The End of Death's Reign? Morning Musings on Coldplay

I've been enjoying Coldplay's latest offering, Viva la Vida or Death and All of his Friends. But the lyrics of "Viva la Vida" have been a thorn in my side, mainly because I just haven't been able to determine the referent (not that I think there need to be ONE, ULTIMATE referent--indeed, I'm not entirely sure that Martin knows what the song is referring to). A quick internet skim seems to indicate that this has been a matter of discussion. Here are the lyrics (though they really need to be listened to, not just read):

I used to rule the world
Seas would rise when I gave the word
Now in the morning I sleep alone
Sweep the streets I used to own

I used to roll the dice
Feel the fear in my enemy's eyes
Listen as the crowd would sing
"Now the old king is dead, long live the king"

One minute I held the key
Next the walls were closed on me
And I discovered that my castles stand
Upon pillars of salt and pillars of sand

I hear Jerusalem bells a-ringing
Roman cavalry choirs are singing
Be my mirror, my sword and shield
My missionaries in a foreign field
For some reason I can't explain
Once you'd gone there was never
Never an honest word
That was when I ruled the world

It was a wicked and wild wind
Blew down the doors to let me in
Shattered windows and the sound of drums
People couldn't believe what I'd become

Revolutionaries wait
For my head on a silver plate
Just a puppet on a lonely string
Oh, who would ever want to be king?

I hear Jerusalem bells a-ringing
Roman cavalry choirs are singing
Be my mirror, my sword and shield
My missionaries in a foreign field
For some reason I can't explain
I know St. Peter won't call my name
Never an honest word
But that was when I ruled the world

Ohh...

Hear Jerusalem bells a-ringing
Roman cavalry choirs are singing
Be my mirror, my sword and shield
My missionaries in a foreign field
For some reason I can't explain
I know St. Peter won't call my name
Never an honest word
But that was when I ruled the world

But then yesterday I had a bit of an interpretive inspiration from a sermon on the resurrection (focusing on the Creed's affirmation, "...the third day he rose again from the dead"). This took me to the end of 1 Corinthians 15 where Paul makes a confident, triumphant, albeit eschatological announcement about something "to come": "When this perishable body puts on imperishability, and this mortal body puts on immortality, then the saying that is written will be fulfilled: ' Death has been swallowed up in victory.' 'Where, O Death, is your victory? Where, O Death, is your sting?'"

Paul notes that this victory is, in an important sense, still to come: when that transformation (resurrection) takes place, then we will almost be able to taunt death as he does here: "Where, O Death, is your victory now?" But given the resurrection of Christ, there is also a sense in which that eschatological reality--that reality to come--has already broken in upon the world. The first victory has been won. Death's reign has been deposed, though we live in a (horribly long) interim where death is a kind of lame duck king. Thus John Owen, the great Puritan divine, penned a masterful treatise on The Death of Death in the Death of Christ.

This got me thinking: could it be that the track "Viva la Vida" is an anthem in this tradition? That is, could it be that the subject or referent of the song is actually "Death and all of his friends?" Is death perhaps this deposed king who once ruled the world? Granted, it requires a radical faith to not think that death still rules the world. But could "Viva la Vida" be an eschatological hymn, sung in hope, with some intimation that death has been deposed? Indeed, could we hear Coldplay's catchy little tune as a popular, 21st-century rendition of John Donne's great metaphysical poem:

DEATH be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not so,
For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then;
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.

I hope so. I hope as such.

Orwell: On the Invisible Underbelly of our Consumption

I'm currently finishing a book project in which I briefly discuss the way in which the liturgies of consumerism also feed off the invisible--vast networks of production and distribution which are almost entirely hidden from view, and about which we rarely ask. This brought to mind Orwell's straight-shooting analysis of Western (especially British) culture's dependence upon coal, which also seemed to "magically" appear in the grate of the homes of the middle class. Here are two exemplary passages from The Road to Wigan Pier:

Watching coal-miners at work, you realise momentarily what different universes different people inhabit. Down there where coal is dug it is a sort of world apart which one can quite easily go through life without ever hearing about. Probably a majority of people would even prefer not to hear about it. Yet it is the absolutely necessary counterpart of our world above. Practically everything we do, from eating an ice to crossing the Atlantic, and from baking a loaf to writing a novel, involves the use of coal, directly or indirectly. For all the arts of peace coal is needed; if war breaks out it is needed all the more. In time of revolution the miner must go on working or the revolution must stop, for revolution as much as reaction needs coal. Whatever may be happening on the surface, the hacking and shovelling have got to continue without a pause, or at any rate without pausing for more than a few weeks at most. In order that Hitler may march the goose-step, that the Pope may denounce Bolshevism, that the cricket crowds may assemble at Lord’s, that the Nancy poets may scratch one another’s backs, coal has got to be forthcoming. But on the whole we are not aware of it; we all know that we ‘must have coal,’ but we seldom or never remember what coal-getting involves. Here am I, sitting writing in front of my comfortable coal fire. It is April but I still need a fire. Once a fortnight the coal cart drives up to the door and men in leather jerkins carry the coal indoors in stout sacks smelling of tar and shoot it clanking into the coal-hole under the stairs. It is only very rarely, when I make a definite mental effort, that I connect this coal with that far-off labour in the mines. [...] You could quite easily drive a car right across the north of England and never once remember that hundreds of feet below the road you are on the miners are hacking at the coal. Yet in a sense it is the miners who are diving your car forward (pp. 29-30).

In a way it is even humiliating to watch coal-miners working. It raises in you a momentary doubt about your own status as an ‘intellectual’ and a superior person generally. For it is brought home to you, at least while you are watching, that it is only because miners sweat their guts out that superior persons can remain superior. You and I and the editor of the Times Literary Sup., and the Nancy poets and the Archbishop of Canterbury and Comerade X, author of Marxism for Infants–all of us really owe the comparative decency of our lives to poor drudges underground, blackened to the eyes, with their throats full of coal dust, driving their shovels forward with arms and belly muscles of steel (pp. 30-31).

Teaching a Calvinist to Dance

Some folks might be interested in my recent article in Christianity Today, "Teaching a Calvinist to Dance," which has just been made available online. (I absolute love Polly Becker's art for the piece, which features a dancing Kuyper!) The gist of this short, non-scholarly little piece is to simply explore how being Reformed and being "pentecostal" are not as antithetical as one might think. In fact, I have always sensed that they can actually fuel one another.

I've already received a number of encouraging emails from folks who've been eager to share that I'm not alone in sensing this confluence. Good to know the tribe is larger than I might have thought!

Criticisms so far have tended to either fault the article for not providing a full dissertation on either the Reformed tradition or Pentecostalism (um...there's only so much you can do in 1500 words, folks), or they have assumed that I'm saying Reformed worship, by being "pentecostalized," should therefore be non-liturgical. Let me just clarify a couple of things:

1. In the space of the CT article, I simply use "Pentecostal" and "charismatic" synonymously since the focus was on the sort of embodied, spontaneous worship that characterizes them. This is not to say that these are simply the same theologically; indeed, I prefer to use the small-p "pentecostal" to describe what is shared by both, and save capital-P "Pentecostalism" for the theological distinctions of classical Pentecostal denominations like the Assemblies of God. I work out this distinction in my "Thinking in Tongues" article in the April issue of First Things, but couldn't get that detailed in the CT piece.

2. Critics seem to work with a binary imagination which assumes that worship must be either rigid liturgical forms or ecstatic emotionalist chaos--and they then assume that I'm some sort of apologist for a worship free-for-all (an assumption hard to maintain for anyone who has read my last couple of books). So I politely refuse the dichotomy. For me, the kingdom of God looks like charismatic Catholic worship, where the Eucharist issues in protestation and ecstatic praise, where historic liturgy makes space for the surprising voice of prophecy, and where This is because I think pentecostal worship is, in its essence, sacramental. And I have long been suggesting that on just this point, the Reformed tradition would do well to remember it is Catholic. (For a high-powered argument along the same lines, see Todd Billings' important book, Calvin, Participation, and the Gift.)

3. Finally, I now realize that what we mean by "Reformed" at Calvin College is quite different than what is meant by the term when it's emphasized by alot of the "young, restless Reformed"-types of which Colin Hansen writes, who seem to me to have a very modernist fixation on doctrine, scholastic debates about TULIP, and a creeping pride about being "intellectuals." (And I gather that many of them are former charismatics who disdain the anti-intellecutalism of their former selves, which they see as inherent to the charismatic tradition. A false assumption.) The funny thing is that I think both the holism of the continental Reformed tradition (Kuyper, Dooyeweerd) and the holism of pentecostal/charismatic experience counter the false intellectualISM of such scholastic versions of being Reformed. But being anti-intellectualIST is not the same as being anti-intellectual.

These matters and more will be more fully developed in the book I'll complete this summer, Thinking in Tongues: Elements of a Pentecostal Worldview, which will appear next year from Eerdmans.

Remember Burma

If you are looking for a way to give to cyclone relief in Burma(Myanmar), I would encourage you to consider giving through the Christian Reformed World Relief Committee, which has excellent local contacts in the country and neighboring Thailand. Monies are channeled to trusted local sources who then feed that money into local economies in order to purchase supplies. A trusted place to give. Just FYI.

Neoconservatives, New Conservatives, and Old Tories

David Brooks notes that last week's elections here in England--which included Tory Boris Johnson being elected as Mayor of London--signals a shift in global conservatism. Britain, he suggests, is home to a new breed of conservative which has left Thatcherite econo-centrism behind, while American neoconservatism keeps looking for another Reagan. As he puts it:

That means, first, moving beyond the Thatcherite tendency to put economics first. As Oliver Letwin, one of the leading Tory strategists put it: “Politics, once econo-centric, must now become socio-centric.” David Cameron, the Conservative Party leader, makes it clear that his primary focus is sociological. Last year he declared: “The great challenge of the 1970s and 1980s was economic revival. The great challenge in this decade and the next is social revival.” In another speech, he argued: “We used to stand for the individual. We still do. But individual freedoms count for little if society is disintegrating. Now we stand for the family, for the neighborhood — in a word, for society.”

It's true that British Tories are "social" conservatives, without that spiralling into the narrow, single-issue politics it does in the States, fixated on abortion or gay marriage. But embedded here is an interesting point--which gets to the heart of what I think is wrong even with "new" conservatism, or at least what I think signals a fundamental tension for any Christian who would entertain conservativism. Listen to how Brooks continues:

This has led to a lot of talk about community, relationships, civic engagement and social responsibility. Danny Kruger, a special adviser to Cameron, wrote a much-discussed pamphlet, “On Fraternity.” These conservatives are not trying to improve the souls of citizens. They’re trying to use government to foster dense social bonds. (emphasis added)

These conservatives "are not trying to improve the souls of citizens." Why that proviso? Behind that qualification is the assumption that it would be problematic if they were trying to "improve souls." In other words, it sounds like not even these "new" conservatives will entertain a program of character formation. That would be anathema. Why? Because if you scratch even these new conservatives deep enough, you find a classical liberal underneath--an heir of Locke who thinks each of us is the master of our own fate, captain of our own souls, autonomous lords of our own realm of freedom--so anybody else better keep their hands off.

Or, to put it otherwise, neither neoconservatives nor Cameron's "new" conservatives are willing to be "Old Tories" of the sort Ruskin extolled, who were precisely concerned with the formation of character, the improvement of souls. Indeed, it's precisely what he decried in the industrialized wastelands of his own time, easily transposed to the commercialized wastelands of our own:

Now it is a good and desirable thing, truly, to make many pins in a day; but if we could only see with what crystal sand their points were polished,--sand of human soul, much to be magnified before it can be discerned for what it is—we should think there might be some loss in it also. And the great cry that rises from all our manufacturing cities, louder than their furnace blast, is all in very deed for this,--that we manufacture everything there except men; we blanch cotton, and strengthen steel, and refine sugar, and shape pottery; but to brighten, to strengthen, to refine, or to form a single living spirit, never enters into our estimate of advantages ("The Nature of the Gothic," in Stones of Venice).

But then my discomfort is not with formation per se--that is, it's not that I have some liberal worry about others imposing on my autonomy. Rather, I admit that I'm not certain I want to trust the task of formation to the state. And thus, once again, the uneasy relationship of conservativism and Christianity.

An Evangelical Manifesto?

[I'm here just mirroring my original post at Generous Orthodoxy.]

So what do folks make of the recently unveiled "Evangelical Manifesto" (download the pdf)? On the one hand, I think it is in the spirit of a "generous" orthodoxy of the sort that motivated this blog from its inception. In general, I think it rightly criticizes trends on both left and right, and problems both internal to evangelicalism as well as external challenges (e.g., the public policy impact if the "new atheism" gained a foothold). Most of the time, I thought it sounds like David Wells or Don Carson--that is, sort of a grumpy Reformed take on evangelical "therapies" of various persuasions--but this certainly isn't the only voice.

On the other hand, I find it a strange document. Now, some of the steering committee and charter signatories include some of my friends, whom I respect a great deal. So I'm not registering any radical dissent. But I found myself struck by several things while reading it:

1. Well, there's that whole problem of knowing just what "evangelical" means (or, as they insist in the only footnote, Evangelical--as if evangelicalism has the weight of Catholicism, Anglicanism, or Orthodoxy). I have to confess that I find the term less and less helpful. And while this document demands that it be defined "theologically" (and not "sociologically"), I find the defintions offered here (e.g., believing in Jesus) a bit fuzzy. In short, I'm not sure why the authors are so convinced that "the term is important" (p. 2). For who? For what?

2. Related to (1), I always get a bit nervous when folks begin emphasizing evangelical "identity" (and this document explicitly takes up such identity politics, despite the "grave danger" [p. 4]). Why does the concern to assert "evangelical" (sorry, Evangelical) identity always feel like an exercise in boundary-drawing with an ominous sense that Catholic-bashing is just around the corner? Now, I'm not saying that this document does this--and many of these signatories are, in fact, involved in Catholic-evangelical dialogues. But you can see that this issue is always lurking around such projects when they assert, "Our purpose is not to attack or to exclude" (p. 5). Hmmm...methinks thou doth protest too much? I guess my question is: what does the term "Evangelical" get you that the term "Catholic" doesn't? When folks give me answers to that question, I find they either offer me something I don't want, or proffer some caricatured understanding of the Catholic tradition. Or, to put it otherwise, when they list the "distinctives" of evangelicalism (pp. 5-6), is there anything on there that Catholics wouldn't endorse? If someone says "sola Scriptura," then we've got other problems (see [3] below).

3. I guess what I was most surprised to see--given the theological heavyweights behind this--is what I can only describe as a rather naive hermeneutic. Take two examples: First, after affirming that "Evangelicals adhere fully to the Christian faith expressed in the historic creeds of the great ecumenical councils" (though--dirty little secret--vast swaths of evangelicals are rabidly anti-creedal), the Manifesto then asserts: "We have no supreme leader [why does this sound like some B-grade martian movie?], and neither creeds nor tradition are ultimately decisive for us. Jesus Christ and his written word, the Holy Scriptures, are our supreme authority" (p. 7). Seriously? Are we really entertaining a notion that Evangelicals are those Christians who have some sort of pristine, tradition-free access to "what Jesus really said"? I thought F.F. Bruce had debunked this sort of naive Scripture/tradition distinction for evangelicals years ago. As if there isn't a massive and complex evangelical tradition of reading Scripture (for more on this, see chapter 5 of my Fall of Interpretation). Second, in the same vein, the Manifesto claims that "Evangelicalism goes back directly to Jesus and the Scriptures." Really? C'mon.

4. I think the Manifesto is at its best when its critical finger points backwards at evangelicalism itself (pp. 11ff), for instance when it chides evangelicals who have "become cheerleaders for those in power and the naive sycophants of the powerful and the rich" (p. 13). So, too, when it points beyond single-platform politics of abortion or marriage and raises the issue of "conflict" (why not just say "war?"), racism, corruption, poverty," and more (p. 14). It is interesting to note what's not named in here though: e.g., militarism? capitalism? nationalism?

5. The document sort of goes "Greg Boyd" in a final section where it laments the error of "politicizing" faith, either on the right or the left. This, of course, sounds clear enough, until you start to ask just what "politicize" means--indeed, what does "politics" and "the political" refer to here? Just the machinations of the state? When they say that "Evangelicals see it as our duty to engage with politics" (p. 15--really, by the way? A duty? Of what sort? On what basis?), it seems to me that they mean evangelicals have a duty to participate in the machinations of the given state. Maybe. But I would just register that it's not quite that easy; that's not the only way to "be political." I always find evangelical discussions on these matters are quite content to let "politics" function as a black box. It seems to me that they might mean a "party-izing" of the faith. But I'm worried that lurking in there is actually some sense that "politics" is "outside" faith, and then we have to figure out how to get "faith" into connection with politics. And that would seem to assume that the faith is not "political" in itself, which I think would be another naive assumption.

6. Finally, when I got to the end, I kept hoping that I would figure out just why this Manifesto was released. Why now? What's the hook? On this point, I remain a bit befuddled.

Do we need an "Evangelical" Manifesto? Is it "important" to "keep the term?" I remain unconvinced, particularly if keeping the "distinctives" of "Evangelical" means buying into some rather simplistic hermeneutical moves. And at the end of the day, I would rather be part of a Manifesto that can be affirmed by "mere" Nicene Christians rather than "Evangelicals" alone.

Your turn.

Dreaming of Kings with Ruskin

I recently had the opportunity to make a pilgrimage to Brantwood, the home of John Ruskin on Lake Coniston. It was a very moving experience, and as a keepsake, I bought a copy of the Everyman's Library edition of his autobiography, Praeterita. It opens with a fabulous meditation on just the sort of Toryism I've hinted at here (a conservativism never dreamed of by the nouveau riche neocons, and a Toryism that was socialist). Enjoy these snippets:

I am, and my father was before me, a violent Tory of the old school; --Walter Scott's school, that is to say, and Homer's. I name these two out of the numberless great Tory writers, because they were my own two masters. [...] From my own chosen masters, then, Scott and Homer, I learned the Toryism which my best after-thought has only served to confirm. That is to say, a most sincere love of kings, and dislike of everybody who attempted to disobey them.

He then goes on to note the distance between the kings dreamed of by Scott, and what passes for kingship today (i.e., in his own day--how much more [or rather, less] today). Then this gem:

It was probably much happier to live in a small house, and have Warwick Castle to be astonished at, than to live in Warwick Castle and having nothing to be astonished at; but, at all events, it would not make Brunswick Square in the least more pleasantly habitable, to pull Warwick Castle down. And at this day, though I have kind invitations enough to visit America, I could not, even for a couple of months, live in a country so miserable as to possess no castles.

He then confesses to dreams of restoration and resurrection:

As I grew wiser, the desire for sweet pippins instead of bitter ones, and Living Kings instead of dead ones, appeared to me rational as well as romantic; and gradually it has become the main purpose of my life to grow pippins, and its chief hope, to see Kings...

...to which he appends this note:

The St. George's Company [a guild founded by Ruskin] was founded for the promotion of agricultural instead of town life: and my only hope of prosperity for England, or any other country, in whatever life they lead, is in their discovering and obeying men capable of Kinghood.

Medievalism Makes the New York Times

I once again find myself easily singing along with David Brooks in today's column in which he extols folks like C.S. Lewis and John Ruskin. In the face of the de-humanization of industrialization and its dis-enchantment of the world, they rejected chronological snobbery and looked back to the medieval imagination for hints of an antidote. As globalization and political cynicism continue to disenchant the world even further, Brooks remarks:

Writers like C. S. Lewis and John Ruskin seized on medieval culture as an antidote to industrialism — to mass manufacturing, secularization and urbanization. Without turning into an Arthurian cultist, it’s nice to look up from the latest YouTube campaign moment and imagine a sky populated with creatures, symbols and tales.

In fact, I make a similar case in my introduction to a new book, After Modernity? Secularity, Globalization, and the Re-enchantment of the World--though I draw on Tolkien's re-enchantment of the world that borders on a sort of paganism (which any robust theology of creation will flirt with). As Zizek once commented, only a Christian like Tolkien could have created such a wonderfully pagan world.

Night Visions from The Guardian

I'm worried that it's a tad voyeuristic, but I just love photographic features like The Guardian's series on "Writer's Rooms." And this past weekend they published a similar piece called "Night Visions" that provided a peek at some famous folks nighstands and bedside tables. Of course, one never knows how artificial these snapshots are, but intriguing nonetheless.

Comment Interview

Comment magazine has been posting a series of interviews with authors, artists, and activists--in the spirit of the Paris Review and Sports Illustrated. This includes a photo and commentary on the author/artist's workspace (akin to the Guardian's similar tradition on "Writer's Rooms"). Today Comment has posted a Q&A with me for those who might be interested. Here's a peek at my workspace:

Stark's "Creative" History

[I was asked to respond to a paper from the upcoming Society for Pentecostal Studies/Wesleyan Theological Society conference and thought I'd post an edited version here. The paper, by Thomas Bridges, engages Rodney Stark's book, The Victory of Reason: How Christianity Led to Freedom, Capitalism, and Western Success.]

I’m sorry that I’m unable to be there in person to engage Thomas Bridges’ reading of Rodney Stark’s—shall we way—“creative” book. I suppose if I have a question for Bridges, it’s simply this: why waste your time on Stark’s ideological hack job of both Christianity and history?

That, however, does not make for much of a conversation. So let me unpack this a bit. I think Bridges is absolutely right to name Stark’s position for what it is: pure, unadulterated Pelagianism marshaled for the sake of the worship of Mammon, subservient to the ersatz pope of American civil religion—namely, the unquestioned “market” which seems to speak ex cathedra, and which—like Dostoyevsky’s Grand Inquisitor—is not even going to let Jesus spoil the capitalist party. (“Sell all you have and give to the poor” be damned! According to Stark, Jesus was really interested in increasing our GDP—it just took 1500 years for so-called “Christians” to figure this out.)

Thus we get several gems of “creative” history that make Hayden White look like a conservative. For instance, we’re told that capitalism thrived in the Middle Ages. Indeed, not only did it flourish in medieval Christendom more generally, its most celebrated form is located, according to Stark, in the monasteries. Who needed The Wealth of Nations? Apparently the Rule of St. Benedict would have been enough, containing capitalism in nuce—except for those bothersome little bits about vows of poverty, having property in common, and the denouncement of avarice. But other than that…

Only a “creative” historian like Stark could claim that “[u]nlike Plato’s Republic, which focuses on the polis, and unlike other religions and societies, which focus on group identities, for Christianity ‘the individual citizen […] was the focus” (cited by Bridges, pp. 4-5). Indeed, Stark takes the Gospel to be asserting that “I am the master of my fate” (ibid.).

What kind of American, Baptist history is this? Is there something in the water down there in Texas? This is a truly remarkable eisegesis of the historical record, reading the American valorization of individual autonomy and libertarian freedom back into the pre-modern church in ways that almost boggle the imagination. Even quite apart from the clearly organic, communitarian construction of not only monasteries but feudal life more generally in medieval Christendom, one finds in Scripture itself a picture of the community as a body whose good trumps that of the individual (Phil. 2:1-11), generating an economic organization that subsumes private property to a common purse (Acts 2:42-47; 4:32-5:10). And the monastic rules (whether of Benedict, Augustine, or others) were intent on curbing self-interest and “private” concern through devotion to a community that was very much modeled as a polis much more akin to Plato and Aristotle’s communitarian vision than the modern Enlightenment atomism that Stark seems to cherish.

But here we have neither time nor space to contest Stark’s history point by point. And Bridges has already made a start of that, and also rightly raised constructive theological problems with the account. I can’t add to his suggestions. Instead, I want to ask: in light of how ludicrous Stark’s reading is, how does he get away with this? Who on earth could see this as a remotely viable reading of Christian history before the Reformation? And why are some so prone to eat it up (cue some fawning appraisal from The National Review)?

Here I would suggest that this sort of Whiggish history finds an audience ready and waiting—like the work of Max Stackhouse—because it is ultimately comforting and shores up the status quo for American Christians. In addition, I think the picture of baptized capitalism that we get from folks like Stark, Stackhouse, Novak, and others, operates on the basis of a lack of nuance.

In particular, I think they fail to make a crucial distinction: between “economics” and “capitalism.” Or, to put it conversely, these accounts—which pride themselves on being “realistic”—assume an identification between economics and capitalism. So, for them, to be against capitalism is a bit like being against food, clothing, and shelter. Economic transactions are an essential and constitutive feature of human society; therefore, anyone who opposes capitalism is living in some ridiculous ivory tower of abstraction, unable to face up to the cold, hard reality of economic exchange. Simply collapsing capitalism with economics “as such” also means that whenever these folks see commerce and exchange happening, they think they’re seeing capitalism at work (which is the only possible way to make any sense of Stark’s claim that medieval monasteries were hotbeds of capitalism).

But why should we simply identify economics with capitalism? I think this shows a significant lack of imagination and a real failure of theoretical nuance. I think Stark and his ilk are absolutely right that economic exchange and commerce are an essential (and good!) aspect of human society. However, capitalism is one particular configuration of the economic, and the market is one particular configuration of commerce. I would argue that these configurations are quite antithetical to the Gospel (which is itself a renewal of the good order of creation). But I’m not thereby rejecting economics or exchange as such. Rather, it is a matter of imagining economics and commerce otherwise, which is exactly the sort of thing we see in the early church (Acts 2:42-47; 4:32-5:10) and in the monastic communities. Stark’s creative, ideological history lacks just this distinction. Bridges has rightly pointed out the antithesis, and invites us to imagine a very different economy.

Ruskin, Work, and 'The Nature of the Gothic'

One of the courses I'm teaching here in York is a delightful but admittedly idiosyncratic one entitled 'Victorian Britain and Postmodern Culture: Contemporary Medievalisms.' (The unofficial title is 'everything Jamie loves about 19th-century England.') One of the key figures who keeps confronting us is John Ruskin, whose own Fors Clavigera is the namesake for this little blog venture.

Today we're engaging Ruskin's classic essay, 'The Nature of the Gothic,' embedded in volume 2 of The Stones of Venice. One of the great pieces of 19th-century prose, it is also a powerful indictment of the mercantilism unleashed by the alchemy of Adam Smith's economics coupled with the Industrial Revolution. Here I provide just a few snippets to get a feel for Ruskin's still timely (more timely?) critique.

Ruskin emphasized that what distinguished Gothic architecture from earlier classical architecture, as well as later “industrial” building, was the freedom of the craftsman. Greek temples were built by slaves. The laborers were not properly craftsmen but rather human tools and machines. Thus classical architecture has a kind of pristine perfection about it that is artificial and mechanistic; it shows no stamp of individual artists. And this desire for a pristine perfection and uniformity is, in fact, a suppression of nature and individuality.
For Ruskin, the “modern” laborer was not qualitatively different. While not a “slave” in the traditional sense, he was still reduced to an unthinking machine. He put it this way:

“It is verily this degradation of the operative into a machine, which, more than any other evil of the times, is leading the mass of the national everywhere into vain, incoherent, destructive struggling for a freedom of which they cannot explain the nature themselves. Their universal outcry against wealth, against nobility, is not forced from them either by the pressure of famine, or the sting of mortified pride. These do much, and have done much in all ages; but the foundations of society were never yet shaken as they are at this day. It is not that mean are ill fed, but that they have no pleasure in the work by which they make their bread, and therefore look to wealth as the only means of pleasure. It is not that mean are pained by the scorne of the upper classes, but they cannot endure their own; for they feel that the kind of labour to which they are condemned is verily a degrading one, and makes them less than men. Never had the upper classes so much sympathy with the lower, or charity for them, as they have at this day, and yet never were they so much hated by them: for, of old, the separation between the noble and the poor was merely a wall built by law; now it is a veritable difference in level of standing, a precipice between upper and lower grounds in the field of humanity, and there is pestilential air at the bottom of it.” (p. 161)

He continues with a rant on the so-called division of labor which was taken to be that great blessing to the British economy:

“We have much studied and much perfected, of late, the great civilized invention of the division of labour; only we give it a false name. It is not, truly speaking, the labour that is divided; but the men:--Divided into mere segments of men—broken into small fragments and crumbs of life; so that all the little piece of intelligence that is left in a man is not enough to make a pin, or a nail, but exhausts itself in making the point of a pin[1] or the head of a nail. Now it is a good and desirable thing, truly, to make many pins in a day; but if we could only see with what crystal sand their points were polished,--sand of human soul, much to be magnified before it can be discerned for what it is—we should think there might be some loss in it also. And the great cry that rises from all our manufacturing cities, louder than their furnace blast, is all in very deed for this,--that we manufacture everything there except men; we blanch cotton, and strengthen steel, and refine sugar, and shape pottery; but to brighten, to strengthen, to refine, or to form a single living spirit, never enters into our estimate of advantages. And all the evil to which that cry is urging our myriads can be met only in one way: not by teaching or preaching, for to teach them is but to show them their misery, and to preach to them, if we do nothing more than preach, is to mock at it. It can be met only by a right understanding, on the part of all classes, of what kinds of labour are good for men, raising them, and making them happy; by a determined sacrifice of such convenience, or beauty, or cheapness as is to be got only by the degradation of the workman; and by equally determined demand for the products and results of healthy and ennobling labour.” (pp. 162-163).

So the “modern” pre-occupation for pristine perfection and exquisite finish is bought with a price: viz., the effective enslavement of the ‘divided’ labourer. But the Gothic—which is a distinctly Christian architectural grammar—rejects such slavery:

“But in the mediaeval, or especially Christian, system of ornament, this slavery is done away with altogether; Christianity having recognized, in small things as well as great, the individual value of every soul. But it not only recognizes its value; it confesses its imperfection, in only bestowing dignity upon the acknowledgment of unworthiness. […] Therefore, to every spirit which Christianity summons to her serve, her exhortation is: Do what you can, and confess frankly what you are unable to do; neither let your effort be shortened for fear of failure, nor your confession silenced for fear of shame. And it is, perhaps, the principal admirableness of the Gothic schools or architecture, that they thus receive the results of the labour of inferior minds; and out of fragments full of imperfection, and betraying that imperfection in every touch, indulgently raise up a stately and unaccusable whole.” (pp. 157-158)

So to the so-called perfection of classical and modern architecture, Ruskin contrasts the beautiful imperfection of the Gothic:

“And on the other hand, go forth again to gaze upon the old cathedral front, where you have smiled so often at the fantastic ignorance of the old sculptors: examine once more those ugly goblins, and formless monsters, and stern statues, anatomiless and rigid; but do not mock at them, for they are signs of the life and liberty of every workman who struck the stone; a freedom of thought, and rank in the scale of being, such as no laws, no charters, no charities can secure; but which it must be first aim of all Europe at this day to regain for her children.” (pp. 160-161)

These are just snippets, but they give you a sense of Ruskin’s trenchant critique of the shape of work in industrialized England. But this was not in the name of leisure, but rather in the name of “ennobling” work, rooting in a basic affirmation of labor. In fact, Ruskin instituted at Oxford what we would today describe as a service-learning program, where Oxford undergraduates would join him on work teams that built roads, etc. (In fact, Oscar Wilde would be a member of one of these work teams!)

[1] A shot at the oft-repeated example in Adam Smith’s Wealth of Nations (1776).

Rowan Williams is Not a "Liberal"

One often finds the talking heads on the BBC and op-eds in various papers referring to the "sharia row" as another indication of Rowan Williams' "liberal" tendencies (surely one of the slipperiest and equivocal epithets we have in religious circles). But if one actually attends to his argument--and his corpus--I think one finds that Williams' is, in fact, a critic of liberalism. Indeed, the kernel of his argument at the Royal Courts of Justice was calling into question the liberal monopoly of identity that characterizes the (supposedly) "secular" state. One of the hallmarks of liberalism (fostered here in England, as well as the States, by John Locke) is a secularization of the "public" sphere of politics, economics, and the common good, along with a corresponding privatization of religious identity as an affair of the heart--a private and interior matter of one's "personal relationship" to God. In other words, religion is fine for the weekends, "if you're into that." But don't bring it to work. Don't let it affect how you function "in public." In short, you're welcome to let religion be one of your private pursuits, a kind of hobby. It's fine to let religion be "part" of who you are, but that religious faith can't shape or influence you in such a way that it would make a difference in how you pursue life in public.

But for any integral confession (whether Jewish, Christian, or Muslim), such a liberal directive would amount to idolatry. God's election of a people in Abraham and the liberation of his people in the Exodus were not undertaken with the goal of creating a late modern hobby. It was divine action meant to constitute a people who pursue the kingdom of God as their highest and most fundamental vision of human flourishing. The Incarnation, Cross and Resurrection were not just the means for securing a weekend hobby for good liberal citizens; they called into being a cruciform people whose very identity is constituted by their calling to be image bearers of this humiliated God.

I hear in Williams' argument a refusal of these two aspects of liberalism: a "secular" democratic monopoly on identity along with its corresponding privatization (and therefore triviliazation) of religious faith. In short, the Archbishop is no "liberal."

Of course rejecting such liberalism does not thereby make him a "conservative" either (recall John Ruskin's rejection of such binary alternatives). In fact, many "conservatives" are all too happy to accommodate their faith to the shape of the secular state, retreating to some kind of a-political "Jesus-in-my-heart" privatism (which the state is all too happy to permit) and letting their identity as "British" (or "American," or whatever the case may be) trump their calling as Christians. In this respect, liberal and conservative Anglicans often exhibit the same patterns. [And for the record, I think Tariq Ramadan might just be a good "liberal" Muslim--but I'm suspending judgment on that until I can read more of his work, and have an opportunity to hear him here in York.]

Rowan Williams, Sharia Law, and the End of the Liberal State: Take 2

The furor over Archbiship Rowan William's lecture at the Royal Courts of Justice has been fanned to the point of hysteria by a reactionary media and government. Some have even called for him to resign. Williams clearly underestimated what sort of beast "public perception" can be.

A few follow-up reflections:

1. The Archbishop has offered a concise clarification of just what he did and did not say; whether the talking heads have read this is another question.

2. It is interesting to note the vehemence of the reaction to the Archbishop's suggestion, particularly from Downing Street. The zealous opposition to anything that would compromise the supremacy of "British" law, along with an alarmist sense that this would be a threat to "Britishness," exhibits its own kind of religious fervor which confirms a working hypothesis: viz., that in the late-modern liberal state, it is the state which is religion. Indeed, having spent this past week considering the shape of the Roman empire in early England, one finds an interesting parallel: the Emperor was happy to allow for all kinds of religious plurality so long as it didn't interfere or compromise worship of Caesar. In an analogous way, the liberal state is happy to let many religions bloom so long as the state religion of the state is in no way challenged or compromised.

3. The core of Williams' argument was not about Islam or sharia law. His concern was much broader: namely, the shape, place, and priority of confessional identities in the late modern nation-state. While Islam and sharia was an extended example, the argument he was making applied to all sorts of confessional communities. Indeed, in the lecture he also mentioned the example of Catholic adoption agencies being able to opt out of the state's decision that same-sex couples could adopt. The sharia case obviously attracted the most attention, but then people end up focusing on the case or example rather than the argument.

4. What Williams' is grappling with is hardly unique to him, or England. In fact, I am very eager to see the fruit of a fascinating project commissioned by the government of Quebec: the Consultation Commission on Accommodation Practices Related to Cultural Differences, co-chaired by philosopher Charles Taylor. (Some might recall that a landmark book, Jean-Francois Lyotard's The Postmodern Condition was a "Report on Knowledge" that was also commissioned by the Quebec Government). The mandate of the commission is precisely to explore what sorts of practices of "accommodation" can be made in order to create a culture that is both pluralist and cohesive. The driving question is whether secularism (as a feigned a-religiosity) is the only way to secure cohesion (witness recent tensions about the place of the Muslim headscarf in Turkish universities). Given Taylor's work, I suspect that the commission will look to creatively challenge such secularism. Rowan Williams lecture was hinting in the same direction, striking fear into the hearts of secularists and liberals everywhere.

The Archbishop's Regensburg?

Things can get ugly when high-powered academic distinctions spill out from the faculty common room onto the pavement—or more particularly, when nuanced, complex, and erudite theological treatises are trimmed to bits and soundbites digestible by the frantic pace of the 24-hour news cycle.

Pope Benedict XVI learned this lesson the hard way last year in the infamous “Regensburg” incident regarding claims about Islam. It seems that Archbishop Williams may have met his own Regensburg-loo, so to speak, when he suggested the “inevitable” and even desirable role of sharia law in the British legal system.

Response—both official and public—was swift and strident, suggesting that the Archbishop was opening a Pandora’s box that would unleash all sorts of decidedly un-British spectacles, from polygamous harems to public floggings and beheadings. And that was just the BBC coverage!

The blame for the “sharia row” cuts both ways, I think. Like the Pope’s Regensburg experience, I suspect that the Archbishop, like so many of us academics, failed to gauge public reception of his claim—and also failed to realize that the details of his argument would never make it to the telly or tabloids. While scholars will lament the lack of attention to the context of the claim and details of the argument, the news media and proverbial “man on the street” will retort that he doesn’t enjoy the sort of leisure that scholars have to wallow in such details. Fair enough.

On the other hand, we can’t expect to conduct public debate about such complex issues with the limited lexicon of soundbites and slogans. Perhaps we owe it to ourselves and our common good to at least give the argument a hearing—to slow down just long enough to attend to the context, nuance, and complexity of the claim, rather than contenting ourselves with the inflammatory headline splashed alongside the teaser photo of the page 3 girl of the day.

In this specific case, the Archbishop is grappling with some of the most intractable issues in contemporary politics, reconsidering nothing less than the very shape of citizenship in our age of globalization and pluralism. These are also perennial issues, with a tradition of reflection going back to St. Augustine’s classic treatise, The City of God.

The challenge is simply this: what are we to do when individuals, and whole communities, find their identity in an allegiance that in some significant way exceeds their allegiance to a particular nation-state? Or what are we to do when the nation-state demands that it trump all other allegiances?

The Archbishop recognizes the complexity of our identity-formation. As he put it, “our social identities are not constituted by one exclusive set of relations or mode of belonging.” That’s just to say that for many, our identity and even our citizenship is hybrid. For many—and certainly not just Muslims--our sense of who we are and what really matters is not something that can be dictated by Westminster. This is particularly true for religious believers such as Jews, Christians, and Muslims who all hold a kind of dual citizenship. (Other cases include the situation of Mormons in the United States or Sikhs in Canada.) For instance, as St. Augustine put it, the Christian is simultaneously a citizen of the earthly city and a citizen of the City of God.

This becomes an issue, the Archbishop rightly notes, “when secular government assumes a monopoly in terms of defining public and political identity.” It is this monopoly on the identity market that concerns the Archbishop. Such a monopoly trades variously under the banner of secularism and liberalism. In this respect (and to perhaps run a little too far with the metaphor), Williams’ argument calls for a kind of anti-trust law with respect to the state’s monopoly on our fundamental allegiances. He rightly appreciates that when the liberal state demands that it should trump all other allegiances, then it is demanding its own sort of religious devotion. But to the religious believer, to acquiesce to such demands—no matter how “secular” they claim to be—is nothing short of idolatry.

In contrast, I hear the Archbishop gesturing toward a post-liberal and post-secular account of the state which resists both monolithic hegemony and isolating tribalism. He is certainly not saying what the tabloids would lead us to believe. Perhaps he owes us a clearer, still digestible account; but we also owe it to ourselves to carefully consider his proposal. So be one of the few and read the entire speech here.

The (European) Empire Strikes Back

Despite all the talk of the United States as the latest stand-in for "empire," a fascinating article by Parag Khanna in this weekend's Guardian suggests that in fact it is Europe which has been slyly, quietly building an empire that is not only economic but territorial. In "The Empire Strikes Back," a snippet from his forthcoming book, The Second World: Empires and Influences in the New Global Order (due out March 4 in the States), Khanna suggests that "The EU is easily the most popular and successful empire in history, for it does not dominate, it disciplines." As he puts it,

For over half a century, European nations have been pooling their power, eventually giving small and shattered post-second world war countries a new lease on life. Though EU members remain distinct nations, their greater meaning now comes from being part of the world's only superstate. War between any two countries within the EU's dense institutional nexus has become impossible, and the promise of greater security and wealth has largely succeeded in aligning the foreign policies of its members. "Our biggest logistical exercise since the second world war was not military," an official in one of the EU's shiny, postmodern edifices boasted, "but the circulation of the euro currency in 2002."

Europe has its own vision of what world order should look like, which it increasingly pursues whether America likes it or not. The EU is now the most confident economic power in the world, regularly punishing the United States in trade disputes, while its superior commercial and environmental standards have assumed global leadership. Many Europeans view America's way of life as deeply corrupt, built on borrowed money, risky and heartless in its lack of social protections, and ecologically catastrophic. The EU is a far larger humanitarian aid donor than the US, while South America, east Asia and other regions prefer to emulate the "European Dream" than the American variant.

[Read the whole article.] Perhaps this explains why Tony Blair is angling to be the President of Europe.

The Primary Race: Views from England

It has been interesting following the American presidential primaries, as a Canadian, while in England, through the eyes of the BBC, the Sunday Times, the Guardian, etc. Almost without exception, the British news outlets are perhaps even more infatuated with Barack Obama than American news outlets are. And Hillary Clinton's name is almost never mentioned; instead reports always speak of "the Clintons"--which, I guess, is what has gotten people like Gary Wills and Frank Rich concerned.

However, all we hear about Obama over here is a vacuous message about "change" and "hope." I've yet to hear or read a report that actually lays out Obama's stance on the issues; rather, it is what he represents (first black president, and therefore "change") that is news. I'm wondering if the Obama campaign is communicating more concretely through the American media. A perusal of Obama's website on "the issues" turns up rather thin statements. More importantly, Obama's "Blueprint for Change" seems remarkably status quo. For instance, consider just one issue: taxes. In the "Blue Print for Change," of six mentions regarding "taxes," five of them speak about eliminating various taxes (sure, for the poor and middle class) while the sixth simply discusses simplifying tax forms. If one searches the document on "tax" more generally, one finds something like the following snippet from the Blueprint for so-called "change" (p. 12):

THE PROBLEM
Tax Cuts for Wealthy Instead of Middle Class
The Bush tax cuts give those who earn over $1 million dollars a tax cut nearly 160 times greater than that received by middle-income Americans. At the same time, this administration has refused to tackle health care, education and housing in a manner that benefits the middle class.

BARACK OBAMA’S PLAN
Provide Middle Class Americans Tax Relief
Provide a Tax Cut for Working Families: Obama will restore fairness to the tax code and provide 150 million workers the tax relief they need. Obama will create a new “Making Work Pay” tax credit of up to $500 per person, or $1,000 per working family. The “Making Work Pay” tax credit will completely eliminate income taxes for 10 million Americans.

Granted, Obama's plan does promise to repeal the Bush tax cuts that were provided to wealthy Americans (e.g., p. 29). But when it comes to the middle class, he lapses back into the Republican-speak of tax cuts. Such a rhetoric of tax cuts has been a staple of the Democratic lexicon since Bill Clinton's shift of the party to pretty much right-of-center vis-a-vis the rest of the world. We're all Republicans now; which is just to say that we're all Reaganites now.

Post Card from York

Greetings from delightfully medieval York! Now into our second week here, our family is beginning to settle in for our five month sojourn here as I'll be directing Calvin College's Semester in Britain program, based at York St. John University. I'll be teaching a course on "Victorian Britain and Postmodern Culture," considering four 19th-century movements as anticipations of later 'postmodern' movements or themes: the Oxford Movement, the Pre-Raphaelites (as well as Ruskin and William Morris), Christian socialism (associated with F.D. Maurice and others), and the "aestheticism" of Walter Pater and Oscar Wilde. It is an entirely indulgent course and I can't wait to dive into these materials. I'll also be directing a course on Studies in British Culture which centers on excursions around York and Britain, with reflection from texts by Edmund Burke, George Orwell, Roger Scruton, and others.

Some of you might be interested to follow along our family adventure on our family blog, The Smiths in York. Cheers!

Dusting for the Invisible Hand's Fingerprints

A sensible, balanced piece from Peter Goodman in Sunday's New York Times: "The Free Market: A False Idol After All?" Here's a snippet:

Adam Smith used the metaphor of the invisible hand to describe how markets should function: With everyone at liberty to pursue self-interest, the market omnisciently distributes goods and capital to maximize the benefits for all. Since the Reagan administration, that idea has weighed in as a veritable holy commandment, with the economist Milton Friedman cast as Moses.

As the cold war ended and Communism retreated, the invisible hand seemed to monopolize economic thinking. Even China, controlled by a nominally Communist party, has blessed private entrepreneurs and foreign investment. In Latin America, the International Monetary Fund financed governments that embraced market forces while shunning those that were resistant.

But now the invisible hand is being asked to account for what it has wrought. In this country, many economic complaints — from the widening gap between rich and poor to the expense of higher education — are being dusted for its fingerprints.

Wanted: A Conservatism Sans...

The Summer 2007 issue of Modern Age (archive here) includes an interesting symposium on "Why I Am a Conservative." While some of the essays are given to ideological whining, some are very engaging, throughtful pieces (see especially the essays by Christopher Olaf Blum and Jeffrey Hart). Anyone who is working with some caricatured notion that "conservative" simply means "pro-Bush" or "Religious Right" or "neo-con" should pull their head out of the equally-ideological liberal sands it's stuck in and dip into this symposium, starting with Blum and Hart.

I continue to find myself deeply sympathetic to a conservatism that owes more to Edmund Burke than Ronald Reagan. And so reading a symposium like this continues to be a tantalizing exercise in exasperation. My margins are regularly marked, "Yes! Amen!" and then, "What?! Why?" Why does conservatism seem to come with so much extraneous (even, I would contend, inherently contradictory) baggage? Am I the only one who dreams of a conservatism without nationalism, without militarism, and without capitalism? Can't we imagine a conservatism without Americanism (just how could a revolutionary project be "conservative," again?)? A conservatism without a Constantinian Christendom?