power reading

I’ve been looking back over some of my recent posts about how to become a more moral, less anxious and more efficient reader. As I’ve done so, I’ve been wondering what Christian ethicist Miroslav Volf would say about them.

In his essay, ‘Theology, Meaning and Power: A Conversation with George Lindbeck on Theology and the Nature of Christian Difference’, Volf says (p 55):

Though I believe that Michel Foucault slights the “domain of signifying structures” and elevates unduly the “relations of force,” he is right in warning against reducing the relations of power to relations of meaning. “Semiology” may indeed be a way of avoiding the violent character of social conflict “by reducing it to the calm Platonic form of language and dialogue,” as he suggests.

The Foucauldian accusation Volf is channelling needs to be taken seriously. Attending closely to what happens when a text is read risks underestimating the ‘relations of force’ within which all texts are embedded and implicated in extending.

And it’s a real danger. If you’re anything like me, you’ll know what it’s like to get so caught up in figuring out what a text means that you overlook what it does.

G20 - Riot police squad (by Tanya N, on Flickr)

To counteract this I suspect I need to get much better at ‘power reading’. I need to sit at the feet of the so-called hermeneutics of suspicion (in its Nietzschean, Marxist, feminist, psychoanalytic and post-colonial varieties) and find better ways of asking about what the text is doing — intentionally or unintentionally, with the best or worst of intentions — and how it is doing it.

It’s a mistake to treat a text simply as a neutral and inert object, lying anaethetised on the dissection table ready to be poked and prodded. No doubt doing so may help expose how it works. But most texts aren’t written to be studied — they’re written to persuade or make requests, to subvert or reinforce authority, to upset or reassure, and myriad other things.

No-one claiming to be a genuinely moral reader can afford to ignore this…

what if the atonement cannot be systematised?

In his famous study, Christus Victor, Gustaf Aulen describes the ‘classic idea’ of the atonement. This idea emphasises the victory of God over sin and evil in Jesus (rather than his offering of himself as a human being in order to make satisfaction for our failure to honour God as God, for example).

Towards the end he offers a fascinating suggestion about why systematicians have so much difficulty swallowing this view (p 155):

God is at once the all-ruler, and engaged in conflict with the powers of evil. These powers are evil powers, and at the same time executants of God’s judgment on sin. God is at the same time the Reconciler and the Reconciled. His is the Love and His the Wrath. The Love prevails over the Wrath, and yet Love’s condemnation of sin is absolute. The Love is infinite and unfathomable, acting contra rationem et legem [against/apart from reason and law], justifying men without any satisfaction of the Divine justice or any consideration of human merit; yet at the same time God’s claim on men is sharpened to the uttermost.

Every attempt to force this conception into a purely rational scheme is bound to fail; it could only succeed by robbing it of its religious depth.

I’m not sure I want to sign off on every detail of Aulen’s summary. For example, doesn’t Paul insist that God’s justification of the ungodly by faith definitively demonstrates his justice (Rom. 3.21-26)?

But what I’m wondering is, What do we gain — and what do we lose — if we agree that the atonement cannot by systematised or forced ‘into a purely rational scheme’?

the art of spiritual triage

I was discussing the changing nature of modern hospitals with one of the full-time chaplains the other day.

We observed that acute health care is geared more and more towards getting people through and out the door as quickly as possible. This is not only a matter of bottom-line thinking. It’s also indicative of the fact that we’re getting better at helping people recover and rehabilitate more quickly.

This has major implications for pastoral care. Because people often aren’t in hospital long enough to get a visit from a chaplain.

Some people are, of course. Their stays are plenty long enough. And for them hospital can be a pretty lonely and disempowering experience — unable to set your own timetable or rhythms for meals or visits or procedures, often cared for by a different member of nursing staff each day, and sometimes even shuffled from ward to ward.

This means that pastoral care staff have to learn the art of ’spiritual triage’. Not only do people’s needs differ wildly. Not only is your capacity limited. But you’ve got to balance the need for ‘rapid intervention’ — e.g., with people who are so far away from home that it’s unlikely their family (or church family) will be able to visit and support them — with the opportunity to reach out to someone in the loneliness and isolation that can accompany extended hospitalisation.

Thrown into the mix is the fact that, in my experience at least, it’s easy to overthink it. Because all the weighing up of costs and benefits can go out the window in a flash. Maybe the patient you’ve decided probably needs most care is out getting physio when you visit. Or maybe someone else in the ward wants to start a conversation…

What do you reckon? Has the notion of ’spiritual triage’ got legs? How might it apply in your pastoral context?

untangling Hebrews

I’ve heard Hebrews preached on more times than I can remember. I’ve been in countless Bible study groups that have wrestled with it.

And yet I’m not sure I’ve ever really ‘got’ it. You know? Figured out how it hangs together, why the argument takes the twists and turns that it does, what unites the exhortations and exposition.

But as I’ve been preparing for exams this past week, I feel like I’ve started to get somewhere. Let me share a couple of hunches I’ve got about Hebrews which might help untangle the knot:

To begin with, people often say that Hebrews aims to prevent its readers ‘going back to Judaism’.

However, it’s not at all obvious to me that such a sharp distinction between Christianity and Judaism could have been presupposed by the letter’s writer. A solid case can be made for seeing Hebrews as part of a process that resulted in the distinction.

I think this sheds light on how the Old Testament is handled in the letter. There’s something more complex is going on than either ‘Jesus has come, so forget all that junk’ or ‘Actually, the OT was all really about Jesus anyway — e.g., because He’s its deep, spiritual meaning’. It’s neither Marcionite not allegorical.

Along these lines it’s worth noting that while the letter is full of exposition about who Jesus is and what He has done, it doesn’t contain a ‘Christology’ in the narrow sense of an argument that Jesus is the promised Messiah. Rather, the fact that Jesus is the Messiah is assumed — sort of like the backbone of whatever else is said about Him.

So its argument kind of works like this:

WRITER: ‘Jesus is the great High Priest’.

READERS: ‘Really?’

WRITER: ‘Yeah. Because he’s the Messiah’.

Again, this is important in terms of its reading of the OT. While it won’t spiritualise Israel’s experience and say ‘They were actually all about Jesus’, what it will do is pick up the loose ends of the OT story and pulls! And, of course, foremost among these loose ends is the expectation of the Messiah…

a preview of the kingdom

In The Triune Creator, Colin Gunton argues that ‘the death and resurrection of Jesus is the model for all providential action’ since it is what enables ‘the world to become itself by action within, and over against, its fallen structures’ (p 190). The kingdom established by Christ simply is the future of creation.

And yet we get previews of this ‘in-breaking’ kingdom throughout Jesus’ earthly ministry. One of these previews especially grabs me —  Jesus’ encounter with the man possessed by a legion of demons. It’s reported in Luke 8.26-39 (and parallels).

Four points leap out at me:

1. The ‘in-breaking’ kingdom confronts the active and threatening reality of evil. The demons have robbed this man of his humanity (v. 27), making him a danger to himself and others (v. 29). If we take God’s action in Jesus as a model for all his action, then we’ll have to own some form of what David Bentley Hart calls ‘provisional dualism’. Evil is evil. And God is opposed to it. We must not back down on this, e.g., by allowing evil to stand on the same footing as the unreservedly good works of God like creation and redemption.
2. Jesus triumphs effortlessly over the evil that has enslaved the man. Indeed, the very possibility of the demons causing any destruction is contingent on his permission (v. 32). Consequently, however much we must acknowledge some form of provisional dualism, we can admit no ultimate dualism. In Christ, God triumphs over evil. Indisputably. Unreservedly.
3. God’s intervention does not erase but restores this man’s humanity. The barely human figure who meets Jesus on the sea shore is transformed by this encounter, ultimately finding himself ‘at the feet of Jesus, clothed and in his right mind’ (v. 35). As we think of God’s all-powerful achievement in Christ, it’s all too easy to cancel out human dignity and responsibility. But we must strive uphold it.
4. The man’s restored humanity is fulfilled in the worship of God through Christ. The formerly-possessed man is commissioned — ‘declare how much God has done for you’ — and he goes away declaring ‘how much Jesus had done for him’ (v. 35). The dignity and responsibility God providentially hands back to us in Jesus is not to be twisted and polluted again by our behaviour. It is to be realised in praise of our Triune God.

What better way to celebrate post no. 250!

what am I studying for?

The jacarandas are in full flower, which means that exams are upon us — and for me that means the end of College (God-willing)! So, like a good procrastinator, I’m on the look out for distractions. And the pièce de résistance of distractions is to question the whole process. Which I’m about to do.

When I ask What am I studying for? I’m not taking aim at the validity of exams. Rather, I’m asking about the process of studying for ‘the ministry’ — which includes, but is obviously bigger than, what goes on at College.

Now I’ve some sense of what I’m not studying for:

• I don’t think I’m studying specifically for full-time ministry. As I read it, Jesus’ call to discipleship — ‘Take up your cross and follow me’ — simply is a call to full time ministry (ie. service).
• Nor am I studying to be ordained for ministry in the Anglican Diocese of Sydney. Not just because I’m not an ordination candidate. But because (I take it) we don’t think that’s the be all and end all of full time paid Christian ministry.

But beyond this I find I lack a clear, positive picture of what I am studying for. Precisely what will I be qualified to be in a few short weeks?

Or, to come at it from another angle, I’m just not sure I can decisively say what would disqualify me from attaining the goal of all my studying and preparation? Actually, I do have some idea of this — if the moral and faith requirements for elders outlined in the Pastoral Epistles are anything to go by. But is what I’m studying for an Every Christian Really Should thing? Or is it only suitable for particular kinds of people? (And, if so, what kinds of people?)

I suppose I should have figured this one all out already. (Perhaps it was one of those depths plumbed at Anglican Candidates Conference). But maybe you can help me. What am I studying for?

more than just bare bones health care

Yesterday I was privileged to participate in a seminar on ‘brain death’ and organ donation run by a reflective clinician.

It was deeply fascinating. The content itself was tremendously stimulating — covering the historical, philosophical and medical as well as the thorny ethical and pastoral aspects of the topic. But almost more interesting were the reactions of the doctors, nursing staff and chaplains in attendance.

One particular debate really grabbed me: the issue of what to make of a family that insists on keeping their loved one on respiration — against overwhelming medical evidence of its ‘futility’ — or refuses to permit organ donation — even when the patient is a consenting donor.

I’d like to share three slightly random observations:

1. There was a consensus on the pastoral significance of this issue. The feeling was that the assertion of ‘rights’ over the patient’s body was either part of the family’s grieving process or their attempt to wrest back some control in a largely disempowering process. This was generally seen as something to be worked with rather than as a hurdle to leap (or an irritation to endure). What a relief that today’s clinicians recognise that there’s more than just a rational calculus to be applied in situations like this!
2. There was an acknowledgement that a patient’s personhood includes his or her body. This acknowledgement emerged from the frequently reported conflict between the stated desires of the patient (e.g., to be a donor) and the feelings of the family. The fact that this was taken seriously showed me that no-one thought our bodies can be easily detached from our personhood — even if they can’t be simply identified with or reduced to it. As a believer in the resurrection I was cheering.
3. There was almost a glimmer of recognition that personhood is as much about embeddedness as embodiment. It’s as deeply connected to our relationships as it is to ourr corporeality (actually, the two are linked — our corporeality is the key to our corporateness; it’s through our bodies, or extensions of them, that we relate to others). Indeed, this is why the family’s wishes and sense of obligation to their loved one must be factored. The relatedness these things express is an essential part of what makes the patient a person.

how to become a more efficient reader

Ahh… Yes. The bottom line. (Watch the stats go through the roof on this one. No-one wants to know how to become a moral moral reader and only a few think it’d be worthwhile becoming less anxious. But more efficient? Bring it on!)

This time it was a Political Science lecturer who inducted me into the deep mystery of efficient reading. And here it is — just between you and me: the best place to begin reading is … at the end.

If what you’re reading is written well (and having just put together a sustained 15000 word argument, that’s a big ‘if’), then you should be able to rip out the guts of it by reading the conclusion — and then working backward, picking up the first sentence in each paragraph. It’s all about finding the main thread of through the text and pulling.

I guarantee this strategy will make you a much more efficient reader.

But isn’t this pure pragmatism? Aren’t I betraying my own principles by suggesting that you read like this?

Well, I guess maybe I am. Although, I’m not sure that this approach necessarily rules out the strategies for respecting the text’s otherness that I’ve already suggested. For example, I can imagine hitting some puzzling or unexpected turn in an argument as I’m reading this way, stopping to take some time over it, but not getting so hung up on figuring out this detail that I start anxiously trying to wring out every last drop of meaning.

You see, the intuition underwriting this reading strategy is the (charitable) assumption that the text has a logic and coherence and is more or less effective at sustaining its argument from beginning to end. And this need not compete with the intuitions underlying the other strategies. They can coexist — even if they demand some effort to hold them in the appropriate tension…

how to become a less anxious reader

Reflecting on my last post, I realise that reading with slow, painstaking care may not always be a virtue. (It certainly doesn’t feel like a virtue when you’ve got a stack of reading to knock over before class!)

And it would probably just be paralysing to get bogged down in every puzzling detail or surprising expression that some writers come up with. I’m thinking particularly of certain fiction authors — James Joyce and Umberto Eco spring to mind — and philosophers — the chief culprits in my experience would be Wittgenstein and Derrida.

Which brings me to another piece of advice a different English Literature lecturer once gave me: just relax.

This really is the key to becoming a less anxious reader. Sometimes it’s best just to let the prose wash over you. Or, less poetically, to stumble ahead in the fog desperately hoping it’ll clear up before you do yourself too much damage.

And it’s really true. You can’t read Wittgenstein’s Philosophical Investigations or On Certainty by stopping whenever you hit something perplexing or unexplained. Really. You can’t. (I’ve tried.)

Instead, you’ve got to trust that things will become clearer, that the same theme will reappear again (and again and again), that a different metaphor might break the insight open for you more effectively.

What’s more, this is as much a moral issue as learning to notice what you hadn’t noticed you’d noticed.

I suspect that it’s those readers who hammer at a text with utter desperation — trying to force it to yield up its meaning — who are at the greatest risk of doing violence to the text by refusing to allow it its (sometimes infuriating) otherness…

how to become a more moral reader

I still remember the English Literature lecturer who taught me how to read attentively. He put it like this: you’ve got to notice what you didn’t notice you’d noticed. Sounds great. But what does it mean?

When I’m reading, I’ll often stumble over something in the text. But my usual reaction is simply to press on. (I’m not really sure why. Maybe because I consider myself a ’strong’ reader and don’t want to admit confusion or difficulty with some argument, detail or unfamiliar word. Or maybe because I’m reading to a deadline. Or hunting for something in the text and don’t want to get hung up on irrelevant details.)

But for me, reading well involves paying attention to these ‘Huh?’ moments. I need to stop and notice — and maybe even re-read — what I’d already noticed (because I’d stumbled over it even though I didn’t want to admit it).

There are some pretty obvious benefits to this strategy. Not only does it help me isolate those words or arguments that I don’t quite grasp (for whatever reason). It also forces me to give enough space to the author to surprise me. To say things that I don’t already know. To put things in fresh and unfamiliar ways. To make connections I wouldn’t automatically make. To take the argument that I probably thought I could have made myself in new and adventurous directions.

Better than all of this, learning to notice what I didn’t noticed I’d noticed helps me become a more moral reader. It does this because it demands that I recognise that what I’m reading is other than me. And this makes me relinquish my assumption of mastery over every idea or domain of discourse.

But maybe that’s just me…