David Bentley Hart: An Orthodox Easter
March 30, 2010
This also included some observations on Holy Week so I thought I might risk talking about Easter before Holy Week has come to a finale. HT: Wall Street Journal
An Orthodox Easter
Expressive extravagance, dramaturgical splendor.
By DAVID B. HART
Friday, A
pril 9, 2004 12:01 A.M. EDT
This is one of those rare years when Christians of the Eastern and Western communions will celebrate Easter on the same Sunday. For those of us who–in quixotic moments–blow upon the gray embers of our hopes for a reunited Church, this is always an especially happy occasion. We may not all be entering into the mysteries of Christ’s death and resurrection as one, but at least this year we are doing it at the same time.
After all, one of those tiresome platitudes that hovers over the division between the ancient churches is that, whereas Eastern Orthodox tradition principally emphasizes the resurrection of Christ, Catholic (and Protestant) tradition principally emphasizes his death. The one, it is said, proclaims more a “theology of glory”; the other, more a “theology of the cross.”
There may be some truth in this, but not much. The more deeply one ventures into either tradition, the more one grasps the inseparability in both of Christ’s passion and glorification, his sacrifice and his victory. And it is in just these rare years when our two Paschal calendars coincide–when we mourn and rejoice together–that this commonality seems especially evident.
One genuinely pronounced difference between East and West does, however, become obvious at these times: that of liturgical sensibility. Nor is this insignificant. How we worship very much determines how we “see” the suffering or risen Christ in our devotions.
To those unfamiliar with Orthodox worship, it is difficult to convey a proper sense of its sheer expressive extravagance–its dramaturgical splendor, its combination of the mystical and the spectacular, its profusion of symbols, poetry and large forceful gestures. The churches are lavishly adorned with icons, the entire liturgy is sung, the services are long and intricate, and everything (if well executed) is utterly absorbing.
And during Holy Week (or Passion Week, as it is called in the East), all this liturgical exorbitance reaches its climax. As the week progresses, worship becomes all but continuous, morning and evening, culminating in three magnificent services in which is concentrated all the dramatic genius of Byzantine liturgy.
On Friday night, the service of Lamentation is celebrated. An image of the dead Christ is laid in his funeral bier (ornately carved, copiously decorated with flowers), and shatteringly powerful hymns of mourning are sung over him. The bier is then borne in procession around the outside of the church; briefly, the church doors become the gates of Hades, upon which the priest beats with the book of the Gospels to announce the arrival of the Lord of Glory, who comes to plunder death of its captives.
The eucharistic liturgy on Saturday morning is an unapologetic exercise in triumphalism. Its governing theme is Christ’s conquest of death, sin and the devil, and his harrowing of hell. At one point, in fact, the priest passes through the congregation flinging bay leaves to every side as a symbol of Christ’s victory.
And this same triumphalism pervades the Easter Vigil that begins that same night and continues on well into the early hours of Easter morning. At the moment of highest drama, at midnight, all the lights in the church are extinguished, and the faithful wait in total darkness. The priest then bears a lighted candle in through the central door of the great icon screen behind which the altar is hidden, as a symbol of the risen Christ departing from his tomb, and summons the congregation to light the candles they have brought with them from this flame.
Thereafter, the liturgy is all light and joy, punctuated by frequent repetitions of the great Paschal hymn–”Christ is risen from the dead, trampling down death by death, and to those in the tombs restoring life!” And (incredibly enough) a feast follows.
As I have said, one must experience such worship to understand its profundity. I can say only that, in my two decades of being Orthodox, the power of these services has not diminished in the least; and every year, at one point or another, I become entirely lost in the glory of the Gospel being announced and portrayed before my eyes.
And as, again, this is one of those years when one can almost deceive oneself that the churches are united, I might finish by recommending an Eastern custom to all Christians, of every communion. For 40 days following Easter, the Orthodox greet one another with the words “Christ is risen!” To which the correct response is “He is risen indeed!”
Review: “The Blackwell Companion to Postmodern Theology”
March 28, 2010
- “The Blackwell Companion to Postmodern Theology”
- Publisher: Wiley-Blackwell (November 30, 2004)
- ISBN-10: 1405127198
- ISBN-13: 978-1405127196
My thanks to Blackwell for the review copy!
Church of England clergyman Graham Ward, professor of Contextual Theology and Ethics at the University of Manchester is most notably (notoriously?) known in academic circles as being heavily involved in the so-called “Radical Orthodoxy” movement. But what isn’t often noticed is that Ward has also over the years invested much scholarly energy in bringing continental critical theory into conversation with theology. As I mentioned previously he has written an introductory book of sorts well worth the cost (the book is unjustifiably expensive). That book provides a solid foundation to build on from which one cannot go wrong by then investing time and energy in the collection of essays which he edited, ‘The Postmodern God,” that I reviewed here.
Ward considers “The Blackwell Companion to Postmodern Theology” a continuation of that work and I believe it is best read in conversation with the Postmodern God. Postmodern Theology is another collection of essays dealing in many and various ways with the perceived shift in theological method and exploration in lieu of the demise of the Western narrative of cultural, intellectual and moral progress. This Companion extends the second part of the Postmodern God creating an even more comprehensive picture of how contemporary theology is creating new vistas and destroying old hegemonies.
The Companion is organized into seven categories or parts. In his introduction Ward notes that he was having a difficult time knowing how to organize the essays and had all but decided to simply put them in alphabetical order according to author but at the prodding of Robert Gibbs he reconsidered and came up with seven categories with which to organize the work. The categories are able to allow for the different emphasis’ and approaches of each author to rub up against each other, fill out or critique potential weaknesses, expand potential insights and create overall a more coherent picture of this branch of contemporary theology most in touch with continental thought. The organization can therefore be only a pointer and should not be thought to determine the essays prematurely. As with my previous review, given the nature of the collection and the sheer volume of the book, I will refrain from summarizing each essay but will point to the general structure of the book and its content.
Part I deals with “Aesthetics.” The reader is lucky enough to be presented with the thoughts of some who are not widely known in anglo-american circles, not least among them Mieke Bal, an academic from the Netherlands who has an insanely wide field of research from unique biblical readings to reflections on the paintings of Rembrandt, but also well known figures like Gerard Loughlin. Most of these essays reflect on art, be it paintings, movies or texts.
Part II moves into “Ethics” and features much material that most explicitly deals with traditional dogmatic themes (not that such themes are absent in the other essays, but most in this section will be most clearly understood by even those not familiar with continental thought). Given my own interests this proved to be my favorite section and is alone good enough recommend the book. The authors are well known in Christian circles and feature mostly “postliberal” and “radical orthodox” voices. Stanley Hauerwas and William Placher make appearances as do Milbank, Pickstock and Ward; Gavin D’ Costa and Mark I. Wallace fill out this part.
Part III relates to “Gender.” Several American women mark this section such as Mary McClintock Fulkerson and Serene Jones. The whole part is filled with female voices and the essays are excellent. Among the pieces, Virginia Burrus contributes a splendid essay which deals with the figure of Macrina in St. Gregory of Nyssa’s Dialogue on the Soul and Resurrection and Jones examines what feminist theorists can gain from feminist theologians.
Part IV, with only three essays, is among the shorter sections but contains distinctly Jewish voices such as Peter Ochs and Edith Wyschogrod (I would have loved an audio companion telling me how to pronounce her last name). Ochs essay is helpful for someone like me in that it elucidates the larger Jewish theological spectrum about which I know nothing. I have a theory that that John Piper might have a different opinion than me of Wyschogrod’s essay “Intending Transcendence: Desiring God.”
Part V is concerned with phenomenology and is a phenomenal section of this volume (I’m willing to bet I’m the first to make the semantic connection between these two words). Most of the authors are French Roman Catholics well schooled in Husserl, Heideggar and Derrida. The most famous is Jean-Luc Marion (see especially his “God Without Being”) but there is a brief essay by the largely untranslated Jean-Yves LaCoste and a biblical essay by Richard Kearney, being one of several essays in this book dealing with the Transfiguration. Marion’s essay considers the “Formal Reason for the Infinite” and posits that the very conditions for knowing are themselves Christological. Joseph S. O’Leary’s essay on religious pluralism is also worth an explicit mention. Again, really good.
Parts VI and VII represent what has been called the “postmodern liberalism.” VI entitled “Heideggarians” and VII “Derrideans.” Thomas J. J. Altizer of “Death of God” fame makes an appearance followed immediately by Laurence Paul Hemming on prayer, a more stark difference in product and approach I cannot think, but this goes to show how loose these categories are. The famous hermeneuticist Gianni Vattimo closes this part with an appropriately themed essay on how the Christian message dissolves metaphysics.
The “Derrideans” finish out the book. John D. Caputo is at the top of his game in his “The Poetics of the Impossible and the Kingdom of God” and the remaining essays by Walter Lowe (Is there a Postmodern Gospel?) and Carl Raschke, both widely regarded contemporary theologians, bring the party out with a bang. There is unfortunately also an essay by Don Cuppitt, a “radical” theologian whose influence thankfully was as small as it was short lived, being consigned mostly to the annals of British oddity.
As with it’s sister volume, Ward contributes an introductory essay to the whole edition and all the authors are introduced with brief bio’s, though considering the number of authors the bio’s are justifiably shorter yet surprisingly packed with vital and concise information.
All things considered this book’s greatest strength is also it’s greatest weakness. The material covered, the methods used, the insights gathered, are all so broad as to render the book frustrating when considering the implications in any depth. But it has so many great little essays I cannot but recommend this book. One potential use is as a reference book. A person would have to scrounge around a lot of journals, books and original language material to gather some of these essays. It makes for great “bathroom” reading material, an essay here and essay there for fun, challenge and edification.
But it works best I think as it was designed; as a “Companion” to the Postmodern God Reader. If you consume all or even most of the essays in these two books you’ve set yourself a very broad foundational understanding in the varied braches of contemporary critical theology from which you can go anywhere. This would be especially useful for upper (upper) undergraduate and graduate level readers who are still trying to figure out what the hell they want to study for the rest of their lives.
Archbishop of Canterbury Rowan Williams on Holy Week
March 27, 2010
A Terrifying Story of Ninjas, Waste Management and Theodicy
March 24, 2010
The worst chore I had growing up was taking out the trash. Not only did it happen right after dinner—thus interrupting the precious few hours I had for play before bed—it also involved, once a week, a particularly dangerous expedition. Eagan Waste Management would come for our dumpster early on Tuesday morning which meant that the bin needed to be brought out to the curb on Monday night. To my adolescent mind, the venture was frought with danger. Inevitably, my odyssey down the driveway was attempted at night, which meant I had to confront the dark. Our suburban home was not in a particularly dangerous neighborhood, but in my imagination the sinister picket fences and eerily silent rose bushes of suburbia could hide a kidnapper, a creature, a ninja—or any combination thereof. My defense eventually became routine: walk down the driveway singing or whistling, thus alerting whoever laid in wait for me that I was not afraid of them, deposit the trash bin carefully, and book it back to the garage in raw terror—(as casually as possible of course, in case the neighbors were watching).
For many years, this fear was a constant facet of my weekly ritual. As I grew older, I learned to reflect on this fear. I’d grown up in a Christian home and learned that God would protect me if I prayed. I knew that “all things work together for good for those who love God, who are called according to his purpose.” (Rom. 8:28). I knew that I should “fear no evil for [God] was with me” (Ps. 23.4). I was obeying my parents, after all (Ex. 20:12) and bad things didn’t happen to people who did the right thing. Regardless of how I rationalized it, when Monday night came, the darkness and the silence seemed much more persuasive.
As adults, we like to pretend we’ve grown out of such idle fears, when in reality the same questions have simply taken on more layers of nuance. “Why do bad things happen to good people?” is really just another way of asking “Can something bad happen to me if I don’t deserve it?” If we’re told God is in control, we expect God to act like the world is under control—which in our minds means behaving predictably and safely. Blaming or not blaming a natural disaster on God becomes the gratification of our own desire to find a scapegoat: If it’s Haiti’s fault, then they deserved it. If it’s God’s fault, then it was supposed to happen for some lofty reason we’ll never understand.
Just about the only intolerable answer to this question is chaos—that evil and suffering and pain exist not through something dreadfully sensible but because we live in a world where sometimes the innocent suffer and the guilty sip champagne. Such a chaotic reality threatens not only our view of God, but our own security. How can I insure myself against suffering if suffering knows no boundaries?
It is this awareness of chaos that makes us fear the darkness of our own front yards as we complete the daily chores of our lives. It is a pervasive, drowning reminder that any normal day can turn tragic for no apparent reason. Add to this human culpability: the realization that I have the power to make my neighbor miserable, and they have the power to do the same—and you have a genuine moral dilemma that refuses to ever be completed explained away.
Some of you reading this believe I am writing with too much desperation. “Shouldn’t a Christian speak with more hope?” you would ask me. I agree that as Christians, we carry a message of hope. I do not believe, however, that our hope is of the kind that ignores honest pain. I cannot ignore the very realy suffering this world endures—often without explanation. Fortunately for me, it is on account of the Gospel that I don’t have to let the senselessness of it consume me.
We do not speak the Gospel if we belittle suffering. But neither do we speak the Gospel if we neglect to proclaim our Christian confessions, of which I will now identify two: 1) God is sovereign. Regardless of your particular tradition, the Judeo-Christian heritage boldly proclaims that what God put into motion will never get out of hand. Creation was designed for a purpose and that purpose will be realized. It’s not our job to bring that realization about, but it is our privilege to participate in it if we like. 2) You and I are called to act righteously. Loving God and loving your neighbor are neither easy nor always simple commands—but they are clear. They are the decisions we make every day in our relationships, in our economics and in our worship.
Last Monday night I took my dog for a walk. It was dark and chilly and we had to set a quick pace to stay warm. The park was deserted that evening and the flickering street lamps and wafting wind gave the night a sense of ominous mystery. Nevertheless, I knew that the rustle in the bushes wasn’t an ambush but a fluttering leaf. The dark shadow in the distance shrouded no stalking beast, but a discarded toy. The sinister possibilities were gone and I was left feeling fearless and invulnerable—at least for that short walk. You’d think recognizing my maturity would’ve delighted me, but instead I was struck by an odd sense of loss. The world had lost some of its potentiality and with the absence of monsters and murderers went the possibility of astronauts and Jedis or any other of my wondrous childhood fantasies.
Does life’s chaos inevitably bring about good as well as bad? I don’t see why it shouldn’t. The God who is sovereign over hurricanes and heartbreak is also sovereign over sunrises and first kisses. This thought, of course, wont cover up the loss and pain each of us must experience as we live our lives but I believe it can provide perspective. Uncertainty breeds fear, I wont deny it. But for the Christian, uncertainty also brings hope for new life and new possibilities. For those prospects, I’ll gladly face whatever waits for me in the dark.
A recent internet acquaintance of mine has some opinions of his own as to how “theologically open” a seminary or Christian university ought to be. Everything sounds good on the surface of his post but I must admit that I disagree with almost all of it.
There seems to be undergirding the entire post a vision of the Church or “Christianity” as a unified body. Now on a dogmatic, especially a pneumatological level, this is true in some sense (this would of course be contested by the Eastern and Roman Catholic Churches) but in our lived lives it is quite simply false: We are divided by a myriad of issues from confessions to political bodies – (I am here endorsing wholeheartedly Ephraim Radner’s understanding of Christian division).
Thus it is difficult to conceive in any meaningful sense what a “merely” “Christian” seminary or university would look like. The Nicene Creed can function as a solid enough base to flesh out a basic confessional unity in most Christian contexts but when considering seminary especially, it becomes far more complicated as to whether or not such a base is truly sufficient to serve the needs of our unique churches. What hath Geneva to do with Canterbury?
The complex Christian cocktail that has resulted from the “Ecumenical Movement” as well as the utter failure of western protestantism to sustain anything like a distinct Christian confessional unity becomes clear in conversations like this. This confusion has several strains currently expressing themselves in our churches, I’ll mention four: 1) Most evangelical don’t have much in the way of any theological identity. They don’t know or recite the creeds, they don’t catechize and they don’t like homosexuals. So long as they sing modern worship choruses and preach 45 minute sermons they feel that they get along fine. 2) Many older churches such as the Mainline still maintain a sense of their historic identity but there is a significant toleration of theological diversity such that there is a widely acknowledged reality of the dissolution of a coherent evangel. 3) Also within the Mainline but also in many Emergent and certain evangelical churches there is a repudiation of confessional unity and a glorification of diversity. 4) There are the hold-the-line or buckle-down-and-fight groups.
I admit this is reductive but on a generic level I think it holds. Within churches we are bound to find any of several of these so I don’t pretend that they are watertight between groups.
I am of the opinion that theological identity is essential to evangelism, discipleship and unity. It follows, as I’ve mentioned before, that I think you should teach what you believe. This of course sounds ridiculous coming from an Episcopalian 
Now… All this and yet I agree that closing off creative and inquisitive theology can be utterly destructive. Honestly, at this point, I’m absolutely clueless as to how to hold these two things together in a balance, historic theological identity and faithful theological response. Or rather I have an idea of how it can work in churches structured according to historic catholic order but no idea how it can work between churches. Whatever the case, Methodists should pump out Methodist pastors and Lutherans Lutherans, anything else just creates a muddle.
Well, I was waiting to throw this out until I worked up a polished essay on it, but the deeper I go the more I realize that that is going to take about 2 years (at least) of me reading continental philosophy(a task which I’ve only begun, which means I haven’t found a “bottom” ; I haven’t figured out just how deep I have to go), so, instead, I’m going to just list some of my ideas thus far, and see what you think.
Oh, and if you’re planning on seeing District 9, but haven’t, you may not want to read some or all of this post.
I few weeks ago I watched District 9, by the white South African director, Neill Blomkamp. It is a powerful movie, and has dominated my thoughts ever since. Below is a quick synopsis of the pertinent parts, but be warned that my description hardly does the movie justice.
Spoiler begins
An alien ship mysteriously parked itself above Johannesburg, SA. Millions of aliens were found on the ship aimlessly living in their own filth. A camp, called District 9 was created for them below the ship and all of the aliens were moved to it. Over the course of 20 years, the camp became a slum, and numerous violent incidents gave rise to serious hatred on the part of Johannesburg residents toward the aliens whom they refer to as ”prawns.” As one character notes, the aliens do have undeniable shrimp-like characteristics. A super-corporation called Multi-National United is tasked with managing the prawns and the action of the movie begins with the MNU’s decision to move the entire prawn population to a new camp outside of Johannesburg. A geeky beaurocrat, who happens to be the CEO’s son-in-law, is put in charge of handing out eviction notices to the entire alien population of Disctrict 9. While carrying out the task our protagonist beaurocrat comes into contact with an alien substance which begins changing him into an alien. When the transformation starts, he is promptly kidnapped by his own corporation, where he is forced to participate in disturbing experiments. It turns out, MNU’s real interest in the “prawns” is their weapons technology which the company seeks to duplicate and market. Their only setback is that the alien technology can only be utilized by the aliens. MCU’s evil scientists soon discover, however, that the protagonist can use the weapons because his DNA is in the process of becoming alien. Just before they begin harvesting his organs in the interest of harnessing his weapon-operating power, he escapes and seeks refuge in District 9. For most of the movie the protagonist has the same bigoted attitude toward the aliens that everyone else both within MNU and without have. But, as he becomes a prawn, and develops a friendship of sorts with one of them, his attitude slowly changes, until, in the climax of the movie, he is defends his alien friend against extermination at the hands of his father-in-law’s heartless company.
Spoiler Ends
Here are some of the ideas that this movie has inspired:
1. For the purposes of ethical conversation, all aliens in Science Fiction and specifically in District 9=the Other.
2. In order for the protagonist of the movie to “love” the Other, he had to become the Other. He was incapable of understanding or loving the Other as himSelf.
3. The movie can obviously be “read” as commentary on the South African struggle with apartheid. However, the alien ship could have been parked over 1939-era Germany, or over present-day Gaza Strip and the same symbolic power would have been achieved.
4. In a way, the protagonist’s transformation could represent the Incarnation. Christ put himSelf aside to become the Other (humanity), in order to redeem the Other. Redemption could not have taken place outside of the act of “becoming the Other” on Christ’s part.
5. In terms of Christian morality, the concept of the Other is equivalent to the Neighbor, especially in a globalized world in which one is forced (blessed?) to rub up against, to pay attention to people and cultures radically different than one’s Self so that everyone is one’s Neighbor. How can we truly understand and love our Neighbor, then, without becoming her/him? Globalism brings us together but we are still so far apart. I expect Zizek’s book on the Neighbor to be particularly enlightening/challenging on this point, hopefully it will be mine next week.
6. Following Cavanaugh, in the Eucharist I consume Christ, but in turn, I am consumed; I become more and more a part of Christ’s body. Through Christ’s act of becoming us (the Incarnation), He installed the way for us to become more like Him (the Eucharist). Since we share the Eucharist with the Universal Church which spans nations, continents and cultures, the Eucharist is the way in which each individual Self becomes the Other. If you’ll allow a little analogical liberty, the alien substance which changes the human protagonist of District 9 into an alien can represent the Eucharist which changes each of us into body of Christ, thus uniting us (whether we like it or not) with each Other.
What do you think? I’ve got about 30,000 pages of Levinas, Lacan, Bidiou, Zizek, Derrida, Critchley, Foucault and maybe some Milbank (and many more who I haven’t yet thought about or discovered) to read before I can bring this all together into some sort of cogency. Any suggestions?
Movie Title Trailer
March 14, 2010
-via my classmate Tim Snyder.
Tony Hunt
jstambaugh
Shawn Wamsley
