladly, but if you were her, where would you draw the line between showing love and extending grace and exhibiting self-sacrifice to your husband, and actually caring for yourself in simple self-preservation? I don’t mean to say that it’s greedy or self-centered to consider oneself as holy and worthy of love — rather, it seems to be good common sense that’s hardly ever preached. But where is the line between self-sacrifice and common sense? Do you give people a second chance if they hurt you? Do you forgive seven times seventy times? Or do you recoil, preserving your self and your dignity and your life? Or is there some way to forgive and withhold your inner self at the same time? Is that a Christian thing to do? Or should you just keep giving of yourself, regardless of pain or injury?
And now, a very difficult question: If I take Brock & Parker’s argument at face value, and just accept that Christianity based on an oppressed and violent suffering only condones more violence, then I wonder why Jesus did have to die? Of course I know the standard response that Jesus came to die for my sins so that I could be reconciled to God forever and ever. But if this is true, if we are finally able to (re)gain our proper place in the universe, why are we still such assholes? We were made to be in relationship, but when we are, we just end up hurting one another. It seems that only by the grace of God that anything we do is redeemable. And like the D.H. Lawrence quote, all I can do is hold myself up, but the big wind is blowing, and I don’t know where I’m going...
posted by chris at 12:54
3 Comments:
i want to respond but i don't know where to begin. certainly, much to consider. therefore, i offer this: wanna go out for coffee and talk? in this world of individualism and perplexing theologies, this invitation is the best that i have to give...
Hey Chris,
You have definitely raised a number of important questions here. You know, I've never really given much thought to the idea of why Jesus' death was or had to be so violent. I agree that there is a large grey area between loving self-sacrifice and masochistic self-multilation. I wish I had an answer to it.
But I find that the idea that Christian self-sacrifice only condones more violence...I just don't think it makes sense. I'm curious to know what Brock and Parker would recommend for those of us who would like to discourage violence in the world. Do they have a positive alternative? Do they suggest going back to eye-for-eye retributive justice? Because if its neither eye-for-eye, nor turn-the-other-cheek, I'm just curious as to what the proverbial 'Third Way' would be. Or maybe we just misunderstand the idea of turning the other cheek. Maybe its not so much about self-sacrifice as it is about holding up a mirror to the oppressor and showing to his own self that he is indeed an oppressor or asshole. Is turning the other cheek merely an invite to the oppressor to hit again, to increase in his violence. Or is it an action to shed light on the violence and perhaps to get the oppressor to stop. I mean, I don't think Jesus meant that we should revel in being hit twice, or being left naked on the street, or having to walk twice as far... I just don't think Jesus had in mind that we welcome injury and wear them as badges of piety. That's bunk...
OK, I think I have run out of gas for the day. But I like the questions brought up here. Its definitely something worth a long pondering.
And let me also that you, Chris, are an exceptional writer. Keep it up.
And if you should like to check out my blog, this is the address: stabsinthedark.blogspot.com.
Cheers,
Matthew VL
thanks all, for the comments, and for letting me (and yourselves) be challenged a little bit. i don't think that it's over, so to speak. i would suggest that this is something that is deep and underlies our beliefs - namely, that how faith works at the (best and) worst of times is what either makes it or breaks it. if it can't stand up to scrutiny or provide healing and wholeness, or if it very simply allows and condones descructive ways of being, then it is nothing. it cannot be something that is believed in.
in response to your question, matthew, as to whether they have a positive alternative, they do. it cannot be "turn the other cheek" and it can't be "eye-for-eye" retribution, but it is a process of healing. it is presence, being present to ourselves, other people, and God. and sometimes this requires a person to sever ties with an individual, in order to preserve presence. in order to maintain your presence, you must sometimes break ties with a person, if that relationship is bringing harm. and i think, then, that in a sense, it is Jesus' presence that provides healing. essentially, we are working towards peace by peaceful means. we are rejecting the idea that violence can bring peace, because it is violent and inadequate to bringing healing or establish peace. in other words, life is good. life is love, and the death is violence. and, like tom said, we are called not to slavery to an abusive master, but to be a servant. but if Jesus was the perfect son of God, was the perfect fulfillment of his life to die. surely there was the resurrection, but how can we (anyone who believes in the atonement of our sins thru Jesus' death) believe that death can bring life? Brock & Parker suggest that the atonement is no longer what saves us, but it is presence. that is, it is God's presence in the person of Jesus Christ, who came and lived amongst us. the murder of Jesus cannot be restorative because it was an act of violence that was enacted upon him. to claim it as something good is to condone the violence of it. (see "Passion of the Christ" for a unique experience of this.)
anyway, i welcome other comments. and most assuredly, i do not say any of this to discourage anyone, or to disprove the gospel as so many people understand it, but rather to suggest that maybe we need to think about this a little bit more. my concern, and this becomes especially relevant when we think about war, is whether violence can bring peace. are there times when the only recourse that we have is to take up arms in aid of the oppressed, to act as a liberating force? the charismatic denomination uses this imagery constantly, describing our lives as battles with the forces of darkness. we have the armor of God. we are in a holy battle.
some time ago, i decided that i couldn't describe my spiritual life in terms of war. i understand it, certainly, but the language of journey seems far more relevant and real to me than any battle. and this doesn't mean that i dispute the spiritual struggle that comprises much of life, but it does mean that i'm not comfortable with the "winner" and "loser" mentality that will necessarily become a part of my life, a part of my faith. in a spiritual war, everyday there will be wins and losses. everyday i will slide from the ecstasy of victory to the despair of defeat, and this does not make sense with the "more than conqueror in Christ" that i am. and in our society, at this juncture in time, war does not seem to best describe the peace, faith, hope, love, etc, of a relationship with God. and, if we're going to describe our faith as relational, which most people will do, i can't understand how victory or defeat will relate to that.
anyway, i'm going to cut myself off. hopefully, for all y'all, this clarifies a little more what i said at first. and a little more of where i'm headed next. and maybe where i'll end up. but in the meantime, let's ramble on, shall we?
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