Orientalism–A Fifth and Final Response (on Islam)

I very much enjoyed my read of Edward Said’s Orientalism. It is an important book, and it has helped me to form my thoughts on quite a number of subjects. In my series of responses, I have appropriated his central concept broadly, but it is important to note that Said’s focus throughout is with reference to the Orient as Egypt and the Levant, and with special attention to Islam. No negotiation of his book is complete without some coming to terms with his thoughts on Islam. This final reflection on Orientalism will attempt to do just that. I’ve got four things to say.

Orientalism_Reading1) The Orient, for Said, is the Islamic world. I noted this a moment ago, but it is worth stressing. As an historical fact, the Orient, when the concept of the Orient was invented, and Orientalism, when that concept was emerging in Western usage, both had for their initial reference points the Islamic East. Historically, we here refer to Napoleon’s conquering of Egypt, and of England’s presence in Palestine and the Levant. We also note that the original journey of the Orient Express was from Paris to Constantinople—i.e., the Orient. Said, of course, as a Palestinian author, is keenly aware of this history in a personal sense, and that awareness colours the whole of the book.

2) If Orientalism is true, then it follows that Islam has been injuriously misread by the West. Orientalism, I have stated numerous times in various ways, is an intersection of knowledge and power where the gaze of the West has fallen on the other in such a way that the other loses agency, is flattened, and is fetishized (among other things). Each of these has clearly been in effect when the West has encountered Islam. Islam has been othered. It is viewed, first, as an outsider element, one which reflexively gives fresh self-definition to the Western eye. In that process, the West has held the power of definition in discourse—the conversation has been dominated by Western categories of what constitutes Islam, and Islam is made to answer to those Western categories. Consequently, Islam has been flattened—both ideologically and individually. Ideologically, textures and complexities in Islamic belief are treated reductionistically (they all want Jihad and nothing else), and individually each Islamic individual is viewed as a carbon-copy of a radicalized caricature (they all want Jihad and nothing else). Said stresses this clearly,

The point I want to conclude with now is to insist that the terrible reductive conflicts that herd people under falsely unifying rubrics like ‘America,’ ‘The West’ or ‘Islam’ and invent collective identities for large numbers of individuals who are actually quite diverse, cannot remain as potent as they are, and must be opposed, their murderous effectiveness vastly reduced in influence and mobilizing power. (Orientalism, xxii)

In addition to this, Islam has been subjected to a number of fetishizations—historically, sexual ones (Said notes these), but lately subjected to a fetishization of violence and bestiality. The West is able to imagine, again for its own benefit, all manner of violences and evil perpetuated by an Islamic world.

Islamic Agressors

If these are the only images we see, we are bound to draw certain conclusions about the Islamic world.

Once again, if Orientalism is true (and I believe it is)—that is, if Orientalism accurately describes a mental process by which the West has ‘come to terms’ with the non-West in Islam—then this is cause for a serious re-evaluation of how the West and Islam interact. Wrongs have been done, and are being done, which inhibit fruitful communication, and which perpetuate worldviews of dehumanization which fall well beneath the values of the West. We can, and must, do better.

3) And yet, it seems to me that Said overplays the innocence of Islam in his book. Repeatedly, Said hammers the West for its treatment of Islam. Doubtless many of his assertions are correct. Doubtless also, he is sounding a corrective note against historic abuses. In charity we can certainly read the book with those considerations in mind and account for what we might consider to be his excesses. And yet, it is also historically the case that not all Western encounters with Islam are based on Orientalism. For example, when Islam emerged in the 8th century, no such thing as “the West”—as a modern concept—yet existed. And Islam’s emergence on the Arabian peninsula meant that it’s first encounters with Christianity were in the Christian East—in places such as Constantinople, which is, by definition, the Orient. Those first encounters, then, were not encounters where knowledge and power othered the foreigner, but rather battles where truth claims were examined. Chief among them was this: is Jesus Godin-the-flesh, or was he merely another prophet on the way to Mohammed? (It is worth observing that, on some accounts, Islam looks a great deal like a kind of radical Arianism—a rejection of Christ’s divinity and preservation of the holiness of the Father-God.)

1280px-byzantine-arab_naval_struggle

There’s lots of information about the history of Islamic expansion/aggression. It’s worth your time to read up on it or watch a helpful video.

In addition to this, Islam—beginning with Mohammed as its leader—from the very first engaged in a war of conquest with the Christian world (note: neither East nor West, but entire). That period of conquest involved aggressive violence, invasion, and a real threat to the Christian way of life. All that to say that when the West considers Islam, while certain intellectual abuses are undoubtedly at play, there is also a deeper history which informs their engagement. That history cannot be reduced, or explained away, by means of Orientalism.

4) Orientalism, then, is both a blessing and a liability. It is a blessing because of the attention it calls us to pay to the history of knowledge where that knowledge intersects with power. It is a blessing because it places a beneficial hesitation on Western claims about the non-West. It is a blessing because it seeks to restore agency to non-Western persons. And yet the liability of Orientalism is that as a compelling theory of understanding it oversimplifies—or even simply underplays—valid truth claims and vital historical incidents. The label, as always, does not an argument make (see the previous post on Bulverism).

In each of these posts I’ve tied these thoughts into the mission of the Church. As I close these reflections on Orientalism, the note I want to highlight is that of listening. It seems to me that these kinds of discussions often get scuttled by debate. Facts get thrown back and forth, names and labels get applied, and little progress is made except in the growth of contempt. Sometimes I feel that my fellow Christians fear that to practice listening will mean having to give up on truth. But this isn’t the case. To listen well doesn’t mean to give up, it means to try to hear a matter from the other’s perspective as clearly as possible. Listening makes us smarter, and more empathetic, and when we listen well we become better at articulating those points which we feel are truly salient to a discussion. For Christianity to listen to the Islamic world does not mean the same thing as for Christianity to capitulate with it. It is just such listening, I believe, that we most need—on both sides of the divide.

An Uneasy Conversation, Concluded: The Boundaries of Solidarity

For the past three weeks I have been reflecting on the uneasiness I feel with regard to Christianity and immigration. I’ve felt uneasy about American politics, about the use of Scripture, and about what our actual Christian perspective ought to be. I began with the question of how we ought to treat the stranger, and concluded that, yes, the Scriptures command us to be hospitable. In the second post I reflected on the role and boundaries of the nation-state, and there I concluded that, yes, states have the right and responsibility to defend their borders. Throughout, I have highlighted the necessity for Christians to align themselves with the Kingdom, rather than their preferences or nation-states. Today, I want to conclude with one final reflection: on the nature, the duties, and the boundaries of solidarity.

To get us started, I want to highlight three evocative image macros, popular in recent discourse about Christianity and immigration (we’ve looked at two of these, already). The first is an icon of Christ, imaged as a refugee behind barbed wire.

Immigration_Icon_Refugees

The second is the icon of the holy family, imaged as Hispanic refugees:

Immigration_Holy Family as Refugees_Kelly Latimore

The third is Christ, gathered with Hispanic children at the border:

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While previously I have highlighted other elements in these images, today I want to focus on an element that is present in all three—namely, the suggestion that what you do to these, you have done to God. By putting a refugee behind barbed wire, you have put God behind barbed wire. By treating refugees poorly, you are treating the Holy Family poorly. By treating children at the border poorly, you are treating Christ poorly. Now—and as I think I’ve made abundantly clear already—our duties to the stranger necessitate that we care for and treat hospitably all immigrants, whether legal or illegal. There are no conditions under which we are permitted, as Christians, to advocate for cruel conditions for any persons who are “strangers.” However, when we do act toward them (in whatever fashion) is it in fact that case that we are indirectly (or directly!) doing things to God?

Let’s frame this problem another way—is it the case that God stands in such a position of solidarity with the poor, the suffering, and the downtrodden, that whatever you do, or don’t do, to them, is something you have done, or not done, to God Himself? Do suffering, poor persons—irrespective of faith, nationality, goodness, or Kingdom identity—do they by virtue of their poverty have a privileged position in God’s sight?

Che as Jesus_This claim is a form of what is sometimes called the “preferential option for the poor,” a strain of Catholic social teaching with its roots in Latin American liberation theology. In turn, it anchors its claims, chiefly, on interpretations of Matthew 25 and of Matthew 5:3. It also divides Christians into two broad camps—one the one hand are believers who think that the Gospel is summed up in social action; on the other hand are those who think that the Gospel is chiefly a preached word. Let’s take a moment to examine these texts and then return to the question of solidarity and the gospel.

Matthew 25:31-46—The Judgment of the Throne
In this well-known passage, Jesus speaks about the judgment at the end of time—the separation of the nations into sheep and goats—and moreover lists distinctive criteria for why and how persons (nations?) are going to be judged. For some, Christ was hungry, thirsty, naked, sick, and imprisoned, and we fed, watered, clothed, visited, and joined them. For others, Christ was in those conditions and we did not. The concluding verse in both situations is the same, “Truly I say to you, to the extent that you did it [or did not do it] to one of these brothers of Mine, even the least of them, you did it [or did not do it] to Me.”

Sheep and Goats_Mosaic

Sheep on the right, goats to the left. Move along, now.

There’s a great deal to say about this potent and important passage. It falls within a triad of warnings about the end times, each presenting clear instruction on how we are to live while we wait for Christ’s return. The Ten Virgins parable instructs us to wait in a prepared way. The Talents parable instructs us to work with the gifts God has given us until his return (and accounting!). And the Judgment parable instructs us to be attentive to the social needs of our community while we wait for Christ’s return. But this summary highlights our question—what are the bounds of that ‘community’? According to the text, it appears that the boundary falls with “the least of these my brethren.” Is “my brethren” everyone? Is it humanity in general? Is it, drawing from Matthew 12:50, that “whoever does the will of My Father who is in heaven, he is My brother and sister and mother”? Or is this, according to some interpretations I have heard, an appeal for Christian believers to care for Israel? So that Christian treatment of national Israel is the crucial determining factor in our salvation?

Israel_Support image

Lots of people believe that Christ in Matthew 25 is speaking about Israel. For one example, see this post at http://www.graceandpeace.org/israel-the-apple-of-gods-eye/

When Jesus uses family language—brothers and sisters, fathers and mothers, My Father, Our Father—he seems always to be appealing to the family of faith. That family, according to Matthew 12:50 (and other passages) is one defined by faith, not by genealogy, or blood, or by other marks of heritage, nor by a kind of general humanity. This suggest that if we are going to contextualize Jesus’ language of “brother and sisters,” the commands to feed the hungry and thirsty, to clothe the naked, and to visit the sick and imprisoned, are commands directed at members of the Church to one another. It is difficult to make a coherent case for how these verses would apply, in one case to Israel alone, or in the other case to the entirely of humanity.

Matthew 5:3—Blessed are the Poor
“But what,” I hear you ask, “about the Beatitudes, and the blessing of the poor?” Of course you are right, and many people have taken Jesus’ statements about the blessing of the poor as the ground for their understanding of God’s preferential option for them. But is it a blanket blessing? Does poverty become its own justification for blessing? Consider momentarily the two texts which record this blessing. In Luke 6:20 we read that Jesus says, simply, “Blessed are you who are poor, for yours is the Kingdom of God.” However, Matthew 5:3 adds a few words, saying, “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven.” There’s lots that can be said about this (and if you’re interested, I treat these two passages extensively in my book Ordinary Prayer). For the sake of brevity let’s assume that Jesus doesn’t mean two different things in these two passages, but one thing which he’s used slightly different language to get at. It seems evident that the clarifying language of Matthew’s version helps us to understand that poverty, as poverty, isn’t what Jesus is really on about. It’s something different—a poverty of spirit. It isn’t the case, moreover, that wealthy people have no place in the Kingdom—they have lots of places (providing homes [Col 4:15], selling fields [Acts 4:36-37], supporting ministries [Luke 8:1-3], etc.). What seems crucial is that such persons—and this extends to all who would call themselves Christian—refuse to depend on material goods for their satisfaction. We each, in coming to God, must come as one who has nothing, one who is poor. By contrast, those who have their hands full with material wealth have a hard time coming to Jesus. (I note that a danger in reading this beatitude as only directed at the poor is that we miss its piercing application to all of us.)

Camel_Needle Cartoon

Can we get from this passage to a “preferential option for the poor”? Not without some exegetical gymnastics. God values poverty of spirit, He appears to desire a certain disposition in all His followers. But it also seems to be the case that wealth—or relative wealth—is immaterial to the condition of the heart, and the poor can live as much in the grip of Mammon as can the rich.

Solidarity?
Can we get from passages like these to a belief that God is meaningfully embodied in the suffering of others, by virtue of their humanity? Does God stand in a position of total-human-solidarity with the poor? I don’t think so. And interestingly (to draw from last week’s post) in the same way that those who advocate for laxity in borders appear to be advocating for the removal of nation-states, those who advocate for this kind of total-human-solidarity appear to be advocating for universalism. Think about it—if God is in perfect solidarity with humans by virtue of their human poverty, then a state of being other than faith in Christ is a condition for salvation. Here we have salvation by social status (which certainly taps into some of the Marxist roots of Liberation theology). By extension, Heaven itself appears to have no boundaries, no doors, no in and out (except, possibly, for those who oppress the poor or advocate for heavenly boundaries!).

No Human is Illegal

By extension, there can be no borders, no boundaries, no trespassing. Taken to extremes in theology, there can be no limits to accessing heaven.

Rightly or wrongly, the Kingdom of Heaven is a place that establishes boundaries. In Christ the nation-state is redefined, the family is redefined, and the person is redefined. In each social sphere we are re-orientated toward the Kingdom, with new allegiances, duties, and criteria of judgment. As Kingdom citizens we stand in perfect solidarity with Christ crucified and resurrected, and it would seem that we bear chief responsibility while we wait for his return to wait attentively (Virgins), to wait industriously (Talents), and to wait caring for our brothers and sisters in faith (The Sheep and the Goats).

However—and this is an enormous however—one of the responsibilities we inherit is the charge to practice hospitality toward strangers, especially since we might by our deeds entertain angels unawares (Heb 13:2—a la Sodom and Gomorrah!). In this respect, and critically, our practice of social hospitality—how we treat the poor, the hungry, the imprisoned, the sick, the destitute—is both a hallmark of our status as Kingdom Citizens and an instrument of our evangelization. In view of this, I want to note Romans 5:8, that “God demonstrates His own love toward us, in that while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us.” The love of God for us preceded our Kingdom status. In the same way, it seems fitting that our love for the poor of the world might precede their Kingdom status. Christ died for all—his death makes sufficient provision for all persons. And yet not all will receive his loving work. In the same way, ought we not to be lavish in our love for the world, irrespective of the world’s acceptance of the meaning of that work?

So, is it the case that Jesus stands in embodied solidarity with every refugee? No, it is not. Can we reduce the Gospel to social action? No, we cannot. But we must remember that Christ might be with some of them. And until we visit, and clothe, and feed, and care, we will never find out if He was.

An Uneasy Conversation about Immigration, Continued.

I remain uneasy. Despite last week’s foray into the questions surrounding Immigration and Christianity, I am keenly aware of how much more there is to say—and of how uncertain a great deal of it is. Last time, I concluded that Christians do indeed bear clear ethical responsibility to the immigrant/stranger in the land, but I noted that the bounds of this responsibility are made unclear on account of the uncertain nature of our relationship to the state. In today’s post, I want to return to the question of the state, and to bring that to bear on the question of “illegal” immigration. I anticipate more uneasiness.

To get started, consider the following image, in which a cartoon of Jesus with children highlights Matthew 25:40 and suggests that the language of “least of these” applies specifically to undocumented immigrant children:

Immigration_Cartoon_Hay-Soos-COLOR-1020x684

This is a potent, evocative image. It raises questions (not entirely subtle) about national sovereignty, about where Jesus ‘stands’ in relation to nation-states, and about the extent of solidarity. It suggests explicitly that if we are truly Christian, we should be allowing these children (and by implication their parents) unrestricted access to America. In fact, it asks a fundamental question—one that is implied in a great deal of the discourse around American immigration and Christianity: Do nation-states have the right to exist?

To you, that may seem like the wrong question—it may seem like an exaggeration, or even a distraction. But I think it really captures the heart of the present debate. In one camp (let’s give a charitable account) are a group of Americans who want to preserve a form of national sovereignty. They want to do this, specifically, by clarifying the land border between Mexico and the Southern US. Many (but not all of them) want a physical wall. Now, however you may feel about this camp of citizens, if you are in the other camp and are going to oppose them, you’ve got to ask about the alternative. If we don’t enforce the border, for what are we advocating? Note that this is (at the moment) completely irrespective of the merits or demerits of a given immigrant—this has nothing to do with questions of “deplorables” or escapees. If we oppose the establishment of a clear border, aren’t we in fact advocating for no border at all? And if, upon reflection, we are advocating for no border at all, aren’t we tacitly arguing that nation-states shouldn’t have borders? Isn’t this bound up with desires for unrestricted travel, free trade, deregulated immigration, and a kind of “global citizenship” unbounded by certain premodern conceptions of the state?

aint-no-border

This, then, is our question: do nation-states have the right to exist? And how will we answer this question from a Christian perspective? The answer is: with difficulty. Firstly, and as I mentioned last week, there is no instruction whatsoever in the Bible on the management and establishment of foreign nation-states. We’ve got examples of states gone wrong (Canaanites, Egypt), and states under judgement for having gone wrong (Sodom, Gomorrah), but no ready-made Scriptural management techniques which we can apply to the Southern American land-border with Mexico. Instead, we’ll have to intuit a few answers and then draw some conclusions. To me there seems to be four sets of clues we can draw from: property laws, hospitality laws, the Kingdom of God as a State, and modern examples of anti-property, anti-border states.

Property Laws
First, property laws. The Bible has lots to say about property—it is enshrined, in fact, in no less than two of the Ten Commandments (we are commanded neither to steal, nor to covet). Property laws are then worked out in a host of case studies, relative to oxen (Ex. 21:32), donkeys (Ex 21:34-34), slaves (Dtr 15:17), children (Ex 21:22), and so forth. Among other things, this indicates that the category of things called “property” covered a significantly broad and varied assortment. It also points to the fact that, in the ancient world, the master of a household bore responsibility for virtually everything in the household. We must remember that in that world the horizons of economics and household management aligned. Within this extremely broad set of passages, there are also clear stipulations about the role of land rights. We are warned not to move ancient boundary stones (i.e., stealing property—Dtr 19:14), and we are commanded to return property to its hereditary owners after fixed-term leases (in this sense, no property was ever really ‘sold’ in Israel—see Leviticus 25 in full).

How can we connect these passages to the question of nation-states? Quite simply, if individual households have the right to exist, to preserve property, and to be managed according to just governance, then it is reasonable to expect that nation-states are subject to the same conditions. In short, as the household, so the nation-state. As households are judged (scripturally) on the merits of their masters, so nation-states are judged on the merits of their governors. As households have boundaries and door locks, preventing unrestricted access and protecting their assets (containing all the variety of ‘property’ within), so nation-states have boundaries and borders, similarly preventing unrestricted access and protecting its assets (containing all the ‘property’—its citizens—within). From this perspective—if our logic is sound—then nation-states possess the right and duty to establish and enforce a border. To fail at this appears to be, at minimum, a negligence of management.

Korean Rock Wall_Jeju_batdam

A rock wall separates farmland in Korea.

Hospitality Laws
However, and alongside each of these property laws, there is also a clear set of instructions regarding hospitality. Primarily, these are the laws of the stranger that I discussed last week. But in addition to these laws, there are a few key Scriptural examples to consider. The first is Genesis 19, where Sodom and Gomorrah are destroyed. It is extremely important to note that while immorality (esp. in a form of violent homosexuality) is in play during this story, the primary reason for their destruction appears to be the violation of hospitality. The angels appear at the gates of the city, and Lot—the only righteous man in town—displays his righteousness by offering them hospitality. The test of the city appears to be in how it treats the stranger. Sodom and Gomorrah’s response is disturbing: we rape strangers. Lot attempts to save the angels (not knowing they are angels) at the expense of his daughters’ lives, but before they can be subjected to this horror the angels begin their saving and destroying work.

Another case in the Old Testament is found in Numbers 20. There, Israel seeks Edomite permission to pass through their land—a desire for a kind of national hospitality. They even offer (astonishingly!) to drink no water, and pass through no crops. The Edomites refuse, and we note that to refuse water to a desert dwelling people is to desire, tacitly, their death. This is a source of future enmity between Edom and Israel. It is a violation of hospitality.

Note that we are not released from these hospitality laws in the New Testament. Most evocatively, and perhaps with Genesis 19 in mind, the author of Hebrews (13:2) admonishes us to show hospitality to strangers, “for by this some have entertained angels without knowing it.” In each stranger, he argues, we may be offering hospitality to an angel of the Lord. Hospitality remains a fundamental test of our civic virtue.

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The Kingdom of God as a State
“But wait a moment,” I hear you object—doesn’t the New Testament church do away with property? Don’t the believers share all that they have? Isn’t it the case that none had needs in the early church? Yes, and no. Yes, there was a radical new sharing among the people of God. Yes, it was the case that members of the early church exchanged earthly goods so that members of the fellowship could eat. But it was not the case that all members divested themselves of property. First of all, we must remember that the Church continued to meet in homes. To meet in a home you have to own a home. To own a home in the ancient world you had to be wealthy. The early church had quite a few wealthy members who did not sell all they had. They maintained their property. But wait—didn’t Ananias and Sapphira get the axe because they didn’t sell their property? Not quite—they were killed, primarily, because they lied about it. They sold the field not in order to bless the people, but in order to make themselves look good. They kept the money because their hearts weren’t in the gift. They died because, like Achan in Joshua 7 before them, their corruption could not be allowed to sully the new conquest of the new Israel in the world.

Furthermore, it was not the case that money was redistributed in toto in the early church. There are rules about widows and orphans (they must be genuinely helpless—1 Tim 5:3-7), there are rules about working and eating (if you can work but don’t, you are not going to get help from the church—2 Thess 3:10). There are admonishments for the wealthy taking advantage of the weak (1 Cor 11:17-22). These passages indicate that the early church was not a kind of proto-communist utopia, but a place of fulfilled and glorified biblical economics. All who can work must work, those with an excess give, those who are desperate are cared for by the church.

There is more. The Kingdom of God is here, but not yet fully. The Kingdom—that is, God’s reign, invading the earth—is an entity that actively rejects national boundaries. It includes people from every tongue, tribe, and nation, and in every case citizenship in the Kingdom trumps that of individual nation-states. My identification with other Christians in China, Peru, Namibia, and Honduras sits in clear priority over my identification with any particular nation state (whether the US, Canada, or the UK—the three where I’ve lived so far). Without regard to my individual nation-state, I bear an ecclesial responsibility to Christians first. They are part of my household. And yet, this reality of Kingdom-citizenship still has its own boundaries. There is an inside, and an outside; there are those who are part of the kingdom, and those who are outside of it (see Matthew 25). The Kingdom itself maintains (and defends?) its own boundaries, its citizens, and its values (see, for example, Eph 5:1-13).

Colorful World Map

The Kingdom transcends all borders.

Nation-states that have abolished property
From what we can tell so far, it seems reasonable—on Scriptural grounds—to infer that yes, nation-states have a right to exist. They are an extension of the household and are governed (at least in part) by the Scriptural laws of property and hospitality. Is there ground, then, to make a case for the abolition of nation-states? Not from Scripture. Even the Kingdom is conceived as a place of boundaries and property management under the governance of justice, hospitality, and identity. By contrast, in the modern world where governments have attempted the abolition of property the consequences, in human terms, have been disastrous. Ironically, the effect of removing property reduces all persons to the property of the state. Outsiders—those who do not participate in the communist project—are viewed as assets to be added to the collective (very literally, what’s mine is mine and what’s yours is mine). A lack of borders becomes an invitation to the overriding of the borders of other nations. Nationalist, ethnic, and ideological holdouts are subjected to “re-education” (which is a word that should strike fear into any person educated with respect to 20th century history). In a strange turn, the abolition of property results in dehumanization.

Many Christians—historic and modern alike—have advocated for degrees and forms of socialist/communist economic structures. They have argued for these structures on the basis of their reading of the New Testament Church. However, it seems clear that they are guilty of an over-realized eschatology—what may work in a perfected world cannot work in this present, imperfect world. And in each case where this has been attempted such borderless projects, while promising heaven, have in fact delivered only hell.

Re-education in Vietnam

These images are from Vietnamese re-education camps, and are mild (i.e., they’ve been staged). Most of the other images are too disturbing to post.

Further Uneasy Ethics
Now what? And how does this help us with regard to the question of “illegal” immigrants? Here are five, further conclusions to consider.

1) Nation-states do indeed have the right to exist.

2) Nation-states are judged (by God) with respect to their management, specifically concerning utilization of property and hospitality.

3) Nation-states have a household responsibility to care for their citizens and maintain borders.

4) The Kingdom of God is the nation-state to which Christians belong, and may not be identified with any earthly nation-state. “My Kingdom is not of this world.”

5) Christians within nation-states possess a dual citizenship—the first, primary, to the Kingdom; the second, relative, to their nation-state.

Obviously, this creates an uneasy ethical tension. On the one hand, I am subject to the laws and regulations of my nation-state, which has a sovereign responsibility to defend its own boundaries. On the other hand, I am subject to the laws and regulations of the Kingdom of God, which transcends those boundaries and makes difficult demands of me.

So how do we address the question of the illegal immigrant? It seems that he or she falls squarely between the boundaries of earthly states and the Kingdom. We are bound to acknowledge that national borders are important—i.e., we admit that we all lock our doors at night for the sake of the residents of our homes. At the same time we bear a transcending Kingdom responsibility to be hospitable to the stranger. In the crush between the laws of our land and the commandments of Scripture, we are left with two questions: How shall we exhibit hospitality, and shall we err on the side of legality, or on the side of mercy?

First, hospitality. We don’t have to admit every immigrant who comes to a nation, but we ought—under God’s own command—to treat them each with dignity and hospitality. This will be costly, but the cost of ignoring it is too great.

Mother Teresa_pew

Second, mercy. Laws matter. And yet they are not all—especially when we follow Christ. And on his account it is clear that no amount of law-keeping will make us righteous if in the process we have become, and are, unmerciful. He even says this explicitly, quoting Hosea, “I desire mercy, not sacrifice” (Matt 9:13, Hosea 6:6). Christ seeks from us a heart of tenderness, more than a heart that has kept all of the rules.

In all of this, I have still left out one, final, looming question: What responsibility does the Church have toward outsiders? What are the boundaries of solidarity? To that question I will return, and conclude, next week.

Let’s Have an Uneasy Conversation About Immigration

I must confess that I am uneasy. I am uneasy about the stories of immigration in the news lately. I am uneasy with progressive responses to those situations. I am uneasy with Christian responses to those stories. I am uneasy about the trustworthiness of news sources, the spin of commentators, and the histrionics of disputants. But beneath and throughout all of this uneasiness, I’ve felt especially uncomfortable with how Scripture is used when it comes to questions of the “immigrant,” the “stranger,” and the “refugee.” Some serious thinking was required, and the result is something of an uneasy conversation.

Immigration_CNN_mcallen-texas-exlarge-tease

This uneasy conversation is rooted in the fact that immigration (both legal and illegal), refugees, and Christian responsibility come together in an awkward discourse, one that stretches the boundaries of any simplistic ethics. At the heart of the conflict are two, oil-and-water realities—the life of the Kingdom of God, and the existence of nation-states. Unclear thinking in both areas, to my mind, has created a great deal of misinformation and confusion. Perhaps one way to summarize the diverse dialogues and talking points is to pose a simple question: what is the Christian responsibility towards the immigrant/refugee?

The most common answers I encounter come from certain interpretations of Scripture. Consider two such interpretations now. In this first image Jesus, Mary, and Joseph are likened to refugees, fleeing Herod to Egypt. The message, implicit, is that the state of the refugee is crucially linked to the story of Christianity itself.

Immigration_Holy Family as Refugees_Kelly Latimore

An Icon of the Holy Family, by Kelly Latimore.

Another image lists a series of scripture texts, but pointedly translates the word “stranger” as “immigrant.”

Immigrant Scriptures_

I won’t take the time to analyze these images in depth, but where I want to focus is on their use of Scripture. Specifically, in both cases Christian Scripture (or an event) is used pointedly to address the current immigration/refugee issue in the US. Each is, in fact, a form of proof texting—here is a situation, here is a Scripture to address said situation, case closed.

Allow me to register a few concerns. First, modern labels such as “immigrant” and “refugee” are heavily freighted with meaning. While the Bible does indeed have things to say about the stranger in the land, they may not be the same kinds of things that modern commentators are making it say. Is the modern refugee really the same as Joseph, Mary, and Jesus fleeing to Egypt? Can these texts really be applied to our modern situation without interpretation or context? For instance, in order to claim that Israel’s stranger laws should directly inform America’s immigration policy we would need to establish that the nation-state of Israel is sufficiently similar to the nation-state of America. This is a deeply tenuous connection, and one that many commentators would not be so happy to make.

In light of this, a second concern. In addition to the quoted stranger laws, the Bible has lots of other things to say about how we treat one another, specifically from the same passages of text! For example, instructions in Leviticus 18, 19, and 20 shift almost breathlessly from laws about clothing of two fabrics, to rules about sex with slave girls, to the breeding of cattle, to forbidding homosexual relations, and to honouring one’s parents. Many of the same people who reject the Bible’s teachings on some of these issues (e.g., homosexuality), are presenting contextually linked scriptures as proof-texts for immigration reform. Furthermore, when they give reasons for why they are not bound by a scripture like Leviticus 18:22, they cite the fact that we do not observing other, contextually linked passages, such as the garment laws. The law of the stranger, then, is binding, but none of the others. I find this, at best, disingenuous.

Levicitus Clobber Text

While these flaws make me uneasy, they are not themselves an argument. They are bad rhetoric, and possibly poor interpretations of Scripture, but we still must examine the Scriptural claims about what, if any, is the proper Christian response to the immigrant/refugee. We’ll need to think about this from two angles—the nation-state, and the immigrant.

The Bible and the State
First, does the Bible speak to the circumstances of the modern nation-state? In a word, not really. The Old Testament offers instruction on the management of theocratic, then monarchic Israel. Many Christians believe that these instructions ought to shape the governance of their nations, but this is by no means a simple open-and-shut Scriptural case. For example, the text points to the role of boundary stones (Proverbs 22:28), of property management (Leviticus 25), of ethnic purity (Deuteronomy 7:3), and of economics (Leviticus 25, 23:22, Deut. 23). These are instructions for Israel specifically. It is worth noting, however, that when other nations stand in violation of certain aspects of God’s law they are judged, and even destroyed, based on those violations (e.g., Deuteronomy 18:9).

And yet, apart from these passages of judgment (for moral reasons) we get no instruction on secular civil governance in the Bible. Paul tells us in Romans 13 to “obey the civil authorities” (and he says this about Nero, mind you). John in Luke 3 tells the tax collector to collect just the right amount, and the soldiers to avoid harassing people and be content with their wages. If we wish to look to the Scriptures for advice on how to govern, manage, and maintain national borders, we are going to get precious little help. Furthermore, the concept of the modern nation-state—as a non-religious, non-ethnic social aggregate of disparate persons—is unheard of in ancient Israel, and certainly insufficiently like the Roman state for easy comparison with America, if only because no ancient person had a vote like modern persons do.

EmperorMaximiam

Emperor Maximiam offering incense to Jupiter.

In view of Romans 13, however, it is worth remembering that Christian obedience to the state clearly had limits. When the New Testament was written, the early Church had an uneasy but largely unchallenged relationship to the Roman government. But in the years following the writing of Paul’s letters this situation changed—the question of obeying Caesar or Christ became pointed, and the resounding witness of the early Church was to honour Christ, even if it meant death. Thus, when a given Christian stood before the altar to Caesar and was pressed to offer incense to him as a deity, that Christian refused to obey the civil authority. Death, by the very sword entrusted to those who govern, was often the consequence.

It follows, then, that because there are no Christian states, properly speaking, but only states with proportions of Christians serving inside them, no civil ethic ever aligns perfectly with a Scriptural model, whether Old or New Testament. The default ethic would appear to be some form of Romans 13:1-7 (to honor civil authorities), combined with some form of 1 Thessalonians 4:11-12 (to lead a quiet life). However, in those situations where the state stands opposed to Christian teaching, then we side with Christ, even if it means our imprisonment or death.

The Bible and the Stranger
Second, does the Bible speak to the situation of the stranger, the immigrant, or the refugee? In a word, yes—quite a lot, actually. While the image macro of Scripture texts above bent matters a little for its own benefit, each of the texts do speak about treatment of the stranger in the land. Exodus 22:21-24 is one of the clearest and most poignant:

21You shall not wrong a stranger or oppress him, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt. 22 You shall not afflict any widow or orphan. 23 If you afflict him at all, and if he does cry out to Me, I will surely hear his cry; 24 and My anger will be kindled, and I will kill you with the sword, and your wives shall become widows and your children fatherless.”

Slaves in Egypt

Israel, as a people who were formerly strangers—immigrants, if you will—in Egypt, are called to remember at all times their former status and to treat others accordingly. Note: the text makes no provision for the ethnic heritage of the stranger, nor for his or her religious background, nor for his or her quality of life, language ability, or socioeconomic status. It does not matter if the stranger is a qualified worker or a slave, he or she is to be treated justly. Leviticus 24:17-22 makes this explicit:

17 ‘If a man takes the life of any human being, he shall surely be put to death. 18 The one who takes the life of an animal shall make it good, life for life. 19 If a man injures his neighbor, just as he has done, so it shall be done to him: 20 fracture for fracture, eye for eye, tooth for tooth; just as he has injured a man, so it shall be inflicted on him. 21 Thus the one who kills an animal shall make it good, but the one who kills a man shall be put to death. 22 There shall be one standard for you; it shall be for the stranger as well as the native, for I am the Lord your God.’

(Note: similar passages can be found at Leviticus 19:33-34, Deuteronomy 24:14-15, Deuteronomy 27:19, and Jeremiah 22:3-5.)

In light of these passages, does the situation of the modern immigrant and refugee correlate to the biblical picture? It certainly seems so. Central to the story of the Bible, Jacob and his sons flee economic hardship in order to reside in Egypt, where they are immigrants. In the book of Ruth an Israelite woman (Naomi), on account of famine (a natural disaster) emigrates to Moab. After her sons die, she returns with Ruth (now an immigrant) to Israel, where they live, essentially, as economic refugees. Mary, Joseph, and infant Jesus do indeed flee a situation of political hostility (the government, Herod, wants to kill them) and reside as political refugees in Egypt. Central to the story of Christianity is that of displaced people seeking safety and hope in foreign lands, and crucial in God’s ethics towards displaced persons is our responsibility to be hospitable to the stranger in our land.

The_Good_Samaritan_After_Delacroix_-_Vincent_Van_Gogh

Van Gogh’s Good Samaritan

At this point someone might object that for those stories, their movements were ordained by God as part of His story and plan. That is true enough, but it was on account of those stories—and especially the original story of Israel in Egypt—that we receive the clear commandments from Exodus, Leviticus, and Deuteronomy to care for the stranger in our land, irrespective of that stranger’s ethico-religious identity. Whatever the origin of the story, now we have inherited an ethic which governs our treatment of the displaced.

An Uneasy Ethical Balance
This, then, is the heart of our uneasy conversation about Christianity and immigration: on the one hand, we have a clear, Scriptural ethic to care for the stranger, and on the other hand, we have no clear Scriptural ethic about how to be a Christian in a secular nation-state. In light of this, I think the following, provisional conclusions are in order:

1) A Christian perspective does indeed carry ethical obligations toward the immigrant/refugee. If we take the Bible seriously, we must care for the stranger and seek justice for him or her.

2) To the degree that America is, in fact, a Christian nation, then it bears a Christian responsibility toward immigrants/refugees. By implication, Christians should be as pro-immigrant as they are pro-life.

3) To the degree that America is a Christian nation, to that same degree it bears economic, religious, and moral responsibilities as well. This will cover homosexuality and poverty, land reform and honouring the Sabbath.

As I close, let’s acknowledge two crucial factors. First, while conclusion #1 is unambiguous, neither #2 or #3 is in any sense ethically simple. Neither of the premises for #2 or #3 are clear (that America is a Christian nation), therefore the implications are necessarily murky.

But second, I’ve left aside one, looming question: what about illegal immigration? To answer that question, we will have to further consider the role of boundaries and self-identity in secular nation-states. For that discussion, we will need to return next week.

Orientalism—A Fourth Set of Thoughts (Othering and Bulverism)

Orientalism_Cover 4I’ve benefited immensely from my read of Edward Said’s seminal book, Orientalism, and lately I’ve been blogging through a few reflections on the implications and impact of that work. Today I want to think about Othering, Bulverism, and the danger of labelling.

‘Othering’ is a formal concept where I employ an identifying metric in my encounters with an ‘other’ in such a way that I both highlight the differences and reinforce my sense of self. In the encounter between my self and an other, the other is used as a foil for my own identity, and in the process I often fail to see him or her as a real person, with real narrative, and with real information to bring to a relational engagement. Today I want to reflect on how defining a process such as ‘othering’ is both helpful and unhelpful at the same time.

First, it is helpful because it does indeed describe many of the historic, and ongoing, interactions between the West and other cultures. One doesn’t have to search far to find evidence of Western reductionism, selfishness, and fetishization of non-Western ‘others.’ Orientalism has allowed the West to compartmentalize, and then no longer see, a group—by rendering them invisible, they can be ignored, reduced in narrative, and made simple. In short, Orientalism has been a disposition that makes discrimination possible. In this, as a label it is helpful as a diagnostic tool to mark, identify, and seek to redress these abuses.

At the same time, I think it can also be unhelpful. One of the hallmarks of modern discourse is labelling—if I can effectively and evocatively label a situation, or a wrong, then I can summarily defeat it. Think of the power of big labels such as “racism,” “abuse,” and “intolerance.” Think also of the power of lesser labels, such as “Becky,” “Wypipo,” “millennial,” or “snowflake.” If I can successfully label you, then I can summarily dismiss you. Partly, this appears to be nothing more than a turning of the tables—where once, the West in power labelled and dismissed non-Western others, now non-Western others are able to label and dismiss the West.

specialsnowflake meme

I was reminded, here, of something C.S. Lewis wrote in God in the Dock (also published as Undeceptions), specifically about just and unjust arguments. His description is worth quoting in full:

Lewis_UndeceptionsIn the course of the last fifteen years I have found this vice so common that I have had to invent a name for it. I call it ‘Bulverism.’ Some day I am going to write the biography of its imaginary inventor, Ezekiel Bulver, whose destiny was determined at the age of five when he heard his mother say to his father — who had been maintaining that two sides of a triangle were together greater than a third — ‘Oh you say that because you are a man.’ ‘At that moment,’ E. Bulver assures us, ‘there flashed across my opening mind the great truth that refutation is no necessary part of argument. Assume that your opponent is wrong, and explain his error, and the world will be at your feet. Attempt to prove that he is wrong or (worse still) try to find out whether he is wrong or right, and the national dynamism of our age will thrust you to the wall.’ That is how Bulver became one of the makers of the Twentieth Century.

In other words, the application of a preconditioned label—racist, liberal, Trump-supporter, snowflake, millennial, Baby Boomer, etc.—is sufficient argument enough. No more needs to be said, and no listening needs to happen. The argument, by virtue of the label, is rendered complete.

Crucial in Said’s account of Orientalism is his appeal to a kind of listening as a tonic for the abuses of the past—toward this goal, he utilizes the label of ‘othering’ as a diagnostic tool, but he does this in order to make an appeal for better communication and understanding between the East and West. In his own words, he argues that “there is a difference between knowledge of other peoples and other times that is the result of understanding, compassion, careful study and analysis for their own sakes, and on the other hand knowledge—if that is what it is—that is part of an overall campaign of self-affirmation, belligerency and outright war.” (Orientalism, xiv, emphasis added) When labels are simply a power-play, then they can no longer facilitate this process.

In view of this, I am reminded of Jesus’s words from Matthew 5:22,

But I say to you that everyone who is angry with his brother shall be guilty before the court; and whoever says to his brother, ‘You good-for-nothing,’ shall be guilty before the supreme court; and whoever says, ‘You fool,’ shall be guilty enough to go into the fiery hell

Note that in this passage Jesus is giving instructions for how we are to behave when our brother has something against us (he says this explicitly in verse 23). We, in other words, are the offender in this passage. But our response is illuminating—first, we become angry with our brother for bringing a charge against us, then we call him a name (“good-for-nothing”), and finally we ascribe to him a label, “fool.” Labelling, in this passage, is the process of hardening our hearts to the claim of our brothers or sisters. It diminishes and reduces the complexity of the person. It is the antithesis of listening, and in Jesus’ instruction it is equated, in the end, to murder.

Sermon on the Mount_

It probably didn’t look like this.

Does that mean that no one is ever a fool? Of course not. There are scads of them. Just as there are scads of genuine snowflakes and racists in the world. But when we misuse those labels in petty power plays and in a context devoid of genuine listening, we put ourselves on what, according to Jesus, is a highly dangerous trajectory.

Don’t Preach Like Andy Stanley

Atlanta preacher Andy Stanley has crossed my news feed several times of late. Most recently, he was publicly criticized for a sermon where he troublingly interpreted Acts 15 by saying that Christians should “unhitch” their faith from the Old Testament. Numerous articles emerged (one of the best in First Things) to discuss Andy’s dangerous theological direction.

And yet, not long ago ,Andy was also in the Christian news circuit, listed among a set of the most influential Evangelical preachers. Stanley, the son of megachurch and radio preacher Charles Stanley, has piloted NorthPoint Community Church for years, an Atlanta megachurch with some 39,000 people in attendance weekly at its six campuses. He is an author, a traveling public speaker, and used to publish podcasts on leadership to which I would listen, in another life.

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In response to the recent furore over Andy’s April 29th comments about the Old Testament, I watched the YouTube video of the sermon. While indeed it was the case that I found the content of his sermon troubling, even more than that I found the sermon itself—his delivery, style, and manner, to be alarming. Since Stanley is so highly regarded as a preacher, and since I spend a lot of time thinking about preaching, I thought I’d suggest some reasons why we ought not to preach like Andy Stanley. I’ve got three such suggestions today.

#1) Are you Controlling?
Throughout his sermon Stanley repeated two phrases so many times that I lost count. He would assert “Now this is important,” and he would command the audience to “Look up here.” Now, if Stanley had digressed from his main point, and then used phrases like these to gather the congregation back to the main point again, I can see why they might be useful. But that wasn’t the case. Instead, these were deployed in what I can only guess was an attempt to try to keep the congregation’s focus razor sharp on what Stanley was doing at a given moment. They exhibited, to me, what appeared to be a desire for control over the congregation—control over their attention, their minds, their focus for the duration of the service. I think this kind of (attempted) control is really dangerous for preachers.

It is dangerous, among other things, because it creates a climate of distrust and of performance. When a preacher continuously labours to keep your attention, it is because, at heart, he doesn’t believe you’re really listening, because he doesn’t trust you. This opens the door for phrases like Stanley’s, for gimmicks, and for any number of “creative” means for keeping congregations interested (movie clips, song lyrics, images, etc.). It also creates a culture of performance—after all, the really faithful Christians are the ones who hang on every word, who take extensive notes, and who can repeat the points of the sermon easily at lunch after the service. Those who can’t are, by implication, lesser Christians.

I was once at a Youth event with a guest preacher who was a short, muscular, African-American man. As is often the case at weekend Youth events, the youths stay up late fellowshipping, playing, and eating cup noodles (you can pick your own snack, but I was with Asians and cup noodles after midnight are a must-have). After one (or maybe two) such nights, one of my members fell asleep in the back row of the hall where we were meeting. This was unsurprising—not only had he been up late, but he was a generally tired guy. Well, the speaker noted this from the front, and then suddenly left the front, marched to the back, and sat on my member’s lap! He then whispered in his ear (I found this out later), “Do you think you can stay awake now?” From that point on, everybody stayed awake, but when I asked them about it later they told me it was because they were terrified that the muscular speaker might do something to them! He had won his point, but lost his audience in the process.

Cup Noodles_Kimchi

When I was a beginning preacher I had an idea of the perfect sermon that looked a lot like what I think is going on in Stanley’s sermon. I thought that the ideal message would keep a congregation spellbound for the duration of the sermon—locked in attention, immobile, perfectly hanging on every word. Toward that end, I used to refuse to give out notes for sermons because I felt that if I were doing my job properly, they wouldn’t need any notes. Then, one Sunday morning, a young woman came up to me after the service and told me that she was seeking God, and enjoyed coming to church, but that sometimes she just couldn’t follow along with the sermons. In that moment I heard God speak to me with impressive clarity. He said, “Jeremy, will you keep this young woman from learning about Me because you have some stupid idea of what a sermon should be like?” I was immediately chastised, and from that time on I always printed and handed out notes for sermons. I also changed my philosophy of preaching. Instead of aiming for the pied-piper spellbound model of sermon, I realized that the very best sermons are when people stop listening to you completely because God is doing something in them. You’ve said something, and they begin to think about their lives, about what it means, about how the Word impacts them. I realized that losing people in this way was way more important than keeping them focused on me. And that meant, last of all, that the best sermons are the ones that provide easy ways for people to get back on board. “On ramps,” we used to call them in Seminary—phrases like, “Back to John 14,” or “Returning to our main point, that Jesus heals today…”—these phrases bring a congregation back to the text, and show how a preacher can guide without being controlling.

#2) Are you Angry?
Another thing stood out to me prominently during the 40-odd minutes of Stanley’s sermon—there wasn’t a lot of joy. There was intensity, focus, and drive—there were moments of elevated energy and a few jokes, but on the whole there was something monochromatic. The more I thought about it, the more I felt that the emotion which dominated Stanley’s sermon was actually anger. Now, anger is a perfectly suitable emotion for a sermon when it is directed at a just cause, or framed by a situation that calls for anger, but throughout this sermon it felt more like anger was the passive, baseline emotion which drove everything along. Not only did I find this really interesting, I realized that it might explain a common preaching phenomenon.

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Are you able to discern the actual line between intensity and anger?

I found this interesting for a number of reasons, not least of them because I’ve been someone who has had to discern and diagnose my own anger, which had become the passive emotional baseline in my own life. When my own anger was undiagnosed, it leaked out through my energy, my creativity, and my relationships. Anger that is unprocessed doesn’t go away—it stays and festers, shaping, distorting, and limiting all other emotions. It took time for me to recognize this pattern and begin to reframe it accordingly.

As I thought about this angry sermon, I had a sudden realization. Preachers often talk about “really feeling it,” or “really preaching.” They may use other words, but it describes the emotional state of being totally engaged in the sermon, of really feeling like you are preaching. Often, preachers will diagnose this experience as a work of the Spirit, moving the preacher to this excited emotional level—furthermore, they often take it as a sign of God’s favour with what they are preaching. But what, I wondered, if many preachers have simply misdiagnosed their anger? What if this heightened emotional state isn’t the rush God’s Spirit, but rather the rush of my own anger? The symptoms would be the same—a sense of energy, of elevation, potentially an adrenaline rush, followed by a subsequent emotional crash. Side effects would be frustration at distractions—a baby crying, a person getting up to use the restroom, or mishaps with sound equipment. Preachers who feel they are “really preaching” are often, to my knowledge, also really keyed up.

The more I’ve thought about this, the more I think it is true. I’ve listened to some of my friends preach, and their sense of ‘feeling it’ is outwardly indistinguishable from anger. Not long ago I listened to Russell Moore’s Erasmus Lecture (for First Things). In it he was affable, brilliant, and prophetic. I decided then to listen to his MLK50 sermon, in which he was, well, angry. If the difference between the first talk and the second was that the second was a sermon, then this seems to confirm my thesis even further.

Russell Moore

There are lots of reasons for pastors to feel angry—their own personal pain, undiagnosed wounds, a sense of the burden of ministry, frustration at members, and so forth. And the truth of the matter is not that pastors ought never to feel angry, but that we’ve got to examine, diagnose, and process it so that it doesn’t leak out into our ministries. Unless anger is specifically called for, I would suggest that the dominant baseline emotions for a preacher ought to be either peace, joy, or a combination of the two.

#3) Are you Preaching Bad Theology?
I think this final question requires the least amount of reflection. As I said earlier, I’ve listened to Stanley’s sermon in full, and I feel that it is deeply theologically troubling. Even a charitable read, which focuses on Stanley’s intentions, leaves much to be desired with regard to Acts 15, the Gentile inclusion in the Church, and the (ongoing!) role of the Old Testament in the moral lives of God’s Church.

The thing is, good theology isn’t Stanley’s primary goal. His primary goal—which he has executed with great effectiveness—is to build a church “where unchurched people love to attend.” As far as it goes, this is a solid goal, and it’s clear that Stanley has succeeded enormously. It is also clear from the content of his sermon that this goal is operating in the background of his theology—his desire to “unhitch” the Old Testament is rooted in the perception that the Old Testament might keep people from coming to faith. In this, he sees the story of Acts 15 and the Gentile inclusion as a kind of snapshot of his own ministry (where the Jerusalem council is also creating a church where un-churched people will love to attend).

Andy Stanley_Old Testament

A screenshot from the April 29 Sermon.

But note—this seems to suggest that Stanley’s theology is being shaped by his vision, rather than his vision being shaped by theology. And this means we’ve got to have some discernment of values. We’ve got to be careful that our local vision for the church doesn’t war against a) the scriptures, b) the creeds, c) the church global. Theology is that funny chimera born within the midst of those three features, and while it is by no means monolithic, it does have a discernible centre. If my desire to create a church were unchurched people love to attend begins to cause me to edit and reshape some of that theological centre, then I’m stepping into enormously dangerous territory. That’s why there is a discernment of values. The Church is allowed enormous, almost astonishing, freedom of local expression, and yet she must maintain her ties to those centres of focus. When “local expressions” begin to trump the orthodox middle, it is then that we’ve got serious problems.

Andy Stanley has a powerful ministry with enormous impact. But don’t be like him. Be like you, and serve where God has planted you, and try to do it without controlling, without a spirit of anger, and in solid theological company.

Orientalism—A Third Set of Thoughts (Fetishization)

orientalism_cover3I’ve finished reading Said’s Orientalism now, but I’ve still got a small backlog of thoughts to process from the book. Today I’d like to give some attention to the process of fetishization.

Briefly to review, Said’s argument opens with a description of othering, which in Orientalism is a term used to describe the difficult relationship between the Orient and the Occident. When I ‘other’ someone it means that I am perceiving them as different in such a way that the difference reinforces my own sense of identity. I am not examining an ‘other’ to find out more about the other, to discover his or her history, family relationships, culture, sense of self-identity, values, teleology, and so forth. Instead, I view the other through a more rigid lens of my own perception. I identify a ‘them’ so that I can better reinforce my sense of ‘us.’

In the history of Orientalism (as a discipline and mindset) this othering process has resulted in a flattening of “Oriental” culture (a very diverse and large set of data is made to fit within artificial and procrustean structures—I wrote about this last time), and also in a fetishization. Now, there is an obvious sexual component to this term that will factor in shortly, but beneath and behind that I want to highlight something more nuanced. By fetishization, I want to suggest a form of love for the other that is fundamentally self-referential. Fetishized love is a love which is based on what the other is perceived to be able to do for me. With this in mind, it is not hard to see how the Orient has been loved by the West in a way that is self-referential to the West. The Orient is loved on the basis of the West’s idea of the Orient (whether or not the Orient matches that idea), and the Orient is loved for the way that the West’s perception of its differences reinforces Western senses of self, and the Orient is loved because in its plasticity the West can project its desires upon it. Each of these is a fetishizing love. Each of these warps the Orient to Western tastes and perceptions.

Much of this, on the Western side of the scale, can be arguably laid at the feet of what Charles Taylor labelled as the West’s identity crisis. In Sources of the Self he explicitly claims that the West has lost its moorings—a new sense of autonomous self-governed authority dominates the western self and leaves it with few external reference points. Consequently, it is only natural that the West would look outside of itself in the hope of finding out who it really is. One of the richest mines for this outside look has been the Orient, and this connects directly to our fascination with so-called eastern mysticism. Not long ago I re-watched the 1984 film The Karate Kid, and couldn’t help but think about this process. A young, fatherless, displaced boy, finds himself bullied at school (he is a prototype for Taylor’s disorientated Western self). He is taken under wing by an older, Japanese man who coaches him through his bullying problem by providing him with a sense of deeper identity through Karate, bonsai trees, and Japanese culture. And while I loved (and still love!) the movie, I can’t help but reflect on the caricature of the East that it portrays (however lovingly). The east, I am tacitly told, is a place to be consumed, to be borrowed from, to be utilized for my own personal needs. It is a place (extending from this) from which I can collect souvenirs and artefacts, the foreign writing of which I can paint on my body, whose women will provide satisfaction for my carnal desires, and which will ultimately provide me with my much longed-for meaning in life. It is a place I can love selfishly.

Karate Kid_1984_Miyagi and Daniel

Within this dynamic, fetishizing love depends upon a perceived plasticity in the object of love. In other words, it is a suitable object for love precisely because upon it I can project my own desires. It is here that I think the sexualization of Asian women finds its roots. Said, writing about the history of Western pilgrimages to the east, records the following about Flaubert’s experiences with an “Oriental” woman: “…he is entranced by her self-sufficiency, by her emotional carelessness, and also by what, lying next to him, she allows him to think. Less a woman than a display of impressive but verbally inexpressive femininity…” (Orientalism, 187, emphasis added). Because she is different, and exotic, and not like Western women, and because she doesn’t speak English, she becomes a vaguely feminine vessel for Flaubert’s sexual desire. That sexual desire, in turn, and under the influence of fetishizing love, can manifest itself imaginatively. The Oriental woman, under the same flattening process of othering, is thus stripped of her individuality, personality, narrative, and will, and serves as an ideal vessel for Western sexual desire. Said writes elsewhere that “women are usually the creatures of a male power-fantasy. They express unlimited sensuality, they are more or less stupid, and above all they are willing.” (207) In this, she has been fetishized. (It is worth considering—does this process of female fetishization partly explain the emasculated characterization of Asian males? Are they diminished because they stand in the way of a Western sexualized power fantasy?)

Asian Eyes_Vanity_Makeup

It is difficult here to separate the immense danger of fetishizing love from the genuine allure of love for the other. There is, of course, a natural fascination with things that are different, the refreshing appeal of a system and world in which a different set of rules operate, the genuine pleasure of standing ‘outside’ one’s own culture and seeing the world in a fresh way. But this is a natural love that must be carefully cultivated and pruned. Love, to be love, must possess a disinterested quality, and however much I may love the other, no other (whether culture or person!) ever exists purely for the sake of my needs and desires.

The dangers of fetishizing love seem strikingly present when we think of the missionary efforts of the church. When a missionary approaches a non-western culture, does he or she love the people as they are, or are they loved for what they might become? Am I loving my Western idea of the foreign convert, or am I loving the foreign other in all his strange, foreign otherness, so that Christ might be formed in him or her? All too often, is it not the case that short-term missions trips are crafted more for the benefit of the sending nationals than for the people whom they are supposed to benefit? Are we there to save the others, or to make ourselves feel better? It’s a challenging prospect, and discerning between a love that is selfish and one that is godly will require careful and constant diagnoses of our loves.